THEY FOUND THE BEST WAY of enjoying each other’s body as well as getting clean was to make love in the bath.
Krysty moved over so that Ryan could get in and lie down on his back, head and shoulders out of the water. She stood astride him, while he reached and caressed her thighs, hands sliding soapily between them, touching her.
As she lowered herself toward him, Krysty used her hand to guide him inside, sitting down with a gasp.
“That issomething else, lover.”
They both started to move, but this created such waves in the narrow tub that pine-scented water immediately began to slop onto the long Persian runner.
“Mebbe I should give you one up for every two downs,” Ryan suggested, making her giggle.
“Better still,” she said, kissing him hard on the mouth again, while her fingers pinched his nipples, making him writhe, “you don’t move. You had a tough day. Now it’s become a hard day. So you relax and let me do the work. Lie back and think of supper.”
After they’d finished, to their mutual satisfaction, they both carefully eased apart, got out and dried each other with the warm, fluffy towels that hung on the radiators.
“What do you make of this place and the baron?” Krysty asked.
“Can’t say. Got more jack than most other barons in Deathlands put together. Daughter isn’t one to turn your back on. And the sec men are well trained. Not sure I’d want to go up against Harry Guiteau.”
There was a knock on the door, a nervous little voice said, “It’s Laura, sire and madam. They’ll be servin’ supper in the main dining room in just five minutes. Miss Weyman says it’s best not to be late.”
They were on time.
Chapter Twenty
“You’re all thinking that I look like a Currer and Ives portrait of Father Christmas. Don’t deny it, my friends. Everyone says it.”
Ryan had never heard of Currer and Ives, but he had certainly seen pictures of Santa Claus, knew that he had been a mystical figure from way before sky-dark who was a sort of patron saint for children and who gave presents to them.
Nobody could argue with Baron Nathan Mandeville about the way he looked. He even dressed in a loose red shirt and red trousers to augment the impression.
He looked to be in his late fifties, burly running toward fat. His red cheeks spoke of a liking for alcohol, or high blood pressure. Perhaps both. A shock of thick white hair ran down past his ears and turned into a startling full beard and mustache. He had soft lips, like a young woman’s.
Mandeville sat at the head of a long table, with his daughter at his right hand. Marie was wearing a floor-length dress of black leather, perforated with hundreds of tiny holes, so that it shimmered like a fishing net. It wasn’t quite possible to tell whether she was naked underneath the gown.
There were seats for twenty or thirty at the refectory table, but only Mandeville and Marie were seated there. Ryan noticed another table, close to the entrance to the kitchen, where half a dozen young men were crowded together. Among them were Anthony and the others from the hunting party.
“Come, join me, ladies and gentlemen. I keep a poor table, with only the most humble of food and drink, but you are most welcome to it. As is any traveler.” He gestured to Krysty, pointing to the seat on his left. “Here, my dear, and make an old man happy with your beauty. Rest of you, take what places you find best.”
Ryan sat next to Krysty, with Dean on his left. After some shuffling and hesitation, Doc found himself seated alongside Mistress Marie Mandeville, who pointedly ignored him, with Michael on his right. J.B. placed himself next to Michael with Mildred opposite.
The “humble” food and drink was as good as any of them had ever eaten.
They began with a mousseline of salmon and juniper berries, served on a bed of diced fresh salad vegetables. Enormous trouble had been taken, with tiny carrots carved in crocus shapes, and tomatoes that looked like flowering roses.