A Marriage of Equals

by Elizabeth Rolls

  A hard cuff to the side of her head knocked her sideways.

  She struggled up and found Jonah crouched beside her.

  ‘You listen, girl.’ His voice was hard. ‘Talk like that gets you this.’ He gestured to Mam, silent but for her ragged breathing.

  ‘But—’

  ‘You think she wants this for you?’ His voice softened a little. ‘Learn, girl. And keep your mouth shut.’ A large hand rubbed her head where he’d cuffed her a moment before.

  They turned to go, but at the door Isaac looked back. ‘It weren’t Flint did this. The master done it himself. Reckon if Flint had done it Bess’d be dead.’

  * * *

  ‘Mam was dead,’ Psyché whispered. ‘We just didn’t know it yet. Infection took hold and the pain—’

  He held her closer, grief for her closing his throat.

  ‘Mam always said the father protected us, but in the end he didn’t protect her. He probably couldn’t.’

  ‘Or thought he couldn’t.’ Useless rage burned through him.

  Psyché shook her head. ‘It amounts to the same thing. If Flint had reported what happened, Mam would have been hanged. And I would have been flogged. As it was—’ he could feel the shudders tearing her apart ‘the next day—that was when...’

  She’d been dragged screaming to the blacksmith’s forge and branded by her own father.

  He could only hold her for long moments as she broke and wept in his arms.

  Finally she spoke again. ‘By flogging her himself and branding me I think he hoped to save us. Even if he’d thought of it, he wouldn’t have been able to get us out before Flint reported the incident. It would have been seen as encouraging rebellion.’

  He had no idea what to say. How many floggings had his own father ordered when they had lived in Jamaica? How many slave women had he violated? Did he have half-siblings there? Blood relatives condemned to hell? And his own guilt was his to bear. It could not be added to Psyché’s burden of grief. Later, he would think what to do about that. Now he needed to tend to what was before him.

  ‘But then he brought you to England.’

  She nodded. ‘I think... There was talk about what had happened. Open disapproval of the way I had been allowed to get uppish. He probably thought bringing me to England would solve the problem.’

  ‘Whatever he thought, it brought you here in the end.’ Will tightened his arms. ‘And despite his intentions, Long’s visit brought me here to you all the faster.’

  She pulled away a little and looked up at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He made me see that I was trying to have my cake and eat it. And that it couldn’t be done. Not honestly. If I continued trying to appease my family, then I was insulting you.’

  ‘Will, you don’t have to abandon your family to remain my—’

  He feathered a kiss against her temple, found her mouth briefly. ‘I’m not. I’m choosing myself and my beliefs. Which leaves me free to choose you. If you’ll have me. My family will have to make their own choices.’

  ‘If I’ll have you? Will, if you are offering me—?’

  ‘I’m not offering anything,’ he said. ‘I’ve nothing to offer. Rather, I’m asking you to marry me.’ He reached for her hands. ‘I know what you said the other night. You offered to be my lover. As my equal. And I do understand your reservations about marriage. I don’t agree with all of them, but I understand your point.’ He swallowed. ‘If...if you would still rather not marry, we can agree to a compromise.’

  ‘A compromise?’

  ‘Yes.’ Because sometimes it couldn’t be all or nothing. Not when all for one meant the other lost everything important to her. ‘We can continue as we are if that is that what you truly wish. But we have to make every effort not to have a child.’

  He’d thought about this all the way back from Hampstead. ‘I don’t wish to coerce you into marriage, but I won’t willingly bring a child into the world without the protection of my name. Nor would I wish to face my son or daughter one day and try to justify not marrying their mother. I do not say I like the way the world thinks about these matters, but a child would have to live in the world as it is. So we do whatever is necessary to avoid that. But—’

  ‘But?’

  ‘If we make a child, we marry.’

  ‘And if I don’t agree to this compromise?’

  He could tell nothing from her tone. Calm. Neutral. ‘Then we have to part.’ He shoved his untidy hair back out of his face.

