Dust Settles I Don't Quotes

MAKING THE LIE MAKE SENSE: When denial (his or ours) can no longer hold and we finally have to admit to ourselves that we’ve been lied to, we search frantically for ways to keep it from disrupting our lives. So we rationalize. We find “good reasons” to justify his lying, just as he almost always accompanies his confessions with “good reasons” for his lies. He tells us he only lied because…. We tell ourselves he only lied because…. We make excuses for him: The lying wasn’t significant/Everybody lies/He’s only human/I have no right to judge him. Allowing the lies to register in our consciousness means having to make room for any number of frightening possibilities: • He’s not the man I thought he was. • The relationship has spun out of control and I don’t know what to do • The relationship may be over. Most women will do almost anything to avoid having to face these truths. Even if we yell and scream at him when we discover that he’s lied to us, once the dust settles, most of us will opt for the comforting territory of rationalization. In fact, many of us are willing to rewire our senses, short-circuit our instincts and intelligence, and accept the seductive comfort of self-delusion.

From the depths of hell, So far I fell, A deal made with the devil, After all the dust had settled, There's an hourglass of time, Counting down all of our lives, And with every grain of sand, Time is slipping through my hands.

Trauma's storm can mask the Christ and feelings can lie. I draw all the hurting voices close and I tough their scars with a whisper: sometimes we don't fully see that in Christ, because of Christ, through Christ, He does give us all things good - until we have the perspective of years. In time, years, dust settles. In memory, ages, God emerges.

People you've known, seemingly forever, may claim to have love for you, but when gossip's tainted tongue whips you - they don't show enough love to weigh your history against false witness. Be that as it may, press forward as the dust settles. Your purpose is much bigger than their paltriness.

Those children are right," he would have said. "They stole nothing from you, my dear. These things don't belong to you here, you now. They belonged to her, that other you, so long ago." Oh, thought Mrs. Bentley. And then, as though an ancient phonograph record had been set hissing under a steel needle, she remembered a conversation she had once had with Mr. Bentley--Mr. Bentley, so prim, a pink carnation in his whisk-broomed lapel, saying, "My dear, you never will understand time, will you? You've always trying to be the things you were, instead of the person you are tonight. Why do you save those ticket stubs and theater programs? They'll only hurt you later. Throw them away, my dear." But Mrs. Bentley had stubbornly kept them. "It won't work," Mr. Bentley continued, sipping his tea. "No matter how hard you try to be what you once were, you can only be what you are here and now. Time hypnotizes. When you're nine, you think you've always been nine years old and will always be. When you're thirty, it seems you've always been balanced there on that bright rim of middle life. And then when you turn seventy, you are always and forever seventy. You're in the present, you're trapped in a young now or an old now, but there is no other now to be seen." It had been one of the few, but gentle, disputes of their quiet marriage. He had never approved of her bric-a-brackery. "Be what you are, bury what you are not," he had said. "Ticket stubs are trickery. Saving things is a magic trick, with mirrors." If he were alive tonight, what would he say? "You're saving cocoons." That's what he'd say. "Corsets, in a way, you can never fit again. So why save them? You can't really prove you were ever young. Pictures? No, they lie. You're not the picture." "Affidavits?" No, my dear, you are not the dates, or the ink, or the paper. You're not these trunks of junk and dust. You're only you, here, now--the present you." Mrs. Bentley nodded at the memory, breathing easier. "Yes, I see. I see." The gold-feruled cane lay silently on the moonlit rug. "In the morning," she said to it, "I will do something final about this, and settle down to being only me, and nobody else from any other year. Yes, that's what I'll do." She slept . . .

The talk of grief stirred it up in Red’s chest, dust that never quite settled. Her grief for Isla was strange and distant. Death didn’t gild her, it just fixed her in Red’s memory, a line with a finite beginning and ending and no chance to be more than it had been. “I don’t think I can mourn her,” Red murmured. Eammon glanced at her, brow furrowed. “I mourn the idea of her, maybe. The gap between what a mother is supposed to be and what she was.

