Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  He was throbbing for her by now, his cock demanding that he take her, and take her hard. So he did, feeling her hold still for an instant like she always did when he entered her, relaxing her insides round the size of him. He was big, she’d once told him, flushed like a wee lass, much bigger than any other man she had ever…and he had liked it that he was, but drowned in jealousy that she should be in a position to compare.

  He used his legs to spread her wider, and sank himself all the way to his root, his balls pressed hard against her. Again, and again, and again. For an instant, Matthew was transported back to Scotland and a mossy hollow on the moor, and the woman lying with his cock inside of her was young and short-haired, eyes the colour of gentians in autumn staring up at him. As blue today as they were then, and all of her as welcoming now as she’d been then.

  He rolled off to lie beside her, his cock protesting at being so abruptly separated from its cosy nest. More, it grumbled, more out of pride than necessity, before subsiding against Matthew’s pubic curls. It perked up at her touch, stretching itself like a lovesick cat when she caressed his balls and member with a gentle, warm hand.

  “You wear me out,” Matthew protested, twisting his head to look at her.

  “No, I don’t.” She nudged at his cock, already hardening again. “See? You want it too.”

  “Aye,” he said, covering her hand with his and holding it still. “But not at once. You can wait a while, can’t you?”

  “I can?” she murmured, her eyes very close to his. She kissed him, and she tasted of unripe raspberries and lemon balm. She kissed him again, and he thought he detected the lingering taste of newly churned butter on bread fresh from the oven.

  He closed his eyes and smiled. If she wanted it that bad, well then he would but lie here and let her have her way. Ah, oh yes! He laughed out loud and cupped his hands gently round her head, holding her still. Moments later, he opened his eyes to where she reared herself above him and lifted his hands to steady her when she settled herself on top, enveloping a cock that definitely wanted more, very much more.

  *

  Matthew waved at a fly that had settled on Alex’s white calf and stretched himself for yet another slice of bread. He’d been right: still slightly warm from the oven and with a small stone crock of butter to go with it. And there was beer for him in a stone bottle, eggs, a few slices of ham, several newly harvested carrots that he at first attempted to ignore but finally bit into, and, right at the bottom, a large piece of spice cake, pungent with cinnamon and ginger.

  “Mmm,” he sighed, flipping over on his back. He stared up at the sky through the trees and, as always, wondered if it was his imagination or if in fact he could see the world turn, revolving against the cloud-dotted blue.

  “Mmm indeed,” she agreed, following suit to lie beside him. She twitched her shift down her legs. “I spoke to Betty and Ian yesterday.”

  “Aye, I heard.” Matthew grinned. Ian had mimicked Alex perfectly, and then he’d confessed that during almost a year before they were wed, Betty and he had explored the pleasures of lovemaking without risking bairns. “I don’t think they saw you as a good example,” he teased. “You gave me nine bairns in what? Sixteen years?”

  “A couple too many.”

  “You think?” Matthew took her hand in his, widening his fingers to allow her to braid hers tight around his. “So which one of them would you be without?”

  “None of them, you stupid man! Not now that I have them.” She turned towards him. “Besides, I have ten children with you, because Ian is as much mine as if I’d given birth to him.”

  “Aye,” Matthew agreed, “that he is.” At times, he found it strange that the child so obviously closest to her heart should be his son by Margaret. He smiled, wondering if she knew she loved Ian the best. And Ian adored her, sharing much more of his inner thoughts with her than he did with him, his father.

  “What?” she asked, widening her eyes under his intent gaze.

  “Nothing,” he said, shifting his eyes to rest on the far-off sky. Somewhere up there in all that blue lived his wee Rachel, a little minx of an angel that was surely adored by all the other exasperated angels. It always made him smile to think of his wild-haired lassie as an angel. In his head, she was engraved at full speed, the undone bands of her cap flying behind her, the smock stained and torn, and at her side ran a pig, complete with little angel wings of its own.

  “An angel pig?” Alex laughed when he shared this with her.