  Her expression was inscrutable. ‘But you would continue our affair with that caveat. Would you live here?’

  ‘If you will permit it, yes.’ How the hell he would find another position in those circumstances he had not the least notion. He thought Huntercombe would understand his problem, but if he were to live with Psyché whether married or not, his current employment would be untenable. He wanted to be with her.

  ‘You’d help me run The Phoenix?’

  He still couldn’t read her. ‘Only if you wanted that. I had thought to find another position that would not entail following my employer about the country or sponging off you.’

  She let out a huff of breath. ‘Damn it, Will. You’re trying to ensure that I can have my cake and eat it!’

  ‘Yes.’

  And his heart cracked as a smile wobbled on to her lips. ‘Sweetheart?’

  ‘Perhaps I should bake a different cake, one we can share.’

  ‘A different cake?’

  ‘A wedding cake,’ she said softly. ‘Will you think me terribly flighty for changing my mind?’

  ‘About marriage? No.’

  ‘Not about marriage, per se,’ she corrected. ‘But about marrying you, yes.’

  Joy welled up, flooded him. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Every doubt had burned away in the blaze of his honesty. He had been prepared to give everything, compromise his own beliefs—everything except risk harm to an innocent baby. Even had she not already known the truth—that with Will she had found the impossible—that knowledge would have banished doubt. She could stand here in the place she had made for herself and know that he would share it with her in the truest sense of the word.

  ‘Can you stay tonight?’ she whispered. And remembered the note from Uncle Theo, and the one from Hetty. ‘At least, I have to go out to—’

  ‘Hampstead?’ he said gently. ‘I know.’

  ‘How?’

  His arms were a haven of warmth and comfort. ‘I called on Staverton today.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘Did you think I would ask you to marry me without speaking to him? Asking his blessing?’

  ‘Not his permission?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Laughter shook him. ‘I wouldn’t have dared. But he gave his blessing, whatever we chose.’

  Her breath caught. ‘Whatever we chose?’

  His smile was tender. ‘He understands you and he trusted me.’

  Words were lost in a possession of mouths. Their kiss promised a lifetime of tonights and tomorrows, all the time in the world to love each other and meld their lives into an equality of joy. She pressed against him, wound her arms about him, loving the fit of their bodies and mouths that echoed and reflected the fit of mind and heart. It wouldn’t be easy, their union, but it would be everything and more that she had ever wanted for herself, even when she had thought it impossible.

  ‘Come upstairs,’ she murmured against his mouth.

  He broke the kiss, resting his forehead on hers. ‘The doors. Caleb.’

  For a moment she was confused. ‘Oh. He has a key. He’ll set the bolts and bar.’

  Apparently that was all the invitation he needed.

  ‘Right.’

  He swung her up in his arms and headed for the stairs.

  * * *

  Togeth
er they tumbled on to the bed, tugging at clothes, his boots, her shoes. Caught between tears and laughter, Psyché rolled, blissfully naked, to rise up over him.

  ‘My love.’ Words she had never before given, never thought to give, and they were sweeter on her lips, in her heart than she could ever have imagined. They felt right, utterly right, spoken here in this place, to this man.

  He reached up for her, drew her down against him, skin to skin, heart to heart. Love, desire, and pleasure shimmered between them. The faint tang of his shaving soap, the warm male scent of his body, enveloped her. The quickened rush of his breath, the slight scratch of his cheek on her breast and the fierce tug of delight as he drew the crest into the heat of his mouth. She cried out in the joy of this possession, arched up wildly. This, then, was everything. This was all. And yet, as he loved her and as she loved him, she understood that there would be more. That was the nature of everything. There was always more than you could ever imagine.

  And there was more to give as she freed herself, sat up and leaned over him, tasting, teasing. Circling the flat nipple and knowing her power at the sharp intake of his breath. Tracing a path with her hand and feeling the strength in him tauten, muscles flickering, jumping under his skin as she went lower and her hand encircled the hard length of him.

