Manon stared down at the blank sheet of paper Erik had set down in front of her. The first few lines were taken up by his elegant looping script. Aa, Bb, Cc, Dd…he'd written it out in only a few seconds. It seemed fairly easy.
They were in the library, sitting at the large mahogany desk. It was beautifully carved, and looked as if it had stood some use. Erik was seated behind her to her left, giving instruction. Manon could feel a trace of his breath on the back of her neck, causing the hairs to prickle. She wished she'd worn her hair down to conceal her tingling nape. Regrettably, she'd tied it up in a knot to keep clear from her face during their first lesson. She felt like jumping out of her skin.
She turned her head a shade to the left, darting a gaze at him from beneath her lashes. He was in plain black trousers and shirt again, a waistcoat unbuttoned. His body was relaxed and open, sleeves rolled up, dark hair pulled back in a short queue.
This was not unusual. He had begun loosening the formality of his dress, opting for shirtsleeves more often than not. The mask remained – cool and flawless as ever – but she found that he wore it so like a second skin that she hardly noticed it anymore. But she still wondered…
His attire was a development that the woman in Manon couldn't help but appreciate, even while the pragmatist in her tried hastily to beat back her wayward glances and dry mouth whenever he got too near or looked too long. She could only assume that her feelings of comfort were playing tricks on her senses, causing her body to conflate her growing trust with attraction.
Her body and mind were acting disturbingly divergent, with her pulse racing as much with as much interest as warning. The pragmatist was rankled.
His chair was mere inches from hers. He smelled of candlesmoke and spices and man.
The woman was winning.
Damn it, Manon! Control yourself!
The combination of her body's reaction to him and the frustration of working at a new skill at which she was inept had her nerves on a razor-thin edge.
It was a difficult frame of mind for learning to read, to say the least.
Her skin crackled as Erik leaned in and spoke, grazing her with his warm breath,
"The way you've been holding the pen for drawing is fine – no, no need to twist up your fingers. Relax your hand." His voice was low but didactic. A teacher's role clearly suited him.
"Grip it gently. That's it. Now copy the letters."
Manon forced her attention to his letters as she clumsily tried to pen her own. How had he done it so quickly?
Her first few were clumsy, uneven, her hand cramped. What a fiddly and unfamiliar motion. Her "A" looked like a potato. His were elegant. Maybe he had pressed down harder? This was ridiculous. Erik was being suspiciously silent.
Manon tried again. Even worse than before.
He began critiquing her lazily from behind. "It's not a bloody sword, woman, hold it any tighter and you'll break it. And it's rather a nice pen. Loosen your grip, hm?" He seemed to be enjoying himself.
"I'd be delighted," Manon enunciated through gritted teeth, willing herself not to snap the thing in two.
She breathed deeply as she continued. Better. But not great. She finished a full set of letters, and frowned. That didn't look so bad…
The sound of a strangled cough came from behind her. Manon slammed the pen down and whipped her head around to glare at him, her face dark with frustration and embarrassment.
"Damn it, Erik!"
Now he laughed openly, grinning shamelessly at her – and she halted.
It was the first time he'd ever smiled that way. Truly smiled. It was arresting, and she stared, anger momentarily forgotten. It was hard to get into a huff when he smiled like that.
It was like a spring thaw bursting into the life of summer – long-awaited, hard-fought, and arrestingly beautiful for its rarity. Erik's dark eyes flashed with green and gold, small lines forming around them, as his grin opened his face wide, fully revealing his straight, white teeth and bringing breathtaking life into the left half of his face that contrasted so with the white mask on the right. He chuckled melodiously.
Lord. She'd let herself be the butt of a joke any day of the week if that's the kind of reward it got her.
Her face must have gone slack, for Erik was laughing harder. "You make it too easy, my dear." His eyes dipped down again to her malformed letters and back up to her gaze, teasing her without malice.
Manon was about to say something clever when Erik suddenly pulled his chair closer and leaned in, all smirk and glittering eyes, crowding her with his body.
Her heart began thumping loudly, her stomach swooping at his sudden scent and closeness.
He reached out and grasped her hand in his – the coolness and strength of his touch was still shocking, thrilling – and picked up the pen as well. He was so close her skin thrummed, adrenaline whispering through her veins like a drug.
Manon found herself unwillingly leaning back into his body, seeking his firm broad chest with her shoulders. His body tensed behind her – even as he pressed infinitesimally closer…
By this point her brain had fully disengaged from her body and she barely remembered what they were doing. She turned her head ever so slightly towards him, breathless, stomach curling in unwilling anticipation of she-didn't-know-what…
Erik was motionless for a split second – then leaned in.
"Now," his lips were so close to her ear that she could hear his low, even breaths, "to business."
Manon had no idea how she managed to get through the next hour, but somehow she did. Heedless of her stupidly thumping pulse, Erik had firmly and decisively helped her to grind out the letters with her uncooperative hand. It was jumpy and awkward at first, but as she forced her arm to relax, the ink flowed with an elegance that surprised and secretly delighted her.
She was glad that his demeanor had become businesslike; it made it easier to ignore his proximity. The muscles of her wrist and hand began to soften and pay attention, loosening their fibrous memories of swordplay and hard work, drawing instead from their memories of subtler duties, with refined motions and sensitive shifts of tendon and tissue that this shaping of letters evoked, like the cradling and dancing over the strings and neck and body of a violin.
She knew this kind of motion! And her fingers did too. Her letters grew yet sharper, her hand contributing now to the movement of Erik's, shaping letter and lines and whole pages, the sound of his voice murmuring the letters in her ear.
After a long while of this her attention was brought thundering back to the moment as he cleared his throat and a gust of warm breath seared her neck. She suddenly couldn't seem to move her tongue through the dryness in her mouth
"Brava, Mademoiselle Moreau," Erik was observing of her gradually progressing script, "your penmanship is already improving. It is almost mediocre." She could sense the smile this time, hear it in that low, close voice…
Manon snatched her hand away with a briskness that impressed her. That was more like it. She certainly did not feel brisk, let alone literate. She felt drunk, drunk on his breath and his voice and his nearness.
"I think I've provided you with enough entertainment for now," she muttered, sidling away. Erik rose as well, suddenly looming closer again than she'd anticipated, placing a hand on her arm.
Manon's senses and brain were reeling and swerving and she didn't like it one bit. Damn the man, did he have to wear just the shirt? What was so wrong with a jacket? And why in God's name was she so fixated on his state of undress?
She stepped back to regain some space and air. An injured look briefly flashed across Erik's features as he watched her rush to create distance. It was gone almost immediately, a calmly indifferent expression masking his features. He straightened and inhaled, crossing his arms across his chest.
Manon fought a brief but violent internal battle in which she forced her eyes to remain on his face.
"I think I'll…" she cleared her throat and spoke now in a much more civil tone. "I will just continue to practice on my own. And thank you." She added belatedly.
Erik gave her an arch look, but he bowed gallantly. "As you will, Manon."
He straightened and turned back to the desk and gathered their notes. Manon turned away too, cursing herself.
Yet as she walked out, she found herself looking over her shoulder back towards him.
"Could we continue tomorrow?"
Erik paused in his motions, a slow, feline smile just visible beyond the curve of his mask.
"I'd be delighted."