“Got you now, rabbit.”

“You got me.”

“You run like a rabbit.” His heart was beating furiously. “First like a doe. Then like a rabbit.”

“Dirty old man.”

“Aye, lass.”

“Dirty filthy hairy old beast.”

“Aye, lassie. Old enough.”

His hand moved upon her and she shivered, turned, twisted beneath him. He kissed her long and deep, caressed her, gasped with pleasure when he found her naked beneath the kilt.

“You were expecting me.”

“Yes. There.”

He kissed her hair, her forehead, her darkened eyelids, closing the bright and expectant eyes. Raising his lips, he drew back for a moment and she gazed steadily at him. In the green and gold and hazel of her eyes he saw a brief reflection of the trees, the sky.

“‘Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly…’”

“Chaucer wrote that.”

“You’re right, lass.”

“What else do you know?”

“‘I may the beauté of them not sustene.’”

“Slay me.”

“Yes.”

“Kiss me.”

“Yes. Shut up and I’ll kiss you.”

He kissed her mouth, unbuttoned her blouse and stroked the small soft breasts, feeling the nipples rise and harden under his touch.

“Yes. There. Kiss me there.”

He kissed them, nibbled on them. Her arms tightened fiercely around his neck. He touched her knee, the silken skin above. Her thighs parted slowly before his hand.

“Yes, oh Will. There, there…”

Her warm sex was soft and sleek as velvet when he slipped a finger into her.

“Oh Will. Please. Oh God. Oh Will, I want to say all the words.”

“Say them.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Say fuck.”

“Fuck. Fuck me.”

“Yes. Say cock. Say cunt.”

“Cock. Cunt. Cock. Oh Will…”

“Say cocksucker.”

“Cocksucker. Will. Oh God. Oh Jesus.”

“Jesus? Jesus who?”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“Thatta girl. Say the words.”

“Cock. Cunt. Fuck. Jesus H. Christ.” She was turning, trembling, opening for him. “Oh God, Will. Now. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

“Where?”

“Oh God. Please.”

“Where?”

“In my. In my.”

The sun sparkled through the shaking shimmering trim translucent leaves. The warm grass surrounded them, bedded them, embraced them. An orange-black butterfly danced in the air, in the light. Monarch of the moment.

Dear heart how like you this.

1971–77: Henry in Love—An Interlude

I AM A SCOUNDREL, he reflected, dialing the sacred number. This girl’s young enough to be my daughter. So what? Let’s make the most of it.

“Yes?” inquired a gentle voice on the other end of the line. She sounded sweet enough to eat with a spoon.

“Claire? This is Henry.” He felt the first drops of sweat begin to trickle from his armpits, the first involuntary twitching in his groin.

“Henry? Henry who?”

He hesitated. “Is this Claire? Claire Mellon?”

“No, this is Grace Mellon. Just a moment, please.”

Long pause. Must be her sister. Henry waited, gripped in terror. How to begin? Would she even remember? She must have got his letters. Letters she never answered. Must have read them. But then what? What then?

A second voice vibrated in his ear, a voice sweeter, younger, even more delicious than the first. “Hello, Henry.”