Chapter Fourteen
F OURTEEN
We play for hours, as Bishop teaches me how to use my nose for tracking. A smell can be picked up on the wind, as I did with the deer remains. It can also be found on the ground, which he demonstrates by dragging the bone through the grass.
The latter doesn’t work as well with me.
First there’s the matter of my clothing.
I can only very gingerly lower myself to the ground, acting within the limitations of my corset and rearranging my long skirts.
In a simple day dress, I don’t have multiple layers of petticoats, but it’s still work to get down there.
Then I discover that either I need a lot more experience or my sense of smell isn’t nearly as good as Bishop’s.
All I can detect is the overwhelming aroma of grass and earth.
Finally, Bishop decrees I’ve had enough, and since I’m already on the ground, I flop onto my back and stare into the cloud-clustered sky.
When Bishop’s shadow passes over me, I say, “I haven’t fainted. I’m resting.”
“If you need a hand getting up…”
“I will. When I’m ready.” I squint at him. “Do you need to get back to the house?”
“No, the longer we’re together, the happier your father will be. Though I’m not sure how we’ll explain the grass stains on your dress.”
“Oh, I think they’ll come up with their own explanation.”
I expect him to blush, but he only shakes his head with a small smile. “All right. That was silly of me. While your father knows I wouldn’t take an early wedding night, he’ll be pleased if we’ve… availed ourselves of the privacy.”
He lowers himself to sit with his back against an oak and then removes something silver from his coat pocket.
I lift my head. “Is that a flask?”
A faint smile. “I noticed you eying the brandy last night and thought you might appreciate it.”
I accept the flask, rise onto my elbows, and take a long draw, letting the alcohol burn down. When I hold it out, he lifts a hand. “It’s all for you. I wouldn’t be so uncouth.”
I arch a brow. “Haven’t we been through this already?
If there’s one thing I appreciate here, it’s the opportunity to be less couth…
if that’s a word. If you’d rather not drink from the same flask, that’s fine.
Or if you just don’t want to drink, that’s also fine.
” I pause. “You couldn’t accidentally turn me into a werewolf by sharing a flask, could you?
I’ve heard it can be transmitted through a bite, which implies it’s passed through saliva. ”
“It is.” He takes the flask. “But you’d never ‘catch’ it by sharing a drink with me.”
“What if I had a sore in my mouth?”
He shakes his head, as if not sure whether I’m joking. “It takes more than that. More even than a quick bite. You’re safe. I would never take that risk with you. Being a hereditary werewolf is one thing. To be turned?” He gulps brandy. “Most don’t survive.”
He passes back the flask, and I drink some more, faster than I should, spurred on by the drowsy warmth spreading through my veins.
When I return the flask, he drinks, and I watch his throat move.
He shaved this morning, but I can already see the dark shadow that will become stubble by dinner, and I stare in tipsy fascination, at the line of his jaw, the pulse of his throat, the way one unruly lock of hair curls over his ear.
He lifts the flask, and I realize he’s rolled up his shirtsleeves, bare skin taut over muscled forearms. He takes a gulp of brandy, lips parting around the flask, and I catch the barest flash of white teeth. A lone bead of sweat trickles down his cheek from the warm day.
I remember that moment in the attic, when I first stepped out, and he was naked, with blood on his lips. I’m too tipsy to even pretend I’m horrified by my mind returning there, looking at him now and filling in the rest, what he looks like under that shirt, under those trousers.
I’m also too tipsy to stifle the thought that comes next.
I want him.
For three years now, my aunt has urged me to take a lover. I’m ready for one, eager even. But I’ve made endless excuses, rejecting every interested supernatural for this reason or that.
The truth is far more complicated. While I did want sex, I didn’t want it with any of the available options. I might have enjoyed flirting with them, talking to them, even kissing them, but I had no desire to do what I’m imagining doing with Bishop Daniels right now.
Undressing him. Touching him. Kissing him everywhere, tasting and exploring. Feeling his hands on me, his lips on me. I look at him sitting against the tree, and I imagine climbing onto his lap, straddling him, taking him.
I should blush at the thought. I should look away before he sees me devouring him like he’s a buffet and I haven’t eaten in weeks.
But the brandy has me floating in the most wonderful safe place, where I can admire and imagine and lust, and know I don’t need to worry that, if he noticed, he would take advantage of thoughts that I’m not ready to turn into action.
