Emigrating with an Earl

by Murdoch, Emily

  Samuel kissed her again, and tilted her slightly with his trembling hand so that she was lying on her back.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

  She glanced at him, and saw nothing but love. He loved her, he surely did. How could he not, when he was saying these things, doing these things, touching her like this?

  Margaret smiled and closed her eyes. The darkness of her eyelids seemed to take away some of the joy, for now she could not see him, but it was instantly rewarded by the sensation of his lips on hers, forceful and hungry, and she responded immediately but gasped in his kiss as his hand closed on her breast, clenching around it to hasten the fire inside her, but now the fingers were stroking her breast, and now her stomach, and now –

  “Oh, Sam!”

  She could not help it, she could not help crying out into his mouth as his fingers rested on that secret place of hers, the core of her femininity. She was hot, and wet, and she had not realised how wet, not until his fingers tightened there and she unconsciously clenched her legs to increase the pressure.

  “Please, more,” she moaned into his mouth. “More, Sam, please…”

  She did not know what more meant, what more could be, but he did not need to tell her. He showed her.

  One of his fingers slipped into the warm and wet folds of her, and Margaret cried out, the pleasure was so overwhelming. A rhythm started, one that seemed to echo the pulsing ache within her, stroking slowly at first, but faster, faster, faster, and now two fingers were inside her, deep inside her, while his thumb encircled a part of her on the outside that was throbbing, desperate for his touch, and her hands were thrashing but she did nothing to stop him for who would wish to halt such delight?

  The same heat was flooding through her that had done so when Sam had teased at her breasts, and she managed to cry, “’Tis happening again – Sam, again, again!”

  And then she was overcome, and her whole body jerked but his strong fingers did not give up his rhythm, and he rode the wave with her, enclosing her cries into his mouth as he kissed her passionately.

  It took a little longer for her body to stop sparking in ecstasy this time, and when Margaret’s eyelashes fluttered open, she was surprised to find Sam kneeling before her.

  “And now,” he said in a jerky voice, “it is time for both of us to take our pleasure. My God, Maggie, I never thought…you are made for pleasure, Maggie, and I will make it my mission to give it to you.”

  Margaret’s eyes opened wide, and she smiled through the confusion of her pleasure. “Every night?”

  Sam groaned, and moved to nestle between her warm and throbbing legs, leaning on his elbows to smile into her eyes. “If you insist, Maggie.”

  And then he was entering her, and it was himself, his true self, the hardness that she had not been able to keep away from, and it was so much bigger than his fingers but she was so hazy in pleasure that she did not struggle, but stretched to allow him deeper.

  Sam moaned in unadulterated joy as he sunk himself into her, and he kissed her neck murmuring words that Margaret could barely hear.

  “God, Maggie, oh yes…oh, you are so warm, and so tight…I have wanted this for so – oh God, so long! Christ Maggie I cannot – I cannot stop myself…”

  She did not understand, how could she, but she knew the only answer that she could give him.

  “Do not stop,” she whispered, and her hands, now brave, moved to clutch his own buttocks, to bring him deeper into her. “Do not stop yourself, Sam, give yourself to me.”

  This was a different rhythm, wilder, untamed and harsh, but Margaret could feel the beats warming up the fires of her body once more, even when she thought that it would not be possible for her to explode once more, and she was hot and so was he, and his eyes were wide and full of devotion as he thrust himself into her, deeper and faster each time, until –

  “Oh, Sam, yes, yes, yes!” She hurtled into the orgasm now, welcoming it, not fearing it but knowing that it would drench her body in pleasures that she had never known before this night, and it was all too much for Sam.

  “Maggie!” He exploded into her, thrusting so violently that it caused another spurt of ecstasy within her, and her legs tightened around him and they glorified in each other’s bodies together as the tidal wave of pleasure gradually lessened and left them on the shore.

