by Mary Daheim
“Who do you fight, Morgan?” he inquired with that whimsical grin. “Me—or yourself?”
Morgan’s topaz eyes regarded him with confusion, but she refused to answer. He was kissing her again, over and over, while his fingers plied the pink tips which seemed to throb and take fire. Then his mouth covered her right breast, his tongue wreaking new havoc with her senses, while his hands reached down to pull up the skirts of her riding habit. This time he did not rip the undergarment but merely tugged it down over her hips.
“Francis ….” It was more moan than protest. He undid the fastening of her skirt and pulled that, too, from her body. At last he stopped kissing her breasts and moved his mouth to the triangle of tawny hair between her thighs. And there was the ache again, the yearning, burning sensation which demanded fulfillment. Involuntarily, Morgan reached out and blindly pulled Francis’s head even deeper into the cavern of her most intimate self. “Jesu …” she gasped as his tongue seared the tender flesh. She writhed with pleasure, arching her back, her fingers all but clawing him.
“I told you … you were born to be pleasured, one way or another.”
“You’re a blackguard,” she murmured, and watched with only vague embarrassment as he stood up beside her, taking off his own clothes. And though she flinched slightly when she saw the hard, firm manhood thrust so close to her, she could not resist reaching out to touch him. For one fleeting moment, she glanced up, as if to ask if she had done the right thing.
“Yes, you goose, do what you will. I don’t always have everything my way.”
To Morgan’s astonishment, he bent down and kissed the fingertips that had just caressed him. It was her turn to smile. In fact, she felt almost like laughing for the first time in weeks. Her fingers now moved eagerly along his hardened member, and as he knelt above her, she captured him between her breasts and actually shivered with delight.
He again explored the flesh between her thighs, then fondled her breasts, covering himself with her bosom, and at last she relinquished him so that he might satisfy them both. Together they rocked back and forth on the creaky bed, both gasping, sighing, convulsing with ecstasy. Then the ultimate explosion roared in their ears and made their bodies shudder—and they lay in each other’s arms, replete, exhausted, and silent.
Francis spoke first, cradling Morgan against his chest. “You will be quite splendid in bed someday,” he declared. “What a shame to waste it all on James.”
Morgan pulled away just enough to look up at him. “You make James sound so dreary. Isn’t there any attribute you share besides your coloring?”
Francis seemed to consider this question for some time. “We both like to ride,” he said at last, and seeing the bemused expression on Morgan’s face, burst into the first real guffaw Morgan had ever heard from him. “Oh, Morgan, I don’t mean to disparage James. We are just—different.”
“Perhaps I should take consolation in that,” Morgan said with some asperity. “I don’t think I would take well to a philandering husband—as some wives apparently do.”
Francis’s expression turned grim. “There are things about me you don’t understand, Morgan. Nor is there any reason why you should. It’s sufficient that Lucy not only understands me, but loves me anyway.”
“She must be a saint,” Morgan snapped, and then, seeing the very real pain in Francis’s gray eyes, diffidently reached out to touch his cheek. “I’m sorry, Francis, I’m just confused. I don’t understand myself, you see.”
“No. I know you don’t.” He sighed and gave her a quick hug. “But understanding oneself is part of life’s journey. The only problem is, most of us reach the end of life before we achieve the understanding.”
Morgan did not respond to this unexpected profundity. She was very tired, not just from the hard day of traveling and the visit to the minster, but from the emotional drain of letting Francis make love to her. She closed her eyes, and with her head against his chest, listened to the beat of his heart and the steady breathing. “Making love” seemed an inappropriate term as far as she and Francis were concerned; their encounters were more like those of Bess and the Madden twins, mere animal mating, with no ties of affection or commitment. Not only did she not love Francis, she wasn’t even sure she liked him very well. In fact, most of the time she was convinced she hated the man. But why did she find such pleasure in his arms? Yes, she finally had to admit to herself that it was pleasure she had experienced, at least this time when he wasn’t treating her like a slut. Perhaps it was just a natural response which any man could arouse. If so, then she would be equally pleasured by James and maybe their marriage would not be so miserable after all. Grandmother Isabeau had told Morgan she might not know love when she found it; Morgan had been certain she loved Sean, yet he had aroused no great physical desire within her. But Richard Griffin had, and she knew she didn’t love him. He was charming, he was likable, he was experienced in the ways of making a woman want him, but if she never saw Richard again—especially after his callous behavior on the banks of the river—Morgan wouldn’t care one whit.
