by Lara Archer
He gave a throaty chuckle. “Well, this is a surprise, Miss Wilkins.” They were both breathing hard, in and out, their rhythms falling slowly into sync. His breath had the tart sweet smell of cider.
His big, rough hand came up to where her necklace rested, and he ran his finger just beneath the line of pearls, from the upper curve of her breast to the tender skin of her throat. Her pulse kicked.
Yes. This was just what she needed. John was going to marry Annabel, and it was time to move on with her own life as well.
Sam’s fingers continued to stroke, the heavy pad of his thumb playing in the space between her collarbones. “I most definitely like this change in you,” he murmured.
“Do you?” she said stupidly.
“Mm. I do. And I like touching you as well—your skin’s so soft.”
“Is it?”
“Very.” Now his whole hand swept along her neck, the palm warm, and his fingers teased their way into the curls that tumbled loose by her ear. “I always thought you had fine eyes,” he said, “but who’d have thought you had such soft skin? And such lovely hair?”
Nobody, she thought. Nobody but John.
No—she was most certainly not going to be thinking about John right now.
She put her hands very deliberately on Sam’s broad chest, feeling the hardness of him through the rough wool of his waistcoat, sliding her palms up towards his shoulders.
“That feels good,” he said, and his other hand slipped around her waist and brought her closer. His body had a nice smell, of fresh air and clean earth. He wasn’t…he wasn’t John, but he was an attractive man. A good-hearted man. A man she could be an appropriate wife for, if they both wished it.
“Kiss me, Sam, will you?”
“Gladly,” he said, and he did. His lips felt firm and pleasant, and his big body was a satisfying weight as he leaned against her.
His tongue pressed against hers, tart from the cider.
She had to fight down the sense, though, that he wasn’t quite right, that her body didn’t fit to hers quite as it should, that he wasn’t really what she wanted….
He pulled back. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” She shook her head frantically. “No, kiss me again. Touch me.”
He chuckled, and pulled her against him again. “You surprise me again and again, Mary Wilkins. I should call you Mary now, I’m thinking.” And his mouth pressed into hers again, and his hands began to move, sliding first over the curve of her hips, then around to cup and squeeze her bottom, then up along her bodice, sliding over her breasts. A rougher, less subtle touch than John’s—but arousing enough, in its own way.
Don’t think. Don’t think too much.
Just let it happen. Just go through with this, and put the memory of John behind you.
Sam’s lips were at her throat now. His hips pressed against her, and she felt him hardening. “How far do you mean for me to take this?” he whispered huskily against her skin. “I don’t mean to push you, but I do want you, Mary.”
“Far. Not far. I don’t know.” She felt the prickle of tears, and blinked to banish them. “Put your hand under my skirt, Sam.”
He pulled back again, and she could see his eyebrows raise. “Well, you’re in a fine mood tonight. I’d enjoy that, Mary, but not if you don’t truly want me to.”
“Do it. Truly, I want you to. I need you to.”
He shrugged. “Never say I refused a lady an honest request.”
And his hand went right where she’d asked him, lifting her hem and sweeping up over her knee, up along her thigh. His hand was strong and calloused, not a gentleman’s hand. It was a working man’s hand—confident, no-nonsense, accustomed to getting things done as efficiently as possible. His other hand reached behind her and gripped her buttocks, kneading and squeezing as he pressed his hips against hers. She felt his arousal…and his dark eyes studying her.
“I’ll do whatever you like,” he said, panting slightly. “I think you’re a fine woman, and I’d be proud to call you mine. But you have to tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t want to think….” She’d known for a long time that people did such things, without benefit of marriage. What she’d told John in the vicarage kitchen about the misbehavior of the local people was true: in the parish register, nearly half the time, wedding dates and dates of baptism for couples’ first children were well less than nine months apart, and she knew Thomas had more than once risked his career by hurrying the banns to keep a bride from showing shamefully at the altar.
Why should she be so different from everybody else?
She just had to let Sam do what other men did to other women. And then she’d be free. She’d have her heart back.
