Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  He closed his eyes at the look on her face. I don’t want your pity, damn you! Still, he stood quiet under her hands, so conscious of her proximity it physically hurt. When she unlaced his shirt to trace light fingers across his chest, he flinched, unused to being touched by someone wishing him well. Her hands went on with their inspection, and his cock sprung to active and urgent life, hard beneath the hem of his shirt. He was too weak, his vision blurred, but he didn’t care. He was alive, he was safe, and he hoped that he’d gotten rid of any wee creatures, because he was going to, oh dear Lord was he going to! Her fingers found him, closed round him, and he jerked at the warmth of her grip.

  “Nay,” he gasped. “Undress. Let me look at you.”

  For a long time her eyes held his. She backed away a few steps, undid buttons and lacings, and stepped out of one garment after the other, standing finally only in her shift.

  “That too.” His gaze never left her as she did as he said. She raised her arms to her head, drew out her pins, and his breath hitched when her hair tumbled down to frame her face in waves of browns and bronze and here and there a dash of deep red. His hand moved of its own accord, fingers finding a long strand of curling hair, tugging at it until she stood close enough for him to feel the warmth of her naked body against his own.

  “Merciful Christ,” he groaned. “I won’t be gentle with you, Alex. I don’t think I can.” In reply she stood on her toes and kissed him.

  Fortunately the bed was only a few feet away. Whatever strength he had left in him, had collected in his cock, and he stumbled and swayed, supported by her. There; his wife, arms held out to him, her thighs wide and welcoming, her secret places bared to him, pink and velvety folds of flesh like petals on a rose. His wife, his Alex. He couldn’t breathe. He gripped the bedpost for support and stared down at her. Her hand on his thigh, her fingers finding his, tugging ever so gently, and he let go of the post to kneel clumsily on the bed.

  She made as if to pull his shirt off, but he shook his head, motioning for her to lie back down. His balls hurt, his cock twitched. Blood pounded through his head, heat pooled in his loins, and he fell forward. She gasped when he pressed his weight against her.

  A fumble, a positioning of hips and legs that no longer fit together quite as naturally as they used to do, but he didn’t care. Ah, at last! His cock inside of her. His Alex. Again, again, and he was vaguely aware that mayhap he was being too rough, that perhaps he should not pound himself quite so hard against her, but he couldn’t stop himself. She’d come for him – almost too late, but she’d come. Alex, his Alex. He drove himself into her, she twisted below him, and with a sound somewhere between a sob and a howl he came.

  “We’ll miss supper,” Alex commented a couple of hours later. Her hair was a tangled mess, her skin was rosy in patches, and she smiled lazily at him, one hand drifting up to stroke his cheek. He just shrugged, bent his head to nuzzle her neck. After that first urgent coupling, he had curled to shake with dry sobs by her side, and then he had slept, his head pillowed on her chest. He had woken and needed her, and there she had been, a solid reassuring presence beside him. But this time he had taken his time with her, and now she lay sprawled under him, his cock shrinking slowly back to size inside of her.

  “Matthew, you need to eat.” Alex shoved at him.

  “Aye,” he said disinterestedly, busy rediscovering her breasts. It was all a dream; her here with him. He bent his head to her nipple and smiled at her responding ‘oh.’ Kate never liked it when…Kate! He sat up so quickly it made his head spin. Alex scooted up to kneel beside him.

  “What?” she said. “Is it your foot?”

  He looked from her to his bandaged foot and back again.

  “What?” She cradled his face with her hands. “Matthew, what is it?”

  He covered her hands with his and disengaged himself from her hold. He should tell her – no, he must tell her – and he inhaled in preparation of doing so, but at the last moment his nerve failed him and he just shook his head.

  “I don’t know. Mayhap I just need my supper.”

  Alex narrowed her eyes and under her scrutiny he felt himself flush. But she didn’t ask.

  Matthew was somewhat overwhelmed by Mrs Gordon. If she was shocked by his reduced state, she hid it well, busying herself instead with the practicalities surrounding his present state of health. He answered her barrage of questions, sat down to allow her to inspect his foot, and smiled when she told Eliza she’d be doing the cooking for Mr Graham – after all, she knew what he liked.

