Page 37 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Yes. But the druids believed their knowledge and teachings were too sacred to write down, and as for our Cymric literature—well, you know how youSaesfeel about us using our language. So the bards preserved the old books by memorizing them, piece by piece.”
“So did the Greeks. That’s why we have Homer.”
“But how did they do it?” She slid her hands down his forearm and started kneading the tendons in his hand.
“The same way I learned my Latin. Endless recitation and having it beat into me. I can’t tell you my own bloody name, but if you ask nicely, I’ll bet I can give you one of Cicero’s speeches in its entirety.”
“No doubt you could. It’s a trick of rhythm, and meter, and other poetic devices that help you memorize long passages,” Gwen said, concentrating on his fingers. “At least, that’s how I was taught. But the great poems are also a matter of finding the connections. The way one piece relates to the next.” She lay his hand on his legs. “Your memory will come back, Pen. You’ll find the connections.”
She could only hope, when the time came, he would not want to kill her in his rage for having deceived him.
“Why aren’t you sickened by my scars?”
She met his eyes. His gaze was clear, steady and curious, the pupils wide and dark.
“Because they were earned in combat for an honest cause. They are badges of honor.”
He snorted. “I’m not so certain it was honest. Or worth anything, in the end. But you don’t pity me, for all that.”
“We all have our scars. Some earned in different ways.”
“Then you’ll do my leg as well?” He patted his left thigh, giving her a look of invitation. He was still clad in his breeches, but she knew the scar on his leg was thick and deep, still an angry red after all this time. His limp emerged at the end of the day, when he was weary, or when the weather was damp.
“Do it yourself.” She thrust the jar of camphor liniment at him.
“You’re not going to give me anything, are you?”
She stared. “We’ve given you a roof, and food, and?—”
“You,” he whispered, his eyes kindling with a slow heat. “You’re not going to yield an inch of you.”
Her breath whirled out of her throat, wisping away like a fog. “I’m giving you a rub for your scars. Here it is.”
She held out the jar. He closed his hand over hers, and, like a fool, her eyes fluttered shut at the warm strength of his fingers curling about hers. He feltsafe. And that was the most dangerous thing about him.
“I’d swear I knew when a woman fancied me,” he said, his voice a low rasp. She couldn’t meet his gaze, focused so intently on her face, examining every feature as if she were a perplexing piece of art. Her cheeks heated—she couldn’t fight the blush—and he chuckled. The sound stirred her like the scrape of his hand over her skin.
“Youdo. But you won’t take what I offer. Unabashed, uncomplicated pleasure.” He left her hand and drew a fingertip over the inside of her wrist. The delicate skin flamed to life. He drew his finger upward, trailing his rough fingertips along the sensitive skin, and a fiery current raced up her arm and arrowedinto her breasts. She shifted, uncomfortably warm, and tried to draw away. He didn’t let go.
“Mindless pleasure,” he purred, rubbing a thumb along the crease inside her elbow. Sensation pulsed to her nipples. “The kind that will make you forget whoyouare for a minute. What’s the harm with a bit of—cavorting?”
The word was the dash of ice water she needed. She uncurled her fingers, letting the jar of liniment drop onto his bed. She looked away from his bare chest, the layers of heat and muscle.
“It doesn’t bother you?” she blurted. “The mindlessness.”
His smile tensed. “I’ve already had my mind blotted out, remember?”
“But you don’t know if you can trust me.” He couldn’t. She was lying to him, keeping him away from his business, his estates, his friends. His family. “I could be tricking you. I could be out for something. I could try to rob you, or—” She bit her lip on the guilt breaking through. She was supposed to make him trust her!
He dropped her arm. “Rob me? I have nothing. These aren’t even my clothes.” He scooped up the jar of ointment, clenching it in his fist. “You can’t blame a man for wanting a bit of human comfort when he has nothing else.”
Comfort. She hadn’t thought of it that way. She’d assumed his impulses were purely primal, a man who wanted a conquest for the sake of conquest, or a man who liked his pleasures varied and continuous, and would take them from whoever was near at hand.
Had he been seeking comfort with his offer back in the Bristol tavern, when he invited her to be his mistress? Did he want companionship, warmth as well as pleasure—from her?
“A woman pays a dear price for her comforts,” she murmured. “We are not allowed to—cavort.”
She didn’t take her leave, and he didn’t acknowledge her departure. She left him the candle and the camphor, making her way down the broad night stair and through the hall to the narrow turret where she and Dovey kept their rooms.
