by Nia Farrell
“There,” I said, finishing my knot. “Perfect. You look—” I almost said good enough to eat, but caught myself “—quite presentable. Now, waistcoat and jacket. Edward is waiting in his study.”
The professor had had a remarkably productive day. Tomorrow, crews would descend upon the ancient church—one for the roof, one for the walls, a team for the interior, and another for inspecting and measuring the windows to be replaced. He’d greased their palms with enough coin, he thought the building would be ready to occupy in as little as two months’ time (although three months was more likely). Either way, my studio would be set up and the gallery opened well ahead of the holiday season.
“When you’re finished, we have uncrating to do. Young Frank should have left the tools upstairs that we need.”
He had. At a glance, I saw a pry bar, two hammers, a mallet, a pair of chisels, and two pair of worn leather work gloves. One was doubtless Young Frank’s, whose hands were only slightly larger than mine. The other pair clearly belonged to Edward, who stripped off his coat and vest and pulled on his gloves with an unapologetic grin.
“The boiler breaks down from time to time,” he explained. “When hot water is at stake, I prefer self-sufficiency to dependence upon the service of others.”
To prevent Daniel’s leg from worsening, I made him Master of the Manifest, responsible for finding the crates that needed opened first, beginning with my sketchbooks and drawing supplies. I needed to know how well everything had survived rough handling and transatlantic travel in the hold of a ship.
One painting was damaged but reparable. I considered myself most fortunate.
I placed the last boards that Edward had pried off into the opened crate that they’d come from. It made sense to keep each set together, when time came to move everything to the new Lane Davenport Art studio and gallery. Rolls of canvas and framing supplies remained in their opened crates, allowing access to whatever was needed. Stretched canvases were stacked together. Painted canvases, framed paintings, and framed sketches took up an entire inner wall of the room.
Seeing my body of work was at once relieving and exhilarating. To think that I had done this—that I had created a legacy which would endure when my bones were dust—turned my thoughts to Daniel, whose woodcraft and joinery abilities went far beyond building shipping crates. He had an eye for wood, choosing the right type with the perfect grain and a finish that would enhance whatever piece I’d done and make my art complete. Of course, the frames that he made had a beauty all their own.
I took pride in pointing out his work to Edward, who had no idea that Daniel was so gifted. “He also plays the fiddle,” I said. “Many’s the night he lifted our spirits in camp with a lively tune or two.”
“Or ten,” he groused.
“Or more,” I told Edward. “Once he started, everyone wanted to hear their favorite song. What say you, Daniel? Can I talk you into rosining your bow and warming your strings tonight? Now that we’re finished here, I feel like celebrating.”
“Well,” he demurred, ever so humble when we both knew his skills.
“Say yes,” I ordered. “I want music. I need music. You have ten minutes to appear in the parlor, or it will be half rations for you!”
“Yes, sir!” he said before he could catch himself and swallowed hard, thinking he’d insulted me.
I absolved him with a smile. “It’s alright, Daniel. Just get your fiddle and come to the parlor. Ten minutes,” I said. “Early arrival earns a reward.”
He was downstairs in five.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nothing gathers a crowd like the lilt of fiddle music. Servants filtered upstairs, drawn by Daniel’s tunes. They respected our space and stayed well clear of the parlor, but there was dancing in the hallway that I guessed was Lucy and Young Frank.
In appreciation, Edward brought out a bottle of his finest whiskey and two glasses. We took turns making certain that my Irishman did not go thirsty, adding to his glass so that it never ran dry until he announced one more song to end the night.
Daniel played “Home Sweet Home,” a favorite of soldiers, North and South, that I’d once sung on the eve of battle, a chorus of tens of thousands of voices rising from both sides of the river where we were encamped. In that moment, we were simply men joined in a common longing for home and hearth. The next day, we would be enemies again.
The tears came, then. There was no holding them back.
“Damn it,” I whispered, touching Daniel’s arm and kissing his cheek. “And thank you. I needed this. You don’t know how much I’ve missed it. Missed you.”
