Page 195 of Feathers in the Wind
‘Tell me, Jessie, my witch, has anyone told you recently how lovely you look with the sun on your hair?’
My expression must have given him the answer because he laughed. ‘I see another failing in the good Master Westmacott.’
I pushed the vegetables around my plate with my fork. Mark had never told me I looked lovely. He had told me he admired my professional skills or that I had cooked a nice meal, but never had he spoken to me the way this man did.
‘Modern courtship is not like that,’ I muttered.
He tilted my face up to look at him. ‘Then I have something to teach you after all.’
I gave a snort of laughter. ‘I know all about seventeenth-century men. There was nothing in their books about pleasing the lady.’
The gray-green eyes closed for a moment before he said, ‘Not all men.’ He looked at me with a fierce intensity, and my breath caught in my throat. ‘You forget I have lived in Italy and some time in France.’
His gaze held mine. Mesmerized, I found myself unable to break eye contact. I wanted to drown in those mysterious depths.
‘And what did you learn in Italy and France?’ I whispered, hardly trusting myself to speak.
He picked up my hand and turned it over. He lifted the palm to his lips, brushing it with the softest butterfly touch and my breath caught in my throat. His lips moved to my inner wrist. The blood in my veins jumped and my eyes closed. I should have snatched my hand away, sent for the bill, but I couldn’t move. It was as if I had melted into the chair.
‘I found another book of poetry on your shelves this morning,’ he said. ‘Andrew Marvell?If I had world enough and time, this coyness lady were no crime...’ He lowered my hand, caressing the palm with his thumb. ‘I don’t have world enough and time, Jessica.’
‘No,’ I whispered hoarsely, ‘and no one has ever called me coy. I’ll get the bill.’
* * *
We spokelittle on the drive home. We didn’t need to. The air between us crackled as if it were charged.
I parked the car in the drive and barely had time to press the lock button before he caught me in his arms. The warm evening closed in on us as his lips met mine. My heart beat so hard, I felt sure he could feel it through my cotton dress.
His fingers meshed my hair, pulling the light combs free. I tugged at his t-shirt, until my fingers glided across the smooth, hard contours of his back. I could scarcely breathe as our lips touched. I closed my eyes, drowning in the moment, wanting it never to end.
‘Key,’ I mumbled, breaking contact and scrabbling by touch for the lock on the front door.
The door yielded and we stumbled across the threshold. It closed behind us with a thump as Nat booted it shut with his foot. He lifted me as if I weighed no more than a feather and carried me upstairs to my bedroom, where he unceremoniously dumped me on the bed then rapidly divested himself of his disheveled clothing.
I have heard men described as beautiful but as a doctor I had never found the male body particularly attractive. Well, most male bodies. Nathaniel Preston looked pretty good for someone who was nearly four hundred years old. I may have already remarked that his chest and arms would do credit to a determined body builder. The flat planes of his stomach tapered to narrow hips and strong, lean rider’s legs.
My breath came in short gasps as he knelt over me.
‘I wish you were wearing that fetching outfit I first beheld you in,’ he murmured. His eyes gleamed, reflecting the light from the hall. ‘I think I like the twentieth century. Now off with that ridiculous chemise.’ He tugged at my summer dress. I heard fabric rip but didn’t care.
He stopped.
‘What is that?’ he inquired, and I realized he referred to my bra.
After much deliberation that morning, I had selected a lacy piece of nonsense with matching briefs. A slow smile creased the corners of his eyes. From the way he looked at me, I may as well have been wearing a red satin bustier and crotchless knickers. I didn’t know whether to feel incredibly sexy or somewhat guilty.
‘My...er...corset?’ I ventured.
He laughed and lay beside me, propping himself up on one elbow while he explored the intricacies of the modern brassiere, running his finger around the beribboned edge. The exploratory finger never quite brushed my nipples which ached for him. When I caught his eye I could see he was teasing me.
He slid his fingers around the back and encountered the fastening. His eyelids flickered in concentration, and with one hand, he undid the hooks and eyes with a dexterity that would have done credit to any modern Lothario.
I don’t know what sort of education had been intended for him on his ‘grand tour’ of the continent. A handsome young man in possession of a good supply of gold coins would have found no shortage of interesting women, willing to impart their knowledge to him. Nat gave me good cause to thank those nameless ladies for their generosity of spirit.
Time stood still. Three hundred and fifty years may have stood between us but I knew I had found my soul mate. We were meant for each other. I closed my eyes and willed myself to forget everything except this man and the touch of his lips and his hands.
Afterward, as we lay tangled in each other’s limbs and the bedclothes, I spared a brief thought for Mark, and my other lovers, who had approached lovemaking in much the same way as they took to the cricket field--pads on and straight bat. Nat had none of that twentieth-century reserve.