So she touched him. Wriggled a hand between them and cupped her palm to the thick bulge at the front of his trousers, running it up along the fullness of him.
He groaned in a most gratifying way. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice gone hoarse. “I don’t generally doubt a woman’s enjoying herself with me, but in this case….”
“I’m sure.” Feeling for his buttons, she worked open the top of the fall of his trousers and slipped her hand inside. His shaft was hot and hard and swelling bigger every moment, and she gripped it boldly. That seemed to stop his questions.
“Ah, Mary,” he groaned. He drew in a big breath, and in his broad chest it sounded like a furnace drawing in air. A string of soft profanities fell from his lips. His hands under her skirts, which had stilled, began to move again, stroking and exploring her more earnestly. His eyes closed in pleasure, his big body swaying.
She was having this effect on a second man within the span of a single day. Amazing she had this power.
His hips rocked against her hand, making his shaft slide along her palm. “That’s good, Mary. So good.”
The shape of his member was blunter, less elegant than John’s, but her blood began to heat nonetheless, and she felt herself grow wet between her legs.
She could do this.
It wouldn’t be difficult. Just let him have his way, get through it, be rid of her virginity. Break John’s spell over her.
And she might even build a life with Sam. A home. Have children of her own.
All she had to do was shut her eyes, focus on the sensations of his fingers slipping between her thighs. Let his strong arms lift her up against the schoolhouse wall.
And if a deep pulse of sorrow was rising up through her chest along with the pleasure—well, she could ignore that.
Sam stilled again, and one of his hands slipped from beneath her skirts to cover her fingers with his. “Have you done this before, Mary?” His breathing rasped.
“No. Yes. Some of it.”
“It’s a serious thing.”
“I know that.” Oh, Lord, why did he have to talk?
But he was examining her face in the shadows. “You’re a lovely girl, Mary Wilkins. And clever. Bright as a new penny.”
Not the most romantic of compliments, but she got so few, she couldn’t complain. “Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t want to do wrong by you, is what I’m saying. You make good things happen for the people around here. You’d make a good wife for a man.”
Was he…proposing? Or warning her?
How did such things work?
It didn’t matter. “Please, Sam. Just get on with it.”
He laughed then, low and deep and warm, and shook his head. “Not even a bit of poetry first?”
She responded by tugging his trousers down lower on his hips. “No poetry.”
“Sweet Jesus.” His kiss became ravenous then. His big hand stroked her cleft, readying her. His fingers skimmed her juices, then moved to his shaft to spread her arousal over his erection. He seemed more than willing to cooperate with her now.
Something very near to panic swamped her, but she pushed it away. She put her arms around his neck instead, her forearms resting on the big, bunched corded muscles of his shoulders. Her
pounding blood dizzied her.
His hands went under her buttocks, lifting her. His mouth pressed hot against her ear. “Be mine, then, Mary Wilkins….”
Let it happen, let it happen....
It was going to happen....
And then, from out on Birchford Green, a woman screamed.
The yells of men erupted a moment after—from the sound of it, the fight she’d sensed brewing earlier had begun.
Sam eased her back to the ground again. “Damn,” he said. “That’s trouble.”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh.
And they both tugged their clothing quickly to rights and ran back to the Green to see what was happening.
Chapter Eleven
Amazing how strong and belligerent Donald Evans could be with sufficient whiskey in his veins.
John gripped him from behind, locking his arms around the man’s torso. Although he was both taller and broader than the drunkard, he could scarcely hold on as Donald kicked and punched and twisted, wriggly as a greased pig.
Mr. Bassett had bloodied Donald’s nose, and now did his own desperate wriggling just a few feet away, clamped tight in the burly arms of the village blacksmith.
The source of Bassett’s fury was obvious: one of Donald’s fists held Mrs. Trumbull’s skirts, and in his flailing, he’d hauled the poor woman around so violently she could scarcely keep her feet. She was shrieking loud enough to wake the dead—not to mention punching and kicking at Donald herself as best she could manage, with half her blows landing on John’s knees and shins instead.