I kissed him then, in earnest. “My room,” I whispered. “Fifteen minutes. He’ll want to watch. Can you ignore him?”
Could he and would he perform? was what I was asking. Daniel looked at Edward, something unfathomable passing between them. “Aye,” he whispered for my ears only, aware of the servants still milling in the hall. “So long as he keeps his distance from my virgin arse, I’m good.”
Daniel had never had performance anxiety, and tonight was no exception. He arrived at the appointed time, as I was exiting the water closet, having refreshed myself and brushed my teeth in preparation for his visit. Thankfully he kept his eyes on me and not on the opened door to the adjacent bedchamber, where Edward stood, drink in hand, waiting for us to begin.
“You have on too many clothes,” I told Daniel, and helped relieve him of his layers, until he stood, gloriously nude and fully aroused. Edward arched an eyebrow when he saw Daniel’s erection for the first time. He had a truly beautiful cock, magnificent in its proportions, and I couldn’t wait to have it inside me.
“On the bed,” I ordered. “Watch me but don’t touch your cock. You can play with your nipples and your balls. Nothing else.”
Daniel kept his eyes riveted on me, one hand rubbing his chest, the other fondling his sac while I undressed. I came to him, naked and unashamed and decidedly aroused from the knowledge that Edward would be watching, that he’d somehow make me pay for the privilege we’d granted him and I would enjoy every minute of it.
“How’s the leg?” I asked Daniel, kissing his phallus and wetting the tip with slow, swirling strokes of my tongue.
“What leg?” he croaked. Weaving his fingers into my short black locks, he gripped my head and sank his cock in deeper. “Jaysus, Lanie.”
I sucked with every skill I’d learned, hollowing my cheeks on the outstroke, relaxing my throat on the in. Daniel moaned. Groaned when I added my hands to the mix, fondling his testicles, pressing against his taint.
When I tapped on his back door, he hissed like I’d scalded him. Next thing I knew, I was on my back, underneath him, thighs stretched over the corded muscles of his forearms. He shoved his hardened length into my sheath and rammed me like the unpadded end of a cannoneer’s sponge, seating himself in my breach in a move that stole my breath and left me gasping.
“Ugh!” I managed, then he drove in deeper, hitting bottom, pleasure spiked with pain. “Too much,” I whimpered. “You’re too big. We don’t fit.”
And we didn’t. Not yet. Not until he’d settled down and worked to stretch me out, until finally, finally I was able to handle his full length without cringing. From that point it was changing speed and angle and the force of his thrusts, wringing one orgasm after another from me in a near-constant stream of them, while Edward stood in the doorway, a drink in one hand, his cock in the other, stroking himself to the rhythm that Daniel kept, until the pattern broke and he pulled out sharply, just in time to explode all over my stomach and chest.
“Ah. God!” he cried, flooding my skin with his ejaculate. He bucked his hips once, twice. Shuddered and shook as he emptied himself. Releasing my thighs, he rolled to my right side and lay on his back, his breath slowing, his cock softening, although Edward’s was still hard as nails.
“Here,” I said, motioning with my left hand for Edward to come. “Stay,” I ordered Daniel, putting my right hand on him when he s
aw what I was about and started to leave.
Edward needed no second invitation. He had his mouth on my pussy as soon as he’d breached the bed, tasting me, tasting Daniel, licking his way up my stomach to feast on my breasts. Having scaled my twin peaks, he climbed higher until he was kneeling by my head, his erection pointed at my chin. I parted my lips as he pushed into my mouth, opening wider to let him drive in deep.
He was already on the verge of coming. I could feel it, like molten lava running in rivulets under his skin. When I pulled back my lips and scraped him ever so slightly with my teeth, he grunted his release, erupting against my palate and pouring himself down my throat.
I thought about kissing Daniel, to share Edward’s taste, but he was already a flight risk and I’d no wish to send him bolting from my bed. Instead I kissed Edward’s stomach and tweaked his scrotum, fondling his testes one last time. He bent his head, brushed his lips against mine in silent benediction, then walked away, disappearing into his own room and closing the door behind him.
