by Anne Gracie
The axe flashed in the sunlight and came crashing down between Thomas and his neighbor, missing them by bare inches. It severed the chain that linked each row of slaves together—one chain, looped through each man’s manacles, binding them together until someone in the row sickened and died, or went mad and was tossed overboard for the sharks. Sharks always followed the galleys. They were well fed, especially in the summer.
It had taken a few seconds to realize what had happened: the big man hadn’t missed—he’d freed them. Thomas worked feverishly, dragging the heavy chain through each loop—his fellow rowers were panicking, impeding his movements through sheer disbelief and fear. Finally he pulled the chain free and stood up.
The African had moved systematically through row after row, his big axe cutting through the chains that bound each row of slaves. And then, chaos of a different kind as the slaves freed themselves and joined the fighting, barehanded and savage against their former masters.
Thomas learned later that the big man had been a galley slave himself. “Join us and live free,” he’d said to Thomas, but Thomas still couldn’t bring himself to prey on other ships.
“I could have joined the men who freed me,” he told Galbraith, “but I wanted to come home. So I hopped from ship to ship, mainly fishing vessels, working my passage until I found a ship that was heading for England.” Back to Rose.
“Not much of a storyteller, are you?” Galbraith commented dryly. “Left out all the interesting bits.”
Thomas shrugged. Pity was not an emotion he courted. And if people learned the details . . . Disgust was also something he’d rather not see in their eyes. Bad enough that Galbraith had worked out that he’d been a galley slave. The lowest of the low. Utter degradation.
“And these five men, the ones you left behind, they weren’t working the galleys like you?”
“No, they were lucky. They stayed ashore.”
“Because you were recalcitrant, and kept trying to escape?”
“Something like that.”
Galbraith gave him a shrewd look. “In other words, not at all. There’s a whole other story there, I suspect, but I can see you’re determined to play oyster. I gather you haven’t told Rose much about your experiences.”
“No, and I don’t intend to.” He refused to . . . to contaminate her with the depths to which he’d sunk.
Galbraith chuckled. “I can see you haven’t been married long. Women have a way of finding things out, and Rutherford women have a knack for getting to the heart of things. The very things you’re determined never to speak of . . .”
His eyes darkened and for a moment Thomas could see that Galbraith was far away in some other place and time. He straightened and added briskly, “At any rate, I know what it’s like to lose men for whom you feel responsible. If there’s anything I can do to help, count me in.” The man was utterly sincere, Thomas realized with a shock.
“Thank you.” He didn’t know what Galbraith could do, but he appreciated the offer. And the implicit suggestion of friendship.
“You don’t need to do everything by yourself, you know,” Galbraith pointed out. “You’re part of this family now.” He glanced toward the stairs, and his rather austere face softened. “Speaking of which, here come the ladies. Brace yourself, Beresford, for talk of papers, chinoiserie, faux patterns, fabrics, motifs, flocking, bas reliefs, trompe l’oeil, and other matters incomprehensible to the masculine brain. So, my love.” He greeted his wife as she entered the room. “Enjoying yourself?”
She hurried across to him and slipped her arm through his. The affection between them was obvious. “Oh, Edward, it’s going to be such fun. Rose and I have been making such delightful plans.”
“You won’t recognize this house when I’m finished with it, Thomas,” Rose declared, waving her little notebook.
“You won’t,” agreed Galbraith mock gloomily. “My advice is to stay far away while the transformation is being achieved. In fact, flee the country, my good fellow, while you can.”
“Oh, hush, Edward, it’s going to be quite charming,” Lady Ashendon said, laughing. “But now my dears, we must leave. We have just enough time to change for dinner.”
Rose linked her arm through Thomas’s. “I’ll stay here with Thomas a while,” she said. “We have things to discuss. He can walk me home later.”
“Will you be home for dinner?” Lady Ashendon asked.
Rose glanced at Thomas and squeezed his arm. “Probably not.” She was blushing.
Thomas did his best to look indifferent.
“Very well, then,” Lady Ashendon said tranquilly. “I’ll see you later. Good evening, Mr. Beresford.”
Thomas watched as the Rutherford ladies collected their things, arranged their hats, pulled on their gloves and left, with Galbraith and the dog as escorts.
He could hardly believe Lady Ashendon had allowed him and Rose to remain in an empty house unchaperoned. It was final, tacit acceptance of their marriage.
Finally, blessedly, Thomas and Rose were alone.
* * *
* * *
Rose walked him through the house, explaining the changes she wanted to make.
“Sounds good,” he told her. “Perfect,” and “Just right.”
“And here”—she opened a door leading to a room that would make a small dressing room or a large closet—“we’re going to put the stables.”
“Very nice,” he said.
“Hah!”
He eyed her warily. “Hah?”
“I knew you weren’t listening. Don’t you care what our home looks like?”
He grimaced. “Not really. No, no, I’m sorry, I don’t mean that, it’s just that—”
“You don’t care.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be perfect. Colors, curtains, carpets—I never notice stuff like that. As far as I’m concerned, the important thing about furniture—a bed, for instance—is not the carvings on the bedposts, or the hangings or the covers, only”—his expression was darkly intent—“who’s in it.”
