"I shall," Gregory promised, "though I doubt I'll have need. Dream sweetly, damsel."
Finister closed her eyes but had no trouble staying awake— her whole body thrummed with the excitement of the chase. He might have been immune to the distractions of talk and a light touch or two, but surely he could not resist extended caressing!
She waited half an hour until she was sure he was too deeply entranced to surface quickly enough to push her away. If she played upon his body as surely as she knew she could, by the time he returned to his senses he would be far too much aroused to be able to resist her!
When his breathing had slowed and lightened so much that she was no longer certain he was alive, she rose from her pallet and stalked him on hands and knees like the wildcat she felt herself to be. Her pulse sped faster and faster with the excitement of the chase; she felt the glow of warmth within, felt her heart pounding within her breast, and knew she had taken on the glow that no male eye could resist.
Except Gregory's.
She made sure she was within his direct vision, but he showed not the slightest sign of recognition. Piqued, she nestled up beside him and reached out to stroke his arm.
It was like rubbing wood.
Unable to believe her senses, she pulled up his sleeve and tried to pinch his forearm, but his flesh had grown so hard that she could gain no purchase. Seeking softer flesh, she pulled his sleeve all the way up—and stared at the huge bulge of his biceps. Unbelieving, she probed his underarm and found the triceps equally swollen. An excitement of a kind she had rarely felt tingled within her, for though she projected sexuality, she rarely felt any percolating of pleasure herself except the thrill of the chase. Only Gregory's brothers had been well enough formed to kindle any inner sensation—they, and one or two others. Surely she had never expected it of this retiring scholar! But he, too, seemed able to inflame her. Whether it was the challenge, or the surprising swell of his muscles coupled with the handsomeness, almost beauty, of his face, she knew not, but the excitement was there and could not be denied.
The muscles may have bulged, but so did a burl in a stick of wood, and that was exactly how it felt. Unbelieving, she yanked open his robe and stared at the swelling pectorals and the layers of muscle revealed between neck and shoulders, and felt a stirring inside her that made her very impatient indeed. She reached out to caress but found those pectorals oaken. She reached for flesh that she knew should be delicate, his minuscule nipples, which she had found to be sensitive even in men—but his felt like those of a statue.
Peregrine knelt directly in front of Gregory, bending forward to make sure she exposed her cleavage thoroughly, and glaring into his eyes, she tried a telepathic probe. It proved informative but worthless; she learned only that he had set his mind to register outside stimuli but ignore them as unimportant—unless, of course, they were threatening. That he managed to keep ignoring her meant that he must have had more sexual experience than she had thought, for if he was the total innocent he'd seemed, surely he would have interpreted her advances as threats, or at least something to fear! There was no sign of such fright, though, no response at all to her presence other than a mere noting and setting aside of her actions. Most of his mind was in a strange sort of ecstasy, contemplating the union of the four major forces of the universe, mathematical equations springing into life and flashing past, merging one into another too quickly to follow, though her masters had trained her in modern physics. She couldn't probe deeper than the surface of his mind, of course, but that was certainly enough—how dare he find nuclear forces and gravity more interesting than herself! What kind of man was he, if the interplay of mathematical functions intoxicated him more than a woman's caresses? Was he really a man at all?
With an imprecation, she pushed him as hard as she could; if he toppled, surely he would waken. But he didn't even rock—his folded legs gave him a damnably secure seat!
Seething with frustration but not daring to curse for fear he should hear, somewhere inside that wooden facade, Fin-ister went back to her pallet and lay down—but her night's sally had left her every bit as agitated as she had wished him to be.
Relentlessly aroused, she passed a very restless night.
Sunlight made the world turn scarlet, and Finister squinted, then realized she was awake. That meant she had finally slept—but if the sun's rays had penetrated this grove, how late was it?
She forced her eyes open, squinting against the light, and saw that execrable Gregory sitting by a fire and a steaming kettle, looking as fresh as the dew and as tranquil as a sated lover.
He saw her movement and smiled at her. "Good morn, damsel."
An acerbic retort sprang to her lips, but she bit it back and forced a smile that she managed to turn sweet. "Good morn, sir." She glanced upward, saw that the sun was halfway to the zenith, and gasped. "You have let me sleep far too long!"
"You have been through an ordeal that would have exhausted a man of iron," Gregory said with ready compassion. "I trusted your body's wisdom."
Her body had been anything but wise, Finister reflected sourly. She lowered her gaze modestly and said, "Forgive me if I step away from you some little while, sir. No damsel would wish a gentleman to look upon her while she is disheveled from sleep."
"And no gentleman would!" Gregory said in consternation. He turned away. "Your pardon, damsel!"
"Given," she assured him. "Whatever you are brewing, sir, it smells heavenly, and I shall return to sip with you in minutes."
When she stepped out of the underbrush again, her hair was coifed and her dress without a stain or a wrinkle; it was amazing what telekinesis could do with fibers. Smiling bashfully, she came to fold herself gracefully next to Gregory and accept the mug he proffered.
They chatted idly for perhaps half an hour while he fried oatcakes for her and they sipped the herbal tea he had brewed. She was amazed all over again at his skill in conversation, his ability to make her laugh with his small talk.
Then they mounted again and rode off down the forest trail. Before she knew it, Peregrine found herself doing most of the talking and narrowly escaped telling Gregory her real feelings about what women wanted from men. He would scarcely have found them attractive.
When the sun was a little past the zenith, Peregrine spied a lovely stream that pushed the forest back into a delightful little glade as it curved around a great boulder that screened it from the trail. It struck her as the ideal romantic dell. Accordingly, she let her shoulders droop, fluttered her eyelids as though with fatigue, lost her smile, and hollowed her cheeks to make her face look drawn and pale.
Gregory surprised her with the quickness of his perception.
"You are weary, damsel; surely the fright of these past few days still weakens you. Let us dismount and pitch camp for the night."
"I—I am certain I can hold to the saddle some while longer, sir," Peregrine said in faltering tones. "Let us at least ride till twilight."
"There is no call," Gregory protested. "We have no great need for haste, after all. Let us dismount and rest by the stream."
"If. . . if that would please you, sir," Peregrine said, her relief plain to hear.
They dismounted and tied their horses to a spreading yew bush. Gregory took off their saddles and bridles and made sure their tethers were long enough to allow them ample room to graze. Then he kindled a fire and set his leather kettle to boil.
"We must not tarry long," Peregrine protested in faint and faltering tones. "I would be loathe to delay you."
"I have ample time," Gregory assured her. "I journey to Runnymede, after all, and so great a city will not wander away while we travel. You are bound for the nearest town that will grant you shelter, and surely it shall not stray any more than the Queen's castle."