The Art of Stealing Time

THIRTEEN

Gregory Faa was a man annoyed. Again.

“Faugh,” he said as he shook his cell phone, then swore under his breath. He’d never been the sort of man who said “faugh,” and yet there he was, standing in the middle of the Welsh afterlife, saying not only words like “faugh,” but coming perilously close to adding a tch!

“And I’ll be damned if I turn into the sort of man who tches at the drop of the hat,” he growled to his phone, and shook it again as if that would make it function. “Connect, damn you!”

The notification across the screen remained NO SIGNAL for most of the time, but once in a while, CONNECTING TO NETWORK would tantalize him, only to immediately return to the previous state. Damn it, he had hoped the king had been exaggerating the isolation of Anwyn from modern computer networks. Reluctantly, he gave up the idea of trying to contact his cousin to find out what was going on in the real world.

“Peter’ll have me drawn and quartered for staying here,” he muttered to himself, guilt making his skin itch in an irritating manner. He emerged from the edge of a forest to consider the scene spread out in front of him. To the left, across the stream, lay Aaron’s encampment. Even now Gwen was probably busily being kitted out to do her warrior thing.

He smiled at the thought of her reluctance to fight anyone, then became distracted—and aroused—at the idea of stripping armor off her one piece at a time. When he was down to nothing but her bikini underwear, he shook himself, told his erection to relax and hold on until that evening when he could allow it free rein with Gwen’s lady parts, and tried to make a plan of action.

He sat down with his back against a tree while he planned, and woke up some time later to find the sun slanting across the sky at an angle that indicated early-evening hours.

“That’s what I get for staying awake the night before watching over Gwen,” he told himself sternly, and deciding that he’d wasted enough time, he marched into the camp of Aaron’s enemy.

“I’m looking for Amaethon,” he said, stopping the first person he saw.

“Lord Ethan always swims before supper,” the young woman told him, nodding to his right. Through the tents, he could see a glimmer of water, probably a pond.

He thought of Gwen in the lake and had to once again mentally chastise his penis. That done, he made his way through the dogs, people, and tents to what was indeed a smallish pond. It was lined with irises and daffodils, and Gregory thought to himself how much Gwen would enjoy the location. Two women walked along one edge of the shoreline, while about fifteen feet out, water splashed in a rhythm that indicated a swimmer.

“—care what he says, I can’t possibly have that volume done before Samhain. I’ve yet to tackle my angsty teenage years, and volume twelve follows that. Make a note that I still need a title for that,” the swimmer called out, pausing to add, “Here, who’s that next to you?”

“My name is Gregory Faa. I take it you’re Ethan?”

“Faa? Faa? Do I know a Faa, Pervanche?”

“No, m’lord,” one of the two women answered, barely giving Gregory a glance. “You know a Fern, though.”

Ethan began to emerge from the water. He was nude, and Gregory noted that the water must be very cold indeed.

“What title would you give a book about your angsty teenage years?” Ethan asked him, accepting a towel from the woman named Pervanche.

“I don’t believe those years were particularly angst-riddled. At least, not in my case.”

“Bah. That’s not going to help me. I need something emotional. Portentous. Meaningful.” He dried his hair brusquely with a second towel, and with the first one wrapped around his waist, started toward the tents. “What are you doing here if you’re not going to help me with titles?”

Gregory decided that the direct approach was the best. “I’m here to collect the king’s dog, roebuck, and lapwing.”

To his utter and complete surprise, Ethan made a rude gesture. Before Gregory could react, Ethan grabbed the hand that was flipping Gregory off and held on to the wrist, saying as he did so, “You’re welcome to ’em, the whole lot if you can find them. The dog’s dead, but you can have one of her approximately eight hundred descendants. They’re all over the camp. Had to make a rule that everyone owned one, just so the bulk of them would have care.”

Gregory eyed him. Ethan appeared to be fighting with his own arm. “And the roebuck and lapwing? Where are they?”

“No idea. Pervanche, strap. Diego is being obstinate again. Consuela!”

They stopped as Pervanche slipped a black leather strap over his shoulder, angling it across his chest like a sling. Gregory watched in silence as, with a slight battle, Pervanche and Ethan managed to get his wrist bound, effectively strapping his arm to his torso.

“Er . . . Diego?”

