"Yet you are here."
"Yes, I am here. My husband died penniless. The vicar who replaced him was a bachelor; he was kind enough to let me be his housekeeper. Last month he married. There was not enough work for two women, so I… volunteered to retire my position. My parents left me a small plot of land." Pride intervened; she could not bring herself to tell him that it was a plot of land no larger than a matchbox and that the Branwells, in a place of poverty, had been the most poor. "I had nowhere else to come."
"Did you see your parents, before they died?"
"No," she said. Lingering regret flitted through her. "They died of influenza."
"Did you come back for their funeral?"
"My parents never forgave me for marrying a man who was not a Cornishman. No, I did not come back for their funeral. By the time I was alerted of their deaths, they had already been buried."
"Would you have attended, if you had known about it in time?"
"I don't know."
Or did she?
Megan had not wanted to return to the poverty or the grim austerity of the Cornish people.
"Did you like it when I put my tongue inside your mouth?"
Her breath caught in her chest, remembering the dual penetration of his tongue inside her mouth and his manhood inside her vulva. "Yes."
"I, too, found it enjoyable." Bright color circled his cheeks. He dropped his hands. "The gig will be ready."
Megan grabbed her cloak off one of the rusted hooks that acted as a wardrobe, and the Windsor hat off the bed. Rushing back, she retrieved her gloves and the French letter she had put inside the pocket of the discarded dress.
Chapter Five
Ragged pieces of cloth hung from thorns, mothers' last-year votive offerings torn from swaddling cloths to appease the old gods.
He stared at the clear spring water, and wondered why he had brought Megan to Madron Well.
The truth chuckled and bubbled out from underneath the rock.
Hilla-ridden-to have the stag-was a West Cornish term for a man whose life was riddled with nightmares. Legend claimed that a man could be cured if he washed in Madron Well.
He wanted to be cured.
He wanted to wash in Madron Well and bathe the past away.
"It is said that in 1650 there was a cripple named John Trelilie," Megan said. The brim of her hat and the fold of black veiling hid her face from his view. "He dreamed three times that he should wash himself in Madron Well. But he was crippled, and no one would bring him, so he crawled here to wash himself in the waters. It cured him, they say. They say he walked away from the well upright."
"Do you believe the story is true?" he asked neutrally.
"It is certainly less farfetched than some other Cornish legends." Megan looked up; sunlight sharply illuminated her white skin and the network of fine lines that defined it. "Are there similar legends in your country?"
Arabia was filled with legends. Of genies. Of magical oases.
He opened his mouth to tell her of Arabia. "Eunuchs have been known to marry," he said instead.
It was not what he had intended to say.
Her moss green eyes remained calm. "What did you mean, earlier, when you said that eunuchs such as yourself grow erect? Are there eunuchs who do not… grow erect?"
A bird warbled; the spring gurgled.
It all seemed so far away, the years he had been whole and the day he had been altered.
"There are three types of castration," he said, feeling as removed as the bird's warble. "There is the sandali, or castrati, in which a boy's-or man's-penis and testicles are cleanly cut off by a razor; there are those who have their penis only cut off; and there are those like me, who have their testicles either crushed or removed."
He spoke dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else other than himself; as if the crimes perpetrated were not monstrous, but were perfectly acceptable.
In Arabia, they were.
The horror he had earlier expected to see in her eyes was clearly visible. "These men who do not have their manhood- how do they relieve themselves?"
"They urinate through a straw. Or else they squat."
Like a woman.
But they did not deserve that analogy-not from a fellow eunuch.
"And so these men-these men who do not have their manhood-they must suffer, without any consolation at all."
"A eunuch's level of desire corresponds to the age he was castrated," he said stoically, unable to lie and tell her that a eunuch never felt desire, because they did feel desire.
Even those who were castrated before the onset of puberty.
Even those who were sandali.
"At what age were you?…" She paused, unable to say the word.
"I was castrated when I was thirteen," he said flatly.
He had matured early. At thirteen he had sported the shadow of a beard and his testicles had dropped.
"But those men who lose their manhood…"
She did not have to finish her observation. Or perhaps it was a question.
How did a man who had no manhood yet who still possessed desire find satisfaction?
"Some eunuchs take consolation in giving women pleasure."
"I cannot imagine always seeing to the pleasure of others without being able to physically share it."
Yet she had loved a man who had not seen to her pleasure.
"Eunuchs who have neither a penis nor testicles marry," he said reluctantly.
She remained silent, her gaze suddenly alert.
Instantly, he regretted his confidence.
He did not want to talk about his past. He did not want to think about his future.
He simply wanted to enjoy the day, and his first-and last-woman.
Even should he have the ability to find release in a prostitute, he would never be content with passionless union.
Reaching up, he slid out her hatpin and plucked off her black hat. Sunlight turned her chestnut brown hair to a blaze of red and bronze, autumn colors streaked with the silver gleam of winter. "You have beautiful hair. Why do you wear it pulled back so tightly?"