“Leggo a’ her, ye damned lout!” Mr. Bassett shouted, clearly as drunk as his opponent.
“Why shou’d I, then?” Donald Evans hollered back. “It’s not like she’s yours, is she?”
Mr. Bassett squirmed furiously against his restraints. “She’s not yours!”
“Ha!” yelled Mrs. Trumbull, pausing in her screeches to give Mr. Bassett a bitter glare. “Fat lot you care, Joe!”
A ring of townspeople and his tenants formed to watch the scene—everyone from the local cobbler to the Lawton girls. Mrs. Evans, the drunkard’s wife, stood amongst them, sobbing helplessly at her husband’s misbehavior, her face wobbly and wet as a bowl of porridge.
The Reverend Thomas Wilkins was doing his level best to calm the men down, coming between the would-be combatants with one palm outstretched to each of them, saying sensible vicar-ish things like, “Come now, you should be friends. We are all peaceable people here!”
Donald Evans responded with a curse so vile, he’d be ashamed to show his face in church for months—assuming he remembered his words once he sobered up.
Now Mary came running into the ring of onlookers. Thank goodness. He’d wondered where she’d gone off to. She looked even more flushed than before, her hair more unruly. “For heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Lord Parkhurst! Make him let her go!”
And—oh. Sam Brickley came hurrying up behind her. Looking a good deal flushed and rumpled himself. Adjusting his clothing in none too subtle a fashion.
Damn it all.
Jealousy slammed through John, hot and hard, and his muscles tightened to steel. Suddenly crushed, Donald Evans squealed in pain...and let go of Mrs. Trumbull’s skirts.
The pub owner stumbled forwards out of the drunkard’s reach, milling her arms for balance.
“Well done, Donald!” exclaimed Thomas Wilkins, looking greatly relieved to see the crisis lessening. “That was the Christian thing to do.”
John’s fists still clenched against Donald’s middle, making the man whimper. What in hell had Mary been doing with Sam Brickley? The farmer was a good fellow, to be sure—a hard worker, owned a good chunk of land, steadily prosperous. But Sam was no proper match for a woman like Mary.
Mary was...Mary was his.
She stepped closer, but to talk to the still-wriggling drunkard, not to him. “This is why you must not drink, Donald,” she said earnestly. “You’ve upset the whole party.”
Donald wriggled a moment or two more, then fell abashed under Mary’s kind, bright gaze, and stilled. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said in a more subdued voice.
Good Lord. She really was some sort of sylvan nymph: her very presence soothed savage beasts.
The blacksmith seemed to feel this was his cue to release the sexton, and Bassett—thank goodness—ignored Donald in favor of going to Mrs. Trumbull and trying to put his arms around her. Mrs. Trumbull, in her turn, gave a loud harrumph and walked haughtily away. Bassett followed quickly in her wake, spouting drunken but profuse apologies.
Mary was just inches away now, her full focus on the drunkard. With her handkerchief, she dabbed at Donald’s bloody nose as though she were tending one of her schoolchildren.
Her brother the vicar finally lowered his outstretched arms. “There, now,” he said. “Peace is restored. Lord Parkhurst, you can let Donald go now. He’s coming to his senses.”
“I am not so certain of that,” John replied.
But Mary looked up to meet his gaze, and he felt dazzled. “Please, Lord Parkhurst,” she said.
What could he do but comply?
He eased his grip from around Donald’s middle, and the drunkard lurched forward.
Mary stepped neatly out of his way, but the surrounding crowd of ladies was not quite so agile. Donald had apparently been depending on John’s strength to keep him upright, and now his legs buckled beneath him. He pivoted like a weathervane in a strong wind and pitched forward—straight onto Rosamund Lawton, who had nothing like Mary’s athletic reflexes.
The pretty girl merely shrieked and fell back against her sisters as Donald’s weight struck her full force—and shrieked louder as the man tried to regain his balance by clutching at her shoulders. His unsteady hands slipped on the silken fabric of her frock, and a moment later he was attempting to support himself by clamping his hands over her breasts.
