Rival Desires

by Annabel Joseph

  “How awful of him.” His mother eyed the looped ropes about her wrists. “I pray he is merciful even though he’s kidnapping you. Fortunately for you, Wales is lovely at this time of year.”

  “Mama,” Wescott said in exasperation.

  His father nodded. “If you asked me for kidnapping advice, son, I’d tell you to take your helpless victim to the cottage. That would be an adventure.”

  “I was already going to do that.”

  “Well, then, it seems you have it all in hand. Why don’t you stop for some lunch with us before you go?”

  “We’ve asked Mrs. Samuelson to pack us a basket so we can get underway,” said Ophelia, who was not very good at playing a kidnapping victim.

  “Go on, then,” said his father. “Before your arms get too tired, and you let your wife get away.”

  “Thank you, Ophelia,” his mother added, “for being such a gracious hostess to us during our stay. If only we had the capability to rescue you. Unfortunately, those knots about your wrists look too complex to untie.”

  “They are,” his wife replied. “Ah well, I suppose we’ll see you all again when we get back.”

  Wescott ignored his father’s grin and his mother’s titter as he carried Ophelia from the room. His wife had an odd look on her face. Either she was trying not to laugh, or she was finally attempting to playact the helpless victim. How had he ever mistaken her for an actress?

  Once inside the carriage, two days of travel stretched before them. He normally would have gone mad within minutes, but his wife entertained him with some of the favorite songs she’d learned at her school in Vienna. First she sang a few showy arias, her expressions helping him understand the Italian lyrics. Perhaps she was not such a poor actress after all.

  After that, she sang some other parts from a German opera she loved, one she’d hoped to perform in London before the theater burned down. They hadn’t talked yet about her future career, and some part of him wished to avoid the discussion for fear their newfound connection might come to a fiery end, just like the opera company’s theater.

  But it was cowardly not to address it, now that she burst into song whenever he asked her to grace him with a performance. He’d told his friends the day of his wedding that he would not allow her to appear onstage again, not if he could help it. But now...now he saw her mother’s point. His wife had a God-given gift.

  When she came to the end of a rather forlorn song about a lost love, he touched the rope still wrapped about her wrists. “How long will you stay bound?”

  “Until you release me,” she said, smiling. “There’s probably no risk to it. I can’t very well escape now, as the carriage is traveling at a fair clip.” She cut him a look. “Not that I would try to escape, Lord Kidnapper. I dread your corporal punishments.”

  “Don’t tease me, little crosspatch.” He still loved the endearment, even though she complained about it. He took her hands into his lap, working a finger over the knot. “I’m very pleased to hear you singing again. I’d worried your voice was gone for good.”

  “I worried about that too.”

  “Will you want to perform again, now that it’s back?”

  She looked down at her hands as he began to work the knot free. “I’m not sure,” she said after a moment. “It would take a great deal of time to perform as I used to, time for vocal practice and theater rehearsal.”

  “I can give you adventures,” he said, unwrapping the rope. “But I can also tolerate a life on stage for you, if that’s what you wish. Your voice is magnificent. If you wish to perform before public audiences, I’ll support you. Between your august family and mine, no hint of impropriety will stain your reputation.”

  He could see she was touched by his encouragement.

  “I’m not sure,” she said again. “I might want to decide later. I think...” Even though her hands were free, she still held them together. The rope had left faint marks on her skin. “Maybe someday I’ll wish to do it again.” She blinked at him. “Will you be disappointed if I don’t?”

  “Of course not. If you only ever sing in the halls of Wescott Abbey, I’ll be happy. Your voice will make it feel more like home.” He traced the marks, emotion welling up unexpectedly. He heard her soul in her voice. It did make him feel he’d found his way home. “Maybe someday, we could have children,” he went on. “I can see you being a fiercely loving Mama, as my mother was. I can see you singing to our children, for joy, to make them happy.”

  “Maybe they’ll want to sing too,” she said.

  “I hope so. But sometimes...” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed each of them. “Sometimes I’ll want you to sing just for me.”

  “You do love me, don’t you?” she asked with a sort of awe. “I worried you were only saying it to be kind, but now...I can feel that you love me. It’s not an act.”

  “It’s not an act,” he agreed.

  “We can make a family together, you and me. That’s very exciting, an adventure in itself. Can we do that right away? I think I’d rather do that than perform onstage.”

  He cleared his throat. “Right away? My dear, do you know how babies come?”

  She assured him she did, but he could tell she didn’t, so he spent the next hour or so clearing up questions about how babies came, and how her anatomy worked. By the time they stopped to change the horses, his wife was far more knowledgeable about her own sexuality—and his. By the time they got to the inn for the night, he ached for her, his lovely Ophelia.

  He asked for dinner to be brought to their room. He’d stayed at this inn on numerous occasions throughout his life, whenever they went to visit his mother’s family, but it had never felt like this. He was here with his own wife, desperate to bed her now that she’d been awakened to the finer points of her sexuality.

  As soon as they were alone, he took her hair down, mussing it up as he kissed her, until she looked as disheveled as she’d looked that morning.

