by Jaye Peaches
Matthew waited until they were out of the house before speaking again. “Fancy a walk home?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Might pause by that tree again, take in the scenery.” He grinned.
She felt the flush of heat bloom across her face. Their celebratory kisses would have to wait until they were out of sight of the house. She hooked her arm through his.
“It’s a fine evening for a long walk home.”
Chapter Fourteen
Three years later
“Here you are, you lazy wench. I’ve been looking for you.” Matthew planted his hands on his hips and cast a long evening shadow over her body.
She removed her arm from where it had protected her eyes from the low sun. She was stretched out in a field, chewing on a stalk of grass with a book by her side.
“I’ve been reading.”
“So I see.” He picked up the book. “More bloody French poetry.”
“It’s the latest—”
“I care more about the pigs than poetry.” He dropped the book on her lap.
She clucked her tongue. “Philistine.” And liar, she nearly added.
“Aye.” He snorted. “You set a poor example for your son.”
“Our son. Where is George?” She rose to her feet. “I left him with Lemuel.”
“He’s chasing the hens.”
“Then what’s the fuss?”
There were plenty of servants about to keep an eye on George. From the little boy’s nurse to Lemuel and Ezekiel, and the housemaid. All of them doted on the redheaded child. When George had been presented to Henry, his lordship had remarked that the child had Matthew’s colouring. Matthew pointed out their mother was a redhead, and so were many of the Barracloughs. It was fate, and well-deserved. Other than that brusque remark, Henry danced the baby on his knees a few times, then handed him back to Dara.
She took Matthew’s hand and they walked down the gentle hill slope, past two barns and across the expanse of the stable yard. As they walked, Matthew did not let up. He eyed faults and dished out orders to the stable boy. He inspected a mare and foal, making suggestions as to the newborn’s care, then ordered the dogs to sit obediently by the back door of the house. Barnaby, now old and rheumatic, whined. Dara patted his head. “There, boy.” She slipped the dog a piece of cured meat from her pocket, a leftover from her small picnic on the hilltop.
She followed Matthew into the house, past the kitchen where she no longer had to toil because a cook was employed. The manor provided them with more than adequate space and privacy. Their quarters were in one wing, the nursery across the dividing hall and situated safely out of earshot of the bedroom. The house, still sparsely furnished and lacking wall hangings and portraits, was fully functional and completed a year ago. A lengthy project supervised by Matthew with input from Dara; she had lived in mansions her whole life. He’d listened, taken from her suggestions what he admired and discarded some of her more extravagant ideas.
Henry had visited a few times as part of his formal recognition of his extended family and to approve the finer details of the arrangement. He had established a legitimate business overseas to provide an excuse for his long absences. Dara had noticed a considerable improvement in the relations between Matthew and his brother. The most recent meeting occurred two weeks ago. Henry remained happy, she deduced, and at pains to reassure her he would not require George to live at Willowby Hall, except when he stayed there himself. George was too young to care where he slept as long as Dara was not far away.
She walked to the parlour door, but Matthew caught hold of her sleeve.
“Where’re you going, lass?” He wore a dangerously mischievous expression.
“No,” she protested, somewhat feebly.
He guided her to the grand stone stairway. “It’s for your good that I do these things.”
She huffed. “Tanning my hide now and again will not bring about a vast alteration in my behaviour, not after three years.”
“No reason not to try,” he said gleefully.
However, she accepted his hand and joined him.
Once in the bedroom, he locked the door. The stool was already in place at the foot of the four-poster, the mattress was plump and covered in a richly embroidered counterpane. On the bed was the wicked washer bat. It had become his favourite after she foolishly remarked that she had not missed doing his laundry. They had a washerwoman.
“Tsk, lass, don’t pull that face. You know I’ll warm you with my hand first.” He removed his jacket, a finely woven silk one, so unlike the rough tweed ones he wore when they had first met. Although in many ways Matthew had been slowly gentrified by his changing circumstances, he remained at heart a roughly hewn gem rather than a finely cut diamond. She was glad, as her journey was something of the opposite. They were gradually meeting in the middle.
She propped her foot on the stool and began to roll down a stocking. “Is there a particular lesson you wish to instil that warrants this?”
He scratched his chin, gave a small shrug, and smiled slyly. “Wasting precious time lying around.”
The accusation of laziness annoyed her. She was mistress of not one but two grand houses and at least once a week she visited Willowby to ensure the quiet life of the skeleton staff was functioning satisfactorily. When Henry sent word of his return, the hall came alive with renewed energy and plenty to keep her busy. She deserved a moment’s rest. Matthew had not given up his work as a farmer, and although he was not required to muck in with his hands, the estate needed constant supervision. He led by example.