She felt herself blushing. “Who’s in it?”
“Exactly.” He jerked his chin toward the line of doors down the hallway. “Which room was it that had that big bed in it with the blue hangings?”
She pointed. “That one—Thomas!” she shrieked as he scooped her up and marched purposefully toward the room she’d indicated.
“Hush, woman, I’m showing you what I mean about beds.”
Laughing, she wound her arms around his neck and kissed his chin. “I wondered how long it would take you.” She and Lily had earlier made up the bed with clean sheets, in expectation of just such an occasion.
“Four blasted years,” he muttered.
“Thomas!” She grabbed his chin and turned his face toward her. “It’s been four years for you?”
“Yes.”
She hugged him tightly. “Oh, Thomas, I’m so glad.”
“And you?” His voice was hesitant.
“Of course,” she said indignantly. “You were the only man I ever misbehaved with, and you’re still the only man I’ve ever wanted.” She tugged at his neckcloth and tossed it aside, then started on the buttons of his waistcoat.
“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had, you know.”
“And I wouldn’t have blamed you.” She hoped it was the truth, but when it came to Thomas she did have a jealous streak. She hugged him again. “But I’m so glad you didn’t.”
He kissed her, a hard swift kiss that sent shivers down her spine. “Ouch.”
“Ouch?” she queried.
He touched his mouth gingerly. “Forgot the split lip.” He kissed her again, more carefully.
“Oh, dear, yes, I forgot about the fight. Do you hurt anywhere else?” she asked anxiously.
A smile grew, starting in his eyes
and curving his poor battered mouth. “Oh, dear yes, I have the most terrible ache,” he murmured. “Low down.” And she knew with a shiver of delight that it had nothing to do with the fight he’d had.
“Here?” she said, sliding her hand down to his stomach.
“Lower.” His voice was deep and husky.
They reached the bedroom; he kicked open the door and dropped her on the bed. She bounced slightly. “Comfortable?”
She looked up at him looming deliciously over her. “Not very.” The mattress was rather lumpy now that she came to think of it.
He lay down beside her. “And now?”
“Hmm.” She pretended to consider. “A bit better.”
“And what about now?” He gathered her hard against him. Through their clothes she could feel the firm evidence of his desire.
She smiled and reached down to stroke her hand over him. “Much better.”
His mouth lowered to hers and she hummed in pleasure and opened to him. He tasted dark and masculine, familiar and yet wildly, excitingly different.
They kissed and caressed, exploring each other, tasting, relearning each other, remembering and discovering, but all too soon the urgency to make love built.
Rose tried to unbutton him, but it wasn’t easy, and he tried with her, but what with petticoats and pantaloons and chemises and corsets and ties and hooks and laces, she was not so easy to unwrap either. They slid off the bed and worked feverishly to strip each other of their clothing, until they stood facing each other, eyes locked, naked.
He devoured her with his eyes. She devoured him, first with eyes, then with mouth and hands. His body was proud, erect—he was magnificent, her Thomas.
And then they were kissing, and touching and stroking and squeezing. And somehow they were on the bed, rolling, writhing, shuddering, and it was all heat, and hardness, and wetness and aching, yearning desperation.
“I can’t—it’s not going to be pretty, Rose. Four years, remember?”
She wrapped her legs around his waist. “I remember. Hurry.”
He surged into her, and she arched beneath him, feeling her body stretch to accommodate him. Ah, Thomas, it had been so long. Too long.
He started moving within her then, and the ache and stretch and pull, and oh, oh, the power. It built and crested, too soon, too fast and he collapsed, shuddering on top of her. She didn’t care, for Thomas was hers again and it was glorious.
She lay, legs locked around him, his head buried in the curve between her neck and her jaw. She stroked his hair, his poor ruined back, his magnificent shoulders.
He stirred. “I’m sorry, I came too soon—”
“Hush. It doesn’t matter.”
“It might take a while—”
“Don’t worry. I’m fine.” And she was, more than fine. She was just happy to have him here, naked and sweaty and sated in her arms. Skin to skin. Her Thomas.
She lay, dreamily content, running her hands over his body, feeling his breathing gradually slow, and the loosening of the big, hard body as he drifted into sleep.
The scars around his ankles were ugly, purplish. Obscene. She ached for him. He was so thin, every rib distinct, yet the muscles on his arms were hard and powerful. And brown. His whole upper body was brown. What kind of work had he been doing?
She tried to imagine it. And couldn’t.
And then she too drifted off to sleep.
* * *
* * *
Thomas woke some time later. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, only that he’d slept, after failing to bring her to climax. She was sleeping now, lying bonelessly half beneath him, one slender leg hooked over his. His wife. Lord, but she was a dream come true, all silken skin and warm, soft curves.
He gently caressed the silken curve of her hip and bottom, and felt her waken and shiver beneath his touch.
His hands. Dammit. He pulled them back. When would he remember?
“Don’t,” she said sleepily. “I like the feel of your hands on me.”