“My hand. It’s always stroppy in the afternoon. It gets that way until it’s had a little nap. Ah, there you are.”

A lovely woman with long golden hair popped up beside them. “Yes, my lord?”

“Bring supper to my tent. I have to prepare for the photographer. I need several new author photos.”

“As you will, my lord.”

Gregory, feeling a bit bemused, was convinced that despite appearances, Ethan had more information than what he was telling. He followed as Ethan went straight to the largest tent. The inside looked like something out of the Arabian Nights, what with the silken hangings, scattered pillows, and low beds (three) that dotted the massive interior. There were also a handful of desks, one of which Ethan sat down at, flipping open the lid to a laptop. He looked up when Gregory stopped beside him. “You still here?”

“I am.”

“Speak quietly, then. Diego is sleeping, and I don’t want him woken up early. He’s hell the rest of the night if he doesn’t get his proper nap.”

Gregory glanced at the arm. “I hesitate to ask . . .”

“Then don’t.”

Gregory thought about that a minute and decided that the advice was sound. Who was he to point out just how odd it was to treat one’s own arm as if it was a cranky toddler? “I was sent to find the lapwing and roebuck. I’d appreciate help in finding them.”

Ethan sighed, and leaned sidewise to peer around Gregory. “Consuela!”

The woman entered the tent, followed by three men bearing platters of food and drink. “You bellowed, my lord?”

“Where’s the deer?”

She gestured for the men to set down their trays, waiting until they’d done so and left before asking, “What deer would that be?”

“This man”—Ethan gestured at Gregory—“keeps going on about a deer. You must know where I put it.”

“Would that be Lord Aaron’s deer, the one you stole from him almost a millennium ago?” Consuela asked, giving Gregory a look that didn’t contain so much as one iota of curiosity.

“That would be the one,” Gregory answered.

She pursed her lips and thought. “I’m not sure. I haven’t seen it since . . . I would say approximately the year 1415. I can have one of the boys look for it, if it’s important.”

“It’s very important,” Gregory said before Ethan could say otherwise. He needn’t have worried. Ethan was pecking away at the laptop’s keyboard with one finger. “And the lapwing?”

“What’s that?” Consuela asked.

“A bird.”

“Ah. My lord?”

“Eh?”

“This gentleman wishes to know where is the bird that you stole along with Lord Aaron’s dog and roebuck.”

“Gone,” Ethan said without looking up from the screen.

“Dead?” Gregory asked, his spirits sinking. Perhaps, like the dogs, there was a descendant that he could bring Aaron.

“No. Just gone. Flew the coop, so to speak. Ha! Pun. What do you know about angsty teen poetry? It shouldn’t be too difficult to write, should it? I mean, it’s mostly just all dreck, isn’t it? Lots of bad imagery, and depressing self-examination, and a morbid fascination with death and destruction, yes?”

“Unfortunately, I’m unfamiliar with angsty poetry, teen or otherwise. You have no idea where the bird escaped to? Did it have any distinguishing marks?”

“Would ‘My soul was like a one-legged eagle, brought to the harsh, dying earth by the willful, unending ignorance of those around me’ be a metaphor or a simile?”

“It’s a simile. A bad one. Do you even remember the bird?”

Ethan looked up, obviously catching the harsh edge in Gregory’s voice. “Of course I remember her. Aaron let her have free run of the castle. I remember that most distinctly, because he doted on the little thing, ignoring important visitors in order to feed her succulent bits of food when he should have been offering them to me.”

“You were at Aaron’s castle?”

Ethan looked down his nose at him. “Who are you that you are so ignorant of my past? I am the slayer of many beasts! The ruler of all of Wales! I am the bringer of war to Anwyn! I lead an army that my brother raised from the trees and shrubs and plants across the breadth of my realm! Can you doubt that when I entered Anwyn, Aaron groveled at my feet in an attempt to placate me?”

Given his (admittedly slight) knowledge of Aaron, Gregory did actually doubt that, but he knew better than to express that thought. “I don’t believe I ever learned why you did steal the dog, deer, and bird from Aaron.”

“Oh, that.” Ethan sniffed, and focused his attention on his laptop screen again. “I fancied the bird, and Aaron wouldn’t let me have her. So I stole her, and the dog followed me.”

“And the deer?”

“My brother liked deer.” He made an odd sort of face. “A little too well, if you know what I mean.”

