A Broom at the Masthead (The Drowned Books Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

arms round him.
    And she held him
so for a moment, and then drew back, looking quizzical. "Ah.
Thankful."
    "Thomazine?"
    "Is that -
is that my fault?"
    "Well, I
shouldn't say you are to blame entirely , Thomazine. It is, after all,
attached to me, not you."
    "Thankful."
    "Thomazine."
    "Is that
what, ah -"
    "I should
prefer not to conjecture, Thomazine," he said firmly, having a very good
idea where this conversation was leading and distinctly preferring not to go
there.
    "Thankful."
    He sighed.
"Thomazine." 
    "Do you
mind if I -" 
    No, he didn't
mind, he didn't mind at all, and the intent look on her face as she examined
him nearly undid him altogether. He said nothing. Oh, but he didn't need to,
because that serious and intent look was giving way to a dawning delight at
what exactly she could do to him. "Do you like that,
Thankful?"
    "I do. But
- Zee - I don't want to hurt you, my tibber," he muttered, scowling
fiercely into his lap.
    "Hurt
me?" Thomazine looked at her husband blankly. "Why would you -"
    He lifted a
shoulder in an awkward shrug. "Um. because it does. Um. Apparently. So I
am, uh, told. By people who know about these, uh, things. Kind of thing."
    "But
Thankful -" She went and sat closer to him, and he edged away as if she
might burn him.  "What's the matter?"
    Out of the
corner of his eye, he gave her a wry look. "Oh, nothing, lass. Just a
funny prejudice against, you know, causing my wife distress."
    "It's our
wedding night, Thankful, and you don't want to be anywhere near me. That causes
me distress." She wriggled her fingers under his arm and poked him in the
ribs. "Hey. Thankful-for-his-Deliverance ." Which got a small
smile out of him. "I love you, you big silly. I don't mind if you hurt me
a little bit."
    "I
do!" He gave a great sigh. "Oh, Zee. What are we to do?"
    "I could
give you a cuddle," she said, sounding so much like her mother that he had
to laugh. A practical wench, to the tips of her fingers, and one much given to
a belief in the therapeutic properties of fondness and good feeding. With
another sigh, he rested his head on her shoulder, closed his eyes. He was
contented. Happy. He didn't need to - well. He didn't. He was a man, not a
beast.
    He could feel
the curve of her collarbone against his cheek, and her skin smelt of sunshine
and cleanliness. She was warm to the touch - warm, and breathing, and soft, and
alive, and he wanted to hold her so tight he'd never let her go, and at the
same time he was terrified that he'd hurt her, break her, in his ardency. What
he did not need at that point was Thomazine putting her hand on his back, in
all innocence, and stroking him like a fractious horse. Suffice it to say that
it was not soothing him. Not at all. "Are you cold?" she said
curiously, and he shut his eyes very tight and held his breath and said
nothing.
    "Thankful?
Are you cold? It's not the fever come back, is it? Do you want to get into
bed?" And she put her hand on his forehead, which was nice and comforting
and which brought certain of the softer parts of her anatomy into rather closer
contact than he was entirely comfortable with, right now.
    "Yes,"
he said honestly, "yes I do, very much, but -"
    "Oh, look.
Mam left us a jug of ale in the hearth. Oh, bless her." And thank the
Lord, Thomazine had pushed herself free of him and was scooting across the bed
to the fireplace, squatting on her heels on the hearth to test the warmth of
the jug with the flat of her hand. "Still warm, too. "
    He was, it had
to be said. He was very warm indeed. Especially when she grinned up at him over
her shoulder, with the firelight rendering her shift all but transparent.
"Shall I pour you some?" she said.
    "Please."
It might help. It might be somewhat anaesthetic, because he couldn't keep
putting it off, and at some point he was going to have to get undressed and lie
beside her. In just her shift. And he knew Thomazine, and she wasn't one to
just lie there like a stick of wood. She was bright, and brave,