  “Of course a pig,” Matthew replied. “She liked pigs.” His wee lass had been fascinated by the cannibalistic sow they’d had in Scotland, spending hours sitting on her heels talking to her.

  “You can say that again,” Alex said. “Something she has very much in common with her youngest brother.”

  “Adam? Aye, Adam is fond of the sow.”

  “And she of him, to the point that she stands on her hind legs and glares at me when she sees me.”

  Matthew grinned. He was convinced the pig thought Adam was a strange and deformed piglet, but a piglet nonetheless.

  He was half asleep in the green shade, curled on his side. The air hummed with insects and heat, he heard the chatter of the birds fighting over their crumbs, and from far away came the strident neighing of a horse.

  “I don’t think Daniel will be coming back to visit us all that soon,” Alex said.

  “Nay.” Their soon-to-be minister son had outgrown his home, and however much he enjoyed being back with his brothers and sisters, it was clear that after less than a fortnight here, he was already restless, his mind more often than not back in Boston with his friends and studies.

  “And Temperance?” she asked.

  “I imagine they’ll wed soon enough.” Matthew yawned. It was nice to sleep here under the soaring maples – if only she’d stop talking.

  “He’s only eighteen,” Alex said.

  Matthew decided to not reply. Mayhap if he shut up, she would too. She sighed, fidgeted in the grass, and when he peeked at her, he found her staring at the sky, a severe expression on her face.

  “Misogynists,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Misowhat?” Matthew yawned again.

  “A man who dislikes women.”

  “Who? Me?” He opened his eyes fully in surprise.

  “No,” she said, going on to explain that, in her opinion, Daniel had spent far too much time in the company of men who didn’t care for women outside their traditional roles as mothers and dutiful wives. She saw it in his eyes at times – how short she fell of living up to all the female virtues – and, to her surprise, it hurt to be weighed by him and found lacking.

  Matthew snorted derisively. “He’s but a lad. It takes a man to appreciate a strong woman.” He chuckled and closed his eyes again. “Found lacking, aye? He’ll have a hard time with yon Temperance then.” Buxom and fair she might be, wee Temperance, but a milksop she was not.

  Alex laughed. “Yes, that might be something of a wake-up call.”

  A rather long nap was interrupted by an excited blue jay, and once Matthew had finished off what little was left in the basket, they took the long way home, hands braided together, hips and thighs brushing against each other. There was no need of words. It was enough just to walk like this, all of him humming with contentment after these last few hours. They should do this more often, he reflected: make a habit of escaping now and then for some precious hours of solitude. He said as much, making Alex smile.

  “I’m game whenever you are,” she said. “How about tomorrow?”

  *

  Over the coming weeks, the opportunity to sneak off for some alone time was severely restricted by their respective workloads. Since first settling here, sixteen years ago, Matthew had cleared a substantial amount of land, and as a consequence, he was out and about for most of the summer days, rising at dawn and returning at twilight. But one hot Sunday in July, Alex put her foot down, saying that unless he accompanied her to the river – just t
he two of them – she would scream. It made him laugh, but he gladly went with her, grinning when she challenged him to a swimming race. He won, of course. He always did. Afterwards, Alex spent well over half an hour seeing to his back, leaving him glistening with oil and smelling like a herbal garden.

  The sun was well past its zenith when they set off for home. They started up the long incline that led from the river to the house and, already at this distance, Alex could see the flurry of movement in their front yard.

  “It would seem we have guests,” Matthew said.

  Alex shaded her eyes and squinted. She smiled when she recognised Thomas Leslie, who had already dismounted to greet his grandchildren. Ever since Mary had died last winter, Thomas had become a frequent visitor, dividing his attention equally between his daughter Naomi and his best friend Matthew. Behind Thomas, she could make out three more people, still astride their horses, and beside her, Matthew muttered something rather unwelcoming.

  “What?” she said.

  “Jenny,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of their visitors.

