His traitorous eye jumped to the flash of colour as she folded her legs and let her costume show, the brief glimpses the robe gave lending the outfit something more, making him feel like he was seeing something private. The near taboo of it made his breath catch, which was idiotic. He has seem a lot more of a woman that her legs before, had seen the tricks of whores for years... but this wasn’t a trick. Fiona wasn’t trying to lure him. She was just relaxing. She was being herself. That made him enjoy the glimpses even more.<br/><br/>He was able to drag his gaze back up again – though his was snared once more as she bit her lip. White, even teeth sinking into soft, rosy flesh. How would it feel to have that mouth under his, to gently crush that soft lip with light bites, to feel those teeth teasing his own flesh... He couldn’t think these things, nor should he. Talking with her, making friends, that was all right. Fantasising about her? She would not welcome that. People paid to give her body tribute. Paid to treat her gently, make love to her like she were a princess made of glass and enamel. It wasn’t right for him to feel like this.<br/><br/>Her smile caught him off guard and his gaze jumped up, back to her ocean coloured eyes.<br/><br/><em>"You really shouldn't feel bad, its comes from the archaic form of the old tongue from the country across the sea; that language was hard to learn, and it still trips me up. It doesn't even sound right when you say it really, least not compared to how it looks</em>. Chirurgeon,<em>and you are right, it means a surgeon; which is so much more a proper word don't you think?"</em><br/><br/>He winced as she said the word, drawing it out piece by piece. “It sounds like the Ratking. Or like you’re trying to spit out your own back teeth.” He was glad he’d never been shipped out to another country – there were whoremongers who sent their lest popular stock over the seas or beyond the mountains, offering them up as exotic fancies.<br/><br/>She went back to reading the book, her fingers winding a heavy lock of her hair. Oh pox rot it, not her hair... he looked away, not caring if it was rude. He couldn’t bare to think about her fingers, her soft long hair, soft and scented and perfect. His hands fisted and his nails bit into his palm – he had left his gloved in his room.<br/><br/><em>"This book doesn't seem very much for pleasure reading, I could always lend you something more exciting should you care for it, and less likely to force you to unravel archaic tongues." </em><br/><br/>“Mmn,” he started, then cleared his throat. “Ah, reading for pleasure... it’s not for that, no.” What a strange thing to enjoy doing. “My intention is to expand my vocabulary more than anything. Not that I have reason to speak much,” there was something bitter there. There were not many people who he could speak to, truly. The only people who didn’t treat him as part of the decor were the servants, and they were as distantly respectful to him as they were to the whores. It was a very odd reason to miss having clients for, but they had paid him such rapt attention...<br/><br/><em>"We can practice saying the word if you like though, I know you like to get everything just perfect. I admire that about you, how much you strive."</em><br/><br/>She was still playing with her hair. He snapped his attention to the book and he took it back with a small smile. “I would appreciate that, thank you. My nightmares are rife with impossible to pronounce words. If this one were to swell their ranks, I will tear all my hair out.” He flashed her a teasing grin, pretending there was no truth in what he had just said.