The Heather Moon (31 page)

While she gaped at him, silenced, he took a cloth from the stack of folded linen and began to rub her head with it, wringing the water from her thick hair. "Let's get you dressed, then. Helen is eager to see if the gown fits you."

"It—it should," she said, muffled under the towel. "We are much of a size."

"Mother suggested that Helen give some of her better gowns and gear to you, and have some new things made for herself."

"Give good gowns to me? Such fine gear, just
given
to me? I... that... would be lovely."

"I told her 'twas a good plan. As I recall," he said, "you like fine and fancy gear quite well."

She shrugged. "Well enough."

He smiled to himself. "Good. Helen seemed pleased by the idea. She takes such little interest in her appearance that I think my mother was glad to see that spark in her today."

"But she is bonny, and gowned like a princess."

"She dresses plainly, now, compared to what she used to prefer," he said. "And she thinks she is ughsome."

She looked up at him. "Because of the scars on her face?"

He nodded. "She doesna go out unless she must, and only then with full widow's veiling. And she rarely speaks with visitors. I was glad to see that she liked you immediately." He picked up a larger linen sheet and stood. "Ready?"

"Aye. Turn away," she said unnecessarily, for he shook out the sheet, held it out, and turned his head. Soft splashes, a thunk, and then he felt her take the sheet from him. A moment later, he opened his eyes to see her standing beside him, wrapped snug, only her bare shoulders and arms free.

He looked down at her, sensing the moist warmth that emanated from her skin, inhaling the scent of roses. Her skin and cheeks were flushed, her eyes translucent as green glass.

His heart pounded, and his body stirred again, stubbornly, filling as if he were a youth. He cleared his throat. "We'll need a comb," he said, looking at her hair, a mass of fine black tendrils spilling down past her shoulders. Whirling on his heel, he went to the bed and poked uncertainly among the items that Helen had deposited there.

He was not sure what all of the things were, but he did find a comb among them, of smooth ivory. When he turned with it, she was standing beside him, at the side of the bed, holding the voluminous sheet around her and stroking the black gown with a look of wonder on her face.

He had actually seen more of her at other times, glimpses caught of her slim, muscled legs, and the luscious sight of her in that bath. But the knowledge that she was nude and sweet-scented, a warm and welcoming woman, beneath that toweling made him want to tear the thing away and sweep her into his arms.

Dear God, he thought. She stood beside his own bed, his wife. What sort of fool he had been to wed in such a way and promise chastity, he could not begin to tell himself. Lust struggled with honor. He blew out a breath and handed her the comb.

She sat on the edge of the bed and began to slip the ivory teeth through her hair, soon dragging it through with little winces, finally biting her lower lip and muttering in what was presumably Romany, and presumably swearing.

"Give it me," he said with a sigh, and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. He raked his fingers through her hair to loosen the tangles, shaking some of the wetness from it, and then began to draw the comb down in sections, easing the snarls, picking at the stubborn ones with patient fingers.

She leaned back her head and made a little moan. He wished she had not done that, for his body surged. But he went on combing, raking, easing.

"I used to do this for Helen when she was a bairn," he said. "When my mother was busy with Geordie after his bath, and no one else was patient enough to comb out Helen's tangles—her hair is near as curly as yours beneath those wee caps she wears. I would do it for her, and tell her stories while we sat together." He laughed a little at the memory.

"Will," she said, with a half glance over her shoulder, "what happened to Helen?"

"The smallpox," he said. "Six years ago, she and her husband became ill at the same time. Helen survived. Her husband died of the fever. They had been wed but six months."

Tamsin gasped and turned. "Oh, William! How sad! She is a kind and bonny soul, and bears her burden well." She lowered her eyes. "Is that why she hasna wed again—the scarring?"

He set the comb down. "Aye," he said. "That, and because she misses her husband still, I think."

Tamsin nodded, looking down at her hands in her lap. "I can understand why she hides from others. 'Tis sad that she thinks she must, for she is bonny, though she doesna know it. The scars are but small to the eye after a moment or two."

He watched her, lowering his brows in a little musing frown. "Perhaps you can tell her that someday," he said. "She would like to hear it from you."

She shrugged. "Why would my thoughts be important to her?"

He tipped his head. "Why did you not show your hand today?"

She turned away. "You know why." She fisted the hand in her lap, covered it with her right.

"Just as I no longer see Helen's scars when I look at her," he said, "I see no important differences between your left hand, and your right." He touched her left arm. "But you see a difference, lass. You do."

She shook her head, withdrew from his light touch. "Nay," she said. "'Tisna the same as Helen."

"And why not?" he asked. He picked up the comb and slid it down through her hair.

"No one thinks Helen evil because the smallpox marked her."

He sighed, watching her, the comb still. "Do you think you were visited by evil?"

"I—I dinna think so," she said hesitantly. "Others do."

"Those who are ignorant will think what they want," he said. "Why should you care? You know what you are."

He heard her soft, doubtful laugh. "And what am I?"

"Bonny," he whispered. "Truly."

She tucked her head, and the rippling, damp curtain of her hair slid forward. William saw her bare shoulders bow with the weight of her thoughts, her uncertainty. She said nothing.

"Come here," he said, and stood. He held out his hand. She looked up at him in surprise. He insisted with his palm. "Come here. Give me your hand. I want to show you something."

She gripped the sheet around her and stood, offering her right hand. William, waited, patient and silent, to show her he wanted her left hand.

She hesitated, then switched hands so that her right held the tucked linen snug over her chest, freeing the left, which she held out, fisted, to him. Her eyes were wide and almost frightened.