Sounds like a plan. Pat, we’re going up to the attic. If we don’t come out in a couple hours, the boxes ate us.” Pat raised a brow and settled Micah against her shoulder as Finn quietly climbed to sit next to her. Again, that slight pain sliced through her at the sight of the now solemn little boy who used to smile with the greatest of ease. “If you’re afraid of a little dust, I have no hope for you,” Pat teased, and Bay stuck out her tongue like the tough Enforcer mate she was.

The sun, whose concentrated glare dwarfs the earth into a restless mote of dust, had sunk behind the forest, and the diffused light from an opal sky seemed to cast upon a world without shadows and without brilliance the illusion of calm and pensive greatness. I don't know why, listening to him, I should have noted so distinctly the gradual darkening of the river, of the air; the irresistible slow work of the night settling silently on all the visible forms, effacing the outlines, burying the shapes deeper and deeper, like a steady fall of impalpable black dust.

But I don’t know what the right thing to do is; I sometimes think I know too much, I’ve studied too much, learned too much, remembered too much. It all seems to average out, somehow; like dust that settles over... whatever machinery we carry inside us that leads us to act, and puts the same weight everywhere, so that always you can see good and bad on each side, and always there are arguments, precedents for every possible course of action... so of course one ends up doing nothing. Perhaps that’s only right; perhaps that’s what evolution requires, to leave the field free for younger, unencumbered minds, and those not afraid to act.

You’re the hero of your own story. The hero doesn’t die, can’t die, because then the story ends. But I’ve had a long time to sit with death, now. I have stared death in the face. I don’t like it much. I want to choose how this all ends. I don’t just want it taken from me. When I’m old and dying, wheezing my guts out, my organs failing, I want to walk out the front door of some old farmhouse on my own land, maybe forty, fifty hectares of it. I want to find a cool place in the woods under some old oak tree and settle down there and die as the sun comes up. I want a death rattle, a final breath, a body intact that can then be torn apart by scavengers, riddled with worms, my limbs dragged off to feed some family of little foxes, my guts teeming with maggots, until I am nothing but a gooey collection of juices that feeds the fungi and the oak seedlings and the wild grasses. I want my bleached bones scatted across my own land, broken and sucked clean of marrow, half buried in snow and finally, finally, covered over in loam and ground to dust by the passage of time, until I am broken into fragments, the pieces of my body returned to where they came. I could give back something to this world instead of taking, taking, taking. That’s the death I want.

Closing the door, she turned back to him, taking in the long, muscled length of him on the bed, staring at her. Waiting for her. Perfection. He was perfect, and she was bare before him, bathed in candlelight. She was instantly embarrassed- somehow more embarrassed than she had been that night in his office, when she'd touched herself under his careful guidance. At least then she'd been wearing a corset. Stockings. Tonight, she wore nothing. She was all flaws, each one highlighted by his perfection. He watched her for a long moment before extending one muscled arm, palm up, an irresistible invitation. She went to him without hesitation, and he rolled to his back, pulling her over his lovely, lean chest, staring up at her intently. She covered her breasts in a wave of nerves and trepidation. "When you look at me like that... it's too much." He did not look away. "How do I look at you?" "I don't know what it is... but I feel as though you can see into me. As though, if you could, you would consume me." "It's want, love. Desire like nothing I've never experienced. I'm fairly shaking with it. Come here." The demand was impossible to resist, carrying with it the promise of pleasure beyond her dreams. She went. When she was close enough to touch, he lifted one hand, stroking his fingers along hers where they hid her breasts from view. "I tremble with need for you, Pippa. Please, love, let me see you." The request was raw and wretched, and she couldn't deny him, slowly moving her hands to settle them on his chest, fingers splayed wide across the crisp auburn hair that dusted his skin. She was distracted by that hair, the play of it over muscle- the way it narrowed to a lovely dark line across his flat stomach. He lay still as she touched him, his muscles firm and perfect. "You're so beautiful," she whispered, fingers stroking down his arms to his wrists. His gaze narrowed on her. "I am happy you approve, my lady." She smiled. "Oh I do, my lord. You are a remarkable specimen." White teeth flashed again as she gained her courage, retracing her touch, over his forearms, marveling in the feel of him, reciting from memory, "flexor digitorium superficialis, flexor capri radialis..." along his upper arms, "biceps brachii, tricipitis brachii..." over his shoulders, loving the way his muscles tensed and flexed beneath her touch, "deltoideus..." and down his chest, "subscapularis... pectoralis major..." She stilled, brushing her fingers over the curve of that muscle, the landscape of him... the valleys of his body. He sucked in a breath as her fingers ran over the flat discs of his nipples, arching up to her touch, and she stilled, reveling in her power. He enjoyed her touch. He wanted it. She repeated the stroke, this time with her thumbs. He hissed his pleasure, one wide hand falling to the inside of her knee, sending a river of heat through her. "Don't stop now, love. This is the most effective seduction I've ever experienced.