Perplexed and exhausted, Morgan snuggled even closer to Francis and felt drowsy. But Francis was not yet asleep. “We will have to behave very carefully at Belford, you know,” he said in a deep, low voice. “It will not be as easy as you may think.”
Morgan was about to ask him why not—and then it occurred to her that perhaps she didn’t want to know the answer. So she merely said, “Of course,” and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
On the road to Newcastle the following day, Morgan and Francis were both very quiet. That evening they supped in their separate rooms after exchanging polite but brief good-nights.
The following morning, on the last day of their journey, Morgan began to feel an overpowering sense of depression come upon her. How far she was from Faux Hall, how long ago her life at court seemed, how dim Sean’s freckled face already had grown in her memory! Could he really be dead and she on her way to her marriage ceremony? Nothing seemed quite real, and the unfamiliar terrain only contributed to the strange atmosphere in which she was riding. More like a nightmare, she told herself, gazing hostilely at the rolling banks of sand and scrubby clumps of heather. This was not at all like the soft, lush green farm country she had known since her birth; it was desolate, lonely land with only an occasional shepherd’s hut giving evidence of human habitation.
At last she glimpsed the sea in the distance. Would Belford itself be like this? she wondered. “The North” had always sounded faintly forbidding, but she knew little about it except that these borderlands were famous for raids between English and Scots. She shivered as the wind picked up, blowing sand in her eyes. This was a wild land, as foreign as China or Peru. No wonder the people who dwelled here were said to be wild, too, wild and stormy like Francis Sinclair himself. Yet, Morgan told herself, Francis also seemed vaguely indolent and occasionally even kind. As for James, he had been despairingly formal.
She sighed unhappily, flicking at her gelding’s reins. Her mount was growing as weary as its rider, yet the day was not half-done. Morgan patted the horse’s neck, then looked up to see an old dead tree standing by the road ahead of them with a form dangling from its withered branches.
“Dear God!” she cried. “What’s that?”
Francis looked at her over his shoulder, a vaguely amused expression on his face. “Oh, some miscreant. Our Warden of the Marches deals out justice swiftly in these parts.”
Morgan kept her eyes averted until they had passed the tree and its gruesome burden. But when they stopped to eat their noon meal at Alnwick, she could barely touch her food.
“A pity we can’t linger here for a bit,” Francis said, stuffing a piece of rye bread into his mouth. “This is the seat of the Percys of Northumberland, and Alnwick Castle is most interesting.”
Morgan said nothing, but kept her eyes fixed on her plate. But Francis ignored her silence and went on talking, now about the many wondrous mineral springs and wells in t
he vicinity.
After they started out again, the wind began to blow even more gustily, sending gray clouds tumbling across the sky. The sea could be seen almost constantly now. Morgan wanted to ask Francis if Belford Castle was on the coast, but for some inexplicable reason she could not bring herself to speak to him.
Late in the afternoon they passed the road that turned east to Bamburgh. Just beyond the crossroads Morgan sighted some strange, shaggy animals clustered in a small patch of grass. They were large, white, and ugly. Morgan’s horse shied and she gripped the reins hard.
“What are those?” she called out, unable to keep silent.
Francis turned and grinned at her. “Wild cows. They’re descendants of the ancient wild ox. If you touch a calf, the rest of the herd will kill it.”
Morgan shuddered. Even the cows were wild in this strange land. But the animals paid no heed to the travelers and continued to graze on the coarse grass beside the road.
