She sipped a goodly amount of the mixture and took tiny bites of the sandwich. Indeed, Lena would not approve of the contents: powdered steel mixed with cinnamon and white wine, stoppered and left in the sun for eight days. She had exhausted all other remedies, and if this did not work, poor Lena would likely suffer her entire pregnancy.
Later in the evening, Maggie was heartened at the absence of retching. Perhaps this remedy would work. Ian arrived shortly and carried Josef to his bed, as if he were a small child.
“Lena,” he said upon his return. “Send for me immediately if I can be of service to you.”
She nodded. “Thank you, good friend. He will not need anything tonight. Mayhap he will be a new man tomorrow, once he gets some sleep.”
****
The wind had picked up as they made their way down Siren Street. It was quite late, and her shoulder throbbed with fatigue. Indeed, her legs ached with all she had done today, coupled with the late night and lack of sleep. Ian held her arm and hummed under his breath, an energetic little tune. He seemed not the least bit tired. Josef’s story echoed in her mind. Surely it must be a figment of his imagination. But it seemed so real.
The cold air from the English Channel slapped her face, chastising her fanciful thoughts.
When they arrived at the cottage, Ian built up the fire. “I will heat some water for your bath. You need compresses on your shoulder.”
“You need not fuss over me.”
She watched him as he leaned over the fire, at the muscles in his powerful thighs and buttocks. She would swear he was more muscular than before. How was it possible?
Despite her fatigue, she could not draw her eyes away from him, as he brought the tub in front of the fire, the muscles of his upper arms straining against his linen shirt. He made a pallet of blankets upon the floor.
“The hot water will help your shoulder.” He set the soap out for her.
“Thank you. And Ian?”
He met her gaze. “Yes, my love?”
“I am sorry I was harsh with you.”
He shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. “I deserve it.”
“It is not your fault.”
He nodded, came to her, and undid her bodice, untied her shift, and faced her to hold each of her breasts in his hands. “They have grown so ripe with the coming of the child.” He cocked his head. “I know in time, these beauties will not be for me. But for now, will you allow me to worship them?”
Her nipples hardened in response.
“Sit down, Maggie.” He led her to the divan and knelt in front of her. He held one of her breasts in his hand, circling her nipple with the lightest of touches, then wrapped his lips around it, drawing on it lightly. He ran his tongue around it, then began to suckle again, increasing the pressure. Her womb tightened.
He met her gaze and kissed her. “Does this please you?”
She moaned. “You know it does.”
He held her other breast. It waited, heavy and wanting, jealous of the attention its partner had gotten. Maggie sighed as he suckled, and warm honey flowed through her limbs as her womanhood grew soft.
He caressed the swell of her stomach in long circles, around the outside, meeting in the center, and slowly up again. “I have never seen anything so magnificent, Maggie, your skin so white and lustrous, an offering.”
He kneeled to remove her stockings, fingers lingering, and helped her into the tub.
“Now then.” He shrugged off his shirt. The muscles in his chest rippled in the fire’s glow, the nutmeg colored hairs adorning him were tipped with gold. Something seemed different about him; she could not put her finger on it. But, oh God, she wanted to put her finger on every part of his body.
His eyes glowed like a nocturnal predator and demanded she feel his heat. She followed the path of his long fingers down his legs as he slid his breeches down, his hot gaze upon her.
He climbed into the tub behind her. “Get thee between my legs,” he rasped. “Lean against me. Soap, please.”
She moaned with pleasure as he kneaded and massaged her neck and shoulders. She leaned back against his hard chest, the coarse hairs rubbing against her tender skin. He reached his arms around to her breasts, covering them with his hands, slippery with soap, the rose scent reminding her of summer. He caressed them with his palms, in a circular pattern, tortuously slow, taking her nipple between his fingers and tugging it to the edge of pain.
One hand on her breast lightly teased her nipple, and the other lay upon her rounded belly. “You carry our child,” he whispered. He spread out his fingers and made slow circles around the swell of her belly. The water lapped against her womanhood.
