His hands moved up her thighs, caressed her naked hips and buttocks, all the while with his head resting against her belly. She stroked his head, ran her fingers through his hair, traced the outline of his ears. He laid her back over the table, her skirts were at her waist, and his mouth was at her cleft. His tongue, his lips, his warm, warm breath, and all of her was wet.
He slid her down to the table’s edge to meet him, and there were some eternally long seconds when he fiddled with her skirts, using them to wad her up an inch or two. Perfect fit. Ah yes, a perfect fit, and she lifted her legs to rest against his shoulders, liked how his hands hardened on her, how he flexed himself against her.
“Mine,” he said, leaning his weight against her raised legs in a way that made it impossible for her to move – all she could do was take what he chose to give her. “My wife, my woman, mine.”
“Yours,” she whispered back, “entirely yours.” He laughed, a soft sound of unadulterated joy that she should recognise herself for what she was, and pressed forward, pinning her to the table with his weight, his member. His hips moved, Alex moaned and threw her head back. Again, and he was in so deep it made her sigh and clench in response. He took his time, moving leisurely in and out, and Alex could do nothing to hurry him on, could do nothing but savour him, the size and warmth of him, the strength of him.
He helped her to sit afterwards, kissing her brow.
“Bath?” he suggested.
“Now?” It was pitch-black outside.
“Now.” He nodded, taking her hand.
She slid off the table and smiled. “Now, then.”
They walked barefoot over the cold ground to the laundry shed, and it was freezing inside to begin with until Matthew had gotten the fire going and set the water in the cauldron to boil. Not that Alex cared, wrapped as she was in his thick winter cloak, nothing else. They sat close together and talked as they waited, their clothes a tangled heap by the door, lanterns throwing flaring light against the walls. The boiling water hissed when it hit the cold sides of the oversized wooden bath, and the small space filled with damp, misty heat.
“Come here, you.” Matthew held out his hand. He washed her, she washed him; he lathered her head, she did the same to him. He gripped at her wet, soapy body, and she slipped away like a giant trout, laughing at him. He did it again, and again she slid out of his grasp, teasing him with her eyes. He got a firm grip on her foot and towed her, spluttering and laughing, towards him, guided her to straddle him, and held himself absolutely still as she did the moving, as she set the pace.
“It doesn’t change, ever, does it?” Matthew’s heavy, contented voice floated up from where he lay on his front while Alex massaged her way up his back.
“Change? Of course it changes, you stupid man.” She found a particular sore spot and ground her knuckles into it, making Matthew jerk like a hooked fish.
“Ooooh!” he protested. “That’s bone.”
“Wimp,” Alex told him affectionately.
“How does it change then?” he asked, relaxing when she went back to her circular movements.
“It gets better.” She tickled him on the underside of his scrotum, visible between his legs, and laughed at the reaction. “For example, I didn’t know you liked that quite as much as you do.”
“I didn’t know I liked it either until you did it,” he answered.
She covered him with his cloak and slid in beside him, worming her way in under his arm until she was as close as she could get. “Will they be shocked, do you think, if they find us here, stark naked and fast asleep in the morning?”
“In all probability.” Matthew yawned. “Not Mrs Parson, but the rest of them, aye.” He opened one eye to look at her. “But it’s my home, and I don’t plan on moving, do you?”
“No,” she said, “I’m fine right here.”
Chapter 34
Carlos was proud as a peacock the day he walked all the way to the river and back on his peg leg without overbalancing once. And he was more than impressed when, a couple of weeks later, he negotiated the steep slope to the graveyard all on his own, there to sit on Alex’s favourite bench, gazing out over the Graham lands. A beautiful spot, he mused, taking in the sprawling rosebush, the two headstones, and the relatively new stone tablet commemorating Mark’s premature son. Yes, a restful place in which to lie waiting for the Resurrection, while your body slowly turned to earth.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena,” he murmured, rubbing the first bead of his second decade. He voided his head of anything but his prayers, rocking from side to side. Only when he opened his eyes again did he notice he had company, smiling cautiously at Matthew.