An hour later they arrived in the town of Belford, which seemed to Morgan a forlorn little place, gray and dreary in the pale light of early evening. Most of the inhabitants were fishermen and tradesmen, and there were several inns, kept busy by travelers on the Great North Road. As the little group rode through the main street, men doffed their caps and women made curtseys to Francis. Although some of the townsfolk eyed Morgan with curiosity, none of them smiled or waved a greeting.
Outside of Belford, the road sloped gradually upward until Morgan at last saw a castle keep outlined against the darkening sky. Soon the castle itself came into view, perched atop a crag overlooking the sea. Trees grew along the outer confines of the castle, and even in the twilight Morgan recognized the blossoms of apple and cherry. Somehow, the thought of the fruit trees, daring to flourish in this unencouraging ground, lifted her spirits slightly.
They were approaching the drawbridge, which was set off on each side by big round towers. Francis shouted over his shoulder into the wind: “Parts of the keep date back to Roman times.” He grappled with his cloak to keep it from flying into his face. “It was one of the prime coastal fortifications—for the Normans, too.”
A fortress, thought Morgan, that’s what it looks like, fruit trees or no. She took a deep breath as they clattered across the bridge and into the courtyard. Francis dismounted quickly, his eyes scanning the castle entrances.
“Where in God’s name is everyone?” he yelled. “What kind of welcome is this for the bride of Belford?”
“Maybe,” Morgan said dryly, “they’re no happier to have me than I am to be here.”
Francis shot her a reproving look. Two servants came through the main door, hurrying toward them. To Francis’s astonishment, they both fell on their knees at his feet.
“Master Francis!” cried Malcolm, the older of the two. “Thank the good Lord you’ve come!”
Francis lifted them both up, but his hands froze on their arms when he saw the mourning bands. “Jesu! What’s happened?”
Again the older servant spoke, the words tumbling out. “Your father, the good Earl. Last Sunday … he was going riding … he seemed quite fit and came out here into the courtyard … just about where you’re standing, Master Francis … and he fell to the ground. He was dead before the Countess could be brought to him.”
Francis’s hand clutched at his forehead; he turned away from the little group. Morgan watched him stumble toward the far end of the courtyard, his big shoulders slumped. Pity touched her, and she turned away just as two women came out of the castle. The younger one, a tall brunette, was obviously Francis’s wife. The other, short and gray-haired, apparently was the Countess. Both wore mourning and both were pale and sad-eyed.
Morgan got down from her horse without help. She curtsied to the Countess, not knowing exactly what to say. “My lady, I’m so sorry about your loss ….”
The Countess motioned for her to rise. “God’s will,” the older woman said simply, with surprising strength in her voice. “It is most unfortunate that your introduction to Belford should come at this sad time.” Her long, blue-veined hand beckoned to the dark-haired girl. “Mistress Todd, this is Francis’s wife, Lucy.”
To Morgan’s astonishment, Lucy Sinclair rushed forward and embraced her future sister-in-law warmly. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Perhaps you can bring some joy to assuage our sorrow.”
Morgan winced inwardly, the sudden memory of Francis Sinclair’s passion coming back to her. His wife was some five or six years older than Morgan and would have been pretty if her face hadn’t been so drawn by grief. Lucy’s eyes were following her husband, who still stood alone at the end of the courtyard. Apparently, thought Morgan, she knows better than to intrude upon him at a moment like this.
The Countess was speaking again, her voice strong: “James is in the town. A pity he didn’t see you ride through, but he’ll return shortly. He’s had so much to do since his father died. Of course, he and Francis will discuss the wedding plans at once. The decision is in their hands.” Morgan’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. A few months ago, even weeks ago, she would have asserted angrily that it was her future, too. But now she only nodded and drew her cloak more closely around her to keep out the chilling wind. She saw Lucy watching Francis, and as he turned to face the others, his wife picked up her skirts and ran toward him, almost falling into his arms. Morgan turned away from them; it was a very awkward moment.
“You missed something in not knowing my husband,” the Countess was saying. “He was a good, wise man. You would have benefited from the acquaintance.”
“Yes,” said Morgan, trying to keep the sudden weariness she felt out of her voice. “I’m sure I would.”