  Samuel did not know whether he was still breathing. He was lying down now on the bed, and Maggie, his darling Maggie, was in his arms. She was breathing heavily, and so he supposed that he must be too. It seemed impossible to catch his breath, and every time he looked at her, saw her breasts heaving, saw the curve of her hips as she leaned into him, his lungs seemed to run out of air.

  “I…I do not have the words…” Maggie breathed into him, and he chuckled and brought a lazy finger up and down her back. She squirmed at the sensation, and Samuel had to concentrate to prevent himself stiffening up once more.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said quietly. “You do not even know it, which is remarkable. You must have viewed yourself in a looking glass before, and yet…Oh, Maggie, the way you feel, the way you touch me, ‘tis enough to drive a man insane! Nothing means more to me than this night, Maggie. Nothing.”

  She sighed happily, eyes closed, and Samuel smiled at the sight of her – and found, to his utter astonishment, that every word that he had uttered was completely true. Even as accustomed as he was to saying whatever he wanted to get a woman into bed, he had never murmured sweet nothings after the fact.

  Maggie chuckled softly into his chest. “I certainly feel beautiful, and I believe that to be half the battle.”

  Samuel shook his head with a grin. “You know, I am beginning to sense a confidence in you that I have never seen before.”

  “Nor I,” she murmured, her eyes now shut and a smile still dancing on her lips. “I must say, Sam, that this fake marriage, or marriage of convenience, or whatever you want to call it, is starting to feel surprisingly real.”

  Before that evening, Maggie’s words would have made Samuel stiffen, and not with desire but with fear. But not tonight. Not now.

  He tightened his grip around her, and smiled. “I could not agree more.”

  Within a minute the husband and wife had drifted off to sleep.

  7

  When Margaret awoke, it was not because of a gentle morning kiss, nor the sudden illumination of the cabin by the sun. It was instead due to a slight rocking movement made by the Adelaide, but it awoke her as sharply as if someone had called her name.

  She blinked, wondering for a moment if someone had, but the room was silent. She was leaning on her side, and she was naked.

  Just a brief moment of surprise filled her at this realisation, but then the sweet and rather spicy memories of the night before flooded through her mind, and she smiled, relaxing into the linen bedsheets.

  Yes, she was naked, and what a wonderful decision it had been to let her chemise fall to the floor. Why, if she had not been brave in that split second that she had to make up her mind, would Sam have ever reached out and kissed her? Would she ever have had the bravery to do it first?

  Margaret squirmed slightly with the pleasurable memories of their intoxicating lovemaking, and the need to see him, to touch him again, perhaps to relive their nocturnal delights, overwhelmed her.

  She reached out to her left where Sam should be. He was not there.

  Sitting up and looking around the room, she saw that his breeches and a linen shirt were missing, and she relaxed. The sun was indeed up, and according to the clock leaning against the wall, it was almost ten o’clock in the morning. He must have awoken, decided against waking her from her slumber, and went to get his own breakfast.

  Margaret leaned back, stretching out in the bed and smiling. Who would have thought it, falling in love with her own husband? It was truly absurd, of course, but it must happen. And why not to her?

  Only a few more minutes passed until she decided to get up, so warm and cosy was she
in her bed, but her desire to see him increased with each waking moment that they were apart, and she dressed hurriedly in one of her favourite gowns, a light blue sprigged muslin. Her Great Aunt Sabrina had scolded her for spending so much on a gown when she had chosen the fabric, but now it felt like the perfect choice.

  Her smile did not leave her face as she left the cabin and greeted her fellow passengers, with a few looking at her in puzzlement at her open and joyful expression – an expression that did not falter as a woman hobbled over to her with an angry look on her face.

  “Well, I see that you are up then, and in no good time too,” snapped Great Aunt Sabrina, leaning heavily on her stick and scowling. “And I suppose that you are proud, are you?”

  Margaret’s smile did not disappear, but some of the warmth went out of it. She was a married woman now, she reminded herself silently. I am Mrs Samuel Brown, not Miss Margaret Berry any longer, and I cannot be bullied or pushed around by anyone. No one can ask me to do anything. Except Sam.