Panicking, Rosamund batted at his head with both palms and let out a piercing scream.
“Oh, quit yapping!” slurred Donald. “You’re no better’n me!”
Thomas Wilkins, who had been so calm a moment before, turned scarlet and swelled with outrage. “Get your hands off of her!” he shouted.
Before anyone else could move, the vicar thrust his left hand between Rosamund and Donald, seizing the drunkard’s coat. Wilkins spun the man around with surprising force, wrenching him off the lady, and then, so fast and hard Donald had no chance to see it coming, slammed his right fist into Donald’s jaw.
The blow struck with an audible crunch, and Donald hit the ground like a dropped hammer.
So much for the vicar being a peaceable Christian.
At least where Rosamund Lawton was concerned.
Interesting.
The drama over now, the crowd began to move. Women circled Rosamund and Mrs. Evans both, cooing words of comfort. A group of men carted the groaning drunkard off to the pump to sober him up under the stream of cold water. Two fiddlers, hoping to salvage some fun from the occasion, scraped out the opening bars of “Blowzabella, My Bouncing Doxy.”
The vicar, meanwhile, was busy jumping from foot to foot, cradling his fist.
And John needed to talk to Mary.
He took her by the hand and pulled her away from the crowd.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him. “I have to help Thomas.”
“Your brother seems surprisingly capable of handling himself.”
She tugged backwards. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“No? I suppose you’d rather be back behind the schoolhouse with Sam Brickley.”
Her eyes widened in outrage. “That is none of your concern.”
“Of course it’s my concern!”
“Oh—pardon me, Lord of the Manor.” Her voice held a bitterness he’d never heard in it before. “I’d forgotten your rank amongst us.”
“Mary! That isn’t what I meant.”
She tugged again. “Let me go.”
“For God’s sak
e—it’s my concern because I care about you, damn it all.” He had to make her listen. He had to make her see. “Do you truly want to end up married to that man?”
“Maybe I do.” Her eyes looked almost accusing. Why was she so angry with him?
His chest ached terribly. “Please don’t, Mary. Sam Brickley’s not worthy of you.”
“Now, that is the most snobbish thing you’ve ever said.”
“It’s not snobbish. I don’t think I’m worthy of you either.”
Some complicated emotion went over her face, but the moonlight made it hard to interpret.
He squeezed her hand tighter, drawing her with him down the lane that led behind the hillock of the church and towards the woods. Miraculously, she followed him this time without too much resistance.
When they were under cover of the pines, he turned her to face him. “Do you love Sam? Isn’t that the question you told me had to be asked in these matters? The only one that matters? Can you honestly tell me you love him?”
Even here in the dimmer light, he could see tears begin to sparkle in her eyes. “What difference does it make whether I love him or not?”
“All the difference in the world.”
She squeezed shut her eyes now. “Please. Please just let me go.”
“Come on, now,” he said, laying his hands on her shoulders and willing her to look at him again. “Where’s the Mary I know? What difference does it make whether you love him? Love is the only reason to choose a mate. You’re the one who taught me that.”
She shook her head fretfully. “I was wrong about it, then.”
What on earth was going on with her? How could she say such a thing? John’s heart was a cannon ball, jammed heavily between his ribs and his throat. But he had to get through to her, and he had to get through to her now, before she made some irrevocable mistake. Before he lost his chance with her. “No, you weren’t wrong. You’ve always been wiser than me. You’ve made me understand things, Mary, that I never fully understood before. You’ve made me want to be true to myself. To live life as it should be lived.”
Her expression tightened warily, and the tears he’d seen earlier in her eyes squeezed out from beneath her closed lids. “I’m glad for you, John. Truly I am.” Despite her words, her voice seemed choked with misery. Even in the moonlight, he could see that she’d gone a shade or two paler than usual. “I do think you’ve done the right thing. Made the right decision. Honestly, I do.”