She ground her bottom against his engorged member, and he held onto her hips as she struggled to turn so she might join with him.
He kissed her neck, nipping it gently. “We must adjust our lovemaking to accommodate your swell, my beloved. Perhaps the tub is not the place for our coupling.” He reached between her legs and found her pleasure bud, and she leaned against his hand. The warm water surrounded her, and as she found her joy, his member throbbed against her bottom.
He helped her out of the tub and dried her with utmost care. She took the towel from him and slowly dried him off, taking pleasure at the feel of his wet body under her fingers. His member stood stiff against its nest of curly hair. He threw back his head and moaned, and joy filled her at his response. She took him by the hand and led him to the pallet he had made on the floor.
Now it was her turn to command. “Lie down.”
He obeyed immediately, and she straddled him, her belly resting gently against his chest. She kissed him, her tongue melding with his. She bent to hold his cock, gasped at the hard silk feel of it, weighed the heaviness of his stones with her other hand. She rubbed his tip against her wetness and in one fluid movement, filled herself with him. He grasped her bottom and held her still, thrust into her once, and then she was lost in him, as waves of pleasure crashed over her.
Later, as the fire crackled before them, she lay against his shoulder, her body humming with warmth.
“Maggie, I am concerned about your shoulder. It should not be paining you after a year’s time.”
“It is a trifling matter.”
He scowled. “No doubt you have been overusing it.”
She opened her mouth to reply and vowed she would not repeat herself. It would serve nothing to remind him of what she’d done in his absence.
“Ian, did you find anything beneficial for your condition on your journey?”
She did not understand this manico-melancolicus, the bouts of frenzied activity plaguing him, sometimes followed by deep despair.
“I did not find anything abroad. I am sorry.”
“Perhaps you do not need a remedy anymore, for you seem at peace to me.”
He gathered her against the hard contours of his body, his arms wrapped around her and resting lightly on her breasts. Their knees nestled as one, her bottom rested against his engorged manhood.
A puff of breath tickled the fine hairs on her neck when he laughed without humor. “Oh, I assure you I am not at peace. I have periods, Maggie, where I’m not afflicted, but it never lasts long. In the past when I have travelled, it calmed my spirit for a time. The excitement of new experiences and new people inspired me and my music. On this journey, all I could think of was you and how to find this litio so I don’t have to leave you again. Perhaps the remedy is closer to home, and we can take the wagon, explore the countryside together.”
She drew away from him. “I do not want to talk about the wagon just now. And you know I cannot leave. I have responsibilities here and always will. And what of your duties as the town apothecary?”
“I know,” he said. “Abide with me now, Maggie. Let us enjoy each other without being burdened by what has taken place since I returned. Let it be only us, your body against mine, like so.”
He kissed her lips, neck, the hollow of her throat, and as he did so he sang he
r name, a hoarse baritone making her skin tingle with chills. She pushed against him, needing his hard strength inside of her again.
He sank himself into her with agonizingly slow thrusts, sliding the long length of him to her center, then withdrawing, only to plunge into her again.
When they had reached their pleasure, he said, “I want to stay like this forever, Maggie, feel your warm passage clasp me, soft and welcoming. It is the only passage I want to travel, for you comfort me so.”
Later, as they lay entwined, she discovered he had fallen asleep. She rarely got to see him at rest. A small smile played upon his lips, wind burnt cheeks and the scar running from his chin to curl around his ear. He lay with one arm above his head, the upper arm heavily muscled, the dark blond hair under his arm strangely erotic.
She could not put her finger on it but knew he had changed, become more powerful. How could this be? His chest rose and fell with his breathing, and the smattering of hair on his chest led in a line to his manhood resting on the side of his thigh. She smiled, for he was not entirely still: his toes beat a rhythm under the sheet. Did he always hear a tune in his head, even in slumber?
