Dare To Love

by Trisha Fuentes

  Gwendolyn sat beside Charles, who, by this time, relaxed and held her hand. Thomas took out a cigar from within a small chest on his desk, lit it and then pointed the smoke at Gwendolyn’s fiancé. “Care for one? Or is smoking too courtly for you?”

  Gwendolyn’s mouth flew open wide. “Thomas! Behave yourself; you are trying to provoke him.”

  Thomas noted the man’s scarlet ears, and yes, indeed, he was trying to provoke him.

  “Shush me sweet, the mon is merely trying tae rattle me,” Charles uttered wisely, “He knows he willna triumph, in fact, it does me good tae know he’s already ben beat.”

  Thomas fastened his teeth on the cigar and bit down. The wrath that fused within him was out of place and inexplicable and doesn’t quite know how to handle it. Here sat Gwendolyn’s betrothed; an odd sort of beau if you had time to think about it. What was it that attracted him to her? Big and beefy, is that the kind of man she loves? With all that wavy red hair and dark eyes to boot, not a bad looking creature in a bizarre sort of way. Switch eye color and paint a beard on Thomas and they could be twins…what? Thomas had to blink twice in order to get that little illustration out of his head. No one was good enough to replace him in the husband department and this stocky monster was certainly not worthy of Gwendolyn. “Beaten? At what sport?”

  Charles started to laugh, but clearly he was not amused. “The pursuit of interest, I wood say.”

  “I do hold a slight advantage.”

  Charles’ face turned beet red now. “But from Gwendolyn’s letter, ya’ll be grantin’ her a divorce and she will be free of ya.”

  Free of him…hmmm, he thought shrewdly, liberated is no good, Gwendolyn was his friend, his companion and his wife—and besides, he saw her first! Thomas swallowed his exhale until smoke came out of his nose and nearly his ears. He resembled a dragon, his eyes verdant, fixated with hatred and conflict. “And what if I do not grant her a divorce?”

  Charles stood up and inflated with protectiveness, “Ya’ll be giving her a divorce, or ya’ll be dealing wit’ me.”

  “Dealing with you?” Thomas laughed wickedly. “And what could a simple farm boy challenge a clever competitor like myself with? Arm wrestling?”

  “Och now, notae bad idea,” Charles acknowledged, nodding his head.

  Thomas brought his eyes down to the gorilla’s arms. Big, hefty, muscular…he swallowed his dignity. To beat him would take a miracle. “When and where?”

  “How ‘bout right now?” Charles challenged him.

  Gwendolyn stood up and brushed down her skirts. “That is it,” she demanded, positioning her body between them. She held one palm to each of their nearing chests. “I have heard enough, no one is challenging anything to anyone, do I make myself clear?”

  Thomas smirked and met eye-to-eye with Charles once more; the two men staring each other down, sizing one another up. Gwendolyn was pushed aside by both of them and Charles began rolling up his sleeves.

  Thomas yanked off his dinner coat and then ripped off his cravat. Rolling up his sleeves too, he stalked around Charles, guesstimating his contender’s strength.

  Gwendolyn ran over to Thomas and quickly pleaded with him, “Do not do this, you are going to lose…he has never lost a match before. You do not know what you have gotten yourself into, please Thomas, concede.”

  Thomas tore his eyes away from his challenger for a moment and looked into hers. “Worried about me now, eh?”

  Gwendolyn huffed and stomped her foot, “How incorrigible you are! No, you egotistical fool! I was merely giving you forewarning!”

  Too big for his breeches, Charles squatted down next to a nearby chess table, and skated his forearm across the counter clearing it from all game pieces. Thomas serenely knelt on the other side of him and placed his elbow firmly on the granite surface.

  “If I win,” Charles wagered, placing down his ante, “Me fiancée leaves wit’ me this very eve.”

  Thomas arched one black brow, assertively addressing him, “And if I win, your fiancée continues to stay.”

  Charles let down his enormous elbow onto the stonework with a thud, “Agreed.”

  Gwendolyn covered her eyes from any further stupidity and began to pace the room. “This is ridiculous!” She exclaimed, waiving her hands in the air. “Do either of you want to know how I feel?”

  “NO!” They both said in unison.

  Concentrated eyes glued on one another, their hands gripped instantaneously; Thomas on the left side, Charles on the right, all the strength, power and vigor showing instantly in their strained grimaces.

  Gwendolyn began to gasp at the sight of Charles easily bearing down on Thomas. She wanted to entwine her arms around his and support his losing brace. Oh how could Thomas be this brainless? What on earth could this solve? Men! She will never be able to figure them out. Gwendolyn clutched her stomach from the distressed vision before her and shook her head. Closing her eyes with the realization that she was going home with Charles, Gwendolyn turned towards the door about to exit. She heard a bang of knuckles behind her and placed her palms on the outlet.

