Melissa kept those words to herself. She had enough of her mother in her to not want to risk jinxing any of the beautiful things Lucian had said to her. He truly cared for her, she could tell.
She just needed to be sure.
And she wanted that assurance to come from him. Not because she’d poked and prodded him.
That wouldn’t count.
So she snuggled against him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her fingers drift back and forth over his chest hair. She was tired, much as she wished she wasn’t.
Tupping, glorious as it was, was also exhausting.
Almost slipping back to sleep, her eye caught the framed painting of the inn that hung on the wall opposite the bed. The image was beautifully done, the colors of gloaming almost lit from within so that the painted inn seemed to glow, as if it’d been captured and frozen in the breath of the artist’s memory and not through the skilled sweep of a paintbrush and oil.
The painting also depicted the inn at an earlier date. She suspected late medieval.
Her worries forgotten, she pushed up on her elbow to look at Lucian.
“You were going to tell me about the inn’s name,” she reminded him. “It is unusual.”
“Ahhh, the legend, aye.” He smiled and leaned back against the pillows, drawing her with him. “It’s a famous tale hereabouts and goes way, way back, clear to the days of Robert the Bruce and his greatest enemies, the English.”
“Oh, dear.” She stiffened.
“You needn’t worry, sweet.” He turned his head to kiss the tip of her nose. “That was centuries ago. The early fourteenth, to be exact. Those were troubled times, especially in these parts, so near to the border with England.
“There were frequent raids, men on both sides harrying each other. And too quickly things worsened, the raids turning into flat-out attacks with all the attendant misery. Rape, pillage, and murder, the burning of homes and villages.”
Melissa could imagine and it made her heart hurt. “The inn was here in those day. I saw the date on the sign.”
“Well observed,” he said, and slid his hand down her side, his fingers gently stroking her hip. “The inn was new then and famous for its hare stew. Of course, the then-proprietor was greatly worried that the English would attack and burn the inn, just as they were doing throughout the countryside.
“And so it came that English warring parties did begin appearing in the area. But they mostly wanted food for the huge armies England’s Edward was sending north.”
Melissa blinked. “The inn had to serve them? Or did they just take what they wanted?”
“Neither.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Aye, well…” His stroking fingers reached her female curls, began toying with them. “Remember I said the inn was popular because of its hare stew?”
She nodded, trying to focus on the tale, but part of her –that part of her- was starting to tingle and warm, roused by his seductive caresses.
“Where there’s hare stew served up daily, there will be a lot of hares hopping about.” He trailed the tip of one finger along her center, and then back up again, causing pleasurable sensations to stream through her. “The English wanted the hares. In such great number as they were, the poor creatures would fill many English cookpots, and the bellies of lots of English fighting men.
“So they came for the hares?” She shuddered, her heart breaking for the medieval hares.
“They did,” Lucian confirmed.
“Oh, then just stop there.” She sat up, frowning. “I do not want to hear more. You know how much I love animals.”
“I do know,” he said, pulling her back down. “I also know you will love this story.”
She wasn’t so sure.
But she settled against him, wickedly and wantonly parting her legs a bit, so inviting him to continue his delicious strokings. If she had to hear a sad tale, she might as well get some enjoyment out of its telling, and she did love what he was doing to her. Indeed, she might make him promise to caress her this way every morning, afternoon, and evening.
She would like that.
