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fortunate, human or otherwise.
 And your dreams?
She gazed at the river, letting the sparkle of sunlight on water carry her away from the dangers of
emotion.  My dreams are for Ivy, for the wonderful life she will have when she& when she finally
realizes& 
 Promise me you will not marry Inglesham.
She blinked, certain she had not heard him correctly.  I beg your pardon?
He looked up, and she saw that his eyes had gone dark and strange.  He doesn t merit your trust in him,
Cordelia. And your father does not have your best wishes at heart.
Cordelia struggled to stand, tangled her feet in her skirts and snatched the trailing fabric away with a
ferocious sweep of her hand.  I know perfectly well that you do not like the viscount, Doctor, but 
 You must trust me in this, he said, his voice hoarse, pleading and demanding at the same time.  Please,
Cordelia.
She took a step away from him.  Why? she asked.  Why do you so despise a man you hardly know?
 You may have little faith in instinct, but I must rely on mine.
 That is the best explanation you can provide for such vague accusations?
He gave a helpless shake of his head.  I have no other.
 You may think that my father wishes to be rid of me, but I assure you& 
 No. He drew his hand across his face.  No. I spoke out of turn. Forgive me.
His genuine contrition disarmed her completely. The tightness in her chest receded.  Perhaps we should
find another topic of conversation.
 Yes. He glanced at the thicket of goat willow. Cordelia was surprised to see that the fox family was still
there, apparently fascinated by the inexplicable human antics.
Donal rose and gazed into Cordelia s eyes.  Let me make amends, he said.  Let me give you something
beautiful.
She knew at once what he wanted of her. She had been so determined to avoid any further intimacy with
him, and yet what he proposed was the most extreme form of closeness imaginable.
 Only this one last time, he said,  and I shall never suggest it again.
One last time before he leaves us, and then these upsets and arguments will be over. My life will be
normal again& .
Just as she wanted it. Just as Lydia had yearned for her own life to be, in the weeks before she died.
 Very well, she said. She settled again on Donal s coat and let the tension flow out of her arms and legs.
 What shall I do?
 Only relax, and think of the foxes. I ll do the rest.
Cordelia could not help but try to remain alert as Donal began to speak, but his voice was like the
gurgling river or the soughing of wind in the treetops, and soon she was drifting, anchorless, in the world
he built with his words. It was as if the animals themselves spoke in her mind, and she began to see
through their eyes, feel what they felt.
Joy. Not the fear she might have expected in animals so often mercilessly hunted by men, nor the
ceaseless focus on obtaining food. Instead she felt the boundaries of her body dissolve, replaced by a
supple, red-coated form ideally shaped for its life and environment.
She raised her muzzle, broad ears catching every sound and movement from shrubbery, meadow and
river. The water sang to her, and each breath of wind brought some new, fascinating odor that stirred the
hairs on her back with a kit s restless excitement.
A sharp yip from one of her two little vixens brought her back to the thicket. She nosed at each of the
younglings in turn, admonished them to remain close, and then turned her gaze upon the two-legged ones
across the meadow.
She knew they were harmless, these creatures; they carried no pain-sticks, offered no threat. One of
them was so different from most two-legs that the vixen was confused at first; to her it smelled almost like
a fox. She nuzzled her mate, who reassured her with a wave of his handsome brush.
Male and female, he reminded her. She coughed in amusement, remembering the way the two-legs had
bristled and circled one another like vixen and dog fox at their first meeting, each testing the others
worthiness. She could not tell which had gained dominance. Both were still, almost as still as a hunter
awaiting the reckless dash of a mouse from its nest in the grass, but the eyes of the male were upon the
vixen, eyes the color of summer leaves& .
She shook her head and bent again to her young ones. They rolled about in mock battle, all three strong
and thick-coated with health. This territory the vixen had chosen was abundant with game and hiding
places where the kits could rest in safety; it seemed likely that the entire litter would survive the season.
She caught the young male under her paw and licked a patch of mud from his coat while he protested
and squirmed, only half as indignant as he pretended.
Her mate rubbed his cheek against hers, his contentment as warm as sunlight playing among the branches
overhead. He was as proud of his litter as if he had borne them himself. Proud of his mate s beauty, her
grace, her cunning.
She leaned into him, anointing herself in the musky scent of his coat, his compelling maleness. Images
flitted like butterflies through her memory: the redolent crunch of last autumn s leaves under her paws as
they met again after a long season s parting; the dance of approach and retreat, flight and pursuit; his hot
breath misting about her face as he sang to her of the most delightful joining to come. Her tail trembled
with need of him, with the exaltation of their reunion& .
Cordelia swayed, her mouth flooded with unfamiliar tastes, dizzy with the smell of inexorable masculinity.
Donal was pressed close, his skin radiating heat through the thin muslin of his shirtsleeves, his face mere
inches from hers. The pit of her stomach throbbing with a need she recognized and could not resist.
Donal cupped her face between his strong countryman s hands and kissed her. Her mouth opened under
his, thawing and blossoming beneath the healing warmth of his caress. He gentled her as he might gentle a
frightened, wounded animal; his lips were firm but never invasive, giving far more than they took. She
melted into him, arms stealing about his waist, hands splayed over the hard, shifting muscles of his back
and shoulders.
He groaned softly, echoing the cry trapped in her own throat. She welcomed the erotic memories he
called out from the depths of her mind where she had hidden them for so long: sensual visions of swaying
branches and broad leaves slick with moisture at the end of a sultry day; a resplendent jungle flower
luring her to its quivering petals with the sheer, carnal seduction of its perfume; the pungent aroma of
exotic spices and sweetmeats dripping with honey; the silky laughter of veiled women and the flash of a
brown hand, painted with henna in ancient designs; a drift of strange, enticing music that slid over her skin
like silk.
And then she was naked, her entire body taut with anticipation of the ecstasies to come. But it was not
James she envisioned lying beside her amid a wanton tangle of sheets and coverlets. It was him& this [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]