She thought she might have moaned, but it might have been the sough of the wind passing through the eaves or the sound of the mattress shifting under their weight.
Jane felt her cotton shift sliding against her skin. The hem was at her calf, her knee; it rose as high as the curve of her hip. Fingers curled around her thigh. They were still at first, but inevitably they began to move. They were gentle in their seeking but always deliberate, insistent. No quarter was given. Jane asked for none.
Those fingers nested between her thighs. They fluttered there like small fledglings. Hungry and hungrier. Their tiny heads bumped as they scrabbled in their seeking. They found nectar and drank deeply. It brought her satisfaction to feed them.
It brought her pleasure. Sharp, intense pleasure. Pleasure that could not be contained by biting her lower lip or digging her heels into the mattress. It rippled through her, a tremor that seemed to begin in the fingers of one hand and ended in the fingertips of the other.
Jane woke with the shudder. At first she thought the movement came from outside herself, the bed, the floor, the walls, but it was only a fleeting notion, one she would have liked to retain but could not because she could not ignore the truth. She was the source of the tremor. She understood that even before she removed her hand from between her thighs.
Jane pushed herself into a sitting position and huddled against the headboard. She pulled the covers up to her hunched shoulders and lowered her chin. The last inklings of pleasure made her shiver. She was afraid to close her eyes, afraid of what might happen if she fell asleep and the unsettling feelings collided.
Jane required an ordered mind, and like the pantry, that required an inventory. She searched for shame and could not find it. Was she truly shameless then, or was it that she had committed no transgression? Cousin Frances would say it was the former, but knowing that made Jane lean in the other direction.
There was no guilt. It would have been there beside shame the way pepper paired with salt. No shame. No guilt.
Jane was able to locate little more than a modest amount of embarrassment. It was not even enough to make her blush when she reflected on what had happened. If anything, reflection made her breasts ache and her womb contract. She warned herself that she would have to be careful about reflection.
She felt a certain sense of satisfaction. Discovery was like that, and this particular discovery was a revelation.
It was also disturbing. She had been sleeping, and by her reckoning, not for very long. This thing that she had done to herself had happened outside her consciousness. She had been thinking of him, she remembered that, but then she had surrendered to sleep and dreaming, and the dreams made it seem as if he were with her. It had been real, but not real at all, not in the way she wanted it to be.
Finally, Jane found disappointment. It was there, deep and abiding, squeezing her heart more than just a little. Discovery, she knew, was better when it was shared.
Morgan bumped around in the kitchen until he found where Jane had moved the lamp. The matches at least were in the same drawer he always kept them. He struck one, lit the lamp, and put the glass globe back in place.
Once he could see well enough to keep from banging his foot against a chair or a table leg, Morgan hobbled over to the sink and pumped water into the kettle. Jane had not set a fire in the cookstove to keep the kitchen warm overnight so Morgan had to build one. He started out trying to be quiet, but it did not take long for the dragon to frustrate him, and then he was slamming the dampers and the covers and the firebox door. He swore some too.
“It would have been better if you had called for me,” said Jane.
Morgan pivoted on his good foot. She was standing in the doorway, sleepy-eyed and tousled, belting her robe in what he could only think of as a Gordian knot. He thought absurdly that it was a shame broadswords had gone out of fashion. A carving knife wouldn’t get through that.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
She looked around the kitchen and then returned to him. “Unless there is someone else in here making a fuss, I would have to say yes, you woke me. What are you doing?”
“Slaying the dragon.”
Jane sighed. “Sit down, St. George.” She gestured to the kettle. “You want hot water?”
“To start. I want tea to finish.” He reached in the pocket of his pants and showed her the bottle of laudanum. “And some of this. I think you’re right. It works better with tea.” He thought she might want to seize this opportunity to underscore that she was always right, but she didn’t. She merely pointed to a chair, and this time he sat.
He could appreciate Jane’s efficiency as she brought the stove to life. He did not think she wasted a motion, and she knew the precise order of opening and closing the dampers so the fire could breathe. When Jane turned away from the sink after washing her hands, she caught him staring at her. He did not look away, and she did not shy away. Morgan liked that about her.
Jane said, “I would ask you if I had a smut on my nose, but you were not staring at my face.”
That made Morgan blink, which he supposed meant that she had just stared him down. “You say unexpected things.”
“Do I?”
“I don’t mind.”
Jane’s eyebrows lifted as she dried her hands. “Good. I doubt I would be able to change if you did.” She looked around. “Where is the tea?”
“Pantry. I hadn’t gotten that far.”
“What possessed you to get this far?” Shaking her head, Jane went to pantry and brought back the canister. “Did you say something? Because I did not hear you.”
“I thought maybe it was one of those rhetorical questions.”