“I lost track of time.”
He helped her with the laces of her gown and she drew it over her head. She fiddled with the ties of her chemise and pouted. Sometimes coy expressions led to him skipping the need for a spanking and brought him to the bed quicker. Today, he tutted a warning and pulled the chemise off her shoulders. Moments later she was naked, kneeling on the stool with her belly flat on the bed. He propped one knee next to her and circled her arse with the palm of his hand.
“I should do this more often,” he said, “you’re already as wet as the morning dew.”
She buried her flushed face in her hands, betrayed again by his coarse words and her eager sex. “Just do it, will you.”
“Do it? Am I a slave to your whims or I am your master?”
She lifted her head and peered over her shoulder. “Whim? You know perfectly well that I am yours to command and will obey you, but at least allow me some scope for complaining. This is my arse, not yours.”
He chuckled. “I might argue that point, since I’ve the upper hand.” And with that accurate comment he dutifully brought his hand down with a resounding smack.
She winced but didn’t move. She had learnt to keep still and quiet. He worked his way around both rotund cheeks, flicking his wrist as he moved back and forth. She resumed the position of head burrowed beneath her arms.
“Fine,” he said. “If you won’t yield to my hand, then maybe a few swings of this bat.”
The lightweight washer bat, which was used to stir clothes in a tub, was the least fearsome of the collection downstairs. He had picked it up once when walking through the room and kept it in the bedroom ever since. Dara was too embarrassed to explain to the washerwoman that he had taken it.
The concept of yielding was a delicately balanced matter. Resisting with tears and drumming feet would result in him lecturing her about recalcitrance and obtuse attitudes, while lying pathetic and unresponsive swiftly led to him questioning her at length about the state of her mind, her happiness and wellbeing, as if paddling her bottom was a cure for any malady.
Today, she was perfectly in tune with him. She parted her legs obediently for his inspection and moaned softly when he fingered her.
“A few more,” he said softly.
The bat was not applied with any measure of force other than a slap. But that didn’t mean it failed to leave the impression of discomfort. The heat and soreness wa
s real. She squirmed and bit back a cry. Now tears pricked her eyes, the frustrations of the day bubbled to the surface.
“I want another baby,” she blurted.
Matthew stopped. “Aye, thought as much. Yearning you’ve been ever since you stopped feeding George.”
Since George’s birth, Matthew had diligently renewed the practise of withdrawing prior to his climactic finish.
She pivoted onto her elbow. “What say you, Master?”
He sat next to her. “Tis time, I look forward to it.”
She raised an eyebrow. “The baby or the making of it?”
He shrugged. “Both.”
Always a man of a few choice words. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Whatever you desire, lass.”
He moved, flipped her over, and sat on the stool. Before she could snatch a breath, he had her legs over his shoulders and his mouth buried between her thighs, lashing her with his rough tongue, chivving her into a state of complete arousal. The tickles and flutters brought her to a swift climax. She stuffed her fingers in her mouth to dampen her squeals of delight. Then he was upon her, in her, thrusting below while kissing her throat. She clung to his shoulders, her feet hooked behind his back and her bottom bucking in time to his rhythm. A well-practised duet. She was rewarded with a low groan and a blistering shudder of his organ. He scorched her with his heat, keeping her entwined and knotted to him until he finished.
Matthew panted and finally opened his eyes. “I’ll write to his lordship and tell him to come a-calling in seven months, shall I?”
Dara smiled dreamily. “Perhaps a little longer than that, there’s no hurry.”
She snuggled against him and as she fell into a deep peaceful sleep of contentment, he recited verse after verse of French poetry, all in a perfect accent, and with great passion.
* * *
Later, after he’d let her doze, he returned to their room carrying a familiar chest, his mother’s book box.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“It got left in the nursery and George took it upon himself to throw the books around the room and climb inside.”
George liked hide and seek. Unfortunately there was always the danger he might lock himself inside. She wrapped a robe around herself and sorted the books into neat piles inside the box. As she held the lid open, she noticed it had a tear in its fabric lining. She spotted a piece of paper sticking out.
“Strange, what’s this?” She teased out the folded sheet and discovered not one but two thick parchments, old and stained in places; they had suffered with the damp. How long had they been in there?
She handed them to a curious Matthew. Before Dara came into possession of the books, the chest had been his mother’s, and also Marie’s.
