The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  “No, oh, no.” Her heart raced, her mind fizzed with a concoction of conflicting emotions. She wanted to lose herself in him, let him loose on her and give up all common sense and silly acts of decorum that befitted her rank. However, she had to be careful. Could she trust him to keep her safe and healthy? What meagre food would he serve her each day? Where would she bathe?

  “No child, but that will mean being careful, doing things differently to what you might do with a husband.” He rubbed his chin. “So, you want to stay with me, lassie, and earn your keep. You’ll have to work on the farm, too. Can’t have you sitting around on that fine arse waiting to serve my cock.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” Which wouldn’t be much. She’d never worked with her hands.

  “Those lessons will be tough. I fuck rough, too. None of this pandering to gentleness. I’ve always liked it hard and fast, at least, when I had the time for it.” He glanced away and fell silent.

  He’d not mentioned a wife. Dara suspected that he’d had one. Perhaps she had run away too because she couldn’t cope with his hard ways? It made sense. Well, Dara had a strong heart. Matthew did not scare her.

  He rose and fetched her black cloak. He wrapped it around her shoulders, and she pinched it under her chin.

  “I thought... you know, your belt.”

  “Aye. I was minding to give you my belt, but you’ve been honest with me, Dara, and I will respect that. So you’re married in name and nothing else. In that case I shall borrow you for a time, then return you. I don’t steal. You can rest easy for now. I’ll not use the belt unless I think you really deserve it and as for the other thing, we’ll work toward it when you’re ready. I was hasty because I thought you were leaving me. No need for that now, is there?” He grinned. “You can get dressed now, and I’ll take you to milk the cow.”

  * * *

  “Ye gods, you can’t milk, you dropped two eggs, ran away from the rooster, and now you tell me you can’t sew the buttons back on my shirt, nor repair the tear in your shift.” He stomped past her. “Do you have any talents?”

  “I can embroider,” she said weakly.

  “I’ll remember that the next time I want a fancy pattern on my shirt tail.” He raked his hand through his tangled hair. “I’ve not time to pander to your ignorance, I’m short-handed as it is. You needed to be quicker to keep up with me. You’ll have to go to Maggie’s.”

  He was sending her away already? Was she that incapable or had he changed his mind? “Maggie?”

  “She lives on the next farm. She’ll teach you to milk, and sew, and cook. A couple of days in her house and you’ll know enough to get started on your own.”

  “Two days!”

  “I know, you probably need longer, but I don’t want to drive the poor woman mad. She’ll don’t take to fools. I’ve more patience than her. She’ll not beat you. She ain’t that cruel, but watch your mouth, and don’t shirk from working hard.”

  “But, Matthew, can’t I learn those things here?” She batted her eyelashes at him.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Are you arguing with me, girl? Two days. Go get your bag and I’ll take you this evening. You can have an early start tomorrow.”

  “I don’t want to go.” She stamped her foot on the floor. She wanted to spend the night with him.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve not had a day with me yet and you’re defying me. Does you want that belt now, or have you changed your mind about staying with me?”

  “I do want to stay with you, that’s the reason I don’t want to go.” She covered her face with her hands.

  Sighing, he prised them off. “Oh, lass, I guess you do need me. It’s just two days. I didn’t mean to scare you about Maggie. She’s actually a softy at heart, I just don’t want you to make trouble for her. She’s got two bonny daughters, a dead husband, and no sons. She runs that farm like a man. You’ll learn them things quick, I know it. You’re clever. Now go pack.”

  He drove her to the neighbouring farm using a trap and his prize Suffolk Punch, a workhorse of gigantic proportions. The plodding stallion was not going to allow the wheels to sink into the mud. They arrived at the farmhouse as the sun dipped below the tree line. The house was timber built, unlike Matthew’s, which was stone. The timbers of Maggie’s house had been painted black and the roof was covered in blackened thatch.

  Matthew tossed his reins to Dara. “Wait here.”