  Mrs Gordon plied him with sweetened wine that went directly to his head, she served him stew and bread and watched him like a hawk to ensure he ate it all. When she ordered him to bed, he just nodded. A bed; he was to sleep in a bed with clean linen. He leaned heavily against Alex as she helped him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He fell into the bed, was kissed and patted. He yawned, turned on his side, and…

  “He wouldn’t have lived much longer,” Mrs Gordon commented when Alex came back down.

  “No,” Alex said, emotionally exhausted after this very long day. Eliza set down a slice of spice cake before her, and Alex gave her a grateful smile. Just what she needed; a sugar rush. Mrs Gordon sat down beside her and gave her a hug.

  “You did well lass, you found him and saved him.”

  Alex leaned into her. “I would never have done it without you.”

  “Aye, you would,” Mrs Gordon replied. “Of course you would. You Swedish lasses are mightily stubborn, no?”

  *

  In the early morning he began to talk to her nape, and over the following hour he told her everything, from the moment he woke on the ship to the day when he crawled at Jones’ feet and admitted that aye, he was a slave. He told her of never ending days under a burning sun, of nights spent shivering in the cold, and of week after week of monotonous, endless toil. He described how ill he’d been and how he’d almost died, but how it had been her, the dream of her that kept him alive. He told her every detail of this long, long year – but he never mentioned Kate.

  And then it was her turn and she spoke of her travels and the storms, of Don Benito and of the night when she’d seen Magnus in the sea. She told him everything – well almost. She didn’t tell him about Fairfax.

  *

  It wasn’t until Monday that they had any reason to leave the boarding house. Matthew winced at the unfamiliarity of shoes, and spent much time adjusting the buckles to minimise the pressure on his healing foot. He was finally satisfied and raised his eyes to stare in astonishment at his wife.

  “You won’t go out in that,” he informed her once he had finished his detailed inventory.

  Alex gave him an exasperated look. “What? Don’t you think I look nice?”

  Matthew smiled at her understatement. “Aye you do. But for my eyes, not for all.” He reached across and tugged at a curl. “My wife. My bonny, bonny wife, but this is only for me to see.” He traced his finger over her exposed bosom. “So I’ll just wait while you change.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. They were going nowhere until she was appropriately dressed. Alex glared, but he just shook his head and with a sigh she twisted to undo her lacings.

  “Other men would flaunt their wives,” she grumbled as they hastened down the dusty road some time later. She stopped to adjust her cap, tucking in a stray lock or two of hair.

  “I’m not other men, and you’re being looked at enough as it is.”

  “I am?” She sounded quite pleased, and tightened her grip on his arm.

  “You know you are.” He frowned as yet another man threw his wife an appreciative look, and adjusted his dark breeches. He snuck a look at himself, still surprised to find himself in stockings and shoes, a dark coat and a clean linen shirt. He stretched, preened even, and beside him Alex laughed.

  “Eye candy,” she murmured and pinched his buttock hard enough to make him hiss.

  *

  The bored official duly re
gistered the signed deed conferring the ownership of Matthew Graham on Alexandra Graham, prepared a copy of the deed, signed it, and with a malicious smile handed it to Alex, not to Matthew.

  “Six years remaining, ma’am.”

  “No, my husband is a free man as of this minute.”

  The official snickered as he shook his head. “Not while he remains in Virginia. Here he’s registered as an indentured.” He tilted his head. “You can of course free him, but that requires the Governor’s signature.” For a moment the veil of boredom lifted from his eyes and he peered at Matthew.

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” Matthew said icily.

  “Ah well, they all say that,” the official snorted.

  “In this case it’s the truth,” Alex said. The official hitched his shoulders, indicating that he didn’t care, one way or the other, and turned his attention to the next person in line.

  “We’ll leave as soon as we can,” Alex said, not liking the mask of anger on Matthew’s face. “After all, we have to hurry home to Mark.” She thought of something, and dug into her petticoat pocket, extracting a folded and refolded piece of paper.

