a Saxon from the Saxon shore of Britain,” Cailin told him.
“Then she is not one of your people,” he remarked, irritated at himself. “I should have been more specific with the slave merchant.”
“Celts are usually harder to catch,” Cailin said, a twinkle in her eyes, “and they do not take well to service, my lord. Nellwyn will suit me admirably. Saxon girls are generally good-natured.”
“Then I have pleased you,” he replied, smiling at her.
“You always please me, my lord,” she answered him softly.
“No,” he said sadly, “I do not, Cailin. I wish I could.”
“The fault lies with me, Aspar. You know it does! It breaks my heart that I can no longer feel passion when a man is within my woman’s passage,” Cailin said, tears filling her lovely eyes. “Yet I do gain a different kind of pleasure when we lie together. Your touch is so filled with love for me that it communicates itself to my very heart, and I am filled with happiness and peace. It is enough for me. I could but wish it was enough for you. It hurts me to know that I have failed you in this manner, but I know not what to do to change things. I have not that wisdom, my beloved lord.” She lay her head on his shoulder and sighed forlornly. How could she care so for this good man, Cailin wondered, and be unable to completely return his passion?
“I love you for many reasons,” he told her, “but your truthfulness in all things pleases me greatly. I would have no whore’s tricks from you, Cailin, no simulated cries of passion ringing in my ears. Some day you will cry out for me, but that cry will come from your heart. I will wait until that time. Perhaps not always with patience, but I will wait.” He arose from the table and held out his hand to her. “The night is fair, and there is a moon. Let us walk together, my love.”
There was no wind, and the night was quiet around them. They walked first through the nearby orchards of almond, peach, and apricot trees with their fragrant pink and white blossoms, some of which were already beginning to drift down to catch in Cailin’s myriad auburn curls.
“These trees are far prettier than the olive groves,” Cailin said. “I do not like the yellowish flowers upon those trees.”
“But the olive is far more practical a fruit,” he told her. “The peaches and apricots are quickly gone. The olives, properly prepared, last all year. What is beautiful is not always practical.”
“Almonds are beautiful,” she countered, “and they last every bit as long as olives, even longer, and they do not have to be salted.”
He laughed. “Too intelligent,” he teased her. “You are too intelligent for a woman. No wonder you frighten Father Michael.”
“Everything frightens Father Michael that is of this world,” Cailin told him. As they left the orchards behind and came across a small field to the beach, she cried softly, “Ohh, Aspar! Look at the moon on the sea! Is it not the most beautiful thing you have ever seen?”
It was one of those rare moments when the restless waves were totally stilled. The flat dark surface of the water was silvered, and shimmered like the best silk as it spread itself before them. They stood silently admiring the beauty of it all. It was as if the entire world were at peace with itself and they were the only two creatures inhabiting it. Aspar reached out and took Cailin’s hand in his. Together they walked down the little embankment to the beach.
Removing his cloak, he spread it upon the sand for them. Then taking her into his arms, he kissed her softly, lingeringly. When he finally released her, Cailin wordlessly pulled her stola over her head and let the garment drop from her slender fingers. Naked, she stood proudly before him. He responded by removing the long, comfortable tunic he wore within his home, and kicked his sandals off. Then Aspar slipped to his knees before her, drawing her against him, his cheek pressed against her torso.
They embraced quietly for a long moment. Then he began to trace a pattern of warm kisses across her flesh. Cailin sighed softly. His patience and his gentleness always astounded her. How very much she wanted to respond to his loving, but passion, it seemed, was dead, or almost dead within her. The only time she felt the slightest bit