The valley of horses_ a novel - Jean M. Auel [232]
He was anticipating the ride on the horse, wondering what Whinney would do. He could get out of her way in a hurry if he had to. Except for a slight limp, his leg was fine, and he thought the limp would work its way out in time. Ayla had done a miraculous job of treating his wound; he had so much to thank her for. He had begun to think about leaving—there was no reason for him to stay anymore—but she seemed in no hurry for him to go, and he kept putting it off. He wanted to help her prepare for the coming winter; he owed her that much at least.
And she had to worry about the horses, too. He hadn’t thought of that. “It takes a lot of work to store feed for the horses, doesn’t it?”
“Not so much,” she said.
“I was just thinking, you said they needed grass, too. Couldn’t you cut whole stalks and take them to the cave? Then, instead of gathering grain in these,” he indicated the picking baskets, “you could shake the seeds into a basket. And have grass for them besides.”
She paused, frowning, to consider the idea. “Maybe.… If the stalks are left to dry after they’re cut, the seeds might shake loose. Some better than others. There’s still wheat and barley … worth a try.” A big smile spread across her face. “Jondalar, I think it might work!”
She was so genuinely excited that he had to smile, too. His approval of her, his attraction, his sheer delight in her were all apparent in his wonderfully seductive eyes. Her response was open and spontaneous.
“Jondalar, I like it so much when you smile … to me, with your mouth, and with your eyes.”
He laughed—his unexpected, unconstrained, exuberantly wanton laugh. She is so honest, he thought. I don’t think she’s ever been anything but completely forthright. What a rare woman she is.
Ayla was caught up by his outburst. Her smile gave in to the contagion of his merriment, collapsed into a chuckle, then grew into a full, uninhibited exultation of delight.
They were both breathless when they regained control, relapsing into new spasms, then taking deep breaths and wiping their eyes. Neither of them could say what had been so outrageously funny; their laughter had fed on itself. But it was as much a release of tensions that had been accumulating, as the mirthfulness of the situation.
When they started walking again, Jondalar put an arm around Ayla’s waist. It was an affectionate reflex to the shared laughter. He felt her stiffen and jerked his arm away immediately. He had promised himself, and her, even if she hadn’t understood him at the time, that he would not impose himself on her. If she had made vows to abstain from Pleasures, he was not going to put himself in a position that would force her to refuse him. He had been very careful to respect her person.
But he had smelled the female essence of her warm skin, felt the turgid fullness of her breast on his side. He remembered, suddenly, how long it had been since he had lain with a woman, and the breechclout did nothing to hide the evidence of his thoughts. He turned away in an attempt to conceal his obvious tumescence, but it was all he could do to keep from tearing off her wrap. His stride lengthened until he was nearly running ahead of her.
“Doni! How I want that woman!” he muttered under his breath.
Tears squeezed out of the corners of Ayla’s eyes as she watched him bolt ahead. What did I do wrong? Why does he pull away from me? Why won’t he give me his signal? I can see his need, why doesn’t he want to relieve it with me? Am I so ugly? She quivered with the remembered feel of his arm around her; her nostrils were full of his masculine scent. She dragged her feet, not wanting to face him, feeling the way she had when she was a little girl and had done something she knew was wrong—only this time, she didn’t know what it was.
Jondalar had reached the cool shade of the wooded strip near the stream. His urgency was so strong that he could not constrain himself. Only moments after he was out of sight behind a screen of dense foliage,