Gregory decided that he preferred ignorance on that subject. “There’s nothing you can tell me to help me find the bird and roebuck? Nothing at all?”

“The deer’s around here somewhere. Bound to be. Gideon never could throw anything away. The bird, as I’ve said, has long since left. Does a sonnet have fourteen or sixteen lines?”

Gregory murmured the answer and left the tent before he was caught in any more of Ethan’s self-absorption. He almost bumped into the woman Consuela as he exited, apologizing when she jumped back.

“I have a record here that shows a listing for ‘roebuck, one, large marble’ in the last inventory, made sometime around the turn of the twentieth century.” She held the paper out to him. “It appears to have been relegated to Lady Dawn’s herb garden. You will find that to the northwest, just beyond the apothecary’s tent.”

“Thank you,” he said, bowing slightly to the woman. He couldn’t help but indulge in a bit of curiosity. “Is it true that everyone here—Ethan and his family excepted—are plants?”

She gazed at him steadily, but once again, without any sign of emotion about the oddness of his question. “The warriors are all trees and shrubs, turned to human form by Lord Gideon. I am not of their ilk, however, if that was going to be your next question.”

He smiled his most charming smile, the one that his cousin’s wife said could drop a nun at fifty paces. Consuela didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. A sudden longing for Gwen swept over him. Gwen would love his most charming smile. She would swoon, and leap on him, and touch him in places that made other places hard and demanding. She would never stand and stare at him as if he were no more interesting than a plate of boiled eggs. “I see. Thank you for the help. If you hear anything about the lapwing, I’d be grateful for news of that, too.”

She inclined her head and then entered the tent.

“Odd woman,” he murmured to himself, then studied the paper she’d given him. “Marble? It’s a statue?”

He went off to see if, in fact, the roebuck was an actual statue, and not a depiction of the infamous animal in marble, and after an hour’s search through a weed-choked wilderness that had obviously once been a garden, he uncovered a stained, broken statue of a stag.

“It’s a statue. How . . . odd.” He picked it up, staggered a little at the weight, then retrieved the leg and one set of antlers that promptly fell off, and with them under his arm, headed for the camp across the stream.

He wanted to see Gwen. He wanted to tell her about Ethan’s plant warriors, and the odd woman who didn’t seem to have any emotions, and how his very best smile had failed so miserably. He wanted Gwen to reassure him that she thought he was still sexy, and charming, and desirable. He wanted to make love to her, rest for a reasonable amount of time, then make love to her again.

He just wanted her.

“Here, don’t I know you?”

He stopped at the edge of Aaron’s camp and turned to see who had spoken. A woman picked her way across the fallen tree trunk that served as a bridge over the stream. She paused at the end of it, her expression turning black. “Oh, it’s you! The one who stole my time! Well, I have a thing or two to say to you!”

Dammit, it was Death’s reclamation agent. Since he hadn’t seen any sign of her or the two neckless wonders, he’d assumed they had given up on finding Gwen and had left Anwyn.

“Why are you here? Anwyn is outside of your master’s domain.” He wasn’t exactly sure that was true, but he assumed that if the Watch had no power here, then neither would any entity other than the ruler.

“Just because I can’t take that which rightfully belongs to me doesn’t mean I can’t persuade the subject to leave this place.” The woman stepped off the log and looked around her with obvious distaste, moving toward him as if she were walking in a minefield. “Ugh. Is that a cat? What is it with these people and cats? They were everywhere at the king’s palace, and now there’s more here. Not to mention the dogs in the other camp. It’s enough to make a person deranged.”

Being a Traveller meant that Gregory had grown up believing that animals were unclean and not to be associated with. He didn’t hold any personal animosity toward pets, but he didn’t see a need to fill his life with them, either. And yet despite that fact, he was irritated by this woman’s blatant hostility toward the cats that roamed Aaron’s encampment. It was almost as if he felt the need to defend them. “They’re just cats. They aren’t doing anything to you. If they bother you so much, you’d do best to leave.”

“Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She stopped in front of him and transferred her glare from the nearest cat to him. “You owe me for my time, Traveller.”

He hesitated, surprised that she had been aware that it was her time he had taken for Gwen. Most people weren’t aware when their time was being used elsewhere. He wished he could bluff his way out of the situation, but now that he was with the Watch, he couldn’t lie to save himself grief.