Rider's head snapped up at the sound of gravel crunching under Willow's boots. The sight of the girl in boy's garb birthed an oath. Beneath her cotton shirt, her breasts bounced freely with each step. And within the tight mannish pants, her hips swung in an unconscious rhythm, clearly proclaiming her all woman. Hell, she might as well be naked! His body's reaction was immediate. Cursing his lack of control, he turned sideways, facing her horse, and pretended to adjust the saddle straps. Willow took Sugar's reins and waited for Rider to move aside. He didn't budge an inch. Instead, he tipped his hat back on his head, revealing undisguised disapproval. "Is that the way you always dress?" he bit out. Willow stiffened, immediately defensive. Criticizing herself was one thing; putting up with Sinclair's disdain was another! "If you were expecting a dress, you're crazy!" she snapped. "It would be suicide in this country." "Haven't you ever heard of riding skirts?" "Yes. I'm not as dumb as you seem to think. But fancy riding skirts cost money I don't have. 'Sides, pants are a hell of a lot more useful on the ranch than some damn riding skirt! Now, if you're done jawing about my clothes, I'd like to get a move on before dark." "Somebody ought to wash that barnyard mouth of yours,woman." Willow rested her hand on her gun. "You can try, if you dare." As if I'd draw on a woman, Rider cursed silently, stepping out of her way. As she hoisted herself into the saddle, he was perversely captivated by the way the faded demin stretched over her round bottom. He imagined her long slender legs wrapped around him and how her perfect heart-shaped buttocks would fill his hands and...Oh,hell, what was he doing standing here, gaping like some callow youth? Maybe the girl was right.Maybe he was crazy. One moment he was giving the little witch hell for wearing men's pants; the next he was ogling her in them. He started to turn away, then reached out and gave her booted ankle an angry jerk. "Now what?" Icy turquoise eyes met his, dark and searing. "Do you have any idea what you look like in that get-up? No self-respecting lady would dress like that. It's an open invitation to a man. And if you think that gun you're wearing is going to protect you, you're badly mistaken." Willow gritted her teeth in mounting ire. "So what's it to you, Sinclair? You ain't my pa and you ain't my brother. Hell,my clothes cover me just as good as yours cover you!" She slapped his hand from her ankle, jerked Sugar around, and spurred the mare into a brisk gallop. Before the fine red dust settled, Rider was on his horse, racing after her. Dammit, she's right.Why should I care how she dresses? Heaven knows it certainly has no bearing on my mission. No, agreed a little voice in his head, but it sure is distacting as hell! He'd always prided himself on his cool control; it had saved his backside more than once. But staying in any kind of control around Willow Vaughn was like trying to tame a whimsical March wind-impossible!

