Blood and Wine - Margot Scott Page 0,22

to life. A soldier riding into battle, or a knight on his trusty steed. His body was made for combat.

He trotted the horse over to me and then pulled me up to sit between his thighs. I prayed he was too distracted to hear my gasp as his arm went around my middle.

“Hold onto his mane,” he said.

We rode from one side of the vineyard to the other and back again, the horse’s rhythm doing wonderful things to the sensitive parts between my legs. I imagined Will’s hands slipping under my shirt to cup my breasts. The fantasy alone was almost enough to make me come right there on the horse, with Will’s chest at my back. His arm tightened around my waist, and I swear I felt the whisper of tiny pinpricks scraping my bare shoulder where my oversized shirt had slipped.

When it began to rain, Will climbed off the horse first and then helped me to the ground. My body felt so warm, I expected to see steam rising from it. Will’s eyes glowed brightly, bordered by rain-soaked lashes. He looked beautiful with droplets streaming down his face.

I wanted to kiss him so badly.

His hands remained braced around my ribcage, and I longed to know how they would feel under my wet clothes. The first time we slow danced, it was like we were striking flint against steel. Being that close to him, feeling the sturdiness of his body, ignited a spark that started a fire inside me that hasn’t stopped burning.

I dated a little in high school, but I’ve never had sex. For the longest time, it’s just been me and my own fingers for company.

These days, I can’t fall into bed without immediately reaching for my clit. And when I do, it’s Will’s face, his body, his mouth that I picture. I want to strip him down and pour myself all over him. But as fascinated by me as he seems, I can’t assume he wants me with the same intensity.

I’ve given him every opportunity to kiss me, but he hasn’t made a move. Instead of pulling me closer, he lets go, reaching for my hand as we set off in search of my mother’s ghost or move on to some other family-friendly activity.

Sometimes we sit by the fire in the library and read. We talk about books and read passages from our favorites. He asks about my life back in Baltimore, and I listen as he tells me stories about fighting alongside King Henry V in the Hundred Years’ War.

Will insists he’s not a ghost, but what else could he be? Either he really has been dead for five hundred years, and his spirit somehow found its way to Red Cliff, or he died sixty years ago and dreamed up a history for himself that he can’t escape from.

Either way, it’s safe to say he’s probably too old for me. But he doesn’t look or act old, and most importantly, he doesn’t feel old. He feels constrained. Like he’s not operating at his full strength. He reminds me of my mom when she started losing weight and napping more than usual, but she could still go about her day. Will doesn’t look sick. But looks can be deceiving.

As for me, I feel healthier every day.

Ever since I got here, I’ve had more energy than I know what to do with. Not to mention those little warnings, the whispers that tell me when I’m about to spill or drop things. I’ve managed to catch falling wineglasses at work because a little voice in my head told me they were about to tip over.

But the biggest and most recent development has to be the ghosts I’ve seen in the daytime.

I saw the first one outside my window yesterday morning.

He looked like a younger version of my grandpa, standing in the grass, smiling up at me. I blinked and he vanished, leaving behind the scent of lilacs I’ve come to associate with dreaming.

Next, came the horses. I was reading in the conservatory on my afternoon off and noticed them through the French doors, grazing among the vine rows. The growers worked through and around them. I had to pinch myself to make sure I hadn’t drifted off in the middle of a boring scene.

This is how it must’ve been for my mother, never knowing who or what she’d see when she walked into a room. She called it the bleeding effect, the leaching of the spirit realm into