  “My sweet wife,” he murmured as she clung to him. “I want to be inside you.”

  “Yes, please.” She lifted her face, breaking their kiss. “We are at another inn, aren’t we?”

  “It’s going to be all right,” he promised.

  “Yes. I’m not that old Ophelia anymore.”

  He laid her back on the inn’s lumpy bed and caressed her all over, and made love to her slowly and thoroughly, until she shook in his arms. There were no nightmares that night, not that he expected there to be.

  As she’d told him, she wasn’t that old Ophelia anymore.

  * * * * *

  Ophelia woke to the sounds of the inn and snuggled closer to her husband. “Are we in Wales?” she asked, still half asleep.

  “Nearly.” He stroked her cheek until she came awake. “We’ll cross into the country this morning, if you’ll rise and have some breakfast.”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. She was so excited for her adventure to continue; she had only the vaguest idea of Wales, but she knew it wasn’t England, and that they spoke another language which her husband also spoke and understood. She knew they were going to stay in a rustic cottage with just a few servants, something she’d never done in her life.

  Soon they were on their way. She’d put on a light linen gown of medium blue, along with a plain straw bonnet. She left her gloves off entirely, even though there was an autumn chill in the air. As they passed into Wales, the roads grew a bit narrower, and a bit more rutted. Now and again she was tossed against her husband’s side, but she didn’t mind that in the least.

  He moved his long leg against hers to anchor her, which made her laugh, but also made her remember the way he’d pressed against her the night before, thrusting within her until they felt like the same person with the same beating heart. She didn’t say such things to him, not yet. Someday she would. Her courage came in small steps that would add up to a lifetime of togetherness, if she didn’t lose her nerve.

  “Tell me about your family in Wales,” she said. “I
would like to know their names before I greet them.”

  She quickly realized this was folly, as his aunts, uncles, and cousins seemed to run into the dozens. Half the names were close to English names, but half the names were Welsh and unfamiliar. He pronounced those names with an accent, with unfamiliar deep vowels and guttural consonants. When they stopped to change the horses for the last time, he spoke Welsh to the coaching inn’s staff, all of whom seemed to know him well.

  This impressed her mightily, and intimidated her a bit also, for she didn’t speak any Welsh at all, and when she asked him to teach her a few words on the last leg of their journey, her tongue tripped over the foreign syllables.

  “You’ll learn it in time,” he promised. “I’ll teach you a little bit every day, and you can practice during the times we visit Lisburne Manor, where my mother grew up.” A smile teased the corners of his lips. “I’ve brought something else along to fill our adventurous afternoons, but it’s a surprise.”

  “What?” She took his hand. “I don’t like surprises, Wescott. Please tell me.”

  “No, my little crosspatch. You’ll wait and get your surprise in due time.”

  A short while later, they passed onto the Lisburne holdings, and Wescott pointed out the low, ancient keep in the distance. “It’s not much by looks,” he said, “but it’s been standing a long while. Most of the families around here have lived on their land for centuries.”

  In between the cleared fields and farmland, thick forests grew wild. The leaves had already turned, so an explosion of autumn colors rippled in the light breeze. “Can we stop and walk about for a moment?” she asked. “I want to be outside. It looks so pretty.”

  “No, love, we won’t stop yet. It’s pretty where we’re going, and we’re almost there. My parents chose this particular meadow to build a cottage because my mother had loved it so much as a child. They had to pay the miller a pretty penny for the property.”

  “So the cottage is not as ancient as your family’s keep?”

  “The cottage is much, much younger, but very charming. Just like you.”

  Within a few moments, the carriage turned onto a smaller road lined with trees. After a time, the trees became a hedge, and then a crumbling stone wall that appeared to be as ancient as the old keep. She leaned close to the window, taking it all in. Another turn in the road, which was more of a path at this point, and they entered a picturesque clearing. The sun was setting, but it was still light enough to see a neat, whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage in the distance, surrounded by another low stone wall.

  “It’s like a fairy house,” she said. “How sweet and squat it is compared to Wescott Abbey. Not that I dislike the Abbey,” she added quickly.

  “The Abbey is old and grand. This is a sweet cottage, as you said. My parents always called it their escape. I spent many sunny afternoons in my childhood roaming this meadow with my brother and sisters.”

  She could imagine him as a brash gold-blond child, playing fantasy games with wooden swords, and climbing the hedges and trees.

  “I can’t wait to see inside. I’ve never stayed in such a cottage before.” No, this was novel and exciting. An adventure, just the sort she’d longed for, but had never had the foresight to imagine.

  They climbed out at the gate, so the carriages could move on to the stables. Now that they were nearer, she saw the cottage was bigger than it looked from afar, but of course, Wescott had come from a large family. She remembered his words about starting their own family, about her singing to their children. Would their children roam this meadow one day?

  Why not? They would wish to have adventures too, and she’d encourage it—especially for her daughters, whether or not they inherited her soprano voice.

  As her imagination turned, a smiling housekeeper opened the door and greeted Wescott with a torrent of musical Welsh. To Ophelia’s relief, she also greeted her in English. I will learn Welsh in time, she thought. I’ll work at it, so it will be another thing Wescott and I can share.