Slowly, Tamlin's head lifted, his unbound golden hair dull and matted. 'Do you think she will forgive me?' The question was a rasp, as if he'd been screaming. I knew whom he meant. And I didn't know. I didn't know if her wishing him happiness was the same as forgiveness. If Feyre would ever want to offer that to him. Forgiveness could be a gift to both, but what he'd done... 'Do you want her to?' His green eyes were empty. 'Do I deserve it?' No. Never. He must have read it on my face, because he asked, 'Do you forgive me- for your mother and sister?' 'I don't recall every hearing an apology.' As if an apology would ever right it. As if an apology would ever cover the loss that still ate at me, the hole that remained where their bright, lovely lives had once glowed. 'I don't think one will make a difference, anyway,' Tamlin said, staring at his felled elk once more. 'For either of you.' Broken. Utterly broken. You will need Tamlin as an ally before the dust has settled, Lucien had warned my mate. Perhaps that was why I'd come, too. I waved a hand, my magic slicing and sundering, and the elk's coat slid to the floor in a rasp of fur and slap of wet flesh. Another flicker of power, and slabs of meat had been carved from its sides, piled next to the dark stove- which soon kindled. 'Eat, Tamlin,' I said. He didn't so much as blink. It was not forgiveness- it was not kindness. I could not, would not, ever forget what he'd done to those I loved most. But it was Solstice, or had been. And perhaps because Feyre had given me a gift greater than any I could dream of, I said, 'You can waste away and die after we've sorted out this new world of ours.' A pulse of my power, and an iron skillet slid onto the now-hot stove, a steak of meat thumping into it with a sizzle. 'Eat, Tamlin,' I repeated, and vanished on a dark wind.

He ought to be more clever in his murder attempt. Done properly, he could make a wealthy widow of you, and then you’d both have your happy ending.” Harry knew instantly that he shouldn’t have said it—the comment was the kind of cold-blooded sarcasm he had always resorted to when he felt the need to defend himself. He regretted it even before he saw Merripen out of the periphery of his vision. The Rom was giving him a warning shake of his head and drawing a finger across his throat. Poppy was red faced, her brows drawn in a scowl. “What a dreadful thing to say!” Harry cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said brusquely. “I was joking. It was in poor—” He ducked as something came flying at him. “What the devil—” She had thrown something at him, a cushion. “I don’t want to be a widow, I don’t want Michael Bayning, and I don’t want you to joke about such things, you tactless clodpole!” As all three of them stared at her openmouthed, Poppy leapt up and stalked away, her hands drawn into fists. Bewildered by the immediate force of her fury—it was like being stung by a butterfly—Harry stared after her dumbly. After a moment, he asked the first coherent thought that came to him. “Did she just say she doesn’t want Bayning?” “Yes,” Win said, a smile hovering on her lips. “That’s what she said. Go after her, Harry.” Every cell in Harry’s body longed to comply. Except that he had the feeling of standing on the edge of a cliff, with one ill-chosen word likely to send him over. He gave Poppy’s sister a desperate glance. “What should I say?” “Be honest with her about your feelings,” Win suggested. A frown settled on Harry’s face as he considered that. “What’s my second option?” “I’ll handle this,” Merripen told Win before she could reply. Standing, he slung a great arm across Harry’s shoulders and walked him to the side of the terrace. Poppy’s furious form could be seen in the distance. She was walking down the drive to the caretaker’s house, her skirts and shoes kicking up tiny dust storms. Merripen spoke in a low, not unsympathetic tone, as if compelled to guide a hapless fellow male away from danger. “Take my advice, gadjo . . . never argue with a woman when she’s in this state. Tell her you were wrong and you’re sorry as hell. And promise never to do it again.” “I’m still not exactly certain what I did,” Harry said. “That doesn’t matter. Apologize anyway.” Merripen paused and added in whisper, “And whenever your wife is angry . . . for God’s sake, don’t try logic.” “I heard that,” Win said from the chaise.