  Slowly she stroked, wondering at the silk-steel texture. Such power, yet so sensitive.

  She bent to him, used her tongue, tasting him.

  ‘Psyché. You...you don’t have to—’ He groaned.

  She hesitated. She’d heard of this, but never before had she even wanted to...and perhaps he wouldn’t want it. ‘Would you rather I didn’t?’

  His eyes opened, blazing with heat. ‘Do I look as though I’ve lost my mind?’

  She blew gently, watched his eyes close in desperation. ‘Do you want to?’

  A choked laugh escaped. ‘I’ve already lost my heart—why not my mind as well?’

  She licked, savouring his shuddering breath. ‘I promise to keep them safe for you.’

  She took him into her mouth and he clung to control by a hair’s breadth as she pleasured him with flagrant delight until he could take no more.

  ‘Enough.’ He freed himself gently, pulled her up his quaking body and rolled her beneath him. She opened to him and he entered slowly, loving her hot, wet welcome. Deep, so deep. Fathoms deep in joy, he fought for control, to remain still for a moment despite the silken shift of her body under his.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she murmured, her eyes hazed with passion. ‘Everything. I want everything. I’m yours. Be mine.’

  Everything. He lost the fight and began to move, deep and sure. She moved with him, loving, giving, demanding, and he responded with everything he had, was and would be.

  He felt her tense beneath him, heard the cry as she broke and shattered, clenching around him. With a groan he let go, spilling himself inside her for the first time, the fierce pleasure burning him to his soul.

  * * *

  Psyché lay limp and utterly content in his arms, her cheek resting on his chest. ‘I can hear your heartbeat,’ she murmured. And it was strong, steady...

  His arms tightened and she felt his lips at her temple. ‘It’s yours. Along with the rest of me.’

  She snuggled closer.

  ‘Sweetheart?’

  ‘Mmm?’ Sleep drifted around her.

  ‘Take Caleb with you tomorrow.’

  She nudged sleep back. ‘Take Caleb? Why?’

  A large, gentle hand stroked her back, slid under the mad coils of her hair. ‘I honestly couldn’t say. But if your uncle dies—I don’t trust Winthrop.’

  ‘Caleb is just a boy. He’s only sixteen.’

  ‘He’s loyal to you. Only to you.’

  ‘And to you.’

  She felt laughter shake him. ‘Because of his loyalty to you. You’ll take him?’

  ‘It will make you happy?’

  More laughter. ‘No, love. You do that. But it will quiet my mind.’

  ‘Very well.’ Give and take. It was a small enough thing he’d asked for. Asked. He hadn’t tried to dictate. And there was something she needed to ask.

  ‘Will you write to your mother tomorrow? Please?’

  He sighed. ‘I’d rather do that after we’re married.’

  ‘Writing to her first is better.’

  ‘Is it? I hope you aren’t going to insist on having her blessing?’

  She eased up and leaned her forearms on his chest. Her heart stumbled as he smiled up at her and she traced the scratchy line of his jaw with a fingertip, loving the quiet determination, the steady certainty in his eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ He reached up, sliding his fingers into her hair. ‘I won’t cede her that power.’

  Trust Will to see to the heart of it. ‘Tell her. Invite her to our wedding. Don’t mention blessings. Let it be her choice.’ She tickled the corner of his mouth. ‘You never know, she might surprise you.’

  He turned his head, captured the teasing finger and nipped it. ‘We’ll hope for that.’

  * * *

  Standing in the bay window of The Phoenix with Psyché the next morning, Will watched the street awaken in the growing light. Shopkeepers opened doors, setting out wares in the cold, bright air. Several lads hurried along, laughing and pushing at each other. The road was filling with traffic and noise.

  Behind them, Sally bustled about supervising the other staff setting up chairs and tables. Caleb was helping, although his valise stood beside Psyché’s at the door.

  Psyché turned to him. ‘Here’s the coach.’