  And the unbidden memory rose in her mind.

  “Now you are going to have to trust me. Can you do that, Maggie? Before I…before I can love you the way I want to, you need to…well, this will help. Do you trust me?”

  “What are you gawping at, grin on your face?” Great Aunt Sabrina actually tapped her cane on the floor of the dining room. “Proud, are you, to have married a man like Brown? A man with no good name, no reputation, and knowing nothing about him?”

  In days past this judgement would have been sufficient to make Margaret cower internally, and nod silently, eyes cast down.

  But no longer.

  “My dear Great Aunt Sabrina,” she said with a smile. “At least I matter to someone now. What I do matters, and most importantly, what I feel matters. And that I am proud of.”

  Glancing up, Margaret saw Sam standing on the other side of the room, beaming at her. Her heart lifted and she walked away from her Great Aunt without another word, reaching out her hands to her husband who clasped them in his own and brought them to his lips, kissing them.

  A flush of pleasure darkened her cheeks, but Margaret felt no shame, not even when the captain guffawed at their antics. “Ah, newlyweds, my dears, ‘tis nothing like it!”

  “Shall we sit?” Sam murmured to her, and she nodded, finding an empty pair of seats at the breakfast table. They always breakfasted late on the Adelaide. It was a fancy of the captain’s wife, and never before had it so suited her.

  “Help yourself to some butter,” the captain said, suddenly appearing behind them now, and taking a seat on Sam’s other side. “‘Tis still fresh, my cook tells me, and I would like you ladies to have as much of it as you like. Now, has anyone a newspaper that I have not read yet?”

  His glance around the room was returned with shakes of the head as Margaret was helped to an overly large portion of butter for her potatoes.

  “Ah, ‘tis a shame,” bemoaned the captain with a smile at Margaret. “Not all of us have the whims of new love to distract us, my dear. I was hoping that I could pace my reading, and yet I find that I have read all the newspapers that were brought on board, and us with three days left of the journey to go!”

  “I believe I have one you may not have read, sir.” One of the young lads from the London docks strode forward and proffered a well-thumbed newspaper. “‘Tis the one that goes into the most detail of the case of the murderous earl.”

  Margaret saw Miss St. Clair and Harrington exclaim elegantly, and someone whose name she could not recall shook their head, muttering.

  “I read somewhere that the murderous earl will be attempting to emigrate,” said the other young man eagerly. “You know, to escape from his crime!”

  A thrill of horror sparked up Margaret’s spine at the very thought of it: a nobleman who had committed a terrible crime, on a ship somewhere with passengers trapped in his company, as he tried to run from the justice of his murderous heart.

  “Goodness,” she said quietly to Sam with a smile as she passed him the sugar. “I do not believe that I would even recognise an earl if I saw one do you?”

  Sam gave a nonchalant shrug, and took a large bite of mutton.

  The wider conversation had continued around them, but most of the passengers had already breakfasted and were seated or standing around the room.

  Margaret dropped her voice and giggled. “Would it not be the most awful thing if the murderous earl was on this very ship!”

  “You would never know though, would you?” Sam retorted curtly, not lifting his eyes from his plate. “You said so yourself, you have never seen one before, and now you never will. There are no earls in my social circles, and I hope that will not disappoint you.”

  “Disappoint me – no, I – ”

  “This murderous earl,” spat Sam, “‘tis nothing but gossip and hearsay, nonsense from those who wish that their lives were more exciting. I forbid you to speak of it, Maggie, do you hear me? I forbid you to speak to me about this murderous earl.”

  Her giggle faded, and she flushed with awkward embarrassment. “I-I did not mean to cause any offence.”

  Her fork dropped from her fingers and caused a clatter that deepened her flush. Her stammer had returned, as she had feared it would.