  They were welcomed inside and invited to take dinner before they even unpacked their things. Ophelia found she was famished, and the food was simple and hearty, just as she would picture a Welsh country meal. By the time they finished eating and retired to the small, cozy parlor with a crackling fireplace, she almost felt ready for bed. Was it the food? The country air?

  “I love it here,” she said, pulling her wrap closer about her shoulders. “I can’t wait for tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.” She turned to Wescott. “How long will we stay?”

  “A few weeks, I suppose. Until you’ve had enough of cottage living and yearn for England again. As for London, we needn’t return there until next season, unless you want to go sooner.”

  “The season? Do you go for Parliament?”

  “Yes, I’ve attended for some years now. My friends haven’t much interest, but I try to do my part.”

  “You’re a politician,” she said with a smile. “I should have known it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because nothing shakes you, no matter what happens. I bet you’re a very good politician.”

  He seemed pleased by her praise. “I’m part of the city planning council, and some other organizational committees. I enjoy when things run well.”

  She knew that about him too. Their abrupt adventure to Wales had come off without a hitch.

  “Can I have my surprise now?” she asked.

  He took her hand and pulled her over into his lap. “Not now. You’re tired from travel and giddy with sleep. Tomorrow is soon enough.”

  She closed her eyes, wondering what the surprise might be. His warmth made her feel even more tired, and she relaxed against his chest. “Thank you for this adventure,” she said, reaching up to touch his faintly stubbled cheek. “It feels like a proper holiday.”

  “Not a proper kidnapping?” She could hear his deep chuckle in his chest. “Ah, well, I suppose I’m happy with either, as long as we’re together.”

  Together, she thought. What a wonderful word.

  Chapter Seventeen: Rescued

  A few weeks later

  Wescott went to his wife’s room, stepping quietly so she wouldn’t notice him peeking in at the door. Her hair was pulled back, hastily braided, and she wore her exercise togs, a loose tunic fashioned from one of his old shirts, and a skirt Rochelle had transformed into a flowing pair of trousers. She looked ridiculous, and lovely. She leaned down to pull on her stoutest boots, for he’d invited her to practice swords with him before dinner.

  That had been her surprise the day after they arrived—a set of blunted rapiers he’d tucked in with the baggage, so he might teach her the beginnings of swordplay. He’d thought she might enjoy a dabble, considering he’d found her brandishing that sword in his armory, but as it turned out, they’d done much more than dabble. His petite wife took to swordplay like some fierce medieval warrior, which was somewhat alarming.

  “Bring your gloves,” he reminded her as she stood.

  She turned with a gasp. “How long have you been there?”

  “Not long.”

  “You’ve been spying on me.” She strode to him, her pert face raised. “I must challenge you to a duel, sir.”

  He took her face between his fingers and drew her close. “You’ll get a kiss instead.”

  He made good on his words, embracing her and pressing his lips to hers, while his fingers explored the shapely curves beneath her practical costume.

  “Anyway,” he said when he pulled away, “I’ve already invited you to duel, remember? We’d better get started on your practice exercises, or we won’t have time to spar before dusk comes on.”

  They left the cottage and took up their usual spots in the meadow out front. He always insisted on a battery of stretches before each practice, lest she injure herself, although he was learning she was much hardier than she appeared. With the warm up done, they ran through the sequences of attacks and parries he’d ta
ught her thus far. Ophelia was a bright pupil, always ready to progress to something new. Sometimes, to his amusement, she sang along to the sequences, an exercise she said helped her remember them.

  “I’ve done well, haven’t I?” she asked, when she executed everything with easy aplomb.

  “Too well,” he said under his breath.

  “What?”

  “I said you’re doing very well. Yes, I’m quite proud of your progress.”

  “Can we duel now?” she asked.

  “Yes, darling. I wouldn’t leave out your favorite part.”

  His stubborn crosspatch loved taking him on at sword point, even though he easily bested her without using his full strength. It was the form and exercise that mattered. They squared up, swords raised, and circled one another, until she decided to make the first thrust.

  He blocked it, impressed by her quickness. “A good start. It’s always shrewd to use the element of surprise.”

  A lock of hair had escaped her braid, blowing sideways in the breeze as she grinned at him. “Were you really surprised, Jack?”

  “Yes,” he lied, then threw his own surprising thrust. She parried it, barely, and centered herself, balancing her body’s weight. He began another attack, one she knew well, and she met it with gusto, setting up an impressive defense.

  “Good,” he said, urging her to greater movement with his sword. “Remember to move with your sword, just like you’re dancing together.”

  “What is this?” A familiar voice came from across the clearing. “Oh dear. They’ve progressed to weapons, then.”

  He and Ophelia paused in their mock battle and turned to see his friends Lord Marlow and Lord Augustine walking toward them.

  “By God, they are swashbuckling,” said August with a laugh.

  Marlow raised a fist. “Spear him in the stones, Lady Wescott. That’ll take him down right fast.”

  “For God’s sake, have a care for my wife’s sensibilities,” Wescott scolded.