Bertrice Small - Fascinated

A brief pang stabbed her chest, that he should have such a beautiful head of hair when hers was limp and straight. The pang of envy was immediately replaced by a sense of Tightness.

It was comforting to watch a man perform his morning toilet.

His habits were the same as those of an Englishman; he dressed, brushed his hair, his teeth…

Bending his head, he spat into the basin.

She bit her lip to stop her protest when he proceeded to wrap the turban around his head. When he opened the second bureau drawer and took out a pair of baggy white trousers, she could not keep her mouth shut. "Please don't."

The back of his white robe stiffened. "Don't what?" he asked, without turning around.

"I rather fancied that Arabic men did not wear anything under their robes. The Scots are reputed not to wear anything under their kilts. It is… interesting for a woman to think that all she need do is toss up a man's skirt."

Muhamed turned, white robe flurrying. "You are… jesting with me."

He seemed surprised that a woman would do so.

"Not at all, sir," she said whimsically, feeling absurdly young and carefree. "The English have no sense of the ridiculous, especially when they sit naked in front of a clothed gentleman. Or perhaps that is not well-known in your country."

Shadow crossed his face, a trick of light. "Concubines and slaves do not picnic in Arabia."

She had overseen many picnics as the wife of a vicar, but she had never attended a picnic unchaperoned with a man.

"I dare say it would not be a practical custom in a desert land," she said gently.

"What shall I have the innkeeper prepare?"

His uncertainty was endearing.

"I suspect an inn of this size will not have much of a menu to chose from. A meat pie and cheese will do quite well, thank you."

"You will be here when I return?"

Megan felt a flutter deep inside her chest. Muhamed was so very vulnerable underneath his outward gruff ness.

"If I am not here, I will be in the second room down to the left of yours," she said calmly.

He turned toward the door, in a soft swish of cotton.

"Muhamed."

Muhamed halted; he did not turn around. "Yes?"

"How did you come to know about Madron Well? It is a local phenomenon."

"How did you come to know about it?"

She had not imagined the shadow that had crossed his face and now pervaded the room; it had nothing to do with a passing cloud.

He had said no more pretense.

"I was born in Land's End," she replied evenly. "My mother-like most of the folk hereabouts-clung to many of the old ways. She baptized me in the well waters."

"What would you like to drink with your meal?" he asked in his old brusque manner.

He was not going to answer her question.

Megan fought down a prick of hurt.

"Cider will be fine, thank you."

With a swirl of robes he opened the door and slid out of her sight. A final click of closure followed his departure.

Her heart skipped a beat. Suddenly she felt forty-eight again instead of twenty-six and full of joy.

What had she said to upset Muhamed?

What if he did not return?

Standing up, Megan picked up her black wool gown from off the floor and dressed. Hairpins dotted the pillow and sheet. She scooped them up. Slipping into her shoes, she rescued her black felt hat and the hatpin underneath it.

She stared at the small brown tin on the nightstand. There was no advertisement on the outside, nothing at all to indicate what was inside it.

On impulse, she removed the lid.

It was filled with what looked like rolled-up sausage skins. French letters. She had often wondered what they looked like. They hardly seemed large enough to accommodate a man of Muhamed's size.

Megan grabbed a rubber sheath and replaced the lid, a quick click of metal on metal.

The hallway was dark, empty; a worn wool runner tiredly traversed the length of it. An oil sconce guarded each of the six doors, a dull gleam of pewter. She hurried to her room.

A glint of gold greeted her.

Her wedding band waited on the nightstand beside the narrow, neatly made sleigh bed.

The sight of it did not incur the sense of betrayal she had associated with her marriage over the last twenty-two years.

Impulsively, Megan crossed the wooden floor, heels echoing determinedly, and flung open the worn drapes. Blinding sunlight spilled into the sterile room, proof that there was light after darkness. Turning, she plucked the wedding band off the nightstand and dropped it into the top dresser drawer.

Feeling as uncertain as a young girl awaiting her first beau, she washed, brushed her teeth, loosened her braid, and brushed her hair. Rummaging in her trunk, she pulled out a corset, chemise, petticoats, wool drawers-no, she did not want to wear drawers, she wanted to be accessible to Muhamed.

Megan pulled out a black skirt and bodice. She realized with dismay that all of her clothes were black. They belonged to a woman who was resigned to widowhood, not to a woman who planned upon demonstrating to a eunuch that he was a man.

No time now to worry about her wardrobe.

Hurriedly, she slipped into her chemise and rebraided her hair.

A sharp knock splintered the silence.

Megan's heartbeat quickened.

"One moment!" she called out, mouth full of hairpins.

The knock came again. Louder.

Stomach roiling with nervous anticipation, she coiled the braid on top of her head and secured it with pins.

A third knock came, louder still.

The entire inn would know that Muhamed sought entrance to her room if he continued knocking.

She jerked open the door. And perforce had to step back to prevent Muhamed from walking over her.

A black cloak billowed after him. He carried a battered bucket.

"They did not have a picnic basket," he said without preamble.

"Oh." She flushed, suddenly, painfully aware of the sunshine that warmed her back and starkly revealed a patch of chipped paint on the wall behind him. Shadow had cloaked her nakedness before; the thin cotton chemise would not conceal the changes that age had wrought in her body-breasts that were too soft; hips that were too rounded. "If you like, you may wait downstairs-"

"I have never watched a woman dress."

Her flush deepened. "I have never had a man watch me dress."

"You will not wear a corset to our picnic."

Megan blinked at Muhamed's peremptory manner. "I beg your pardon?"

"Corsets restrict a woman's circulation."

"Corsets also support their… bosom."

"Your bosom does not need support, Megan."

"That is for me to decide, surely."

"Men, too, have fancies." His black eyes were wary. "I would like to look at you over our meal and know that it is you I am gazing at and not a miracle of whalebones."

Megan mentally struggled with the vicar's wife she had been for so long and the woman she wanted to be for this Arab. She had not worn a corset to his room the night before, but.…

She took a deep breath. "When you returned to your room, did you don trousers?"

"I am as you saw me."

Was he still erect?

Instinctively, she glanced down; his white robe was tented.

He was ready for her; completely accessible if she wanted to flip up his skirt.

Scalding blood scorched her cheeks and pounded in her temples.

"I cannot go outside with nothing on underneath my dress," she said firmly, raising her gaze to his. "I must wear a bustle and petticoats, or the hem of my skirt will sweep the ground."

As it had swept the hallway last night.

Muhamed set the bucket on top of her neatly made bed. "Very well. I will assist you."

And he did.

Megan had never had an abigail. Had not been assisted with her dress since she was a young child, so young that she could not even remember having received assistance.