  Dara drew the heavy cloak around her. The barn door was open and inside were bales of hay and a plough. Beyond, in the dim light, she saw sheep grazing in the field, and a few goats. A dog yapped. Geese hooted. She hunkered down and tried not to chew her fingernails.

  Matthew reappeared with a stout woman wearing an apron and bonnet. “This is Maggie.” Matthew helped Dara down. “She’ll take you until Monday. Teach you a few things.”

  Dara curtsied. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Maggie.”

  Maggie howled with laughter. “Rise up, silly maid. Tis no need for this bowing and scraping. If you have any real worth, you’ll show it in your hands and back. Now, inside with you. It’s time to make the dough and you can help me knead it.” Maggie nodded at Matthew. “You leave her with me, Matt, and I’ll do what I can to turn her into a useful maid.”

  Dara’s eyes widened. “Maid!”

  Matthew shot her a warning glance. “She’s a headstrong lass, is Dara, don’t let her lip get the better of you.” He climbed onto the trap and tipped his cap at Maggie. “I’ll pay you back.”

  Maggie smiled. “That you will.”

  Dara followed Maggie into the house. There were two rooms—a kitchen and sitting room, where two women of a similar age to Dara sat sewing. They lifted their heads and inspected Dara with lips firmly pressed together. When Dara left the room, she heard them whispering to each other.

  “Don’t mind Tilly and Ethel. They’ll not bother you, if you don’t bother them. Now in here where it’s warm.”

  The kitchen was blazing hot. From the ceiling hung pans and bundles of dried herbs. The air smelt sweet. Dara fingered the closest twig. She should hang rosemary and lavender in Matthew’s house.

  “Put that cloak here, and I’ll make a pot of nettle tea while you dig your knuckles into that dough.” Maggie pointed at the ball of dough on the table.

  Dara poked at it with her finger. It was sticky, warm, and strangely satisfying to touch. She pressed down and her fingers sank into the dough.

  “Tsk. You’ve dainty fingers. Like this.” Maggie drove her fists into the dough then rolled the ball over and repeated the action. “Over and over, until your hands ache.”

  An hour later, Dara was glad of the hot tea. Her fingers were shaking, her shoulders ached from the stooped position and her eyes were bleary. “Is that it for today?” she asked.

  Maggie chuckled. “No, we’ve jobs to do. That dough needs to rest, then we’ll bake it ready for supper. The cows need milking. There’s butter to churn...” Maggie stopped. “Don’t look at me that way, young lady. Matt warned me about that look. You’ll do as I say or else he’ll know about it.”

  Dara dragged her weary feet after Maggie. They entered the barn and Maggie handed her a pail and milking stool.

  “I tried this before and I can’t do it. My hands hurt,” she whined. Her bottom did too, but she was not going to mention that fact.

  “Stick your face up against her belly, hands down here, firm grip and squeeze.” Dara copied Maggie, who was milking another cow. “Harder, squeeze harder.”

  A thin stream of milk shot out of the udder into the pail. “I did it!”

  “Well done. See, it’s not difficult. Once you’ve milked ‘er, you can do two others.”

  By the time Dara was permitted to retire for the night it was close to ten o’clock. The sitting room was to be her bedroom. The only upstairs bedroom was used by the widow and her daughters. Maggie made up a bed using a mattress stuffed with straw and several horse blankets. “Not the best, b
ut you’ll be too tired to care.”

  Dara was not going to argue, nor was she bothered to undress. She flopped onto the bed and instantly fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  Matthew watched by the gate, waiting for Maggie to arrive with Dara. It was Monday evening and Dara had been two full days with Maggie. She had not returned early, which meant she had survived the ordeal of Maggie’s tasks. He half-expected Dara to run away and come back with her tail between her legs. But, to her credit, she hadn’t. He concluded she was tougher than she appeared, and probably stubborn with it. He admired women with backbone. A milksop would not be worth the effort. He might like to show his manly ways when it came to fucking, but work required endurance and tenacity, not a doe-eyed girl.