Reaching up, up, up, she said, "You have beautiful hair, too. Why do you hide it in a turban?" and pulled free the end of the white cotton that was tucked inside to hold the turban in place.
He held still, staring down at her upturned face and the faint lines that contradicted her youthful impulsiveness. "A Muslim man may not show his hair in public."
She unwound the cloth, breasts thrusting against her black cloak, against his chest, focusing upon his turban rather than his gaze. "An Englishwoman may not wear her hair loose in public," she said, breath caressing his chin.
It smelled of tooth powder.
"We are not in public," he said, more aware of her touch and the unwinding turban than he was of his own heartbeat.
Cool air cocooned his head. She stepped back, triumphantly brandishing his turban. "No, we are not."
"I am hungry, Megan," he said deliberately.
"What did you bring us to eat?" she asked, moss green eyes sparkling.
His breath caught in his chest.
No woman had ever jested with him. Teased him. Engaged him in sexual banter.
"What would you like?" he asked, voice too gruff.
It did not deter her-his voice-his body.
"Meat pie," she riposted.
"Then you are fortunate," he returned. "There is a meat pie in the bucket."
Megan laughed.
It rang out through the thicket of branches and leafing bushes, ricocheted off the stone walls that isolated Madron Well from the intrusion of modernity. Wings fluttered up to the sky-she had startled the warbling bird.
His groin tightened.
He untied his cloak and spread it on the ground. She unbuttoned her cloak and spread it on top of his.
Her nipples stabbed her bodice.
"You will get cold," he warned.
"No colder than you," she rejoined.
He
was not cold.
Turning, he walked to the stone fence where he had left the bucket. His loose cotton thobs fluttered against his bare ankles, rubbed against his turgid verge. Catching up the thin metal handle, he turned.
Megan sat on their cloaks, black gown primly tucked around her legs, tugging off black silk gloves.
He stalked her.
She glanced up… and stared at his groin. His robe was tented.
"Your meat pie, madam," he said. And set the bucket down on top of their spread cloaks.
Setting her gloves aside, Megan raised her head. Her moss green gaze snared his black one. "I do not see it."
The heat surging through him owed nothing to sunshine. "Look harder, madam."
"There is a cloth covering it," she returned, "Perhaps you should remove it."
There was no mistaking her inference.
He remembered the press of her lips and the lick of her tongue when she had kissed his verge.
His heart thudded against his chest. "We will both catch our chill," he warned.
Megan reached for the top button on her bodice. "But we will always have fond memories of meat pie, will we not?"
She unfastened one button, two, three… and shrugged out of her bodice.
Her breasts, warmed by sunlight, gleamed like alabaster. Full. Heavy.
Perfect.
"Take down your hair," he said in a strangled voice.
He watched the lift of her arms, her breasts, noted the glint of red-brown hair underneath her arms, catalogued each quiver of her soft breasts.
A long, thick braid fell over her shoulder. Laying aside the hairpins, she slowly unraveled it and raked her fingers through it to straighten out the kinks.
The red, bronze and silver that had only glinted in her hair when it had been secured on top of her head, now was a blazing waterfall that cascaded over her right breast and down to her waist.
The thud of his heart shook his entire body-his chest; his knees.
Megan was willing to satisfy a eunuch's fancy; he could do no less.
He jerked the thobs over his head, letting it fall where it would, and kneeled down in front of her.
In the dim light of morning with the curtains closed, his condition had been blatant but not the scars. There was no hiding them in the full light of day.
She did not cringe from their sight.
Solemnly, she uncovered the bucket of food. Equally solemn, he accepted in his bare hand the slice of meat pie she offered him.
Sitting down, he crossed his legs, acutely aware that she could see everything… his scars, his desire, everything he had spent the last forty years trying to hide.
Pulling out a small jug of cider, Megan filled two glasses, left breast quivering with her motion, nipple stabbing the chill spring air.
He reached out and flicked back her hair, so that he could see both of her breasts.
The meat pie was tasteless, the cider sour. He would never forget them.
When they had drained the last drop of cider, finished the meat pie and licked their fingers clean, she returned the jug, glasses and empty pie plate to the bucket.
Megan stood up and unfastened her skirt, her bustle, her petticoats. Her hair shielded her face. "I would ride you, sir."
Twenty-four hours ago, he would have thought her ridiculous.
Twenty-four hours ago, he had not opened his door to admit a widow who masqueraded as a whore.
Straightening his legs, he kicked her underclothes off their cloaks and lay down.
The sun was hot. Blinding. The weight of her body was more welcome than his next breath.
Kneeling over him, she grasped his verge.
He stopped breathing.
Wet heat kissed him.
His heart stopped beating.
Unrelenting pressure. Scalding moisture.
He concentrated on Megan's face as she determinedly tried to put him inside her. She bit her bottom lip, like a child studying for an exam.
"Take me home, Megan," he said hoarsely.
And wondered where his home was.
He knew where others thought it was, but he himself did not know.
Without warning, her portal opened and she swallowed him.
She moaned.
