wales

She led them to their pallets, again encircled by other pallets. She sat down, sighing at her aching muscles, and caught his gaze. __ou may, er, wrap your arms around me if that will make you feel I am safer._ He chuckled--a hoarse chuckle, rusty, but a chuckle nonetheless. She__ take it. __ay I indeed?_ He lay beside her and pulled her back against him, settling her head on his arm, bunching the other hide up to use as a pillow. __f I must._ His warm sigh tickled across her neck. __fter all, I must ensure that pinkie does not wander._ Would Robert never let her forget that?

The pulse visible in the pale column of her neck vibrated faster, her intoxicating scent washed over him, and he was dizzy with lust. Even through his mail and gambeson, he could feel her womanly curves crushed against his hard chest. He uncurled his fingers from her throat and ran the tough leather of his palm__ mitten along her neck and to the enticing curve of her shoulder. He nudged her mantle an inch, exposing skin. He cursed that his hand was covered in mail. How long had he wanted to taste, to touch her precious skin? Unable to resist, he bent and, with his tongue, touched, tasted the heat of the skin on her collarbone. Oh, Christ, she was lovely. She shivered, and satisfaction roared through him.

He grinned: he__ turned in time to witness her delicate white shoulders dip below the water__ surface. Thankfully, she quickly completed her morning__ ablutions and made a shooing motion with her hands. Back turned again, he waited for her to dress, all the while telling his privy counselor to cease its repeated suggestions.

Ah, cariad, finally I have you to myself, with a bed behind me, and what do I do?

She straightened and crossed her arms. __ can__ sleep with you,_ she blurted._ __s you please.___s you please?_ She stepped back, the rough wood of the bench bumping her upper calf. She__ braced herself for a battle and now felt oddly deflated. __ou aren__ going to try to talk me into it?___ need not talk women into lying with me.

She needed a distraction. __as that your mother?_ The splashing stopped. __re you going to converse while I bathe?_ __hy not?_ __eels rather unseemly._ She laughed, picturing him sitting there, shocked and indignant. __e__e supposed to be married, right?_ __ou have a point, however I would rather not discuss her right now._ __ think you__e evading me.___ayhap. Is it working?

Here, sleep with your back against me. I shall protect you better this way._ She nodded, shuffled closer, and leaned back against him. Her unique womanly scent washed over him, and he fortified his resolve, though having her so close on a bed of furs fired his blood. She dragged her fur up, and he draped his extra across, tucking it in around her shoulders and arms. __ do not fancy having one of them lying next to you. Besides, I wish not for your pinkie to wander.

Knowing this was the same man from last night now clad again in his hunky knightly armor was a strange aphrodisiac. Yeah, a hot look, no denying.

You will be the death of me, woman.

Out in the stone-pile the toad squatted with its glowing jewel-eyes and, maybe, its memories. I don't know if you'll admit a toad could have memories. But I don't know, either, if you'll admit there was once witchcraft in America. Witchcraft doesn't sound sensible when you think of Pittsburgh and subways and movie houses, but the dark lore didn't start in Pittsburgh or Salem either; it goes away back to dark olive groves in Greece and dim, ancient forests in Brittany and the stone dolmens of Wales. All I'm saying, you understand, is that the toad was there, under its rocks, and inside the shack Pete was stretching on his hard bed like a cat and composing himself to sleep.("Before I Wake...")

There are no more gates, only hinges clinging to the walls like broken spiders.

Did you know, ji,_ Zulu offered, __hat the map of Tolkien__ Middle earth fits quite well over central England and Wales? Maybe all fairylands are right here, in our midst.

...what an unfair advantage the dead had over the living, for there could be no rebuttal, no denial, nothing but the accusing silence of the grave.

During the day, memories could be held at bay, but at night, dreams became the devil's own accomplices.

The language itself, whether you speak it or not, whether you love it or hate it, is like some bewitchment or seduction from the past, drifting across the country down the centuries, subtly affecting the nations sensibilities even when its meaning is forgotten.

It was an American who said that while a Frenchman's truth was akin to a straight line, a Welshman's truth was more in the nature of a curve, and it is a fact that Welsh affairs are entangled always in parabola, double-meaning and implication. This makes for a web-like interest....