The moonlight was pressing in at the curtains that covered the window. Pale, slender fingers slipped in between the cloth panels and swept them smoothly aside. Silver light flooded the small bedroom, illuminating the naked form that stood just behind the glass panes. Chestnut-dark swirls rested lightly on flawless, porcelain shoulders that shrugged upward as she crossed her arms.
"Come back," murmured a sleepy voice.
Her earthen eyes swiveled to observe the bed nearby. It was still swathed in shadow, but a hand was reaching out into the shaft of moonshine. Rough, calloused fingers groped at the air.
"No," she answered coolly, and turned to gaze into the night beyond the window.
The man in the bed grunted. She could hear him shuffling about, rolling over. "Why do you always get up in the middle of the night like this?" he mumbled irritably.
"I've told you why," she replied. Her fingertips drummed against the softness of her arm. "Do you want some tea to help you sleep till dawn?"
"No, I don't want any bloody tea," growled her companion. "I want my woman to get her arse back in bed before I get cold. And come away from the window! Someone will see you."
Crimson lips pulled into an amused grin. "I am not your woman, and you will not give commands. And this window faces an empty field. There is no one to see." She stood a while longer, a statue of curved alabaster and mahogany. Eventually, she stepped back from the glass and turned to pluck a piece of clothing from the floor. "It is time for me to go.”
“Go?” His voice was suddenly less drowsy, sharpened with alarm. “Go where?”
The dark-haired woman was now collecting garments from here and there about the room, draping them over her bare arm. “You knew I wasn’t going to stay forever.”
The bed frame creaked as the man swung his feet out and planted them on the floor. His face was still concealed in darkness, for which she felt oddly thankful. “Well, aye, I knew that. But...now? In the middle of the night?”
His voice held a tinge of desperation. She despised the sound of it. And the way it sent a poignant pricking sensation through her breast. “It’s a good time to go. Fewer people awake to notice me.”
There was a peculiar span of silence that followed. She continued to collect her things, quietly and gracefully, every movement fluid and dance-like. Clothes were slipped over the plush curves, and shoes tugged onto her feet. She did not look at the man sitting on the bed, though she felt his eyes on her like a weight she could not shake off.
“Where will you go?” he finally asked in a low, unhappy way.
“Back to Bree.” Her fingers brushed through the nut-brown waves of her hair, arranging it about her shoulders. From a shelf on the wall, she collected small, clay jars and placed them into a bag that sat open on a chair. She held each jar up to her face, murmuring to herself, before packing them away.
A sound came then that she had been dreading. Another whine of the wooden frame, and the hushed whisper of skin moving against skin. The moonlight was blotted out by his shadow, and she felt his hands come down on her shoulders. “But, what about…?” he murmured, leaving the question unfinished. “I don’t want you getting into any trouble.” A thumb stroked along her arm; a tender gesture that felt repulsive, yet endearing.
She raised a hand to lay it lightly over his fingers. “Enough time has passed. If trouble were coming, it would have fallen on me by now.” She patted the large knuckles in a gesture that felt stiff and condescending. Immediately, a wave of shame swept through, and her posture softened. Her chin lowered slowly towards her chest while her eyes continued to avoid her companion. “I am grateful to you. I will leave you some of the tea leaves. Those that helped you sleep.” Her shoulders gave an involuntary twist, extracting her body from his gentle grasp. Her fingers fumbled with the leather strap of the bag, struggling in the absence of light.
The heavy hands did not return. “Will you visit?” The man’s voice came soft through the darkness.
She turned and walked slowly to the door of the cottage, placing the bag’s strap over her shoulder. Before setting her fingers on the latch, she turned just far enough to finally lay her eyes on the man. He, too, was bare of clothing, and there was something about the sight of a man in such a state that never failed to stir a certain tenderness in her. No matter how tall, how broad, how powerfully they were built, whatever scars and callouses they bore as testaments to hard labor and dogged determination. Nakedness moved something within her, some pity, some maternal, feminine wish to comfort and protect.
She put her hand on the door latch before the temptation arose to stay a minute longer, and soothe away the wistful longing in his shadowed eyes. “No.”
