Matilda has something to think about

Matilda did not look on Leofric in resignation again. Now that she had come this far, her private code of honor, which consisted largely of an inability to admit she could make a mistake, called on her to act as though she had always meant to arrive at this point. The granddaughter of an earl, daughter of a princess, and cousin of a king did not have regrets.

They still met in the buttery, and they still sat behind the barrels on the cold flagstones, but they drank little. Each drank up a queasy courage before coming down at all, but once there, it scarcely seemed necessary except, perhaps, as a pretense.

Having arrived at this point, Matilda now learned that she did not know Leofric as well as she thought she did. He was not the groping brute she had expected; he had, at least, the rude gentleness of tall, strong men who have learned to take care with the small creatures they occasionally hold. In this he reminded her very much of her father.

He reminded her of her father in other ways. When they sat together on the floor, she had fallen back into her old habit of pulling up her knees and sitting between his legs, staring up into his face as they talked. She had often sat so with her father when they had camped out-​​of-​​doors: thus she had the campfire warming her back and his broad chest warming her front as he smiled patiently down on her silly prattle. It was quite the same now, except that there was no fire to warm her back. She had the wine to warm her now, and her long hair, and sometimes his hands which he slid up under it.

And if he reminded her of her father, she reminded herself of the girl she had been then. Such nonsense she said! She was like a child: giggling and whispering and teasing him and clapping her hands with delight at her little jokes and at his ironic replies. It was all she really wanted. She was so tired of being old.

Meanwhile he would rest his arms on his knees and simply watch her, or perhaps stroke her face or fondle her – not at all like her father, but with the same measure of rude gentleness. But eventually he would grow tired of her antics and pull her as close as he could manage and silence her mouth with his. He was still not quite the groping brute she had feared, but then it was not at all, not at all as it had been when she was a child with her father.

She never stayed long after he began this, not because she didn’t like it, but because she feared she liked it too much. It was maddeningly exciting – and she did not think it was only the wine – to be with someone new. She had not realized that all mouths were not the same, give or take a beard; that all hands had not learned the same set of gestures. Leofric did not tilt his head at the correct angle when he kissed her, did not hold her with a hand on the back of her head but with a hand clasped perilously around her neck, and she had never had her tongue bitten before.

It was always when she began to wonder what else he might do that she would decide it was time to leave. But she had not yet reached that point tonight.

Suddenly, though, he interrupted a kiss to whisper, “We must stop meeting here.”

“Why? It’s so convenient!” she giggled as she waved a hand at the barrels surrounding them.

“It’s madness. One of these nights someone else will be thirsty and find us here.”

“Oh, rot! No one has found us so far, so no one will now.”

“Is that what passes for logic among women?” he grumbled.

“Well, what do you suggest?” she huffed.

“Your Grace is mistress of an entire castle. Surely there is a small bedchamber somewhere that is currently going unoccupied…”

“A bedchamber!” she gasped.

“I don’t know about you, but my bones are a little old to be sitting on these cold flags. It’s as damp and chill as a cave down here.”

“You have the wine.”

“My old bones announce their displeasure every morning, both with the wine and with the cold.”

“I like coming here.”

“As do I, but not because I like sitting on a cold floor. I should much prefer a nice, warm bed, as would you if you were anything resembling a lady.”

“But… a bed… Leofric…”

“But a bed, Matilda,” he whispered.

“But I don’t want to…”

“Don’t you?” he chuckled.

“No.”

“I’m certain you do. Only let me get a hand in under the hem of your skirt and I shall find your proof.”

“Leofric!” she gasped.

“I know that you are dying of curiosity. Give me your hand and I shall give you something to think about.”

“Leofric, no!” she scolded.

“Come, Matilda. You may talk like you’re thirteen, but I know that you’re thirty-​​odd and are perfectly aware of where you have been leading me. You shan’t make an appeal to maidenly decency now.”

“Not tonight,” she quavered.

“When?” he demanded.

“I don’t know…”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Soon.”

“I…”

“Very soon. Enough gabbing. Close your eyes and give me your hand, and I shall give you something to think about.”