“Daniel, a dry towel and a wet cloth, if you please. Otherwise we’ll either have to change sheets or change beds and, frankly, I’m too tired for either.”
He returned from my water closet, towel and wash cloth in hand, and set about cleaning me up, using one end of the towel to mop up the mess he’d made, then washing me from the neck down, paying particular attention to the juncture of my thighs. Whether he was remembering driving into my core, or thinking of Edward’s mouth on me, I couldn’t say, but it was his mouth on me now, licking my seam, teasing my bud, coaxing me to open for him so that he could fuck me with his tongue. I didn’t think I had it in me, but he managed to get one more paroxysm out of me. When the waves subsided, he drifted to my side and pulled me against him, anchoring us together, holding me, wordless, boneless, until sleep claimed us both.
Daniel found me early the next morning soaking in the bathtub. I’d tried to be quiet, but pipes and baths being what they were, there was no way to mask every sound. “Good morning,” I said softly. “Did you sleep well? How’s the leg?”
“Well enough, to answer both questions. I intend to go to the abbey today.” When he’d started calling it that, I neither knew nor cared. Although not exactly accurate, it was certainly less unwieldy than “abandoned church,” and I knew exactly what he meant. “I’d like to meet the crews. Hear their plans. One of us should be there, and it’s no place for a lady.”
It wasn’t a dare per se, but he’d unwittingly posed a challenge, one easily met with the clothes locked in my trunk upstairs. The trouble was, he’d be honor bound to tell Edward, should Edward ask—
Unless I first gained Edward’s permission. Then Daniel would be outranked and outvoted, two to one, as it were.
Another thing added to my list of must do’s.
“Of course,” I agreed lightly. “Skirts are not conducive to navigating construction sites. Babs will pack you a lunch, if you plan to stay the day. Send word when you go down to breakfast, and she’ll have it ready when you leave.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll stay,” he said, shrugging. “Depends on the leg.”
“Yes. Well. You must be the judge of that. Do take care, Daniel, however long you’re there. I expect a full report upon your return, or very soon thereafter.”
Instructed and dismissed, he left me to my bath. By the time I emerged, my fingertips were pruned and both men had gone, allowing me to enjoy breakfast on my own. I was struck with the novelty of it, having not one but two lovers, neither of whom demanded that I constantly attend them. It was a heady kind of freedom, to act independently, but with it came responsibility. I was a steward of my time. During evening hours spent at home, I intended to be here for each of them, or both of them, as the situation warranted. But while daylight burned, I needed to be working, creating art.
I ate a hearty breakfast and went back upstairs, refreshed and refueled, my imagination swirling with infinite possibilities.
I stepped through the door of my home studio and was struck by the shift in the energy. Surrounded by my work, I felt…embraced. Welcomed. Encouraged. It was as if each finished piece was a voice in a crowd, cheering me on to the next project, whatever that might be. I had to sit with my sketchbook for a good half hour before my fingers started to move, graphite ghosting the paper, vague shapes taking form. The figure that emerged first was our teamster, Seamus, his gloved hands gripping the reins as he drove the matched pair of Percherons. The second sketch was the muscle—the four men who’d met us at the warehouse and moved my crates. The third sketch was of the one who had the look of a gypsy about him, carrying a smaller wooden box, the ropy veins in his muscled forearms raised in stark relief.
The fourth sketch was Young Frank with the whiskey and the glass that he’d brought, his face flushed with exertion, his hold a bit awkward. His head was cocked, and he eyed the bottle with a strange mix of curiosity and suspicion, as if wondering what drew men to hard liquor even knowing where it might lead.
A natural question when one’s father had died from drink.
The fifth sketch was of Daniel, emptied glass in hand, the pain on his face dissipated by the numbing fog of alcohol. He was seated on a crate, leaning back against the wall, head lolling slightly to one side. When a crate had landed a little heavy on the floor, he’d cracked open his eyes, but the unguarded surprise in them had yet to reach his mouth, which was yet curved in a sloppy, slightly inebriated grin.