He groaned.
Her pubic hair prickled his pelvis. The tip of his verge abutted her cervix.
He could feel the pulse of her body frantically beating against him.
Megan stared down at him. "I think I'm too old for this."
He grabbed her hips. "I think not, madam. Ride me," he gritted. "Ride me like you saw the young girl ride the boy."
Show me what it is like, he silently begged, to be young and whole and carefree.
Tentatively she lifted up; cool air surrounded his verge while his crown was gripped by molten fire. Her gaze did not waver from his, green eyes moist with sexual need and something more, the need to please him.
It was not her consideration he wanted; he wanted her selfish enjoyment.
He bucked up; at the same time he pulled her down, forcing her to take the hardness that was all he could give her.
Megan threw her head back; a low cry vibrated along the length of his verge.
He did not know who it came from-her, or him.
She had a long neck, white, graceful.
Slowly, she learned the rhythm: up, thighs and vagina squeezing him; down, thighs and vagina opening. Blindly reaching, she clasped her hands over his.
They were the hands of a woman used to cleaning and toiling.
The sun haloed her head in a crown of red, bronze and silver. He alternately watched her breasts jiggle and the chords in her throat strain. A chorus of ragged breathing blended with the wet impact of flesh slapping flesh. Megan rode him until he could feel the sun on his back and the ground beneath his feet and the wind in his face, together galloping back through the past to a time when they had both been young and innocent.
And then it stopped-the pounding motion, the driving force, the race for freedom. Megan stared down at him, face streaked with sweat and sunshine, hair clinging to her cheeks and her breasts. Her vagina rippled around him in the aftermath of her orgasm, fisting, relaxing, fisting, relaxing… about his heart, his verge. Too much, not enough.
He fought back a cry of agony. He was not ready to be a eunuch again, not when the blood still sang through his veins and desire crackled up and down his spine.
Megan's panting breath slowly subsided. "You cannot, can you?"
He did not pretend to misunderstand her. "No."
But Allah, God, he wanted to.
"I am going to bring you to release, Muhamed."
She abruptly levered up onto one knee-he slipped free of her, wincing, turgid verge reaching out for her-and stood up.
He gazed up at the beauty that was a woman's sex; it was pink and wet between a dark fringe of damp curls.
Her pubic hair was darker than that on her head and underneath her arms.
Quickly, she lifted her leg and brought it over his groin, so that her thighs modestly pressed together.
"Come with me," she said, every bit as imperious as he could be.
"Why?" he rasped, chest heaving, lungs laboring.
Why could they not stay as they were, just for a little while longer?
"I am going to make an offering," Megan said cryptically.
Bending down in a glistening waterfall of hair, she flipped the side of her cloak over and retrieved something from her pocket.
He could not see what it was.
Straightening, she turned and walked toward the well that the spring fed, buttocks gently bouncing, hips swaying.
He followed her.
Megan stood over the baptistery that mothers dipped their babies in. Cupping her right hand, she scooped it into the water, brought it up, filled. Turning to him, she let the water trickle down his verge.
He sucked in his breath.
The water was icy.
What had been hard
shrank to escape the cold.
She ignored the results of her handiwork, concentrating instead on unrolling a French letter. Megan stuck the unfurled sheath of rubber onto a bush that housed the remnants of swaddling cloths.
His throat tightened. She had baptized his male appendage, as women baptized their babies. Now she left a condom offering, as countless mothers left pieces of swaddling cloths as offerings.
"You think that the good fortune mothers seek for their children will visit me?" he asked roughly.
"I know it will," she said firmly. "But later. In a room warmed by coal and the comfort of a bed at our disposal."
He had experienced one miracle, last night buried inside her body; he did not expect another one.
He helped Megan dress, dropping her petticoats over her head, tying her bustle in place, buttoning the band of her skirt, the front of her bodice.
Pulling her hair back from her face, he braided it for her. It was warm with sunshine, slippery fine, softer than down.
Megan held perfectly still for his ministrations, as if she were not used to another dressing her, helping her.
What kind of a fool had her husband been, to reject Megan's love? he wondered angrily. Were she his woman, he would see that she never wanted for attention.
But he was a eunuch, not a man.
She secured the braid on top of her head and crammed on her hat and gloves while he threw on his thobs and wound his turban around his head.
It felt heavier than a boulder.
They did not talk as they retraced their steps through the overgrowth of thorny bushes to the gig that waited for them. He unhobbled the horse and hitched it to the carriage.
Megan climbed in, unassisted.
He wanted to rip off her black hat and black cloak.
He wanted to eat more tasteless meat pie and drink more sour cider and lie again in the sun, with her naked body riding his own.
"You said that eunuchs who do not have their manhood or their testicles marry," she said, looking straight ahead at the gelded horse instead of him.
His lips tightened in a grim line. "Yes."
He knew what she was going to ask.
Megan turned and stared at him. "They would not marry would they, if they were not capable of enjoying a woman's attentions?"
He snapped the reins. "No, they wouldn't."
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