"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.