“You must be longing to leave,” Mathew said.
Carlos hitched his shoulders. “I’ve been made very welcome here.” He scratched at his peg. He often did that, and every time it was a surprise not to feel his own skin beneath his nails. “And well mended.” Almost five months since his amputation, an ordeal he recalled very little of, gracias a Dios.
“Aye, as well as can be. The Chisholms sent word – they’ll be coming for you today or tomorrow. Several baptisms to conduct, I gather.”
“Goes hand in hand.” Carlos smiled. “I wed them last summer.”
“From the age of the weans, it seems the grooms and brides had carnal knowledge of each other well before you wed them. One of them is nigh on six months.”
“Errare humanum est,” Carlos murmured tongue-in-cheek. He wasn’t blind, nor was he a complete innocent. It had been obvious that quite a few of the brides were long gone in their pregnancies, but that was to be expected when priests were difficult to find.
Together, they strolled back down, skirting the kitchen garden where Alex was on her knees planting, with her youngest sons and daughters helping. She was singing what sounded like a hymn, in a language Carlos had never heard before.
“Swedish,” Matthew said, after having cocked his head to listen. “All about giving thanks to the Lord for the return of sun and warmth to the world.”
“Ah,” Carlos gave Matthew an impressed look, “you speak Swedish?”
“Nay, but this particular hymn she sings every year around this time.” Matthew smiled in the direction of his wife. “And you can’t much fault the sentiment.”
“No,” Carlos agreed, “on a day such as this.” He stopped to better see the neat farm buildings laid out before him. Built in larch, the main house, the large barn and the stables had acquired a grey silvered sheen, contrasting with the darker wooden shingles on the roof. Unadorned and plain, except for the windows, the house was of pleasing proportions, seemingly rooted to the ground beneath it. In the centre of the yard stood the huge white oak with its bench, unfurling leaves that blushed shyly pink in the sunlight.
All in all, a beautiful place, but still Carlos longed to be gone – not only from here, but from this whole accursed continent. He ached for the sun-drenched cities of southern Spain, but doubted he would ever see them again. No, he sighed, at best he would be sent to Lima or Cartagena de las Indias; at worst into the interiors of the jungle-infested Vice kingdom of Peru. Unless, of course, he chose to leave the Holy Church, but then, what was he to do? Besides, once a priest, always a priest.
Carlos’ dark musings were interrupted by the sounds of hooves coming down the long lane. At his side, Matthew shielded his eyes with his hand, uttered a soft curse, and increased his pace.
*
“Thomas? Are you alright?” Matthew stared up at his swaying friend who nodded, even if his hands were shaking badly. His youngest daughter Judith was the colour of bleached linen, her fingers clenched so tightly round the reins she seemed incapable of letting go. Matthew moved over to help her, lowering his voice into a reassuring crooning as he helped her down to stand on legs so unsteady he had to wrap an arm around her waist to support her.
“We were on our way here, and had it not been for Martin and Paul here, God knows how things would have ended.” Thomas tipped his head in th
e direction of the Chisholm brothers who nodded back.
“What happened?” Alex asked, breathless from her run down the hill.
“They ambushed us a half-mile or so from here. Six or seven men, I think, and they were all around us, lewdly commenting on my daughter.” Thomas stumbled towards Judith, arms pressing her tight to him while she hid her capped head against his chest. “They had their hands on her,” Thomas went on in a hoarse voice, “and me they held at bay by holding a musket to my head. Jesus, had not the Chisholms come upon us—”
“Who?” Matthew asked, although he already knew. He could see it in Thomas’ eyes, in the set expression of Martin’s face.
Thomas squeezed his daughter even closer. “The Burleys, and God knows what they’d have done to my girl – we never found the Ingram girl, did we?”
“Curse them!” Matthew strode towards the stables. “We ride out after them, now!”
“Now?” Thomas said, “I’m not sure—”
“Now!”