Sometimes he had to wonder if the job was worth all the sacrifice.

“You were paid for your time.”

“Bah. A few silver coins.”

“Those coins were worth a small fortune. I paid you well, reclaimer.”

“I shall lodge a complaint with the shuvani in charge of overseeing your usage of time.” Her mouth was held in a prim line. Gregory wondered how his Gwen could be so warm and inviting, while this woman was as sour as a pickle.

“If the shuvani had an issue with me using your time, then I would have already paid that price.” He wondered for a moment if he hadn’t been punished for the act after all; the situation he found himself in with Gwen’s mother and the Watch certainly could be described as hellish in nature.

“It’s not right that you can just take something that is mine!” the woman stormed.

“You are immortal. I took a minuscule amount of your time—for which you were more than amply compensated—time that you won’t even notice missing. If you know anything about Travellers, you will be aware that the penalties for our actions are reduced when it concerns your kind.”

“But it is still illegal,” she insisted.

He waved that fact away. “Barely so.”

“The fact remains that what you did was wrong, morally and legally, and I shall be sure to inform the Watch of that fact. Oh, yes, I know who you are.” She had obviously noticed his reaction to her threat. “I had some people look you up once it became clear to me that you had stolen my time. You’re only a probationary member of the Watch, and it shouldn’t be difficult to have them kick you out for your illegal actions toward me. Not to mention interfering with me in the course of my duty.”

“I did nothing to stop you.”

“You brought my client back to life by resetting the time!”

“The outcome of which was that Gwen didn’t die, and thus your duty to collect her soul was abolished. Therefore, I couldn’t stop you from doing a job you didn’t have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Don’t think you can get around me with your time doublespeak. There’s causality for actions by people who affect time. I looked it up; there are laws that you are obligated to follow, so don’t think you can pull that wool over my eyes. I can see right through it.”

Gregory didn’t think she could, not really. Travellers had more than a millennium to perfect their circular thoughts on time, especially those concerning paradoxes, but he didn’t feel that she would benefit from knowing this. “You were paid for your time. I admit that the Watch will have something to say to me about the act”—that was an understatement—“but given the circumstances of saving a woman’s life, I am confident that their chastisement will not be too egregious.”

“We’ll see about that.” She scowled at the nearest cat. “What are you doing here in Anwyn?”

He thought of telling her that it was none of her business, but since he wanted to deflect her attention from this camp, he engaged what Peter’s wife called his charm mode. “The king sent me out to recover some items stolen from him. What are you doing here?”

“Items? Oh, the things that started the war? I’m here to reclaim my client’s soul, as you must know. Two mortals at the other camp told me that she had been taken to the king’s castle, but there was no sign of her, nor any sign that she had been there.” The reclaimer looked extremely annoyed. Gregory was frankly surprised that no one had told her that they’d been there, but that confusion was cleared up with her next words. “How those people live with all those cats—it’s unhealthy! There was cat hair everywhere. I couldn’t stop sneezing, and the second I set foot in the castle my eyes started streaming so badly that the officious little twit of a tour guide asked me if I was crying.”

Gregory made sympathetic noises. “So you didn’t speak to Aaron himself?”

“No, he was off doing something with an elephant, or so his wife gave me to understand. I spoke to her—or I attempted to.”

He froze. Constance had wanted them executed; it wasn’t likely that she would keep mum about their presence in the castle. “Did you indeed?”

“I don’t know about Aaron, but she is clearly dotty.” The reclaimer pulled an embroidered handkerchief from a pocket and dabbed at her nose while sending another potent glare at the cats nearest them. “Obsessed, obviously. And rude! She was downright obnoxious when I insisted that the cats be removed from the room. She said that allergies were all in one’s mind. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”

“Never,” he said, breathing again. Thank the deities for Constance’s feline obsession.

“So I came back here to find those two mortal ignoramuses who were after my client and give them a piece of my mind. Only they aren’t at that other camp. The people there said they’d been brought over here.” She eyed him with a speculative glint in her eyes. “I don’t suppose you know where they are?”

“Two large men with no necks?”

She nodded.

“I have no idea where they are. For that matter, I don’t know who they are, other than that they are, as you say, mortal.”

