The River of No Return

against her belly; he liked her teasing. “Do you not remember how the poem ends?”
    “I am hardly in a position to recall rhyming couplets.”
    She propped herself up on her hands, looking down at him. “He spends the whole poem begging her to undress, and then finally he says, ‘To teach thee, I am naked first.’”
    That made him unfurl a smile like a banner. “What are you suggesting?” He took his arms from around her and laced his hands behind his head.
    She lay against his chest and played again with his cravat. “I think that to teach me, you ought to be naked first.”
    “You are a literalist.” His smile faded. “And I’m not a pretty sight. I’m slightly the worse for wear under these fine clothes.”
    “I don’t mind.” She kissed his suddenly sad mouth. “I want to see you.”
    “Very well. But first you must climb off me.”
    Julia slipped from him, smoothed her dress down, and sat on the cushions with her knees tucked up under her chin and her arms wrapped around her legs.
    Nick sat up and began untying his cravat. He glanced sideways at her. “You look like a little gargoyle,” he said.
    Julia just blinked and watched. It was fascinating, observing how his fingers flew without the use of a mirror. He must have tied his cravat every morning and untied it every night, and yet she found it the most exotic thing. He finished, pulled the long cloth free and tossed it aside. The sight of his strong, bare neck, framed by the starched collar of his shirt, sent a thrill through her.
    “Now boots,” he said, yanking awkwardly on one and then the other of his tall, black Hessians. “It’s rather undignified, this undressing part.” He tossed boots and stockings to one side.
    Barefoot, he stood up. Julia hugged her knees more tightly to her chest. He looked ridiculous, in unmentionables that stopped at his bare calves, and a shirt and jacket but no cravat. She laughed.
    “Yes, you see?” He gestured at his own body with a theatrical hand. “The rest of this absurd rig is still to come off. A jacket so tight I can’t get into or out of it on my own, a shirt that doesn’t even button all the way down, and trousers with two different fastening devices. While for your part, you can dress in what is basically a sheet. It’s unfair, I tell you. Now, will you help me out of this wretched jacket?”
    Julia got to her feet and helped him by pushing the jacket up and away from his broad shoulders. She could feel the muscles of his chest stretching as he shrugged off the blue superfine. She laid it carefully aside and looked at Nick in his linen shirt and red braces—the only splash of color in his sober clothing, color that no one ever saw. Except that now she was seeing it. As she watched, he pulled the braces from his shoulders with his thumbs and began to unbutton his shirt. But she found herself gently pushing his hands away. “I want to,” she said.
    He let his hands fall to his sides. She reached up and slipped the first button through its hole, her fingers unsteady. A pulse was beating there among the sinews of his throat, and she could feel his chest rising and falling beneath her wrists. She continued, unbuttoning the second button, and then the third and last. The linen fell open to reveal golden skin, dusted with darker, bronze hair. She put a finger to the hollow of his throat and traced downward to where the buttons stopped. His skin was warm to the touch, and his breath quickened as she touched him. She slowly pulled the shirt from his trousers, and he sucked in his breath. She pushed the linen up, past his ribs, her hands skimming over smooth skin. Then he took over and pulled the shirt quickly over his head.
    Her first impression was that he was beautiful. His chest tapered to his hips. His stomach was bisected by a wavering line of hair that plunged down to his navel, then disappeared mysteriously into his trousers. In spite of his obvious arousal he stood at ease, his weight on one leg, watching her look at him. She reached a hand out, stroking over his ribs, passing up and over his flat nipple. She heard and felt his breath quicken.
    Then she saw the scar.
    He had been shot through the shoulder. It had not been a clean wound. The scar was ragged. His skin was a paler gold than his hair, but the scar was a shiny, sickly white. She passed her hand across it and back, and felt its contours beneath her fingers.
    “You are brave,” he said, and she could feel his voice in