"Och, my lass," he breathed. "What have they done to you with their superstitious nonsense?" He slipped gentle fingers around her hand and tugged. "Come with me."

He pulled her with him, through the doorway into the library. In the dim light of the single candle burning on the table there, he walked with her to a cupboard and opened it to reveal the books shelved inside.

He held her hand firm in his while he traced a finger along the spines of some of two hundred books, laid flat and stacked two or three high, that he had collected over the years.

While he searched, he saw Tamsin reach out to touch the small wooden globe that sat on the table in a brass mounting. She slid her fingers along the engraved, painted surface, and the globe spun slowly beneath her fingers. She gasped a little in surprise.

"A terrestrial sphere," he explained. "'Twas made in Germany. I bought it on one of my journeys." She nodded, and touched it again, watching it turn beneath her hand.

Finding the volume he wanted, he hefted it in one hand, keeping her in his grasp, and went to the table with it, thunking it down and flipping the pages until he found what he wanted.

"This is a treatise written by a Flemish physician ten or so years ago," he said. "Here, I want you to look at these pages." He pointed.

She bent forward, her hand more relaxed in his now, her fist open like a flower inside the warm cage of his hand. He wrapped his fingers around the wedge and felt her thumb slip over his.

She gasped as she looked at the two pages that he had spread open. A series of ink drawings, detailing arms, legs, feet, and hands, were arranged on the pages. Some were views of the outer part of the body, and some were anatomical renderings of muscle and bone. All were images of deformity.

"They are all... like me," she said, "in different ways. But each one is... different." She scanned the text. "I can read the Latin... here, it says that sometimes people are born with limbs of... of various shapes, out of the norm. And yet they are healthy, and suffer no illness or ill effects... all is well with them, and they need no physician to repair or heal them. They are not to be pitied or suspected... but should be regarded as healthy beings... as part of the wondrous and endless..."

"'The wondrous and endless variety of Nature in all her aspects,'" he translated with her.

Tamsin straightened and stared at him. Then she bent down and read it again, reaching out to touch the text, nearly losing her grip on her linen sheet. She took her hand from William's, bunched the linen in her right, and traced the Latin text with the tip of her left hand, where a small oval nail grew, as pretty as any fingernail William had ever seen.

He watched her, waiting while she read it again and again, mouthing the Latin to herself, whispering her translation. She turned her hand in slow wonder, and studied the images on the page. One drawing was a sketch of a hand somewhat like her own, and she touched its outlines.

Finally she turned and looked at him. "Thank you," she said. "I thank you for showing me this. Who is this man?" She looked at the book again.

"A physician, a scientist, and a philosopher, who is fascinated by the world around him, and constantly studies it to learn from it," he said. "An educated, intelligent, and wise man. Hardly an unusual man, in these times. There are many like him. They reject the fears and the superstitions of the old teachings, and some of the older theories of medicine and science and philosophy, for new ideas. The Church is breaking down, losing its power and its grip over the educated world, while the thinking of good and wise scientists and philosophers, like this man, is changing our world."

She looked at her hand while he spoke, turning it. "Changing our world," she repeated in a whisper.

"Believe that you are beautiful, and perfect in all ways," he said, leaning closer. "'Tis so. There are many who see that in you."

She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes a clear green tint in the candlelight. "Perfection?" she asked.

"Aye," he breathed, and suddenly could not seem to stop himself from moving toward her. A slight shift of his head brought his mouth down to hers. The kiss was a simple one, tentative and gentle. Yet in that instant, a power swept through him, strong enough to coax his heart out of its careful, willing prison. He circled his arms around her, and drew her close.

The kiss she returned was heated, tasting of the fire that he was sure lay constantly banked within her. She slipped her arms about his neck, pressing the length of her body to his. He hardened, swelled with the strength of a sudden and overwhelming desire. Pulling in a breath, he spread his hands along the supple curves of her back, slanting his mouth over hers.

She made an airy little moan under his lips, and he was nearly undone by the innocent, sincere passion beneath that sound. He pressed his hand to her lower back, until her abdomen, through layers of damp linen, fit firm to his.

But in the midst of the deepening kiss, a promise he had made surfaced like a leaf swirling in a current. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arms and pushed slightly.

She leaped back, as he did, as if they both had been burned. Her breathing was ragged, but his felt torn clean out of him. He stared at her, and she at him. Clutching the linen sheet firmly, she shuffled back, still breathing hard.

"I—I will get dressed," she said, and turned, bare feet smacking on the wooden floor as she fled.

William rubbed his hand over his face and stood there until his racing heart slowed. With deliberate movements, he closed the book and replaced it carefully in the cupboard. Then he walked toward the bedchamber to knock on the half-opened door.

"Tamsin," he said. "Do you want me to call my sister to come up to you?" He heard only silence. "Tamsin?" A few soft grunts, as if a gentle struggle ensued, drifted to him.

"I can do it myself," she said. A few moments later, he heard a little cry, one of clear frustration, bitten back.

"Shall I tell them you will be down for supper?" he asked.

Another long silence, another breathy little grunting sound, another half cry. Something silky and embroidered flew across the room and landed at his feet.

"Tell them," she finally said, "I will never be able to come down, if I have to wear harnesses and tethers and canopies of state. I canna sort these out, let alone tie them decently."

He sighed. "Tamsin," he said. "I am coming in there. And I swear that all I will touch is silk and brocade."

A pause. He leaned a hand against the door, waiting.

"Please," she said, in a small voice.