“Now,” Martin said, “all of us. And, this time, we put an end to it. This time, we hunt those vermin down and kill them.”
“Amen to that!” Robert clapped his brother on his back.
“Hear, hear!” Mark said, eyes alight with excitement.
*
The yard was a hive of activity: loud male voices, horses that danced with excitement, dogs barking, and there was Matthew already astride Aaron.
Alex was not quite sure what was happening to her: no matter how hard she tried to breathe, no oxygen seemed to be finding its way down to her lungs. Her eyes stuck on Matthew, but he was halfway up the lane, followed by sons and neighbours, and Alex was quite convinced that, at any moment now, she’d die, because something was blocking her throat, and she had no idea what to do to dislodge it.
Someone whacked her back.
“Breathe.” Mrs Parson whacked her again.
Alex tried.
Mrs Parson took hold of her hands, sank black eyes into Alex’s. Her eyelashes were grey, Alex noted, grey and short.
“Lass,” Mrs Parson said, “Alex, love, look at me.”
So she did, and when Mrs Parson inhaled so did she, when Mrs Parson exhaled she followed suit, and slowly, her pulse stopped thundering in her head. With a little sound, she fell into Mrs Parson’s arms, and for all that Mrs Parson was old and several inches shorter, she stood solid like a rock and let Alex cry into her collar.
“A panic attack,” she diagnosed herself a half-hour or so later. They were sitting under the oak, holding hands.
“A what?” Mrs Parson said.
“I was frightened. No, I am frightened.” Alex chewed her lip, reliving in far too much detail the last time she’d had the misfortune to be eye to eye with Philip Burley. And now he was here, mere miles from their home. She swallowed and swallowed; she coughed and swallowed some more, all under Mrs Parson’s concerned eyes.
“It would take a right fool not to be scared of them,” Mrs Parson said.
Alex nodded, hating it that her eyes were filling with tears again. Here – they were here, and Philip Burley would never rest until Matthew was dead, and then he’d… Oh God, he’d come here.
Mrs Parson gave her hand a little shake. “We’ve bested them before, no?”
Alex tried to smile.
“This time we’ll best them for good,” Mrs Parson said. “It’s time to rid the world of yon misbegotten brothers once and for all.”
Yet again, Alex tried to smile.
“For good,” Mrs Parson repeated.
“For good,” Alex parroted, but for the coming hours she remained where she was, eyes glued to the lane, until she saw her man and his companions come trotting down towards her.
“No luck?” An unnecessary question as she could see in their body language that this had been a long day’s ride for nothing.
“Nay.” Matthew dropped off his horse. “They’re like ghosts: no sooner do we pick up their trail but they vanish.” He took off his hat and scrubbed at his hair. “I sorely miss Qaachow’s sentries,” he muttered.
“His sentries? You think they’re no longer there?”
“Why would they be?” Matthew spat to the side. “His precious foster son is no longer here, is he?” He sounded bitter – and scared.
It was early evening by the time the Chisholms were ready to leave, this time with Carlos. Alex packed together his few belongings, thinking that it was strange how attached she’d grown to her pet priest. She sighed, dragging her hand over her eyes. This was turning into an emotionally exhausting day, all in all.
“Remember to wash your stump every day,” she said.
“Sí.” Carlos smiled.
“And to wipe the peg cup clean as well.”
“Sí,” he repeated, still smiling.
“And you must oil the skin at least once a week, okay?”
“Sí, Mamá,” he answered, but now his smile wavered.
“Vaya con Dios, Padre.” She gave him a hug.
“Y contigo, hija, siempre contigo.” He took a step back and clasped her hand. “I’ll pray for Samuel. Every day, until he’s home with you.”
“And how will you know when he is?” Alex smiled through her tears.
“God will whisper it in my ear.”
“Will he?” she asked. “Come back?”
“Sí,” he answered, wiping her cheeks with his bell-shaped sleeve. He hobbled over to his mule, bowed to Matthew, and sat up. The last Alex saw of him was when he whipped his broad-brimmed hat off his head and waved it in the air.