  “I’ll be stayin’ at The Quail Inn ‘til the papers are signed,” she heard Charles say behind her.

  Whipping her head around Gwendolyn was surprised to see Thomas rolling down his sleeves. An intense, wild, victorious contortion embraced her gape. Dear God, he won. He actually beat Charles McMillen, a five-time arm-wrestling champ, with ribbons and medals to prove his strength. She swallowed hard and followed the loser to the entrance foyer.

  “Only a couple more days Charles, then I’m coming home,” Gwendolyn mouthed to him, feeling his defeat.

  “Are ya Gwendolyn?” He asked quietly, wrapping his large hand around her chin. He leaned in and gave her a small peck on her lips.

  “Yes Charles,” Gwendolyn voiced watching his face pull away from hers.

  Charles stared at Thomas in the backdrop. “Then I’ll be seeing ya,” he voiced, placing his wool cap back on his head, exiting out the door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Walking along a ship’s deck, Gwendolyn felt the rush of rain and wind across her face…she wiped off wetness, but suddenly felt dry…a thick cloud of fog embraced the hull…she continued to walk forward, her feet damp and moist from not wearing any slippers…she was cold, she was drenched and eyed a tall figure in the distance. Tommy, she realized…and before she can reach out to touch him, he jumped over the ledge in one alarming hurdle...she cried out to him, but he does not hear her? She ran towards the sheer but sees his body floating face down in the water…crying, and on the verge of insanity, she felt compelled to join him…

  Gwendolyn sat up from bed dripping in sweat. Gasping for air, she realized it was her recurring nightmare. She hobbled out of bed and rushed towards the vanity. The basin was bare. The water was gone.

  Grabbing her lamp, she lit a fire stick and enflamed the wick inside. Once outside her door, she looked up and down the silent hallway. Everyone was asleep, she realized, and descended the long corridor. The manor was pleasantly still and eased Gwendolyn’s apprehension. She passed several closed doors on her way towards the staircase then stopped at the sight of illumination from underneath a closed door. His room, she recognized and wondered why he was still awake.

  Slowly opening the door, she wheezed at the sight of Thomas sitting in a lounge chair, guzzling an open bottle and staring into a blazing fire. He was bare-footed in breeches, an unfettered white shirt exposing his neck and chest. His hair was in disarray, untamed and cascaded above his shoulders. He doesn’t hear her approach and Gwendolyn silently sat down on an armchair aside him.

  Heart thumping inside her ears, she assembled opposite him gazing into a sullen fire. He still had not responded to her advance and she felt odd watching him stare dejectedly into the blaze.

  “I do not like your intended,” he suddenly whispered into the conflagration.

  Gwendolyn let go a smirk, “I do not like yours either.”

  T
homas grabbed his bottle and held it to his chest. “Unexpected, how two people who never warmed to the idea of wedlock, suddenly find themselves both desirous of marriage?”

  Gwendolyn fought back her tears and brought her legs up into the chair and crossed them under her long wide chemise. “You are lucky he allowed me to stay…he does not trust you.”

  He yanked the bottle away from his chest and took a swig of the comforting alcohol, “With good reason.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, “You must keep your hands to yourself.”

  He cursed into the flare and continued to stare at the blaze. “No worries Gwendolyn, after tonight, consider me the perfect gentleman.”

  Gwendolyn laid her chin on her knees, “When have you ever been above reproach, Thomas?”

  Thomas brought the bottle up to his lips and cocked his head, grinning slightly, he let go a “Touché.”

  Gwendolyn watched him drowning his sorrows and his depressed look. “Thomas,” she asked gently, “Devin has expressed that he has only known you for seven years. What happened to the rest of the three?”

  Thomas now looked over at her. Gwendolyn’s hair had tumbled down the sides of her shoulders like an auburn waterfall. She appeared striking in spite of her commonplace nightgown. She handed over a smile that truly puzzled him. “I was detained.”

  Gwendolyn sat silent, watching Thomas suddenly shiver. “Detained, from what?”

  “I did not tell you everything Gwendolyn,” he expressed, turning away from her and gazing back into the flames.

  “Another riddle?” Gwendolyn asked sweetly.

  “An understanding,” Thomas let go sluggishly, the alcohol damming his reason. “My crate was adrift for nearly four days,” he confessed shrilly. “Some Portuguese fisherman found me afloat. Bringing me aboard, they fed me molded bread and rotting fruit, thinking that would save me.” He stopped coldly and took another swig, wiping his jowl of liquid that missed his lips. “They stranded me on a foreign land, with no one to aid me, no one to acknowledge the fact that I could not speak a word of Portuguese and left me to fend for myself. I was weak and tired, and hungry…oh so starving. I started stealing food, anything and everything that I could make a run for; fruit, vegetables…sometimes even sausages. Occasionally, I was able to eat what I stole, most of the time…I was flogged. After two pain-staking years, I finally found an English ship that set anchor. I tried to explain to them who I was, but no one believed me. My father’s shipping commerce had become inoperative since his death and all HCC ships were being ordered out of action. I then befriended the British captain who offered work for food. I even entered arm-wrestling contests to help me achieve my goal. It took me another year Gwendolyn,” his voiced cracked as he lowered his head, “Twelve long months, lifting those bags of wheat the size of horses, to achieve passage back to England.”