  “Jenny?” The last person Alex expected to see in her front yard was Jenny Leslie, Ian’s ex-wife. To be quite honest, it was also one of the people she least wanted to see, along with Jenny’s new husband Patrick, but unfortunately here they were, larger than life, accompanied by a flustered Peter Leslie.

  “What is she doing here?” Alex muttered to Matthew, and his hand tightened around hers in warning.

  They reached the yard just as Peter dismounted.

  “Peter, Thomas,” Matthew said, nodding very briefly at Jenny before Peter put an insistent hand on his sleeve and pulled him away, his face creased with urgent news.

  A couple of very tense minutes ensued. Ian remained standing where he was, glowering with such intensity in the direction of Jenny it was a surprise she didn’t burst into flames. Patrick leapt off his horse, landing nimbly on his feet before turning to help Jenny down, and Alex hated him for flaunting his whole undamaged body.

  A quick glance at Ian verified what she’d already suspected: his back was killing him today, which was why he remained rooted to the ground, as any attempt to walk would result in a limp, or even worse, a shuffle. Beside Ian stood Malcolm, mouth hanging slightly open at the sight of his mother.

  “Ian.” Jenny came to stand before him.

  “Jenny.” Ian’s voice was clipped, his hazel eyes clouded with mistrust.

  “I thought…” Jenny cleared her throat. “I’m here to visit my father, and so I thought that perhaps I could be allowed to see my children?” She adjusted the deep blue bodice and fiddled with the silver clasp that decorated her cloak.

  “You could have sent for them,” Ian told her. “You didn’t have to come here.”

  Oh yes, she did, Alex snorted quietly. Little Jenny had to show them all that she was well dressed, that her husband was a successful man down in Charles Towne, and that she, Jenny Leslie, had overcome the stigma of being branded an adulterous wife.

  “Malcolm.” Jenny smiled down at her son. The boy obviously didn’t know what to do, craning his head back to look at his father. Ian placed a hand on his shoulder and shoved him forward. Only then did Malcolm approach his mother, but cautiously, like a man tiptoeing round a sleeping bear.

  “Go on, lad,” Ian said, and with that Malcolm was in his mother’s arms.

  “Da?” Maggie tugged at Ian’s breeches. “Da, who’s the pretty lady?” Her hair had escaped the straitjacket of her braids, hanging in soft curls around a face that regarded Jenny with open admiration.

  “Your mother, lass,” Ian replied. He looked drawn, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Alex took a step in his direction, stopped when Ian glared at her. This male pride thing was at times incomprehensible. Alex sighed.

  “My mam?” Maggie pressed herself close against Ian. “That isn’t my mam.”

  Yes it is, Alex thought to herself, and even more unfortunately Patrick is your father – biologically if not legally. It showed in how Maggie’s hair rose in a whorl off her forehead, in how her lower lip jutted out, thick and plump. It should never have been allowed to happen, that romance between their then bond servant and Jenny. But, of course, if it hadn’t, then Betty wouldn’t have been Ian’s wife, and that would have been a grave loss.

  “Aye, she is,” Malcolm told Maggie. “I told you, how our mam went away – to Carolina.”

  “Why?” Maggie asked.

  “Because.” He shrugged aloofly.

  “Oh.” Maggie nodded, but she made no move to approach Jenny, shrinking back when the unknown woman crouched before her.

  “His back is killing him,” Alex said to Mark, watching her eldest son’s stiff stance.

  “Aye, but he can’t very well show himself disabled now, can he?” Mark nodded in the direction of Patrick whose whole concentration was directed at the little girl pressed against Ian’s leg.

  “No, I suppose not. Don’t they have children of their own?” she said, irritated by how Patrick ate Maggie with his eyes.

  “Aye, they do, a lass, I think. The wee lad died last winter of the ague.” Mark sounded very callous. “No, he can’t remain standing like that. You’ll have to offer them something to drink. Distract them, like.”

  “Is it okay if I spit in their mugs?” Alex whispered, making Mark laugh. He accompanied her to the kitchen, helped her fill the pitchers with cider and beer.