“They work for some sort of crime lord, from what I understand. I spoke with them briefly when I got here, but they knew little other than that their boss wanted my client for refusing to deliver something she’d sold him. It matters little—my claim takes precedence.” She eyed him with growing suspicion. “You know her name. And yet my sources couldn’t find any proof that you were acquainted with her. Is that why you are here? To find her?”

“No,” he said in all honesty. He knew exactly where she was. Well, not the specific tent, but he knew she was in the camp. “I was captured by Aaron’s men and agreed to find three items that were stolen from him in order to secure my release.”

“Oh.” She looked away, clearly losing interest in him. “Then you are of no use to me. I must find the human idiots and roast their balls until they tell me where my client is.”

“There are a lot more cats in the camp than you see here,” Gregory said quickly, wanting to keep her from snooping around.

She had moved off a few feet, giving the nearest cat a wide berth, but stopped at his warning.

“Perhaps we could come to a deal,” he said slowly as he strolled toward her, his mind busily sorting through ideas.

“What sort of a deal?” she asked, suspicion back in her face.

He spread his hands to show his good intentions. “Let’s say that I search the camp for the two men—I’ve seen them from a distance, so I should be able to recognize them—and in return for my doing so, you drop the charges you’ll place against me with the Watch.”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth and appeared to be about to refuse his suggestion, but after a cat started toward them to investigate the new people, she agreed. “Very well,” she said, dabbing at her nose while backing away from the oncoming cat. “But you should know that this is very irregular, and if you ever again think of taking so much as a second from me—”

He spread his hands wider and turned up the wattage of his charm. “I can swear to you on the grave of my beloved mother that I would not do so.”

“I will be over in Ethan’s camp.” She hurried toward the downed tree to cross the stream. “I will expect you to report to me as soon as you find them.”

He bowed, waited until she had disappeared into Ethan’s encampment, and turned to examine the cat who sat next to him licking her paw. “Well done. Your timing was perfect. You may now remove yourself and attend to your other duties.”

The cat decided that more intimate ablutions were in order, and Gregory, feeling that was his cue, moved off to find Gwen. He would have to warn her about the reclamation agent. Perhaps Gwen would agree to lie low until he could persuade Death’s minion that she had left Anwyn?

These thoughts swirled through his mind as he searched the outer fringes of the camp.

“Would you mind telling me”—he stopped a pair of twin boys who were lugging wooden buckets lined with leather and filled with steaming water—“where I can find the tent that belongs to a warrior named Gwenhwyfar?”

“Just ahead, on the left,” one of the twins said, sucking noisily on a peppermint, if his breath was anything to go by. “It’s the one with Seith outside it.”

“Seith?”

“His lordship’s son,” the other twin said, nodding toward the biggest tent, the one that Gregory recalled belonged to Doug. “What for are you a-carrying that deer?”

“I like it. I thought it would look good in Gwen’s tent,” he improvised.

“You wouldn’t be the thief what Brother Helene said was sniffing around the camp, would you?” Twin One asked, his eyes round with wonder. “Because if you are the thief, we’re supposed to call the guards, who will torture you most heinously.”

“Do I look like a thief?”

“You’ve got a deer,” Twin Two pointed out.

“Perhaps it’s mine. Perhaps I want to move it to a new spot where it can be enjoyed by all. Perhaps someone gave it to me to repair. Perhaps I’m a magician, and this is a magical being bound by a curse into marble form, and I’m going to release him.”

“Coo,” they both said in unison. “Are you?”

He smiled, and waggled the disattached stone leg at them. “That would be telling. This way?”

“Aye, to the left.”

Gregory strolled off with apparent nonchalance, but in reality he was careful to avoid meeting people. He wasn’t afraid of being caught, but he didn’t need the complication that extricating himself—and possibly Gwen—from another sticky situation would involve. Luckily, the sun had long since gone down, and now the night air was soft with insect noise and the distant sound of people singing severely out of tune. No doubt there was a camp sing-along or some such thing. He just hoped that Gwen hadn’t felt the need to join in.

“And you would be Seith, I assume.” Gregory examined the boy who sat with his back against one of the tent poles. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked very sleepy. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I’m a squire. Dad said that I was to attend to Lady Gwen’s every need, and that if I didn’t, he’d send me back to my mum.”

“Is that bad?”

The lad sighed a heartfelt sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. “Aye. She’s wed again, and my new father doesn’t like me. My real father doesn’t like me much, either. No one does.”