  Against the darkening sky, he almost missed them. Four women walking along the lane. Maggie had brought along her daughters. As he waited, he heard their voices and laughter. Dara was laughing along with them. She carried a basket, swinging it in her hand, and a chicken was tucked under her arm. Matthew had lost two the other week to a fox and Maggie had promised him one of hers in return for a piglet his sow had birthed a few months ago. Only the runt, but Maggie didn’t mind.

  Matthew walked up the hill to greet them. Dara’s face was rosy and slightly dirty. Her hair was down and blowing in the breeze. Not only had she survived her spell with Maggie, she seemed to have made friends with the widow.

  “Here she is, Matt. I’ve brought her back, and I have to say I’d have kept her on if she works for nuffin’. She’s not too bad, needs plenty of eyeballing, some words of encouragement when she whines.” Maggie leaned toward him and whispered, “I get that you might have thrashed her and that’s probably why she did as she were told. Keep up with that if I were you.”

  “She learnt a thing or two?” he asked nervously.

  “She can churn butter and make your bread. She’ll not drop eggs or run away from the chickens. She might not like the goats or geese though. As for milking, she’s still too slow. She sewed a few buttons on this morning. Not quite straight but...” Maggie sighed. “Tis the best I could do with her, Matt. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Matthew cocked his head at the young woman he’d taken in. “Well?”

  Dara held out the basket. “These are eggs I collected,” she said proudly. “Didn’t break one. And I can climb a ladder.”

  It was a start, he agreed. She had potential and determination. There were heavy shadows under her eyes but she’d persevered. However, fatigue was something that a life on the farm was all about. She would have to cope with the long hours.

  “Did she rise at dawn?” he asked Maggie.

  Tilly, the younger of the sisters, giggled. “Had to tickle her feet. She wasn’t keen.”

  Dara scowled. “It’s unnatural rising before the sun is even in the sky.”

  Matthew collected the hen from Dara. “Do you want supper before you return, Maggie?”

  “Just a glass of warm milk will do, Matt. We best get back.”

  He poured them a cup of hot milk each and poured ale for himself from a pitcher. He raised his tankard and toasted Maggie. “Many thanks. Let’s hope the crops grow tall, the pigs fatten, and the cows chew the best cud.”

  Maggie drank her milk in one flow of gulps. She smacked her lips. “Let’s pray for all that and more. Come, girls. We’ll leave Master Matthew with his servant.” Just as she reached the door, she turned and winked.

  Matthew suspected Maggie would guess that Dara was not a typical servant. But Maggie was discreet and wouldn’t say anything to anyone in the village in the valley, which was important. Nothing must get back to Willowby Hall about Dara.

  Left alone with Dara, he watched her rinse out the cups. She did so without him asking. A small thing, but it told him much. Two days with Maggie had taught her some humility. But what he wanted to teach her went beyond milking cows and collecting eggs.

  “Leave that.” He walked up to her back and rested his hands on her hips. “I’ve missed you, lass.” He gave her waist a squeeze. He noticed she’d not cinched herself tightly. Loose-waisted clothing was better for arduous work.

  A little sigh escaped her lips. “I missed you, too.”

  “You ache, I know, and you’re bone weary. I can be quick.”

  “You can take as long as you like, sir.” She glanced over her shoulder. “I’m willing.”

  “If I am, you’ll be too. It’s the way it is. Hitch up your skirts.” He drew her away from the bowl of dishwater. “Go stand by that beam over there.” The abutting beam supported the upper storey, which he no longer used because it was full of memories. He’d even removed the stairs for fear he might be tempted to go up there and ponder on things best forgotten.

  The beam was as wide as her waist, made from a great oak and slanted slightly—it was thicker at the base and sloped upward to the ceiling. An ideal support for her to lean against.

  However, she didn’t know what to do. He’d have to show her. Her skirts she bundled around her waist, she knew that much, and she lifted them until her bottom was exposed. The red tan he’d given her had faded considerably. He once again admired the pale complexion of her globes. He tucked the skirts into the girdle she wore around her waist, keeping them in front of her. She was breathing so rapidly, he thought she might faint.