  Will brushed a kiss across her lips. ‘Godspeed. I have some business in the City for Huntercombe, then I’ll ride out to Isleworth to inform him that he needs a new secretary. And before all that—’ his mouth twisted ‘—I’ll write to my mother.’

  Her fingers entwined with his. ‘And your brothers.’

  He squeezed her fingers. ‘Very well. They won’t be happy, but I am.’

  He opened the door for her, picked up her valise.

  Staverton’s coachman drew up, set the brake and doffed his hat. ‘Morning, Miss Psyché. Got her ladyship here. Bert! You right? Good lad.’

  The footman was already down and taking Psyché’s valise. He stowed it in the boot and the carriage door opened.

  ‘Psyché!’ The pretty golden-haired woman jumped down without the step. ‘Oh, it’s so good to see you!’ She put a hand over her mouth. ‘I shouldn’t be glad, with poor Uncle Theo so unwell, but—’ She broke off, seeing Will.

  ‘Hetty, may I present Mr Barclay? Will? My cousin, Lady Harbury.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Barclay?’ Lady Harbury held out her hand, her gracious smile laced with speculation.

  ‘How do you do, Lady Harbury?’ Will shook her hand and bore the inspection with equanimity.

  ‘Hetty? Will and I are betrothed.’

  If Will had ever entertained doubts that Psyché’s cousin cared for her, the squeal of joy banished them.

  ‘Betrothed? Oh, how wonderful! When?’ She flung her arms around Psyché, hugging her fiercely.

  Psyché’s smile turned wicked. ‘Last night.’

  Lady Harbury smirked. ‘I actually meant when is the wedding taking place, but never mind.’ The glance she cast Will now had gone from speculative to positively assessing.

  On the box, the coachman cleared his throat. ‘Wishing you very happy, Miss Psyché.’ He grinned at Will. ‘Congratulations, sir. I’d heard the master expected something of the sort. He’ll be right pleased.’

  The footman let the step down and held the door open for Lady Harbury to get back in.

  ‘You can tell me everything on the way, Psyché.’ Lady Harbury stepped into the carriage.

  Psyché beckoned Caleb forward. ‘I’m bringing one of my servants, Hetty.’ She sm
iled at Caleb. ‘Would you rather ride outside or inside?’

  Caleb cast a longing gaze at the horses, then up at the coachman. ‘If it won’t be a trouble—’

  ‘None at all, lad.’ The coachman shifted over slightly. ‘Up you come.’ He held out a hand for the boy.

  Will took the satchel and passed it to the footman. ‘I’ll hand Miss Psyché in.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Many congratulations, sir.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He turned to Psyché. ‘You’ll take care?’ he whispered.

  ‘Of course, but—’

  ‘I know.’ He gripped her hands. ‘I’m being foolish.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re being loving.’ She sighed. ‘You might not approve, but I have a pistol.’

  He blinked. ‘Loaded?’

  ‘It’s not very useful otherwise. It’s in my muff. And, yes, I know how to use it.’

  ‘You can’t possibly think I would have queried that.’

  She raised her brows. ‘After you asked if it was loaded?’

  Laughter shook him as he handed her in, put the step up. ‘Put it down to shock.’ He closed the door on her chuckle.

  He watched the carriage rumble off down the street, then went back into The Phoenix.

  ‘Coffee, Mr Will?’ Sally gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘Yes. A pot, please. I’ll take it upstairs.’

  He was going to need privacy as well as strong coffee to write those letters to his family.

  * * *

  ‘He makes you happy.’

  Psyché smiled. ‘I was already happy. But, he—’ Oh, how to explain it? She’d always thought it was important to be happy independently of others, to be self-sufficient, not needy.

  ‘Joy. He makes me joyful. He doesn’t love me because I’m Black, or despite my being Black. He just sees me. Psyché.’

  Hetty said nothing and Psyché reached for her hand. ‘Hetty?’

  The slim gloved hand turned under hers and linked fingers. ‘I’m glad. So glad for you. I wish—’ She broke off, turning away slightly to look out of the window, yet leaving their hands linked.