Enchanted Afternoon by SUSAN WIGGS

Author:SUSAN WIGGS [Wiggs, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781459294707
Publisher: MIRA
Published: 2002-09-24T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Something Michael had said was bothering her. It bothered her so much that she lay awake that night, mulling over his words. Finally, she knew she would not rest another moment until she found out what he’d meant. Tugging on a summer robe of cotton batiste, she lit a lantern. She tiptoed out of the house, traveling swiftly across the lawn, down the lane and past the field adjacent to the carriage house.

The full moon was a rose-colored pearl hovering over the lake. At this time of year, it was oversize, exaggerated, filling half the sky. Against its pinkish glow rose the distant lake island. Josephine had told her the tiny dot of land was known as Goat Island, as settlers long past used to take their goats to graze there in the summer. Now it was populated only by wild tall grasses and lacy-leafed trees that seemed inked against the moonlight.

By the time she reached his quarters in the carriage house, she was breathless and a little apprehensive. But she would not back down. She walked to the outside stairs, passing the bellpull at the bottom. It never occurred to her to announce herself.

“I need to ask you something,” she said, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Shadowy shapes littered the cavernous loft. She could make out tables and a desk, and against one wall, a large bed, occupied at the moment with an untidy mound. The quarters smelled curiously of herbs and saddle soap. Thrusting the lantern forward, she said, “Michael?”

He woke with a start, shielding his eyes as he blinked against the glare of the lantern. “What the hell—Christ, Helena, is something wrong?”

“No. Actually, yes.”

“What is it? Yes or no?” He sat up in bed, the rumpled sheets pooling around his waist, lamplight streaming over his torso. He looked like a fallen god, sitting there, blinking and rubbing his hand over his stubbled jaw. His chest was shaped by firm muscles, and its pattern of dark hair seemed somehow even more fascinating to her now than it had been years ago.

She paused for a moment, hopelessly flustered. He slept naked. She should have remembered that. He had less personal modesty than Walt Whitman, whose forbidden poems her sister used to read in a whisper late at night, when they were supposed to be asleep. That had been one of the many delicious discoveries she’d made back when she was falling in love with him. He advocated a natural state of man, and he made her want to adopt the habit—not that she’d ever dare, of course.

The sight of Michael’s naked body as he rose from the bed made her skin heat, and her mouth went dry. She quickly doused the lantern, but the moonlight was enough. One glance confirmed her suspicions. Yes, she definitely should have remembered this habit of his.

A second glance confirmed another concern.

“Darling, your attention is flattering indeed,” he said with a wicked grin, following her gaze.

Her cheeks flamed and she turned sharply away.

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