  Sam’s jaw tightened, and his voice had an air of forced calm as he said, “You did not offend me, but I have no wish to discuss the matter further. Captain, how do the seas look before us?”

  The two men started to chatter as Margaret drank some tea to distract herself from the embarrassment of their conversation. Two hearts, two minds, two bodies certainly had never seemed so beautifully in tune as theirs had done last night, but now…

  She watched him from the corner of her eye, and wondered. Perhaps he knew the earl in question, and found it an uncomfortable subject. She knew little about him, after all, and he certainly had a very graceful, courteous, almost elegant nature.

  Perhaps, then, he knew the earl. Or maybe…

  Margaret shook her head and laughed gently under her breath. It was ridiculous, madness to even think about! The fact that she was even considering it…

  She brought another forkful of mutton to her mouth, but as she continued with her meal and let more banal topics of conversation wash over her, a niggle settled into the back of her mind which did not go away.

  It was hours later and he could not stop it now, and what was more, he did not want to. The pressure was building up inside him, and Samuel knew that just one small thing would push him over the edge and cause him to explore.

  He crushed his lips onto Maggie’s passionately and she returned his ardour with equal, if not more abandon, and that was enough. He came, emptying himself into her as she climaxed around him.

  Samuel collapsed onto his wife, exhausted and completely spent, and she stroked his hair softly as he shook slightly with the expended effort.

  This, then, was true peace. He had wanted to make love to her again since she had walked into that breakfast room, and it had taken all of his self-control to wait until after they had dined. To be sure, they had received some startled and in some quarters, disapproving looks when they had stolen away as soon as the meal had ended, too hungry for something else to let mere food hold them back, but what did that matter?

  What did he care when he was lying in the arms of Maggie Brown?

  “You know,” he said sleepily, revelling in the feeling of skin on skin, “I have been able to sleep properly for the first time in months since we married.”

  Maggie chuckled, and he felt rather than heard the laughter, and it filled him with such joy.

  “And if we keep making love like this every night,” she said softly, “so will I!”

  They drifted into silence, but it was not a silence borne of discomfort but rather the opposite. Sam had never felt so at peace, so comfortable with another person in his whole life. He had had mistresses, like any gentleman of his social standing, but they had passed by insignificantly. He could barely rememb
er some of their names, but he was already memorising every inch of Maggie. She was so real, more real than anything had ever been.

  Sleep was fast approaching and Samuel did not try to fight off his closing eyelids when a question was stammered into the darkness.

  “Sam, did you…d-did you leave any family back in England?”

  It had been but a few days since they had first met, but he knew her well enough now. Maggie only stammered when she was nervous, and not just nervous, but afraid that she was to receive a bad response. A harsh word. A shout.

  “Did you?”

  She had not expected the response, and she blinked slightly before speaking. “No. My parents…my mother married below her station, outside of her class, and her family abandoned her. When they became unwell, they were unable to pay the doctor’s fees for treatment. My Great Aunt took pity on me when no one else in the family would take me in. I…have no other family.”

  It was best to be guarded then, to speak truth only when it worked in his favour. The last thing that he needed was for her to know the truth.

  “I have no siblings still alive,” he said quietly, guarding every syllable. “My mother died when I was young, and my father a few years ago.”

  He spoke in tones that brooked no further questions, or so he thought.

  “What were their names?” came the soft question. “I-I would like to know. Names are so fascinating. Is Samuel a family name? Where did you live?”

  “Why all these questions?” Samuel snapped, unable to help himself. Why must she pry, when everything was so perfect between them? He tilted his head upwards to look at her, and saw nothing but honesty and openness in those blue eyes.

  Maggie smiled shyly. “We are to spend the rest of our lives together, Sam. It would be nice to know more about…about where you came from. About what made you the man that I have wrapped in my arms today.”

  “All that matters is the here and now.” Samuel untangled himself from her warm arms and found himself bereft. “We shall make our own history, Maggie, our own memories. What does the past matter?”