Ben slid backward on the seat so I could sit in front of him. He showed me how to use the throttle and clutch on the handlebars, how to brake, where the gearshift was, wrapping it up with a quick lesson in motorcycle physics before allowing me to take charge.
“This is very cool,” I said as I settled back against his chest. It was really intimate being pressed up against him like that, with his legs hugging mine, but it was nice intimate, not at all like a guy grabbing your boob or something icky like that. I pursed my lips as I looked down at myself. “Don't look.”
“What?”
“Don't look.” I had tucked my skirt under my legs, but realized that without Ben blocking the wind, the lightweight material would soon flutter up around me, probably catching in the wheels and killing us both. Or at least me. I rose up, reached between my legs to grab the bottom of the back of my skirt, pulling it forward and tucking it up into my waistband so I was wearing my skirt Gandhi-style. I pushed the stray bits firmly under my legs and sat down. Ben pulled me back against his body (which was really nice, but I had to remind my inner Fran twice that this wasn't a date and she wasn't supposed to go gaga over him), wrapping his arms around my waist in a way that made me feel protected even though he was at my back. I gently let out the clutch, and we were off.
I suppose the best things that can be said about my motorcycle skills are that A) I didn't crash us, and B) I didn't get any bugs in my teeth. I drove along for a while kind of stop-and-start-ish, managed to kill the engine once, and almost tipped us over when I went off the road into the dirt. There was one really fun moment, though. We were on a stretch of road that ran past a winery, a long straight road. The moon was rising, so I could see that there were no cars coming toward us.
“I want to go really fast,” I yelled back to Ben. “But we'll go off into the dirt if I do it.”
“Lean back,” he said, his voice nice and warm against my cold ear.
He let go of my waist and grabbed the handlebars, one arm on either side of me, his foot sliding under mine to the gearshift. The bike bucked beneath us as the engine roared into supersonic mode. All of a sudden we were flying down the road, going so fast I couldn't breathe, almost couldn't see for the wind-whipped tears that snaked from the outer edges of my eyes, the wind molding my shirt to my front like a pair of hands stroking my skin. Our shadows danced blackly along the shoulder of the road, gone in the flick of an eye. It was magical, as if there were nothing in the world but Ben and me and the motorcycle, and an endlessly long black road. I threw my hands into the air and laughed with the sheer joy of going so fast the air was stripped from my lungs.
Ben chuckled in my ear, his lips warm as they nuzzled me, sending a little shimmer of heat down my neck. He slowed down as he came to a sweeping curve at the end of the road, letting me take the controls again. “I've created a monster, I think.”
My skin felt all prickly where he had touched me, but it was a good prickly, a nice prickly. I dragged my mind away from that feeling. No sense in going
there
. “No, but I want a motorcycle now. This is just too fun.”
It was also really cold up front despite it being a warm night out, so after about fifteen minutes of my being a biker chick, I agreed to Ben's suggestion that he drive again. We rode back to the Faire without saying anything else, but I couldn't shake the prickly feeling his touch had given me. All of a sudden I wanted to give something back to him for such a wonderful evening.
He parked the bike alongside the far edge of the parking ground, waiting for me to dismount before he turned off the engine. I stood beside the bike, glancing around quickly. We were in the shadows cast by a nearby stand of trees. The people streaming past us didn't even give us a second glance, focused as they were on the bright lights of the Faire.
My stomach twirled around on itself. I wanted to do this, really wanted it, but it was also kind of scary. “Ben?”
“Hmm?” He pocketed his keys and turned to me.
My stomach started turning somersaults. I stepped forward, put my hands on his shoulders, and brushed my lips against his.
He froze, his hands at his sides. I couldn't see his eyes, but I assumed they were black as the sky above. “What was that?”
I let go of his shoulders and stepped back. “It was a kiss.”
