Page 45 of To Swoon and to Spar
She drew back far enough that he could tell she was scowling at him. “I want you to wear spectacles because you can’tsee,you absolute idiot,” she said, and he was laughing before he could help himself, a laugh that was cut short when she abruptly tugged his face down to hers.
And then they were kissing again and their tongues were tangling, and someone gasped, and for the life of him, Penvale wasn’t certain which one of them it was, and she was pressing closer to him, freeing her other hand from his grip so that she could wrap it around his shoulders, pressing the softness of her breasts against his chest, and Penvale was just beginning to become aware—truly, painfully aware—of how long it had been since he’d last taken a woman to bed—
“Squawk!”said a seagull, quite close at hand.
“GoodGod,” Penvale swore, breaking away from Jane and turning to catch a glimpse of the bird in question, which was several feet away, watching the proceedings with considerable interest.
“Squawk?”inquired the seagull.
Penvale eyed it warily.
“Er,” Jane said from behind him; at some point, she had removed her hands from his neck and shoulders, and Penvale felt a cold wind blowing across the suddenly exposed skin at his nape. He glanced back at her, though he did not like to leave his back exposed to the seagull for very long. “Is there a problem? You look a bit pale.”
“I’m fine,” he informed her.
“Squawk!”said the seagull, and Penvale whirled back around, maneuvering onto his knees so that he might be prepared to… well, to do what, he wasn’t precisely certain. But he thought it best not to be caught unaware by a large seabird.
He and the seagull exchanged a look heavy with meaning—on Penvale’s part, at least, and that meaning was more or lessStay the bloody hell away from me or I will encourage one of my well-paid employees to come shoot you. Until, that is, said meaningful look was interrupted by the arrival of a second seagull.
“Squawk?”asked the newcomer.
“Squawk!”said the first seagull joyfully.
Penvale turned to Jane, unsettled. “Are the seagullsbiggerin Cornwall?”
Jane, for her part, appeared to be trying not to laugh. “I am hardly a seagull expert, but I don’t think so.”
He glanced back at the birds. “I think they’re bigger,” he said definitively. “Those seagulls could eat Cecil as an appetizer.”
“Cecil?” Jane asked blankly.
“Emily’s kitten,” he informed her. “No doubt you’ll make the little bas—little fellow’s acquaintance when they come to visit, as I’m sure she’ll bring him with her.”
“I see,” she said, and he was fairly certain that she was still close to laughter.
“Those are unnaturally large birds, is what I’m saying,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the seagulls as he sprang to his feet. He turned to offer a hand to Jane, pulling her to her feet as well.
“Do you think they’ll let us pass them? Or might they attack?” she asked, a slightly apprehensive look crossing her face.
Penvale, gratified by her sensible wariness of their winged companions, said—as calmly as he could manage under the circumstances—“Don’t worry. I’ll approach them first—I think if we walk slowly, and avoid any sudden movements—”
At this juncture, he was forced to break off, because Jane was giggling so hard that he doubted she could even hear him.
“Ha, ha,” he said acidly as she dropped his hand and strode past him, offering the seagulls a cheerful “Hello, ladies!” as she passed them. Penvale took a slightly more circuitous route, one that involved slipping and sliding up and down a grassy knoll and through a mud puddle before he rejoined Jane on the path and they continued their progress back to the house.
“Far be it from me to mock one’s very real fears,” Jane said as they walked, “but I was wondering if it was all birds, or seagulls specifically, that inspire such terror in you?”
Penvale reached out to grasp her by the elbow and steer her past a slushy puddle. “If you must know, it’s seagulls specifically. I’d forgotten how damned large they are here; a whole world of suppressed childhood memories came flooding back.”
“Ah,” Jane said solemnly. “Mauled by one, were you?”
“Not quite,” he hedged.
“Oh, now Imustknow,” she said, something close to glee in her voice. And Penvale realized that—despite the fact that Jane would undoubtedly use this highly embarrassing story as ammunition against him for some time to come—he wanted to do whatever was within his power to keep that happy note in her voice.
“I was… mobbed. By a flock of seagulls.”
Jane, admirably, did not laugh. Yet. “That must have been traumatizing.”