Does the brandy make me feel safe?
Or does he?
I’m not going to undress him. I’m not going to touch him.
I’m not going to kiss him. And I’m certainly not going to straddle him and do away with that pesky maidenhead.
Under the circumstances, that’s the epitome of a bad idea.
But I feel safe indulging in the fantasy and tucking it away for later, when I’m alone in bed.
When he finally looks over, I say, “What do I smell like?”
He seems startled by the question.
I wave around the field. “For scenting. You smell of vanilla and anise and a sort of musk, which is apparently the smell of a werewolf. The vanilla and anise is all yours. Cologne?”
He shakes his head. “We don’t wear any. I’m partial to a soap that does have a slight vanilla scent. I don’t understand the anise, though.”
“That must just be you. What your natural scent reminds me of.”
“Anise…?” He eyes me, as if prodding for more.
“I’m fond of licorice candies. My grandmother used to make them for me.”
He relaxes, and I realize that’s what he’d wanted—to know whether I considered the smell pleasant or not. I suppress a small smile and ask, “So what do I smell like?”
He hands me the flask, and I’ve had enough, but I drink anyway, and pass it back for him to do the same.
I think he’s avoiding the question, but then he says, “The werewolf musk, of course, which seems… different? Maybe because you’re a woman.
As for what else, while you have a natural scent, I’m not good at finding comparisons.
Maybe a touch of…” He frowns, as if this is a matter requiring intense consideration, which proves I’m not the only one who’s had too much to drink. “Hmm. The faintest odor of…”
“Rotted deer?”
His laugh comes so sharp that it startles me. “Well, yes, I do smell that, from your fingers, but your own smell is far more pleasant.”
My brows shoot up. “I personally find meat a very pleasant smell, and I’d think it’d be the same for any werewolf.”
“Fresh meat is pleasant. Cooked meat is pleasant. Rotting meat is not.”
“Fair.”
“We’re predators,” he says, with mock loftiness. “Not scavengers. As for your smell…” He leans down over my head. “It does remind me of something. I’m trying to place it.”
I turn my head, offering my cheek, and he leans further, inhaling, and when I turn back, he’s right there, his face upside down over mine, eyes looking into mine, open and more unguarded than I’ve ever seen him, and my heart picks up, my nostrils flaring to drink in the scent of him, heat rushing through me—
His arm wobbles, and he nearly collapses onto me, catching himself at the last second before thumping down beside me. Then there’s a sound I’ve never heard before, deep and delicious.
Laughing. Bishop Daniels is laughing.
With a grunt, he twists himself around and then stretches out beside me.
“I’ve had too much to drink,” he says.
“No, I think you’ve had exactly the right amount.”
“Hmm. So what was the question, Delia?”
When I blink at what sounds like a diminutive of my name, he clears his throat.
“ Cor delia, I mean. Right, you asked what you smell like. Berries.”
I glance over, brows arching.
“You smell like berries,” he says. “I don’t know which ones, but that’s the smell. Sweet and tart.”
I sputter a laugh. “Is that what I smell like? Or your general impression of me?”
“Both,” he says. “You smell of berries, and you’re certainly tart, but also sweet, when you wish to be. It’s an excellent mix.”
My cheeks heat, and the alcohol washes through me, my brain spinning until I hear myself saying, unbidden, “It isn’t personal, you know.”
“Hmm?”
“I’ve made it clear that I don’t want to marry you, but I want to be equally clear that it’s not about you.”
“Good. I was very concerned that it was my fault, and if I were a more desirable mate, you’d be leaping at the chance to marry me after three days.”
I sputter a laugh. “Yes, I should hope I wouldn’t want to marry anyone on so short an acquaintance. I don’t ever intend to marry, as I said. But looking back on all the men I’ve known for less than a week, if I had to marry one, you’d be near the top of the list.”
“Near? I’m insulted. I should be at the top.”
“I decided your ego didn’t need that.”
He looks over, his smile so open that my heart skips. “A wise decision. I’ll return the compliment. While I also have no intention of ever marrying, if I had to, based on all the women I’ve known for only three days, I’d choose you.”
My cheeks heat.
“You’re blushing,” he says.
“Out of respect,” I say, echoing our lunch repartee.
That makes him laugh, the sound sharp and sudden, and then we lie there, looking up into the sky, talking sometimes and not talking others, and I can’t recall when I’ve spent such a glorious afternoon.