  “It’s from Simon.”

  At first he just held the letter, turning it over several times before he unfolded it, long fingers smoothing out the creases. She knew the letter by heart, but she stood on tiptoe beside Matthew to read it once again, her heart heavy with homesickness.

  It was a letter pungent with their old life. It told of summer days at Hillview, of their son running wild across the water meadows. It described the long days of harvest, how the hayloft filled with sweet new hay, and the pantries with preserves.

  Simon wrote of Mark, of how Joan had given him a kitten of his own. He described a happy little boy, eyes the same light hazel of his sire, hair that fell in unruly curls. …but Joan says she dare not cut them, for she lives in fear of her eyes should Alex come back and find her beloved lamb shorn…

  “Too right,” Alex muttered. She heard Matthew inhale and knew he was reading the long post scriptum. …It may interest you to know that we have had fancy visitors here at Hillview. Master Luke Graham no less, coming to assert his rights of guardianship over both estate and heir. Let it suffice to say he rode away most disgruntled, protesting that it wasn’t right that he, the uncle, should have no say in the raising of Hillview’s heir.

  “We can still acquire passage on one of the first boats back, and maybe we can be at Hillview for the harvest.”

  “Mayhap.” Matthew folded the letter together and tucked it inside his shirt, offered Alex his arm, and set off towards the boarding house.

  Chapter 22

  “What’s the matter with him?” Alex asked Mrs Gordon next morning, holding Matthew’s unresponsive hand. Mrs Gordon shook her head and sat back, gnawing at her lip.

  “He’s wasted,” she said, drawing a finger down Matthew’s shirtfront. “These last few days have mayhap taken too much out of him.” She raised an eyebrow at Alex and smiled.

  “Not my doing, I hope.” She just couldn’t help herself. She had to, and so did he, and she hadn’t even considered that maybe he was too weak. “So what should I do?”

  Mrs Gordon shrugged. “He needs food and sleep, lass. The rest will take care of itself, aye?” Alex wasn’t quite as convinced, describing the last few nights of disrupted sleep, with Matthew flailing beside her.

  “That he has to sort on his own.” Mrs Gordon cupped Matthew’s cheek, bending to place a soft kiss on his brow.

  Alex sat beside Matthew all morning, her attention focused on the spare shirt she was making for him. He needed an extra pair of breeches as well, and everyday stockings. That made her smile, and she bent over to rifle through her work basket, producing a pair of very nice stockings, the first she’d ever finished to Mrs Gordon’s exacting standards.

  “What are those?” Matthew asked from the bed. He studied the grey stockings hanging from her hand.

  “I made them for you,” she said, coming to sit by him. “They took me ages and ages, because Mrs Gordon is quite the pain in the arse at times, so she kept on tearing them up.”

  He laughed. “Pain in the arse, aye? I haven’t heard anyone say that for well over a year.” He blinked, wiped at his eyes.

  “What is it?” Alex stroked his bare skull, his cheek. Compared to when she first saw him, he was looking far better, the grey tinge to his skin replaced by a somewhat more normal tone, but still his eyes looked sunken in his face, and even if he’d washed himself as well as he could, there were streaks of encrusted dirt here and there.

  “I thought…” He cleared his throat. “I sometimes thought…”

  “…that I wouldn’t come,” she finished for him.

  He nodded, eyes a golden green.

  “And I…” She lifted his hand to her face and kissed his palm. “…I thought I might be too late. But I came, and you were still alive.”

  “Aye, but I am that glad you didn’t leave it much longer.” He tightened his hold on her hand, and she widened her fingers to braid them tight round his. It made her relax, to feel their fingers intertwined like that.

  “Do you recall how I told you, when we first met, that the light in me had grown so much dimmer whilst in gaol?”

  Alex nodded that she did.

  “It near went out this time, some days it guttered on the brink of extinction.”

  “I know,” she breathed. “I dreamt of you, saw you lying in a small room surrounded by other men, and I knew you were crying inside. And I so wanted you to know that I was on my way, and that I would never, ever give up.”