James Sinclair, the new Earl of Belford, returned to the castle just before supper. Morgan didn’t see him until she entered the family dining room, a small but comfortable area off the kitchen. His greeting was polite, and the only change in his appearance was the new sadness around his eyes. No mention of the marriage was made during supper and Morgan exchanged only a few words with James throughout the entire meal. The family conversation centered upon the late Earl: James explained to Francis that they wished he could have been at Belford for the funeral but they weren’t sure when he’d arrive so the services had been held two days before. Francis had nodded abruptly and looked away. A short time later, Morgan saw him striding toward the chapel.
After supper, Lucy accompanied Morgan to the room that had been readied for her arrival. It was small but well furnished. Indeed, the interior of the castle belied the exterior. From what Morgan had observed so far, there was a handsome gallery, a large banquet room, and of course, the comfortable dining room. A terrace ran along the east end of the castle, giving a magnificent view of the sea. It was in this direction that Morgan’s room faced, though the terrace was a floor below her.
“Is everything all right?” Lucy inquired. She was already at the windows, making sure they could be opened.
Morgan replied that all was quite satisfactory. She noted that the servingwomen had unpacked her belongings while she’d been at supper.
“You may think it a bit dreary here at first,” Lucy went on, as she gave a push at the third and last window, “but in the summer, especially, it’s very pleasant. There’s riding and hunting and trips to Berwick—that’s where my family is. I keep busy with the children. I suppose Francis told you we have a boy and a girl and”—she smiled, looking younger and prettier than she had so far—“we’ll have another child in the fall.”
Morgan avoided the other girl’s eyes and smoothed her skirts with a nervous gesture, but Lucy didn’t seem to notice and continued talking. “The Countess isn’t Francis and James’s mother, you know. The first Countess was a Percy. She died when Francis was nine and James eleven. Two years later, the Earl married Elizabeth Armstrong from Bamburgh. Her first husband was killed long ago at Flodden Field. He left her childless. She’s really very kind. I’m so sad for her now, for she loved the Earl, though she tries to keep her grief t
o herself.”
Morgan nodded sympathetically, thinking that Lucy seemed to need someone to talk to. She realized Lucy might be a good friend and companion, but the image of Francis kept cropping up to make Morgan feel guilt-ridden and embarrassed.
Lucy talked on about the countryside, about her children, about her relatives in Berwick. She recalled a trip to Edinburgh she’d made with her parents when she was sixteen. She asked Morgan about London, for Lucy herself had never been beyond Woodstock. At last she rose, saying she knew Morgan must be tired from her long journey.
“You’ll grow fond of James, Morgan,” she said gently, as she stood by the door. “He’s quiet but he’s kind—more like the Earl than Francis is. I suppose that’s why their father favored James …” her voice trailed off. She smiled then and said, “Rest well. The sea will lull you to sleep.”
It was decided by the Sinclair brothers that the wedding should take place without delay. Because of the too-recent bereavement, the service would be held in the castle chapel, with only the family and servants in attendance.
On a sunny Tuesday morning a week after Morgan had arrived at the castle, she was wed to James Sinclair, sixth Earl of Belford. A small but elegant wedding feast was laid out in the banquet room and a few neighboring families paid their respects. Some of the townspeople came up to the castle and James saw that food and ale were dispensed.
Morgan scarcely remembered the ceremony at all. It had been conducted by a clergyman of the new faith, of course, but his name and face were already a blur. The chapel was small and dark, for the narrow windows let in only slits of sunlight, and the candles on the altar gave little illumination.
The banquet droned on into the late afternoon. About four o’clock one of the servants came to James and said the townspeople wished to see the bridal couple. They also wanted to dance outside the castle—would permission be granted? James considered both requests for a full minute. Yes, he told the servingman, he and his new Countess would appear on the west balcony. And there could be dancing, as long as there was no drunkenness or unseemly behavior. James had confidence in the villagers’ decorum for they had respected, and in some cases, had loved his father. Morgan realized now that their indifferent attitude upon her arrival had been caused not by lack of interest but by their sorrow over the Earl’s death.