He didn’t believe her. She was just being kind. He didn’t want kind, not from her.
Her eyes opened a slit. “Remember before, back in Bath, how much I used to like the rough texture of your unshaven chin?”
He remembered.
A knowing smile curved her mouth. “A little friction can be a fine thing, Thomas.” She took his hand and placed it on her breast. He stroked his palm slowly across her nipple and she moaned and moved sensually against him. Her shivers, he saw now, had nothing to do with distaste for the roughness of his hands and everything to do with desire.
He stroked down her belly, along her thighs, back and forth, teasing, arousing. She moved restlessly, her legs trembling. She clutched his hair with desperate fingers, pulling his head down to her mouth, muttering, “Now, Thomas!”
He kissed her, then let his mouth follow his hands, lower and lower. He parted her trembling legs and slipped between them.
“Thomas!” she gasped. “What are you—?”
The sweet-salt taste of her stung his lip and it was a gift, a healing. She was roses and new-baked bread . . . and woman. His woman, his Rose.
She squeaked as his tongue found her most sensitive spot, and then clenched her eyes shut, emitting little gasps and moans as her body vibrated with pleasure.
He teased her to desperation, her legs thrashing around him, and then he sucked hard. With a faint scream she bucked beneath him and almost came off the bed. He entered her then, in one smooth powerful motion, and drove them both to a shattering climax.
When he woke for the second time, it was dark. Faint light from a three-quarter moon was all that lit the room. He slipped out of bed and groped around until he found some candles and a tinderbox on the mantelpiece. He wrestled with the tinderbox, striking and striking the flint, but the spark never caught. He muttered a curse. He hated these things, had never been good with them, and hadn’t touched one in years.
A soft chuckle came from the bed. “Don’t bother trying to light a candle. We can dress in the moonlight.” She slipped from beneath the covers and came to him, naked and lovely and unashamed, a goddess of moonbeams and shadows, and slipped her arms around him. “I’m so very glad you came home to me, Thomas.” She kissed him softly.
His arms locked around her. It still felt like a miracle. Even more so with her in his arms.
After a moment she spoke. “That thing you did, with your mouth.” He could feel her blushing in the darkness as she said it. “I didn’t know people did such things.”
“Men talk.” And then he realized she was asking him an indirect question. “I’ve never done it before, but when I heard it described, I wanted to try it with you. Did you mind?”
She laughed and rubbed her cheek against him, a sensuous little cat. “What do you think?” And something tight inside him unraveled a little.
They talked as they dressed, the soft dark and the empty house seeming to invite confidences. Until Rose came to the subject of his scars.
“I was looking at those frightful marks around your ankles while you were sleeping, Thomas. Were they painful?”
“No.” Until they rubbed his skin raw and the seawater got in. He pulled on his breeches and fastened them.
“Didn’t it make it hard for you to walk around?”
“Yes, that was their purpose. So we couldn’t move.” He found one of his stockings, put it on, then pulled on a boot.
“But how could you do your work?”
“It was sitting-down work.” He groped around on the floor, searching for his other stocking. Where the hell was it?
“What kind of work were you doing?”
“Rowing. Now that’s enough—”
“Rowing?” She gasped. “You were a galley slave?”
“I don’t wish to talk about it.”
�
��But—”
“Ever.” He found the blasted stocking and dragged it on.
“But, Thomas—”
“Look, first Galbraith was in my ear about it, and now you. That’s enough. I’m not discussing it.”
“You told Edward? Before me?” Her voice sounded hurt. He cursed himself.
“He told me. He guessed.” And he’d had no plans to tell her at all.
“But how?”
“I don’t know how and I don’t care,” he lied. “Now, I said that’s enough, Rose. Are you finished here? Got all you need? Are you ready to go home?”
There was a short pause, and when she finally spoke he heard a thread of anger in her voice. “I’m not nearly finished with you, Thomas Beresford, but you’re right, I’d better go home. I have no idea what the time is, and I don’t want Emm to worry. Will you stay to supper?”
“No. Thank you.” He was aware he sounded like a brute: curt, brusque and ungrateful for the generosity she’d shown him. It was natural for her to be curious, but he couldn’t bear to talk about it with anyone, let alone Rose.
“You should eat some supper. You’re too thin.”
“My body is still adjusting to English food. I’ll have toast or something at Ollie’s.”
“Ollie’s, yes. When do you think we’ll be able to move into this house?”
He shrugged, even though it was too dark in the room for her to see. “Whenever you decide it’s ready, I suppose. Seeing as you’ve taken it on as a project.” He sounded callous, as if he didn’t care. He did, but he was rattled. She’d caught him unaware. That was the trouble with making love—it relaxed a man, made him talkative, unwary.
He’d planned never to let her know he’d been a galley slave, the lowest of the low, barely existing, laboring in stinking, unbearable servitude. And instead he’d blabbed it without thinking, while looking for a damned stocking.
“In that case, I’ll let you know.” She was cross with him, but she’d get over it. She didn’t hold a grudge, his Rose. She was as direct in her anger as in everything else. Thank God for it. He knew where he stood with Rose.