As she lay propped up by one elbow, perusing him at her leisure, his lips moved, and she leaned closer.
“So sweet, so warm, woman wise.” He sang in sleep.
His cock stirred and sprung to life. The singing stopped and he awoke. His eyes, green and bright, like kelp drying in the sun, brought tears to her eyes.
“What is it?” He stroked her cheek.
“You are beautiful and you are mine,” she said. “And I am bearing your child.”
If only she could possess the parts of him she didn’t understand.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Maggie rolled over to find the bed empty and the sun peeping through the drawn curtains. It was market day, and she had planned on starting her rounds early. But now nothing appealed to her more than returning to bed and staying there all day, sampling tidbits, loving Ian, drinking wine, as they did on their wedding night.
She turned on her other side, irritated at her wayward thoughts.
Just then, Ian bounded up the steps, carrying a tea tray, with bread and cheese.
“Good morn, my love.” His hair hung loose and flowing over his shoulders, making him look primal and powerful. His chest was bare. She held her hand out for the teacup but stared at his neck, the ripple of muscles on his chest, the dark nipples, with swirls of hair around them, the powerful column of his throat.
She sat up and cleared her throat. “You need not serve me, Ian. I was going to rise.”
He handed her the cup and poured the tea. “I prefer to wait upon you. You have a full day of work ahead, with mothers needing your attention.” He put the tray down on the bedside table and handed her a plate with buttered bread and fresh farmer’s cheese.
“It will be a fine market day if the weather holds.” He sat at the edge of the bed and watched her mouth with great concentration as she sipped her tea.
“Will you be selling your wares today?”
“No, I need to catalogue what I brought back with me, if there’s time between customers.” He grasped her knees and gave them a squeeze. “’Tis a shame I can’t attend, for I could use the wagon to display my wares. You could ride along.” A corner of his mouth twitched.
He would try to tease her, but she would not take his bait. The man had the very devil in him! She would not discuss the wagon, or ride in it, ever. Foolish purchase.
He eyed her, smiling and humming to himself.
“What are you humming?” she asked between bites.
“The song I’m writing for you, always in my head. Just when I think it is perfect, I find it does not yet do you justice.” He shrugged. “No matter. The joy is in the doing.”
His eyes journeyed from her eyes, to her lips, lingering on her bosom. Her nipples hardened against her night rail. She became aware of a silence in the room, and the only thing she saw was his face, his lips, and the things he’d done with those lips, not so long ago.
He smiled and removed the teacup from her hands. She felt soft, moist and wanting.
“Oh, Maggie, I yearn for you.” He growled, nipping her ear lightly. He lowered his head to her breasts, running his tongue around her nipple through the linen. She reached back and untied her shift, let it pool at her middle. With green eyes glowing, he watched her reaction as he took her nipple in his mouth. She felt the pull from deep within her womb.
The door downstairs opened. Josef bellowed, “Ian!”
“Zounds,” Ian muttered against her breast. “From now on the accursed man shall be called “Sir Interruptis.”
She chortled.
“Ian! Are you ready to go to the grave as you promised, man?”
He kissed her with great care and concentration. “I will see if I can get him to eat and settle a bit.”
She came downstairs in a few minutes to find the two men sitting at the trestle table.
Ian stood, offered up his seat with a courtly bow. “My lady, sit ye down. I will pour you some more tea and slice some ham. I have also saved you an egg, which I put by the hearth to keep warm. Also, there is some pottage for you with fresh cream and honey.”
Josef seemed improved in health from last night, but at the moment, he gawked open-mouthed at Ian.
“I must make a preparation for Captain Jacobs,” Ian said. “He will be in soon to pick it up, and I said I’d have it ready.”
Josef followed Ian into the apothecary shoppe. “Are you a woman now, who must prepare meals for his wife? Never heard of such a thing.”
Ian chuckled. “Josef, she works quite hard. In truth, she does the work of two men. How is she to have the vigor left over for my quite considerable prowess? I take care of her, and she will take care of me, if you catch my meaning.”