  “My wife,” he whispered, “my Alexandra Ruth.” A long bony finger came up to touch her cheek, follow the shape of her brows, his thick dark lashes lowered over eyes that glistened wetly.

  Alex coughed a couple of times to rid her windpipe of the congested tears stuck halfway down.

  “Right, you need to rest and I have to get back to my sewing. And then, in some hours I’ll bring you something strengthening to eat, with lots and lots of eggs in it, and after that I think Mr Graham is going to have a bath - a long, very hot bath with his wife in attendance.”

  Matthew’s long mouth curved into a smile. “I don’t need the eggs,” he murmured, already drifting off.

  “Oh yes, you do,” she said, patting him fondly over his crotch. “You need dozens and dozens. You have a wanton wife to take care of.”

  He opened one eye and nailed it into her. “I can handle that.”

  “I have no doubts whatsoever, but we’ll go with the eggs, just in case.”

  “Just in case,” he agreed and fell abruptly asleep, his hand gripping her skirts.

  *

  No wonder he had insisted on keeping his shirt on, hiding his naked body from view. So thin, his bones standing in clear outline against his skin. Long ropes of muscle and tendons, but so wasted, so shrunk from the man she’d last seen naked back at Hillview.

  “What kind of an animal did this to you?” Her fingers traced welts across his back and down his sides, deep grooves from where the pulling straps had dug themselves into his skin.

  Matthew twisted, trying to see his back. “Is it that bad?”

  “Bad!” She wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head between his shoulder blades. “My beautiful man,” she said, rubbing her cheek hard against him.

  “Not so beautiful now.”

  “Oh yes,” she replied. “Very, very beautiful. Get in,” she said, indicating the hip bath. She picked up soap and a linen towel, and scrubbed all of him until he was a glowing pink. He looked at the scummy water with astonishment.

  “It’s as dirty as on Friday!”

  “Men! You don’t really know how to wash.” She towelled him dry and re-bandaged his foot before pointing him back to bed.

  “Not to sleep,” he said, making a grab for her. She squealed when he pressed himself close to her.

  “Of course to sleep, you’re a very weak man. I h
ave to be careful so that I don’t wear you out.”

  “Wear me out?” He’d eaten a huge helping of eggs with cheese and bread, followed by a slice of pie drenched in creamy heavy custard. “I’ll show you, aye?”

  *

  “We must go and see the Governor,” Alex told Matthew some weeks later, looking him up and down. His hair was still unbecomingly short, and even if he ate like a horse there was a lingering gauntness to him. “Or maybe we wait, you know, until you’re a bit more recovered.”

  Matthew just nodded and went back to studying the papers he was holding in his hands.

  “What’s that?” She leaned over his shoulder. “Oh. It’s not particularly good, I can’t get his hair right…” She extended her finger to trace the soft cheeks of her baby boy.

  Alex sighed; more than a year since she’d last seen Mark, and by the time they got back he’d have lived more months without her than with her. Sometimes she had horrible nightmares in which she knelt to hug him and he just cried, his arms stretched out to Joan. All the more horrible because that was probably what would happen; he’d hide behind Joan or Simon and stare at these his reappeared parents in confusion.

  “Will he love us, do you think?” she asked Matthew. He tucked back the papers where he’d found them, in the battered book of sonnets she’d lugged all across the world.

  “We love him. I’m sure that will be enough.” He stood, moved over to the small window that faced, ironically, towards the east. “I’ll never forgive Luke for this, for taking me away from my son, forcing you to leave him to go after me.” He kicked at Alex’s workbasket, sending it skidding over the floor. “He has destroyed my life, he’s taken and stolen so much from me, and I should have put a stop to him. This time I will. Somehow I will.”

  “How? Will you kill him and then be dragged off to hang? Because let me tell you something, Mr Graham, I haven’t spent a year chasing you across the globe to see you end up spinning at the end of a rope.”

  “I’ll find another way.” He drove his fist through the wicker of the chair and gazed down at the resulting bloodied knuckles. “I will be revenged on him.”