Pam Rosenthal - The Slightest Provocation

Of course, where else should it be? Strewn over the book on the table, as though marking some phantom reader’s place, the book still open to the eternal question of whether a man or a woman got more pleasure from lovemaking. Damned if he knew the answer: probably it came out about equal if you played fair. At least he hoped so (not that he was complaining), though Ovid had it that the female sex was privileged in this area. But a poet wouldn’t know more than the next man. Idly, Kit wondered whether every man cherished a secret unspoken fear that his lady was getting the better end of the bargain.

The floorboards nearest the cottage door were caked with mud they’d tracked in. He or she might try sweeping it, he supposed. With a broom-the slightly decayed specimen standing in the corner would answer for it. And damn, his stocking was stained with mildew from the old book he couldn’t bear to throw away.

For though it might seem a romantic idyll, their meeting secretly in such a picturesque setting (gurgle of swift rushing water, doves cooing against the rustle of wind in the trees), and though at one time this cottage had actually been a sort of paradise for them (being the first bed and the first roof they’d shared), the truth was that these days (well, at his advanced age, at any rate) the arrangement left something to be desired.

Come live with me and be my love -an old lyric she’d liked to sing, words and cadence coming echoing back now from behind his thoughts. Pastoral, a shepherd’s love song: giddy swain wooing his lady with promises of beds of roses, food served al fresco on silver plates, and absolutely no messes to worry about. Poetry, in a word.

While reality was quite a different matter, especially if you were accustomed to having servants clean up after you. Astonishing, Kit thought, how smelly a linen sheet could become and in how short a time, at least when subjected to such excellent usage as this one had been getting. The odor had been piquant at first; at this moment one might call it earthy. Give him and Mary an additional sweaty day or so of pounding each other so delightfully, and the only thing one could honestly call it would be stinking.

It scanned well enough, warbled softly (so as not to disturb her) in his middling tenor while he sprinkled wood shavings around the boards he’d placed in the fireplace. Perhaps she’d be able to think of a clever last line. Later, after they’d settled the affairs of the nation.

Squatting naked at the hearthside, he fanned the low flames up toward the kindling. Too bad he hadn’t brought that second quilt with him today, not to speak of the sheet he’d cadged, just before the girls from Beechwood Knolls had come calling. Very kind of them, he thought, to show such solicitude for Wat and Susanna. But they were young and inquisitive and would naturally have wondered at his carrying a bulky package of linen under his arm; as things stood, he’d had to chart a complicated journey for himself among connecting footpaths to give the impression of heading in the direction of farm rather than forest.

He shivered, blowing on the fire and on his hands too. Sneaking a look at her over his shoulder-why was she rearranging his neatly sorted papers? She looked thoughtful: picking up various of them, spreading them out in her lap and comparing them. Anyway, he needn’t be so circumspect with his glances; she was so clearly intent on what she was doing as to have no attention whatsoever left for him. Using up the whole damn bed too. And what was taking her so long?

Warm orange glow, pleasing whoosh of air and soft, low roar of flame: the last of the ash wood he’d brought from Mr. Greenlee’s workshop finally caught fire. Kit basked in his moment of pride and primitive wonder (passionate shepherd, noble savage cozy and contented in his hut with his woman). Of course, he’d need to fetch more wood if they were to spend any additional time here. Which would rather depend upon whatever she was making of those papers he’d shared with her. Noble savage’s quiet, compliant helpmate, bed partner, and skilled gatherer of acorns (for they’d have to eat something, wouldn’t they?). He grinned at how singularly inapt his fancy was when applied to the lady with gold spectacles, brow knit in concentration, and beautiful round breasts once again visible as the quilt slipped down around her.

He spread out his hands in front of the flames. First things first: his hands weren’t the part of him that most needed warming. He rose and turned to face her, sighing and arching his back for the pleasure of toasting his arse against the excellent little blaze he’d brought forth (and perhaps, he thought, for the pleasure of showing himself to her, scars and all). She looked up, smiled in a rather abstracted manner (the fire’s glare bounced off her spectacles; he wasn’t sure she’d seen him at all), and turned her head back downward again.

To hell with it-he was coming back to bed. Surely she couldn’t need all that space just for a few pieces of paper. Anyway, it wouldn’t kill her to finish reading while he curled up beside her-even if she would groan and complain about his feet being cold, and his hands too, if he clasped them around her waist.

Yes, much better, with his hands around her middle, thighs pressed up against her leg, belly curved around her bum, and his cock-happy to be somewhere soft and warm-briskly waking up from its hibernation. Not-it seemed-that she was taking much notice, intent as she was on whatever specious argument she was doubtless preparing to toss in his face.

Nonsense. There was absolutely no need to worry. The truth was all on his side. Facts were facts, Traynor’s accounts confirmed by Benedict’s.

But it seemed she was finally finishing up. High time too: she was gathering up the papers, sorting them back into the order he kept them in. She laid the portfolios down on the rickety bedstand now and turned onto her side to face him. He let his hands slide around to the small of her back; she sighed and snuggled closer, drawing the quilt tightly about them and grazing her breasts against his chest.

“Gracious,” she murmured, “it’s quite a different thing, seeing you close up with my spectacles on. It seems I’ve been missing quite a bit…”

He’d have none of her blandishments. Fascinating as it might be to wonder what aspects of his face or body she could see through those lenses that she hadn’t seen before…

He lifted his head onto his elbow.

“The letters.” His voice a bit strident now, even to his own ears. Come on, Mary. I need -I deserve- to know what you think. Even if it wasn’t the most prideful way to ask it of her.

“Yes, well…”

“Well, tell me, dammit. I’m correct, am I not? And I’ve been correct too. I’ve been right all along to be attending to the seriousness of this situation.”

She nodded, slowly and a bit abstractedly. “Yes,” she whispered, “you have.” She bit the corner of her lip.

He wouldn’t crow over it; it was enough of a victory to have her coming around to his way of seeing things. And (who could say?) as events unfolded, perhaps even Morrice might be brought around to understand…

“Of course,” she continued-softly, so that he had to lean forward to make out what she was saying, “there’s no evidence that they’re gathering large stores of weapons. A pistol here and there, I shouldn’t wonder…”

“But there’s no evidence that they aren’t. ”

“Yes, I expect you’re right about that as well.”