Marvin stood there. ‘Out of my way little robot,’ growled the tank. ‘I’m afraid,’ said Marvin, ‘that I’ve been left here to stop you.’ The probe extended again for a quick recheck. It withdrew again. ‘You? Stop me?’ roared the tank, ‘Go on!’ ‘No, really I have,’ said Marvin simply. ‘What are you armed with?’ roared the tank in disbelief. ‘Guess,’ said Marvin. The tank’s engines rumbled, its gears ground. Molecule-sized electronic relays deep in its micro-brain flipped backwards and forwards in consternation. ‘Guess?’ said the tank. ‘Yes, go on,’ said Marvin to the huge battle machine, ‘you’ll never guess.’ ‘Errrmmm …’ said the machine, vibrating with unaccustomed thought, ‘laser beams?’ Marvin shook his head solemnly. ‘No,’ muttered the machine in its deep gutteral rumble, ‘Too obvious. Anti-matter ray?’ it hazarded. ‘Far too obvious,’ admonished Marvin. ‘Yes,’ grumbled the machine, somewhat abashed, ‘Er … how about an electron ram?’ This was new to Marvin. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘One of these,’ said the machine with enthusiasm. From its turret emerged a sharp prong which spat a single lethal blaze of light. Behind Marvin a wall roared and collapsed as a heap of dust. The dust billowed briefly, then settled. ‘No,’ said Marvin, ‘not one of those.’ ‘Good though, isn’t it?’ ‘Very good,’ agreed Marvin. ‘I know,’ said the Frogstar battle machine, after another moment’s consideration, ‘you must have one of those new Xanthic Re-Structron Destabilized Zenon Emitters!’ 'Nice, aren’t they?’ agreed Marvin. ‘That’s what you’ve got?’ said the machine in condiderable awe. ‘No,’ said Marvin. ‘Oh,’ said the machine, disappointed, ‘then it must be …’ ‘You’re thinking along the wrong lines,’ said Marvin, ‘You’re failing to take into account something fairly basic in the relationship between men and robots.’ ‘Er, I know,’ said the battle machine, 'is it … ’ it tailed off into thought again. ‘Just think,’ urged Marvin, ‘they left me, an ordinary, menial robot, to stop you, a gigantic heavy-duty battle machine, whilst they ran off to save themselves. What do you think they would leave me with?’ ‘Oooh er,’ muttered the machine in alarm, ‘something pretty damn devastating I should expect.’ ‘Expect!’ said Marvin. ‘Oh yes, expect. I’ll tell you what they gave me to protect myself with shall I?’ ‘Yes, alright,’ said the battle machine, bracing itself. ‘Nothing,’ said Marvin. There was a dangerous pause. 'Nothing?’ roared the battle machine. ‘Nothing at all,’ intoned Marvin dismally, ‘not an electronic sausage.’ The machine heaved about with fury. ‘Well doesn’t that just take the biscuit!’ it roared, ‘Nothing, eh?’ Just don’t think, do they?’ ‘And me,’ said Marvin in a soft low voice, ‘with this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left side.’ ‘Makes you spit, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ agreed Marvin with feeling. ‘Hell that makes me angry,’ bellowed the machine, ‘think I’ll smash that wall down!’ The electron ram stabbed out another searing blaze of light and took out the wall next to the machine. ‘How do you think I feel?’ said Marvin bitterly. ‘Just ran off and left you did they?’ the Machine thundered. ‘Yes,’ said Marvin. ‘I think I’ll shoot down their bloody ceiling as well!’ raged the tank. It took out the ceiling of the bridge. ‘That’s very impressive,’ murmured Marvin. ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ promised the machine, ‘I can take out this floor too, no trouble!’ It took out the floor too. ‘Hells bells!’ the machine roared as it plummeted fifteen storeys and smashed itself to bits on the ground below. ‘What a depressingly stupid machine,’ said Marvin and trudged away.

