Inamorata

Chapter Twenty-Five - Equiano

Chapter 25. Author's note - for all you history buffs out there, there's a historical reference in this chapter. Also, please vote and comment! Both mean so much to me and I've been having such lovely comments recently that I'm quite addicted to them!

Robin could not move so quietly as to not disturb Nightingale, as David could. And so Nightingale awoke the moment she felt Robin stirring next to her.

She did not open her eyes right away, wondering whether things between them would have changed between since last night. To her, at least, nothing had changed for the worse. Intimacy with Robin had, quite the opposite as with most men, drawn her closer to him.

So she opened her eyes. Finding him looking down at her, she arched one eyebrow.

"Good morning, Mr. Brightley," she said. She noted how his hair was wild, sticking up at all angles. It was in stark contrast to the seriousness of the gaze he gave her from his dark, wide eyes. 

"Good morning, Miss Larkin," he said, his voice light. Nightingale was glad to hear a light gaiety in his voice. It suited him well - seriousness or sadness did not compliment the face that was born for smiles. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, actually," she said. As she spoke, she sat up and arched her spine, bending over and stretching to reveal her bare back. "Once I actually got to sleep, that is."

They were silent for a moment, two birds momentarily pausing in their chattering. Then Robin turned to her.

"Nightingale is this sort of the standard repartee between you and clients the morning after?" he enquired, his voice teasing.

Nightingale laughed and shook her head, giving Robin's mouth a quick kiss. "Not at all, Robin, darling."

"How does it differ?" he asked, as though enquiring the weather, not whether or not he was being treated like a whore's client.

"For a start, most of them never say good morning," she said, allowing her voice to become as light and carefree as his. "Secondly, most of them have just raped me, so I'd say that's also a very big difference."

Robin nodded and patted her cheek. "Now, get up, Nightingale," he said, gesturing. "You can't be late for David."

Nightingale arched her eyebrows. "Oh, who cares about David?"

Robin snorted in a rather unattractive way. "Oh, who cares about David? Well, me, for a start and you, too, though you'd often like to deny it. Now come on, get out of bed!"

"After you, Mr. Brightley," she challenged.

He simply glared at her.

"Oh, I see how it is," she mocked. "You don't want me to see you naked."

"Of course I don't," he retorted, drawing the sheets up to his chin and staring at her so belligerently but with such elegance that he made the cramped position look tasteful. "Have you seen me, Nightingale? And have you seen yourself? I believe I pale in comparison to the way you look."

Nightingale got an impish look on her face. In response, Robin held up his hand.

"No, Nightingale, I don't like that look. Stop it."

"But you're wrong," she said. "I have seen you, you. I've done more than see you, Robin, I've actually fucked you. And believe me, I will stop at nothing to see you naked if I want to-"

"Nightingale!" he yelped, scrambling away from her and out of bed. Before she catch the merest glimpse of him, he was holding a pillow in front of himself. Though it was a large pillow, it did nothing to disguise his knobbly knees or the way his collarbones jutted up through his skin.