She was cold. She was not used to sleeping naked. Her eyes flew open, her heart beating too fast. She had slept naked—with a man. She smiled. The man was her husband. She snuggled into the mattress, wondering why she felt cold when his body gave off such heat. Her skin warmed and tingled at the memory of her wedding night—the things Gallien had done to her, the places he had touched, the pleasure he had wrought. She had touched him too, and he had enjoyed her caresses, her kisses. Perhaps they could learn to love each other. She wished Fermentine lived nearby so she might rush to tell her sister that she had been right about the joining, but completely wrong about the pleasure. She giggled. Poor Fermentine! Still feeling chilled, she wriggled backwards, hoping her husband would not deem her brazen if she pressed her back to his. She sat up abruptly when she realized she was alone in the bed. The cock had not yet crowed. Where was he? She peered into the darkness. Perhaps he had gone to rekindle the long dead fire, but she heard no movement or sounds of breathing.