She followed Wally up front where Miss Applebaum was placing two chairs, face to face, about three feet apart. “I want you to sit here,” she told them, “and I want you to talk to each other for ten minutes. Perhaps at the end of that time you will have said everything there is to say, and there will be no more disturbances in class.” No! Caroline thought. She would rather be paddled! One minute would be bad enough, five minutes would be cruel and unusual punishment, and ten was torture! She lowered herself sideways into one of the chairs. What was she supposed to say to a boy who, up until that morning, had thought she was dead? Miss Applebaum stood with arms folded. “Well? I’m waiting.” Caroline crossed her ankles. “You started it,” she said to Wally. “What did I do?” he mumbled, sitting sideways himself. “Dumping all that dead stuff on our side of the river.” “So you pretended to die.” “Is this a normal conversation?” asked Miss Applebaum as she picked up a box of supplies and headed for the closet at the back of the room. “No,” said Caroline, but she was talking to Wally, not her teacher. “This is not a normal conversation because you and your brothers aren’t normal human beings. Normal people don’t go dumping dead fish and birds around the neighborhood.” “It wasn’t my idea,” said Wally. “Well, actually it was my idea—dead fish, I mean—but it was Jake and Josh who—” “So none of you are normal.” “We’re not normal?” said Wally, his voice rising. “What do you call people who go burying each other in the river?” “It was a great performance, and you know it.” “It was dumb.” “You believed I was dead.” “I believe you’re crazy.” “We’ll see about that.” “Whatever you two are arguing about, you’d better get it out of your systems now, because when you come to school tomorrow, I expect you to pay attention,” Miss Applebaum called, sticking her head out of the supply closet. “You and your dumb brothers,” Caroline muttered because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “You and your stupid sisters,” said Wally. “We’re smarter than the four of you put together,” Caroline told him. “We’ll see,” said Wally. “If you’d just left us alone instead of dumping that dead stuff, things would be okay,” said Caroline. “If you’d go back where you came from, there wouldn’t be any more trouble,” Wally replied. “Oh, yeah? If you went back to where you came from, you’d live in a cave!” “That does it,” said Wally hotly. “The war is on.” “Okay,” called Miss Applebaum, coming back to the front of the room for another box. “If you two have settled things, you may leave now.” She looked from Caroline to Wally. “Unless, of course, you are not agreed.” “We agree,” said Caroline emphatically. The war is definitely on. She could hardly wait to get home and tell her sisters. What she discovered when she got outside was that she wasn’t the only member of her family who had been kept after school. Eddie had stumbled over Jake’s foot in the cafeteria and, sure that he’d tripped her on purpose, brought her tray down on his head. Beth, of course, had waited for Eddie, so there they were again, the three of them coming home late on the very first day. Mother was dusting shelves in the hallway. “Whatever happened to your nose?” she asked, looking at Caroline. “She bumped into something that needs a little fixing,” said Beth. “Needs a lot of straightening out,” put in Eddie. “Well, how was school?” Mother asked. “Urk,” said Eddie. “Ugh,” said Beth. “It has possibilities,” said Caroline.

Get a large tarp, at least 16 × 16-feet, and open it near your garden where you have all your boxes built and located. Make sure you have them in their final resting place—check with the boss one more time and ask, “Are you sure this is where you want all the boxes, dear?” All of the three ingredients are dusty when dry, so do this when there is no wind. Don’t do it in the garage, or you’ll get dust all over your nice new car or workshop. Wear a painter’s mask and have a hose ready with a very fine spray. Don’t forget to have a few mixing tools ready like a snow shovel, a hoe, or a steel rake. Count out the bags and boxes, do the math one more time and start opening the bags and pouring the contents out on the tarp without walking on the ingredients. Roughly mix the three ingredients as best you can as you pour it. Then drag two corners of the tarp to the opposite two corners. You’ll see the material roll over, mixing itself. When you’ve pulled the tarp so that the mixture is almost to the edge, move 90 degrees and pull those two corners over. You just work your way around the tarp and repeat pulling corners together until your Mel’s Mix is uniformly mixed. It’s finished when you don’t see any single material or one color. Use the hose with a fine mist or spray to wet down any dust, but don’t spray so much you make puddles or wet the ingredients so the mixture becomes too heavy to move easily. Don’t let the kids play in the mixture, or they will crush the large particles of vermiculite. (By the way, I’d save a small plastic bag of vermiculite for seed starting. We’ll get to seed starting in the next chapter.) The next step is to fill the boxes, wetting down the mixed-in layers only as you fill it. Once the box is full and the top leveled off, don’t pack it down. It will settle just right by itself.

