Free With Heart to Hear by Frankie Robertson Page B

blessed quiet filled with sound as her presence was accepted. Birds, insects, and wind combined their voices, contributing to the quiet that was not silent, unmarred by the harsh sounds of the city or the clattering of the railway that had brought her north from London. Then she became aware of time passing and hurried to make use of what remained of the day’s light.
    With her art supplies tucked in the huge pockets of her smock and an oilcloth pillow under her arm, Elise approached the cleft cut by the stream. The clear water ran ten feet across and perhaps two feet deep beneath the bridge, but the steep margins of the stream gave testament to how high the water could rise when the rains came. Trollius , along with the yellow of a few lingering Primula veris , spotted the banks. Scabious , tiny and delicate as violet snowflakes, clustered in the crevices of the rocks. She loved the tenacious, surging life in plants. Even in the city, grass grew between the pavers. Persistent green shoots always returned, even after the harshest winter.
    Elise took out her paper and pencils, seated herself on the pillow, and soon became absorbed in capturing every detail.
    A sudden hush alerted her to an intruder.
    Elise froze, as did all around her. Her pulse pounded with alarm. Her chosen isolation now loomed dangerous and foolish. Why had she camped so far from help? Were there Gypsies in the area? Vagabonds? Long seconds ticked by, marked by the rapid beat of her heart. All her senses strained to detect danger. She heard nothing, and nothing moved but the grass swaying in the gentle breeze.
    The silence passed. The birds resumed their songs, and the small creatures rustled under the bracken for their suppers again. Elise laughed aloud at her overreaction. No doubt, a hawk had passed overhead. She wiped her fear-dampened palms on her smock and bent again to her work.
    Some while later, a stiffness in her neck made Elise aware that she was drawing with her nose nearly on the paper and that dusk pressed close. Her stomach growled, protesting long neglect. Content with her afternoon’s work, Elise gathered her equipment and returned to her tent. She ate a cold supper by the light of her lantern and then fell asleep listening to the croaks, squeaks, and flutters of the night creatures around her.
     
    *
     
    “Come to me,” a low voice rumbled softly in her ear.
    A warm shadow moved in the dark beside her. She should have been afraid, but instinctively Elise turned toward the heat. Her hand met the hard muscle of a man’s chest and traced the corded ridges of his broad shoulder. She felt a tremor beneath her touch, and then his strong arms gathered her in.
    “Yes, love. Come to me.” Firm lips seared her own, then nibbled across her cheek. He nipped and sucked at her earlobe.
    A frisson of excitement zinged through her. The rushing sound of his breath sped her pulse as prickles of awareness danced over her skin. She wanted—something. She’d never lain with a man, never had a man take “liberties,” but her body still wanted his touch, to feel his hands and mouth on her everywhere.
    He chuckled. Then, as if he’d heard her unspoken hunger, his fingers trailed lightly down her lawn nightgown until they rested on her breast. Without thought, she pushed against his palm. Her nipple hardened. He toyed with it, tracing its circumference, tweaking it gently, teasing it till she wanted to beg–for what, she knew not.
    His mouth replaced his hand and his tongue laved the peak of her breast through the fine fabric. The sharp pleasure of erotic sensation shot through her, drawing a groan from her, and her throaty cry sounded like nothing she’d ever heard come from her mouth. Elise didn’t care. The only thought in her mind was: More!
    His hand found its way down to the mound between her legs. A surge of delight pulsed through her as he pressed his fingers to her. She pressed back. A part of her was shocked at her wanton behavior, but