The Tome

“I did not mean to mock you,” he said. “It is rare for a woman to pursue such scholarship. I wish it were less so.” His smile was knowing. “A book of the body’s secret arts? You must show me. Do not be afraid—I am no Cathar.”

Margaret’s eyes widened. Her heart beat like a trapped bird. “No Cathar?” she echoed, a tremor in her voice. Could a gentleman be so open to such carnal mysteries? Slowly, she opened the heavy cover. The leather groaned; the parchment creaked. Lamplight fell on intricate drawings of tangled limbs, exposed flesh—the curve of a hip, the arch of a throat, skin gleaming as if with sweat. “’Tis… graphic,” she whispered, her gaze lingering on a man’s member embraced by soft lips, the lines so vivid she could almost feel their warmth. “The text speaks of a closeness beyond friendship,” she went on, voice firmer though her cheeks burned and her palms were damp. “But I am lost in the … practicalities. The drawings aren't enough for true knowledge. I can't read the words. They are in a strange tongue.”