Ella has a problem we were hoping you could help with,” Haven said from the kitchen, opening the refrigerator. Jack stared at me steadily, while one corner of his mouth curled upward. “What’s your problem, Ella?” “You want a beer, Jack?” came Hardy’s voice. “Yeah,” Jack replied. “Lime wedge if you got it.” “I’m trying to get a meeting with Mark Gottler,” I told Jack. “To talk with him about my sister.” His expression softened. “Is she okay?” “Yes, I think so. But I don’t think she’s doing anything to secure her own interests, or Luke’s. I need to meet with Gottler and pin him down on a few things. He’s not going to pay Tara’s clinic bill and dust his hands and think he’s through with the whole thing. He’s going to have to do right by Tara and Luke.” Settling Luke back onto the blanket, Jack picked up a little stuffed bunny and dangled it over him, causing Luke to kick his legs in enjoyment. “So you want me to get you in there,” he said. “Yes. I need to see Gottler privately.” “I can arrange a meeting, but the only way you’ll get in there is by going embedded.” I gave him an outraged glance, incredulous that he would have propositioned me within earshot of his sister. “If you think I’m going to sleep with you just so I can see Gottler—” “I said embedded, Ella. Not ‘in bed.’” “Oh,” I said, chastened. “You meant like a computer virus?” Jack nodded, looking sardonic. “I’ll come up with some reason to meet with him and take you along. No sex required. Although if you’re feeling grateful . . .” “I’m not that grateful.” But I couldn’t help smiling, because I had never met a man who could have exuded such barely leashed sexiness while holding a stuffed bunny.

The dust has finally settled. There’s not a worry in my mind, for once. We finally have calm and happiness. I love this for us, but right now, I don’t want happy and calm and peace. I need you to fuck me like it’s the end of the world.

I can’t pee if I know you’re listening.” His mouth snapped shut as he swallowed a gulp too quickly, and he blinked at me as if a speck of dust were caught in his eye. “What?” “I don’t want to have the door open—ever—when we’re doing our business in the bathroom. Some things should stay a mystery.” He watched me for a moment then shrugged. “Okay…that’s fine.” “And I don’t want you to carry my purse—not ever. I hate that, and I actually feel a level of severe moral reprehension about men carrying their spouses’ purses. Don’t even reach for it. You can have your own purse if you want one, but I don’t want you touching my purse.” His mouth was pressed together in a stiff line and eyes were watching me like I was the most fascinating creature he’d ever seen. “And sounds,” I continued. “I know you’ll make them, but you need to be cognizant of them, like farting. Try to do it elsewhere so I can’t hear. I’ll do the same with you. Make an effort, you know? It’s like, why share that with anyone?” “Burping too?” I thought about that then shook my head. “I’m glad you asked. For some reason I feel like loud, long burps are okay, but little burps are disgusting. So, let’s just say no to burps unless we’re having a contest.” He stared at me for a beat, nodded. “I can see that. That makes sense. I have a request.” “Sure, go for it.” “Don’t talk about your period—ever. I don’t want to see evidence of it either.” “Ever? But what about if you want to do something and I’m….” “Then we’ll put it on the calendar. We can have a code for it so I’ll know when it’s happening. I just don’t want to talk about it.” I frowned at that, nodded. “Then I don’t want to hear about stomach or digestion problems—unless something is really wrong and you need to go to the doctor.” “Sounds good.” “And,” I continued, thinking of another item, “I want you to kiss me when you leave and kiss me when you come home.” Quinn gave me a quick smile then leaned forward and brushed a kiss against my mouth. “I like that one.” He settled back against the couch. “Same goes for you. And you should also tell me you love me, every day.” “I love you and I will. That’s a good one. You should say it too.” “I’ll say it too, and I love you. Anything else?” I studied him, tried to think of other specific requests, came up empty. At length I shook my head. “I can’t think of any more, but if I do I’ll email them to you.” He stuck his hand out for me to take, saying, “I can agree to those terms.