The next sketch was of Edward, standing in the bedroom doorway last night, with a drink in his hand and lust in his gaze. Memories of how he’d joined us still burned in my mind’s eye, and I felt myself grow moist, thinking of Daniel and of him on either side of me, together yet not—not with each other, anyway. I was the common denominator, although there was nothing common about either of them, where coitus was concerned. Both men were extraordinary lovers.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I worked until Daniel and Edward found me, furiously shading the night-dark scene, recreating the play of light and shadows cast by a moon whose fullness was tonight. Were I a pagan, I’d have shed my clothes and danced naked. Because of my Catholic upbringing, I was tempted to call on St. Anna the Prophetess (the first of September being her feast day) and ask what she saw for our future. Edward’s wants suited my needs, but what would it take to win Daniel to our cause? Last night had given me a taste of what it could be like. I confess, I was ravenous for more.
“Dinner is in half an hour,” Edward said, heels clicking on the floor as they crossed to where I sat. His picture was not yet done, so I flipped to Paddy’s portrait and showed them the first four sketches from today.
“Do you think Young Frank would like a copy?” I asked Edward. “It’s an interesting look but not particularly flattering. Perhaps I should do a proper portrait. Mmm. Yes. I’m certain his mother would welcome it. I could make her a copy as well—one for each of them to keep, should he ever choose to leave the nest. With young men, that is always a risk, although he seems quite happy here.”
Edward smiled and nodded his approval. “Yes, I believe Young Frank is as content as one his age can be, and his mother would most certainly treasure a portrait of her son. If you can finish it and Daniel can frame it in time, we could present it to her at Christmas, don’t you think?”
I smiled at Daniel. “We can do that, can’t we? Surely you won’t be spending every day at the abbey.”
Edward quirked a brow.
“It’s what we’re calling it, until renovations are done and it truly becomes Lane Davenport Art. ‘Abandoned church’ is unwieldy, and awkwardness will arise if we mention our church and someone overhearing asks which congregation we attend. Surely you see the sense of it.”
“I do,” he rumbled. “But it’s time for you to set aside your work and freshen yourself for supper. Those hands on white napkins will not do.”
They were smudged, of course. Some from poor form. Some from using my finger instead of a smudge s
tick that had rolled out of reach. I knew from past experience that it would not all wash off, no matter how I scrubbed. The best I could hope for was clean enough to avoid ruining the table linens.
I closed my sketchbook and headed downstairs, my lovers before and aft, Edward preceding me, Daniel trailing in my wake, keeping far enough behind me that his feet stayed clear of my skirt. My hoops caught each step as I descended, metal-encased fabric dragging down to thump on the next tier and the next.
Reaching my door, I excused myself and headed for my water closet, scrubbing in the sink, storm-gray water swirling down the drain, gradually clearing as my hands came relatively clean. I wet a cloth, freshened my face and neck, and checked myself in the mirror. Passing inspection, I went downstairs and found Edward and Daniel waiting in the study.
Daniel was closest to the door. I kissed him, then crossed the room and gave Edward the same consideration. “So tell me, Daniel,” I said, moving to stand halfway between them. “What are your impressions of the work site? The crews and their foremen?”
“They’re good.” He acknowledged Edward with a nod and a look, then focused his attention on me. “Skilled labor and competent leaders, from what I saw. The professor here chose well. With luck, they’ll be done in eight week’s time, depending on availability of materials. The beams still need inspected. The floor should be cleared and the scaffolding in place by the end of the week. If any supports need replaced, that will add to the project. Won’t be easy, finding seasoned beams of a size to match what’s there.”
No, it wouldn’t. But structural support was crucial to the stability of a building, not that hurricanes reached as far as London but surely high winds occasionally ripped through the city, battering any structures in their path. Edward would insist that the renovations be done right, regardless of timeframe.