  “Did you?” Mark asked Alex once they’d watched the Leslies ride off.

  “Did I what?” Alex turned to face him.

  “Spit in their mugs.” Mark grinned, making Matthew raise a brow.

  “Of course I did.” Alex grinned back. “Didn’t you?”

  “Alex,” Matthew sighed, sounding very amused, “you didn’t…”

  “Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t,” she teased.

  “I did,” Mark said, and son and mother broke out in laughter.

  *

  “What did Peter Leslie want?” Alex asked Matthew later that evening. They were seated on the bench in the graveyard, looking down at their home spread out below. In the lingering light of the July evening, it was all blues and purples against the darker backdrop of the forest fringe. All the way to the river, his fields rustled with wheat and barley, man-high in its places where a decade ago it had all been trees.

  “Off to drink beer down by the river,” Matthew sidestepped, nodding to where their four eldest sons were walking through the twilight, Ian’s limp making him easily recognisable.

  “I hope they bathe first,” Alex said, “all of them.”

  “Mmm.” He smiled at the shadow that flitted behind their sons. Sarah was apparently planning on joining the beer drinking, or at least to eavesdrop on it.

  “So what did he say?” Alex insisted.

  Matthew looked away and sighed. “The Burleys rode into the Ingram place a couple of days ago and held a musket to John Ingram’s head, threatening to blow it away unless Mrs Ingram handed over whatever valuables they had.” He noticed with detachment that his hands were trembling and fisted them closed. “They took the eldest lass, and poor John was dragged away behind their horses for a mile or so before they cut him loose.”

  “Oh God,” Alex groaned.

  “Oh God, indeed.” He didn’t tell her that Peter had been sent to warn them by John and his shocked wife. Graham’s Garden was next, Philip Burley had laughed, and there was one very pretty girl there, a very pretty girl.

  “And the girl?”

  “Gone,” Matthew said. “Gone to God knows where.” He would talk to his sons, and already tomorrow he was going to ride over to the Chisholms and buy a further dog or two.

  “They’re coming here,” Alex breathed, her eyes very dark in the dim light.

  “Mayhap,” he said, “but they might encounter more resistance than they expect.”

  Chapter 9

  Lucy combed out her long hair with even strokes, gazing at herself in her mirror glass. Two sons�
�she smiled with pride, a bubbling sense of achievement fizzing from the soles of her feet all the way to the crown of her head. Beautiful lads, just like their father, and strong and lusty the both of them, latching onto the wet nurse’s teat with vigour.

  She adjusted the tight linen bands around her chest, creasing her brows at the discomfort. Her mother said she should nurse her children herself, but Lucy had no desire to act the cow, permanent damp spots on her clothes. No, Lucy wanted to regain her normal figure and entice her husband back to bed, away from all those other women his eyes strayed to when she was great bellied. Lucy bit her lip. She knew well enough what little one could do to minimize the risk of getting pregnant, and decided to stock up on an assortment of herbs to drink regularly. After all, now there were two male heirs, and so Lucy had fulfilled her obligations – at least for a couple of years.

  With a pleased expression, she fingered her new ear bobs, each set with a drop-shaped pearl. One for each boy, Henry had said, dropping a kiss on her cheek. Very nice – much nicer than the golden hoops he’d given Barbra. Distractedly, she wondered where Barbra might be. She hoped she found herself in a darker time, far removed from the bodily comforts of this age.

  Without conscious effort, her hand was already groping in her drawer for her precious treasure, and she placed it on the table before her. Lucy leaned forward with caution. Ever since Barbra disappeared, the pull exerted by the painting had increased, the blues and greens cresting like waves before her eyes. Not enough to make her seasick, nor even queasy, but enough to make her sit back and concentrate on the noise instead: drums, the reedy sound of flutes, the vibrating string of a lute… Lucy hummed along, mesmerised by the way the music floated up around her, trickling in through her skin to lodge itself deep in her brain. So many sounds; so many beautiful, enticing sounds.