If you'll excuse me, I'd like to retire now." "Before dessert?" He gave her a chiding glance, and grinned. "Don't tell me you've lost your sweet tooth." Lara couldn't help returning his smile. "I still have it," she admitted. "I asked Mrs. Rouillé to make a pear tart." Hunter stood and went to her chair, settling his hands on her shoulders as if to keep her there forcibly. Leaning close to her ear, he lowered his voice and murmured, "Stay for just one bite." The velvet rasp of his voice made her shiver. He must have felt the tiny movement, for his fingers tightened on her shoulders. Something about his touch disturbed her profoundly, a gentle strength, a sense of ownership that she balked at. She made an automatic gesture to push him away, but as she felt the warm, hair-dusted backs of his hands, she paused. She couldn't seem to stop herself from exploring the shape of his long bones, the hard angles of his wrists. His fingers flexed, like a cat kneading his paws, and she drew her hands over his in a tentative sweep. The moment spun out, the silence deepening until the only sound that broke it was the tiny sputter of the candle flames. From somewhere above her head, she heard Hunter's shaky laugh, and he pulled back as if she had burned him. "I'm sorry," Lara said softly, her face reddening with surprise at her own actions. "I don't know why I did that." "Don't apologize. In fact..." He knelt by her chair, staring at her. His voice was low and unsteady. "I wish you would again.

Is there aught I can do for ye, sir?” He gave a single nod and reached inside his coat. “I want you to have this,” he muttered, extracting a small bag weighted with gold coins. To a servant of Maude's station, it amounted to a fortune. “Take it, and promise me that if there is ever anything Lady Holland needs, you'll send for me.” The maid's face was blank with surprise. She took the bag, felt its weight in her hand, and stared at him with wide eyes. “Ye don't need to pay me to do that, sir.” “Take it,” he insisted brusquely. A reluctant smile curved her lips, and she dropped the little bag into her apron pocket. “Ye've been a good master, sir. Don't fret about Lady Holland and Miss Rose, I'll serve them faithfully, and send for ye if any trouble arises.” “Good,” he said, and turned to leave. He paused and looked back at her as a question occurred to him. “Why did you try to hide the miniature from me, Maude?” She blushed a little, but her gaze was direct and honest as she replied, “I wished to spare ye the sight of him, sir. I know how ye feel about Lady Holland, ye see.” “You do?” he said neutrally. The maid gave a vigorous nod. “She's a dear, gentle lady, and a man would have a heart of stone not to care for her.” Maude lowered her voice confidentially. “Betwixt ye and me, sir, I think that if my lady were free to choose any man for herself, she might well have set her cap for ye. 'Tis plain as day that she's fair taken with ye. But Master George took most of her heart with him to the grave.” “Does she look at his miniature often?” Zachary asked, keeping his face expressionless. Maude's round face puckered thoughtfully. “Not so often since we came to live on yer estate, sir. To my knowledge, she hasn't taken it out at all in the past month or so. Why, there was even a bit of dust that settled on it.” For some reason the information comforted him. “Farewell, Maude,” he replied, taking his leave. “Good luck to ye, sir,” she said softly.