Josef laughed. “Ah, I see. You have always known your way around women, my friend. But I would not lower myself to serving a woman.”
Ian waggled his eyebrows at Maggie. “Ladies first.”
She blushed. To be certain, it had always been Ian’s practice, but really! Her hand fair itched to slap her husband. It was one thing to enjoy the pleasures of his flesh in private, but for him to speak of it to others? There would be no charming of her tonight. Ian winked at her. Ah. He had succeeded in distracting Josef from his mission to visit the graveyard, and angered her in the process. She smiled in spite of herself. Her smile faded. What did Josef mean by Ian knowing his ‘way around women?’
“Have you eaten this morning, Josef?” Ian said in accompaniment to his pounding pestle.
“No, I must hurry to the grave. I do not deserve to be lingering at table while my nephew is in the ground.”
“You must eat, friend. Remember, there’s a son inside your Lena who needs his father strong and hardy.” Ian glanced at the door, and upon seeing they were still alone, said, “Josef, we must urge you again, for the sake of your unborn child and beloved wife, to keep still regarding the circumstances of your nephew’s death. If you must speak of it, speak only to us and to Lena. For God’s sake, you can’t come in here bellowing about graves and the like.”
Josef nodded.
“How is Lena feeling?” Maggie sat back down at the table.
Josef smiled. “The medicine you gave her seems to be helping. She only threw up twice this morning, and none so bad.”
“Ian, we must go. Make sure you bring the seeds,” Josef said.
Ian cast Maggie a bemused glance. A cool wind swept in as they opened the door. The lovely weather from yesterday had changed to a more typical March bluster.
A while later, Maggie navigated the narrow closes on her way back from young Hester Anders’ cottage, which lay behind the church and down toward the Landgate. Satisfaction warmed her against the cool air. Young Hester had just delivered her second child a mere ten months after the first one. Like anyone in her shoes, she felt a bit overwhelmed, despite help from her competent mo
ther.
The oldest child had still been on the teat, and indeed Hester was so distraught and nervous, the new babe wasn’t nursing well. She spent a goodly amount of time reassuring her, propped her up with pillows, the babe at her breast, and placed a mug of Lena’s ale in her hand. She would be fine, given time.
As Maggie exited one of the dank alleys, she stopped short. Pete Stowe and his mother hurried down Landgate Street, as if someone chased them.
Mrs. Stowe leaned on her son. “I have hurt my back, thanks to your weakness, dolt. Just as I predicted, I had to do the bulk of the work. I may not be able to move tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry, Mother. It’s my hand.”
“Nothing a strong will won’t overcome, which you’ve never possessed. And apologies will not fix my crippled back, you sorry excuse for a helpmate.”
Maggie sighed and shrugged. Interesting how a mother can brag a son up in public and berate him in private.
She headed toward Market Square. It was early yet, but crowds had already gathered, and merchants were putting up their stands. Martha, the baker’s wife, ruddy-faced with exertion, straightened from her work and waved at Maggie.
“Your man is home, I hear?” She smiled, showing a gap in her teeth. “You need a bit of my gingerbread to keep your strength up.” She handed her a chunk of the fragrant treat.
“Thank you, Martha.” Maggie bit into it. “Ah! It is still warm. Everything on your table looks and smells wonderful. You have been hard at work.”
Martha nodded. “I hear some entertainers are coming to land soon. A trio, two men, and a woman with the voice of a nightingale. It is said they have performed for royalty here and abroad. Called the ‘Wandering Wastrels,’ or something.”
Maggie wondered if Ian knew them, for he had once been a travelling performer.
Martha lowered her voice. “I was abed during the hubbub last night, but I hear Josef is back and brought evil with him.”
“He’s had a shock, Martha. When someone we love dies, it is not unusual to feel altered for a while.”
“Yes, but they say his nephew was a beast, a monster.”
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