Gregory tried not to let his amusement show at the expression that the boy now adopted: part martyr, part drama queen, he was the picture of noble misery. “Just out of curiosity, how old are you?”

“Thirteen. Dad says I’m runty for my age.” If possible, he looked even more miserable.

Gregory nodded toward Ethan’s camp. “If you’re up for some angsty poetry, I know someone who’d buy it off you. Take yourself off and get some sleep.”

“I can’t,” the boy said, yawning. “I have to guard Lady Gwen.”

“I’ll guard her for the night. You won’t be of any service to her tomorrow if you are too tired to stay awake. Go find your bed.”

The boy got slowly to his feet, hope visible in his tired face. “You’ll stay here all night? You swear?”

“I swear. She won’t suffer any harm while I’m around.”

“Thank you,” Seith said, and made him an awkward bow. Gregory donned a charming smile for a third time that day and entered Gwen’s tent. He would dazzle her with the smile first, then show her the deer statue and recount how far he’d gotten with Aaron’s tasks, finally giving in to the lustful thoughts that had tormented him all day and sex her up like she’d never been sexed up before.

She was naked.

He stopped dead, the broken leg and antler falling to the soft carpets that lay underfoot. He barely managed to hold on to the deer itself as Gwen, her hair caught up in a ribbon and tied at the top of her head, sat in a metal bathtub draped with a white linen cloth. She turned to look at him, her face damp and rosy, her flesh slick with the bathwater.

The scent of flowers hit him then, of sun-warmed flowers, and warmer woman. His woman. The one who set his blood alight with want and need and a desire so great, he knew he was going to have trouble walking the few steps it took to get to her side.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, relaxing after a startled moment. She gave him a slow, sultry smile that seared a path from his brain to his groin. “I wondered if you’d find me.”

He shed articles of clothing with each (painful) step. By the time he reached the side of the tub, he was naked. Her eyes widened as he held out his hand for her.

“Up,” was all he could manage to get out.

“I wasn’t finished—”

“Up!”

She took his hand with a little frown, obviously about to tell him that she didn’t appreciate being bossed around. He stepped into the tub before she could leave it, sat down, and pulled her down onto his legs.

“Oof!” she said in a delighted tone, then scrunched up her adorable nose and added. “Leg cramp!”

He scooted forward, adjusting her on his thighs so that her legs wrapped around his hips. “Better?”

“Much. Do you have a thing about making love in the water?”

“Not particularly. It just seemed like too good of an opportunity to miss. Plus, I’m covered in dog hair.”

“Unfortunately, the water will be cold soon, and it has to be brought in by buckets.”

“The temperature of the water matters little to me.” He surveyed her as she perched on his legs, unable to decide where to start. Her glorious breasts, so temptingly close right there in front of his face? Her belly, all soft and satiny? Her hips? Her legs? The sensitive inner depths of what he was coming to think of as his own nirvana? “I will start at the top and work down,” he decided.

“Chest!” she squealed, and flung herself forward on him so that she could swirl her tongue around his nipple even as he attempted to do the same thing to her. Their heads collided with an audible clunk.

“Ow!” they both said in unison. Gwen rubbed her forehead while Gregory, with a manly disregard of minor pain, took the opportunity to access the breasts that bobbed so enticingly in front of him.

“I love your breasts,” he murmured against her, his hands wonderfully full of them. They were warm and slick and he couldn’t resist tasting first one, then the other. They were both so perfect, so delightful, he didn’t know which one he liked more. In the end he pushed them together, and buried his face in their magnificence, tasting, nibbling, and teasing them as Gwen laughed.

“I guess that proves you’re a breast man.”

He looked up from the wonderful land of her bosom, and smiled. “When it concerns you I am. And a derriere man. And a leg man. I’m a Gwen man, pure and simple.”

“All right, you’ve had enough time, Gwen man. I get my turn with your chest.”

“I’m not done taking my turn yet. I have your belly and hips and legs and nirvana to explore first.”

“Nirvana?” She laughed again. He applauded the effect such an act had on her breasts. “That’s a new name for it. Didn’t your mother ever teach you to take turns?”

“Yes. But my father taught me it was important to complete a job once it was started. Slide back a little if you will . . .”

Gwen obliged, but Gregory soon came to the conclusion that the tub was just too limiting. It didn’t allow him to explore her the way he intended.