  “Hush, pet,” he said calmly, knowing that in a moment he would be exerting himself hard, so hard she might be crushed against the pillar. She needed to be sturdy on her tired limbs.

  He directed her hands to the beam, one on either side, and she clung onto the wood, pressing the side of her face against it also. With a firm grip on her hips, he positioned her bare behind upward, making her bend. He knocked her feet aside, spreading her wider. She’d left her boots by the door, and her stockings were torn in places. He’d buy her woollen ones, durable and warm, and better suited to her new life than fashionable silk ones.

  From out of his breeches his rod stood upright and proud. She had no eyes on it, but she would feel its might soon enough. He cupped a palm between her legs and felt for the opening. It was lush, plump, and ripe for taking. He took advantage of her nectar and used it to make his erection slick.

  “That’s good,” he said, squeezing the tip. He was burning to be inside of her. “Now don’t do that,” he said, noting she was tensing. “It’s not that I mind, but it will make my entry sharp. Do you want it sharp and forceful?”

  “I don’t know,” she stuttered.

  “I think not. Not when you’re tender. Practise will make you wiser. So, I’ll help you. I’ll rub your slit and tickle you until you give up to me.”

  “Thank... you.” She quivered deliciously, a leaf in a strong breeze and he was the sturdy branch that she needed for support.

  He fingered her, as he said he would, stroking the delicate parts and tickling her clitoris with the tips. Gently at first, so as not to alarm her, then with more rigorous movements until he was jerking his wrist back and forth.

  “Tis hard for some men to find,” he said, breathing over her shoulder, careful not to place his weight onto her back for fear she might collapse. Her legs shook and what he wanted trickled down her thighs, indicating she was more than ready. “Some won’t even touch it. Others don’t know it exists.”

  “What?” she whimpered.

  “This.” He pinched the little bud between his finger and thumb and she winced softly. “Aye. You know it. Tis the clit, they say. I don’t care for proper names. But you’ll know it makes you happy when I touch it.”

  Without warning, he pressed his cock into her hole and speared her. She cried out and he thrust harder, ensuring half the length of his shaft was consumed by her ample tunnel.

  He kept her waist between his hands, holding her steady while he rocked back and forth. The rhythm was more like an oarsman than a ticking clock. He had the measure of her depth and she was able to take him nearly whole.

  She clenched him. The minx had more understanding of her purp
ose than he anticipated. He rammed harder and she pushed back, as if he should go deeper still. Now his balls were up against her. She bent over further, leaving her hands upon the beam, her head lower. Unfortunately, her overworked arms withered and were unable to hold her body upright.

  He grasped a clump of her mousy hair, knotted it around his fist, drew her head up and tilted it to one side.

  “I want to see your face,” he panted. Her eyes were glazed, her mouth ajar, and her tongue loose between her lips. She was agog for it. He knew that look and what it meant. He wasn’t going to stop unless she screamed for his pity. He was known to be merciful and kindly. Sometimes even gentlemanly, which he resented. He’d been taught that lords used money to make themselves powerful, and those who weren’t greedy fought in wars and never came home to their wives.

  He said he’d be quick. He was capable of spilling, the weight of his balls told him he was close, but the friction of his cock against her and the way she clenched around him kept him thrusting faster.

  It was probably only minutes. He’d no clock to tell him how long he delighted in her. But for those moments he cherished her, he was in heaven and it might have been hours of pleasure. The swell of heat surged, and he whipped out his cock and nudged it between her arse cheeks.

  She offered no resistance; she was weak and helpless in his arms, breathing fast and shallow. He tucked one arm under her, supporting her weight, and kept the other in her hair. He aimed his cock, using touch to find his target. When he pushed, to his relief, she surrendered with fortuitous ease. The opening was sufficient for him to enter with just the tip of his cock and the very slit that was about to spill.

  He growled, a low throaty groan of pleasure. The fountain he produced was more than she could take in one go. The rest slithered down her legs.