Free By Possession by Madeline Hunter

pulls it. A slave does not own property, but is property. A slave does not speak to her master as you do to me without being punished.”
    He had not meant it as a threat but she retreated as if he had, as well she might. A serf did not speak to her lord the way he allowed her to address him either.
    “Still, one would think …”
    “One would think that upon his release a man once enslaved would want to free the world? It does not work that way. A man brought low wants to raise himself up, and make clear the distinction between the past and the present.”
    “So you use me to remind yourself that you are no longer as I am. I enhance your self-worth, much as Darwendon does. I trust that when you get Barrowburgh back and are drowning in status and property and serfs that you will no longer need me to feed your pride and remind you of who you were born to be!”
    He doubted that it would turn out that way because he did not keep her for those reasons. Her explanation made much more sense than his, however, so he did not correct her.
    She turned her body away and did not speak for hours. Her annoyance could not affect the peace, and he was not much given to talk anyway. Angled this way he could look at her without her seeing it, so he did not disturb whatever thoughts occupied her. On occasion he saw her repeat that private sniffing.
    He should have thought about that yesterday. Almost all those slave women reacted the same way about that part of it. After being used they would want to wash. He kept a lookout for a stream or pond.
    “Did you have a family there? Is it permitted with theirslaves?” she asked suddenly, as if hours had not interrupted their conversation.
    “It is permitted, but not freely chosen, and of course there is no Christian marriage. Another way in which slaves are different than villeins.”
    “As you said at the hallmote, only because the Church has interfered.”
    The sun had peaked and begun to fall when he left the woods behind and scanned the countryside. He spotted the glitter of water not far ahead and drove the cart toward it, angling off the road and down a low hill toward the small lake.
    Moira climbed off the cart, stretching and sighing with exaggeration to let him know that he had waited too long to stop.
    “The lake looks shallow. Go and wash if you want. I will stay here with your cart,” he said.
    She looked at him with surprise and then suspicion. He stretched himself out on the hill behind the cart where he could observe the road. She must have realized that he could not watch her from that position, because she rummaged in a basket, then walked down to the lake.
    He stripped off his buckskin tunic. The thin leather was cooler than wool but still too warm for the summer sun. Lying back in the grasses, he closed his eyes and tried not to imagine the lush body being uncovered thirty paces away.
    That proved impossible, since all morning a part of his mind had been divining the various parts until it had constructed a fairly complete image. Full breasts, high and firm, enough to fill his hands, probably with velvety brown tips. The rest creamy in color, like the round buttocks he had seen, much lighter than the tan of her face. Elegant curving lines where torso tapered to waist and then flaredto those womanly hips. Long legs, with thighs … Having her in London was going to be very uncomfortable if the condition of his body right now was any indication. Her presence might bring peace to his soul, but the price would be torture of a different sort.
    Slapping water joined the sounds of birds and wildlife. Moira could find no place in the little lake that would be invisible from the road, so she refrained from stripping as she wanted to do. Instead she bunched her skirts up around her thighs and, turning her back to the cart, scrubbed her legs.
    Untying the lacing across the top of her bodice, she slipped the gown off her arms and shoulders. The smell of those men had wafted to her