“God,” Alex said to Mrs Parson. “I really, really hate farewells.”
“Most people do, no? But that’s how life is, lass. You meet people, you grow to like them, you see them travel on.”
“Not in my time,” Alex sighed. “In my time you can at least talk to each other, no matter how far apart you are.”
“Oh aye? Even when you’re dead?”
“No.” Alex gave her an exasperated look. “Of course we don’t communicate across the grave.” She sat down at the table and pulled the pie tin towards her, picking at the remains. “Would you want to?”
Mrs Parson turned very bright eyes on her. “Would I want to see my lasses and my man again? What kind of a daft question is that?”
“Sorry,” Alex mumbled. This was the big out of bounds subject with Mrs Parson, and even now, more than thirty years since she lost her entire family over the span of a year, she rarely spoke about her girls.
“I still haven’t forgiven God,” Mrs Parson said. “I don’t know what I did wrong to have all of them die away from me. My man, my lasses…even the wee cat.”
“The cat?” Alex stared at her.
“Aye,” Mrs Parson said, “the cat. Ginger it was, like my man. It was he that gave her to me.”
“Oh. Do you ever think of Mr Parson?”
Mrs Parson fiddled with her wedding band, the single tangible reminder of her second husband.
“Aye, but it isn’t him I hope to meet in the afterlife.” She shrank together on her stool and for an instant Alex saw just how old she was, feeling her gut tightening at the thought of Mrs Parson dying.
“Not yet, I hope.”
Mrs Parson looked at her for a long time. “Nay, not yet.”
*
But there was someone who was about to leave, and Alex waited and waited for Jacob to come and tell her that now, today, he had decided he would leave. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore, and went to find him where she knew he’d be: in the herbs garden. My green fingers, she thought proudly, or rather Magnus’ green fingers. Her father, grandfather, great-grandfather and onwards – all had been botanists, and Jacob had inherited that gene, sitting cross-legged in the shade with a frond of fern in his hand.
“Noli me tangere,” he said when Alex was within hearing distance. “Offa taught me that. Look, you touch it and it closes up. Don’t touch me, it means.”
“Old news, son. Who do you think he showed tha
t before you were around?”
Jacob laughed, placing the fern carefully between two blank pages in his herbal before closing his eyes and sticking his nose up to the sun. Alex felt her breath hitch in her throat with pride. Her son, tall and well built, with hair the colour of the sun, and eyes that slanted catlike in a face that was otherwise so like his father’s. And soon he’d be gone, to Master Castain and Luke and all the other friends he’d made in London. He seemed to have heard what she was thinking, because he opened an eye to look at her.
“I have a lass there,” he blurted.
“You what?” Alex was sure she had misheard.
“She’ll be four soon, named Rachel by her mother.” He explained how he had received a letter last year, where Helen had told him her daughter was his, not her husband’s.
“Helen? Who’s this Helen?”
“A woman.”
“Thanks a lot. I could have worked that out myself.” Alex sat down beside him, smoothing his hair back off his brow. “So who is she?”
Jacob smiled and shook his head. “A woman I liked a lot and bedded for a while, my first friend in London. She says the lass looks very much like me, and I…I want to see her, aye? Be there should she need it.”
Alex frowned. “I thought you said Helen has a husband.”
“Aye, she does, but he’s well over fifty, and unwell to boot. A nice enough man, I reckon, and Helen is fond of him, saying how he cherishes her and the child both.” He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. “I won’t come between them, but I’d like to meet my daughter.”
“So when will you leave?” Alex asked as neutrally as she could.
Jacob gave her a very serious look. “Not until Samuel is back, Mama. Not until the Burleys have been wiped out.”
“Oh, son!” Alex kneeled and took his face between her hands. “Don’t be silly, Jacob. You can’t put your life on hold! We’ve known for months that you’re leaving.”
Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga) Page 28
