"My husband?" Emilia echoed, too surprised to do away with bluntness. What business had Iago here, at this hour? Should he not have been with the general and the soldiers in the Citadel? And what did his grieved look import? Truly, it worried her dearly...
"Iago? My husband, what is the matter? What do you here alone?" Slowly, mindful of her still-tender body, she rose to meet him, as perplexed as Desdemona and just as discomfited...but a small, young part of her, that had been awakened anew that morning, cried out eagerly at the sight of him, somber though he was.
It was that joy, that passion, that guided her hands to his shoulders, guided her lips to his cheek to place a chaste kiss upon it, not wishing to make Desdemona any more suspicious than she was.
"Truly, you look like a man with a secret," she teased softly, running one hand down the length of his muscled arm to catch hold of something...soft...clutched behind his back. "What is it you hide from me? Your mien imports some grave occurrence, but in faith, I could almost believe that you keep flowers behind your back..."