  Gwendolyn sprung up from her seated position and lurched towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulling him into her warmth. He was trembling, frightened and she tried to console him by massaging her fingers through his hair and rubbing his back. “Oh Thomas…”

  Thomas dropped the bottle on the floor and blanketed his arms around her backside, resting his head on her midriff. Crossing his doom, he closed his eyes and felt a rush of zeal from being so close to her sympathy. He allowed his hands to roam her spine, down the small of her back, to her derriere.

  Heart pounding in her throat, Gwendolyn felt her desire beginning to escalate. Oh God—his hands felt so good…her body awakening from his blind groping. “I should go,” she quietly voiced.

  Leaning his head slightly away from her, he said, “Yes…yes, you should. Go back to your room Gwendolyn; it is not appropriate for you to be in mine.”

  “Why you despicable man.”

  “Yes, that’s it…hate me, go ahead and hate me.”

  Gwendolyn was tongue-tied, emotions bursting at the seams. “Hate you? I just wanted to comfort you…it is what a friend would do for another friend.”

  “You and I can no longer be friends,” he stated in a cold harsh tone.

  Gwendolyn stood away from him and his indifference, “We were once the best of friends.”

  “In another lifetime,” Thomas uttered gently suffering from his repeal.

  “True friends are hard to find Thomas,” she beseeched. “I would hate to have to go through life knowing that your friendship was no longer obtainable.”

  Thomas threw his posterior back into the chair. Good God, she was …beautiful, how was he ever going to get her to leave? “Could you do it Gwendolyn? Could you?” He asked with all honesty. “Meet me on the streets of London, you with your husband, me with my wife. Look at me strictly as a friend and converse with me by the same well-wishes?”

  Gwendolyn searched his subject for some remorse, but she could not find it. His words were painful to hear, afflicting her reasoning in the worst sort of sting. “It would take some time, but yes, I think—”

  “Because I could not,” he interrupted her.

  “Why not?”

  “Because every time I look at you,” he paused to search her objective. “Every time I see you, Gwendolyn…with mutual esteem or just you standing there, I want to pull up your skirts and ravish you for hours.”

  Gwendolyn’s mouth closed up and her pulse pleaded leniency. She scanned the fire beside her and then looked over at Thomas. She could tell by his posture that he was still inflexible, but his eyes showed proof of hesitancy. She could have him now; have him once…one last time. “Every time?” She whispered carefully.

  Thomas’ mouth suddenly went dry. He felt a throb uncoil in his abdomen. What was she doing? He watched in disbelief as Gwendolyn unclothed herself and stood before him, naked and unprotected from his vigilant charge. “Trickery demeans you.”

  Devious to a degree, Gwendolyn purposely stood in front of the flames to outline her physique with the fire’s orange glow. “No deception Thomas, merely a test.” She was still his wife, he was still her husband, and their longing seemed suited and within acceptable limits.

  Thomas grinned and rested his glare on her ruby-red nipples darting towards the sky. “Then I fail unmercifully.”

  Feeling her breath quickening, she watched him disrobe while still established in his chair; he pulled his shirt up over his head, unbuttoned his breeches tugging them off his feet. Stationed only a few feet away from her, his penis sprung free, his undress, merely an enticement, inspired her recklessly, his physical body powerfully apt in ideal proportions. “You are a beautiful man Thomas Hollinger.”

  Enthralled from her sheer existence, Thomas grabbed her waist and ran his hands up her bare stomach climbing towards her breasts. Hovering over her peaks, so soft and plump, were those luscious cherry stems. “Men aren’t beautiful Gwendolyn, they’re simply built for potency—now sit on me,” he persuaded roughly, bringing his eyes up to her gaze.

  “Well, my friend,” Gwendolyn murmured, raking his shoulders, his manhood and lower body, “Your traits are taken too lightly.” Gwendolyn then stepped into him and sat on his lions.

  Almost immediately, Thomas pounced on her hair, pulling it down until her throat was exposed to allow his mouth to buss her neck and ear with over-zealous exploitation. “Never miscalculate me minx,” he groaned in her lobe, “I shall make you pay for your taunting discord.”

  His fervor passed through her too quickly, meeting his obsession with her own burning journey…through his hair…around his neck… down his sinewy backside. Happy to be in his arms…joyful to be by his side…blissful that he was alive again, Gwendolyn grabbed hold of his face and kissed his lips with hungered anxiety. Thomas pulled her body in closer and opened her mouth with his tongue. Slow, tempered searching turned fanatical and immersed.