“It was?” I knew, I just
knew
by the tone of his voice that one of his eyebrows was raised in question. I also knew that a guy like himâso gorgeous, not to mention at least three hundred years oldâhad probably kissed a thousand women, all of them better kissers than me. I was certain the French Revolution babe with the legs was. I stepped back another step, feeling positively sick to my stomach now.
Stupid Fran! Stupid, horrible-kisser Fran!
“Fran?”
I held up my hands and took a step to the side. “It's okay; you don't have to say it. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.”
He took my hands, placing them on his chest, his palms warm against the back of my hands as I was pulled gently up against his front. “Now you make me sad. That wasn't a kiss, Fran.”
I couldn't look at him. Even if I could see him, I didn't want to look at his eyes. I looked at his earlobe instead, the one with the diamond in it. “I said I'm sorry. You don't have to rub it in that I'm so badâ”
“You're not bad, just inexperienced. Would you like me to kiss you?”
“No,” I said, feeling all stubborn and even more stupid than ever. Now he pitied me because I didn't know how to kiss properly. I hate being pitied almost as much as I hate being called a freak.
“All right. How about you kiss me again? This time, don't just brush your lips over mine; keep them there while you say, âMississippi.'”
“You're laughing at me.”
He let go of my hands on his chest, and slid them around my waist, pulling me closer until his breath feathered across my face as he spoke. “I can assure you that the last thing I want to do now is laugh. Kiss me, Fran. Please.”
It was the “please” that did it. I stopped looking at his earlobe, raising my chin a little so my mouth was a hairbreadth from his. “Mississippi,” I said, my lips going all warm and soft at the touch of his.
“Again,” he whispered.
“Mississippi,” I breathed, this time allowing my lips to touch his the whole time I said the word.
“Once more,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like black satin.
Mississippi
, I thought as I kissed him, really kissed him, my arms sliding up around his shoulders, catching in his hair. I tugged on the leather thong he used to tie back his ponytail, his hair spilling like cool silk over my fingers as his lips moved beneath mine, his mouth opening a little, just enough to suck at my lower lip.
I pulled back from him, slowly, my lips clinging to his like they didn't want to leave (smart lips), my hands trailing over his shoulders and down his chest until they dropped down at my sides, suddenly empty and cold. My brainâwhat there was of itâran around like a hamster on a wheel, trying to think of something to say that wasn't, “Holy cow! Do you know how to kiss!”
“Um,” I said, then wanted to die.
Um? Come on, Fran; you can do better than that!
“Did you know that your hair is longer than mine?”
He stared at me for a minute, then tipped his head back and shouted with laughter. I turned bright red, I just know I did, because my cheeks went all hot; then suddenly he hugged me, very hard, and let me go.
The hug made me feel better. My hands were on his arms while he hugged me, and I couldn't feel any sense of his mocking me. There was amusement, and pleasure, and a really warm, tingly feeling that I didn't want to look at too closely, but there wasn't any sign he was making fun of me. I relaxed. “I hope you're laughing with me, not at me, 'cause if you're not, you're going to scar me for life and I'll never be able to kiss anyone again without wondering if I totally suck at it.”
He took my hand and squeezed it, pulling me toward the Faire. “You don't suck at kissing, Fran. I was laughing because you're such a delight.”
A delight.
Hmm.
I thought about that for a couple of minutes as we walked toward my mother's tent, my hand in his, my insides all warm and glowy. Someone thought I was a delight. Made a nice change from freak.
I waved at Mom as she explained a spell to a customer. She looked at her watch, pursing her lips at me. I mouthed,
Sorry!
to her (we were ten minutes late) and pretended I didn't notice her scandalized look when she saw me holding Ben's hand.
“I have to talk to Imogen when she's not busy,” I told Ben as we wandered down the center aisle. We stopped to check on Tesla, who was having a snooze, one back leg cocked up on the edge of his other hoof. I patted him, and turned back to Ben. “Thank you for the ride and . . . uh . . . everything.”