He scanned the first document. “It’s my mother’s marriage record... Except the date is wrong.”
She rose to stand next to him. “Wrong?”
“Aye. Ten years before I was born. Can’t be right. But it’s signed by witnesses and the pastor.”
He examined the second. “It’s a letter from her, my ma.” He read it and by the time he had finished, the colour had left his usual warm cheeks.
“What?” she said, alarmed.
He dropped onto the edge of the bed, his eyes wide and starry. He motioned for her to sit next to him and he started to read, struggling occasionally with his emotions.
My dearest Matthew,
I write this while you sleep, my boy, and hope that when you read it, you will be a man and worldly, and forgiving. I have a confession to make. You see with this letter is a legal document, a record of my marriage witnessed and signed. This marriage took place long before you were born. I owe you an explanation and a reason for why I kept it secret.
For years, from when I was a young girl, I was betrothed to Lord Coleman, at the insistence of my noble father. As a consequence, it was appropriate for me to visit Willowby Hall and become familiar with my future husband. These meetings were formal and chaperoned. However, when I reached maturity, I sought my own company during these visits and rode out beyond the gardens to avoid my obligations, for I did not feel any warmth toward Lord Coleman. It was then I met your father. I fell deeply and passionately in love, and in a state of rapture we married in secret. The time I had with him was short, but he promised he would not give up on me.
I returned home and it was made abundantly clear I must marry Lord Coleman. The duke coveted his land and wealth, hoping to augment his own assets. I came close to telling my mother the truth but could not burden her with my betrayal. So, I married Lord Coleman. An illegal and wholly unnatural marriage. I performed my duties and fell pregnant with Henry. After that, Lord Coleman suffered terribly with the gout and would not touch me for the agony of it. So, I renewed my love affair with my true husband. When Lord Coleman passed away, I finally revealed my love, but not my marriage. We pretended to marry, when in fact we merely renewed our wedding vows, and it was then that I was shown the door by Henry’s grandmother, my mother-in-law.
The duke did his best to cover up my choice of husband by negotiating land from Henry’s grandmother on behalf of Henry, who was unaware of the reason why. We came to an agreement, my father and I, and I retired to Denzel farm to live out a quiet life. My mother, I think suspected more had happened, but had the good grace to not reveal her suspicions.
So, you now understand the significance of this earlier marriage, you must be reeling from the implication. You, my dear man, are still my legitimate heir, but Henry is illegitimate and should not have inherited the Coleman title. However, knowing that you are not malicious of heart, I would not expect you to say or do anything. For though I was not present for most of Henry’s childhood, I love him and could not bear the thought of him losing the one thing he values above all else, his good name. Therefore, I beg of you say nothing. Henry must not be punished for my deceit.
It is guilt that drives me to write this confession. For I fear I have not long to live and it gnaws at me that I have treated Henry so badly. Your father remains steadfast in his loyalty to me and decision to keep this secret. I leave him to decide where to hide this letter in the hope that one day you might unearth it.
With affection and love,
Your mother.
He laid the two sheets to one side. “He must never know. He doesn’t deserve to know this.” He spoke aghast and quietly.
Matthew was right. Henry might have been distant toward Dara when they first married, but since then, he had mellowed and relaxed into a comfortable partnership with her based on a friendly platonic relationship. No longer burdened by his secret, at least with his brother and wife, he remained a well-respected nobleman. “Who would be heir to the title if not Henry?”
“Some distant cousin. Somebody who wouldn’t understand why Henry’s wife lives with his brother while he ventures to another sunny country to lay in the arms of his forbidden lover.”
Dara picked up the letter. “And if Henry isn’t the heir, then neither can be George. You cherish our son, but I know you are settled on his inheritance being Willowby, not Denzel Manor.”
Who would inherit Matthew’s fine property and farm? The question remained unresolved.
Matthew stood, his face determined. He took her hands. “I’m decided. I shall make this child, the one to come, my heir. Then both will have the benefit of good fortune. What says you, lass?”
“I says aye,” she said, grinning.
He smiled and his stiff body was clearly soothed by the joint decision.
“And this?” She gestured to the letter and marriage document.
“Best destroy them. Under what circumstances would we ever make them know?”
None. There would be no going back and reclaiming what was rightfully his.
He lit a candle and together, they burnt the paper.
Afterwards, having settled George in his cot, she returned to the bedroom, undressed, and joined Matthew in bed. He tucked his hands behind hi
s head and glowed.
“Master?”
“All’s good, lass, just as it should be.”
The End
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