“Up,” he said again.

“I wondered if you’d figure that out.” She got out of the tub, grabbing a towel to briskly dry herself. “Oh, no,” she said when he reached for the towel. “I get to do this. It’s my turn whether you like it or not.”

He stood patiently while she patted him down with the towel, gritting his teeth when her fingers trailed the rough material of the towel. He would never last if he gave in to thoughts of just what those magical fingertips were doing to him.

“Would you mind if I asked about this tattoo on your upper back? Not to be offensive, but it’s not what you normally see on a man. This is all . . . well, delicate. Like one of those scientific pictures of subatomic particle tracks.”

“It’s called a lightning flower, and it’s not a tattoo. All Travellers have one. It is a mark signifying who we are, and it is made by lightning.”

She traced one of the feathery lines, making him grit his teeth with determination.

“Huh. Interesting.”

He allowed her to continue while he dwelt with much detail on the effects of syphilis on the human body. When that didn’t distract him from the sensation of her mouth kissing a path down his spine, he thought of radiation poisoning, the bubonic plague, and flesh-eating bacteria, in that order.

“I must not be doing something right,” she said when the torment was at last over. “Because I thought by now you would be pouncing on me.”

“I am a gentleman. Gentlemen let their women dry them if said women are insistent on using up their turn in such a manner. Are you quite finished?” His voice sounded strained, but Gwen didn’t seem to notice.

“I guess,” she said, stepping back, a slightly disappointed look on her face.

“Towel.” She handed him the towel. He whipped it around her hips, backed her up to the bed, and pushed her down on its soft depths. “Then it is my turn again. And I choose to do this.”

“Merciful goddess,” she gasped as he knelt between her spread knees. She clutched his hair as he paid homage to her hidden parts, the ones that made her squirm with joy when he gave them their due attention. She writhed. She twitched. She moved restlessly, making soft little moans that filled him with pride in a job well done. And when she gasped and arched upward, he thought he might just burst with the pleasure he’d given her. “Glorious stars and moons and comets and . . . and . . . I can’t even think of any other astronomical things. That was amazing. Is that something your father taught you, too?”

He sent a quizzical look over her pubic mound.

“Not literally,” she said, her body giving more of those wonderful little aftershocks that so delighted him. “I meant more did he teach you to do the job properly and not give up before . . . never mind. There’s no way I can explain what I mean without it sounding weird. I blame the fact that my mind has shut down. Would you mind if I reciprocated?”

“Yes,” he said, moving up her body, pausing to kiss her belly, hips, rib cage, and both taut nipples before claiming her mouth. “You may reciprocate at another time. Right now, I intend to show you that my father did, indeed, teach me that a job worth doing is a job worth doing to the fullest of my abilities.”

He slid into her body, making her moan with pleasure. He himself was incapable of sound, incapable of anything except the knowledge that she was made for him with exquisite fineness. And when she bit his shoulder and demanded that he stop teasing her and finish the job, her body tightening around him in a way that had him seeing sparks, he knew with a finality that shook him to his core that she was his forever.

“We’re doing it again.” Gwen’s soft voice caressed his ear. He couldn’t so much as lift his head from where it lay cradled against her neck. He felt as boneless as a jellyfish.

“I’m fine with that,” he told her neck, “but you’ll have to give me a little bit of time to recover. Say a week. Possibly two months.”

She pinched his ass, right at the spot where her damned horse had bit him. “Not that. I don’t think I could again for a while. To be honest, I didn’t know I was multi-orgasmic until you proved I was. What I meant, Mr. Does the Job Right, was that we’re porraimosing again. Look.”

“I can’t look. I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. You have drained me of every last ounce. Besides, I don’t need to see the effect. I can feel it.”

Despite his words, he rolled off her, felt immediately bereft, and pulled her over to him until she lay draped atop him.

“It’s amazing that it doesn’t hurt,” she said, contemplating her hand, which was indeed alight with the short, snapping tendrils of electricity. “It just feels . . . tingly. Oh. It’s going away already.”

“It’ll be back,” he said drowsily, feeling extremely happy despite everything. He hadn’t the slightest idea how he was going to resolve the situation between the Watch and Gwen’s mothers, or how he could protect her from the reclamation agent, but he knew without a single doubt that he would find a way.

He had to. He didn’t think he could live without his Welsh temptress.