He smiled at me; then his eyes shifted to Tesla, who woke up enough to realize that potential treat givers were present, and thus they should be snuffled to see if either had an apple or carrot on their person. We didn't, but I scratched his ears.
“Have you noticed this?” Ben took my hand, using my forefinger to trace an L shape on Tesla's cheek.
“Huh,” I said, peering closely at Tesla's coat, my fingers feeling again for the slight thickening. It
was
an L. “What is it?”
“It's a brand.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ew. Why would someone brand him on his face?”
Ben just looked at me for a few seconds, then finally said, “Tesla is a special horse.”
“That's what Panna said.”
“Panna?”
“The girl whose grandfather owned Tesla. She said that he always told her that Tesla was a special horse.”
“He is special. Have you ever heard of a breed called Lipizzan?”
I shook my head. I liked horses, but didn't know too much about them. “Is that why someone put an L on his cheek? Because he's a Lipizzan?”
“Something like that.”
“What about the odd-shaped scar on his neck?”
“It's another brand. What did you want to see Imogen about?”
“You're pretty good at changing subjects, aren't you?” I patted Tesla's black nose and started back toward the main fairway. “Are you rich?”
He raised both of his eyebrows. “You're not so bad at subject changing, either. Do you need a loan?”
“No. I just want to know if you've got lots of money. I mean, you mentioned having servants a long time ago. I didn't know if that meant you'd run out, or if you're loaded.”
“I think the word is comfortable.”
“Oh.” I knew what that meant. It was a polite word for rich. “Is Imogen comfortable, too?”
“I would imagine so. Why do you want to know?”
“She shops a lot.”
He stopped, putting a hand on my wrist to stop me. “Why the questions, Fran?”
“I just wanted to know if she had oodles of money lying around to shop with, or if she . . .”
“If she what?”
I hesitated. I'd just kissed the guy; I couldn't very well blurt out that I thought his sister might be dipping into Absinthe and Peter's safe to fund her shopping trips. “If she needed some.”
“I'm sure if you ask her, she'll tell you.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought. I suppose I had better run along. I'm supposed to be learning how to read palms, not that I want to, but Mom says I have to in order to pay for Tesla.”
He looked curious. “Do you always do everything your mother says?”
I laughed. “Not even close. But I have to about this, or else I have to find Tesla a new home.” I hesitated to tell him more, to explain how confusing it all wasâpart of me wanting to go home, back to the normal life I had carefully built; but the other part of me, a Fran I didn't know existed, suddenly popped up and said she wanted to keep Tesla, and to stay where Ben was liable to be.
I told that Fran she had things mixed up, and that nothing was worth being a weirdo touchy-feely girl, but she pointed out that I was a weirdo touchy-feely girl no matter where I went, so why shouldn't I have a little fun?
I hate it when I argue with myself. I
never
win.
“I'll see you around, huh? You're going to be here for a little while longer?”
He did the brushing-my-hair-behind-my-ear thing again. “Yes, Imogen has asked me to extend my visit. I'll be here for a bit more.”
“Good.” A big weight I didn't know was squashing me lifted. I gave him a little smile, deciding that now was as good a time as any to ask him what I wanted to know. “Um . . . can you read minds?”
He didn't even blink at the question; he just answered it. “Not unless I have a bond with the person whose mind I wish to merge with.”
“Bond? Oh, you mean . . .” I made slurping noises.
A little teeny-tiny smile curled the edges of his mouth. “Not necessarily. A bond of blood sometimes will be strong enough that I can communicate with the person, but the most powerful connections are between people who have some sort of emotional bond. With trust comes strength.”
“Oh, so that's why you can talk to me in my head?”
“You are my Beloved. We are genetically engineered to be able to communicate without words.”
“Except when I don't want you to.” I thought for a moment. “If I do the mind-protection thing, could you get through it? I mean, could you force your way into my mind because of this connection we have?”
He didn't say anything. With that silence came a sudden understanding.