That was the first night they slept spooned together. Fully dressed, wrapped in plaid and shawl, but very close, and Matthew fell asleep with her hair tickling his nose, and her bottom pressed against him. Too close, he thought ruefully, inching his aching crotch away.
Chapter 11
“Your turn,” Matthew said the next day. They were walking briskly, both of them huddling against the cold. It was drizzling, a foggy rain that sank through everything, and after only an hour of walking Alex could barely feel her feet. “It’s still August,” she’d grumbled earlier. “Not bloody October.”
“My turn what?”
“To tell me about John.” He threw her a quick look and pulled his plaid tighter around himself.
Alex didn’t reply at first. The intimacy of yesterday had been difficult to recapture when they woke up cold and wet, and she hadn’t known if to take his hand or not when they started off, and now it felt as if it was too late.
“He was the new kid at school, come all the way from London, and we made life hell for him.” She laughed, seeing a very confused John standing in the middle of the school yard trying to understand what everyone around him was saying. “I don’t really speak Scots,” she went on, making Matthew smile. “But I can, if I want to. And I did, playing along with the rest, all of us doubling up with laughter when he misunderstood.”
“You went to school?” he said.
“Didn’t you?”
“Nay, not really. Da was a fine one for the letters and such, so he taught all his bairns to read and write early on. And I was sent to Glasgow for a year of schooling, but I didn’t like it much. I was the new lad, aye?”
She frowned at the implied criticism. “I only did it for the first two weeks, and then I ran into him at the disco. Like a dance,” she clarified.
Alex looked away, hugging the memory of that particular evening close. She’d been what? Fifteen? And John had shown up in tight, tight jeans and a Ralph Lauren shirt open over an equally tight black t-shirt. When he asked her to dance, she’d nodded, and they’d danced all that night and she never spoke bastardised Scots to him again.
“Love at first sight?” Matthew teased, his hand snaking out to take hers. She liked that.
“No,” she lied, “he was great and I liked going out with him, but I had other boys to dance with and go out with as well.”
“Several lads? At the same time?” Matthew sounded disapproving.
“I danced with them. Okay, so I kissed some of them as well, but that’s all.”
“That’s all?” He grinned down at her. “How many lads have you kissed then?”
“I don’t know; twelve?” She shrugged in an offhand way. “But I’ve only slept with…” She made a big show of counting in her head. “…four, including John.”
Matthew came to a stop and the look in his eyes made her drop his hand.
“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve been married four times? You must have been very young.”
Alex threw back her head and laughed. “Of course not,” she assured him once she’d gotten herself back under control. “I haven’t been married even once.” If anything his face became even more forbidding.
“Oh aye? So you take lads to bed without being wed?”
“Hey! I live in the future, Mr Prude. I come from a time when women are recognised to have sexual needs, okay? And if I like a man a lot, and I want to and he does too, what’s the big deal?”
“Our women don’t do that,” he said severely.
“No, they seem to sneak behind your backs instead.”
For an instant his whole face collapsed, and she saw just how much it all still hurt him before he rearranged his features into a mask of absolute indifference.
“Mostly they don’t, and when I wed again it will be to a woman who will be true to me, only me.” His voice ached with yearning, and he turned away and walked on up the track, leaving her standing alone and rather ashamed.
“Shit.” She sank down to the ground. “John,” she whispered, and her eyes filled with tears. “John,” she gulped, and began crying in earnest. She’d never see him again, or Magnus, or Isaac. “My son,” she moaned, clutching at herself. She wasn’t sure if what she felt was loss or guilt, but she closed her eyes and pretended she could stick her nose into Isaac’s hair and draw in his scent, that complex compound of baby shampoo, Johnson’s Baby Oil and crisp, clean cotton t-shirts.
“I do love you,” she said to the mirage image of Isaac that was skipping before her. Of course she loved him – even if she had at one point wanted to put him up for adoption. Yes, of course she did, even if both Magnus and John loved Isaac much, much more than she did.
*
It took him some time to notice she wasn’t following, all of him concentrated on keeping the rage inside of him under control. He’d told her, and she’d flung it back in his face, and he had to clench his hands not to turn and slap her. Slap her and take her, because she wasn’t the woman he thought her to be, and he didn’t need to show her consideration, did he? He prickled with shame. He had more or less called her a whore, and now he wanted to treat her like one.
“I’m sorry,” he said. No reply, and when he threw a look over his shoulder she was not to be seen. With a low curse, he retraced his steps.
She was sitting on the grass, her head hidden in her arms.
“Alex?” He sank down beside her, tried to put an arm around her but she shook it off.
“Leave me alone. Just let me stay here and die, okay? I never asked to come here, did I, and now I’m stuck in a time where I’m an immoral freak and all I want is to go back. I want John, I want Magnus and oh God, I want my son.” She snivelled and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.
Matthew tried again, his arm coming round her, and this time she sat still under his touch.
“I’m sorry, lass, it’s a terrible thing to lose a child, in whatever way.”
She nodded, resting her head against his shoulder.
“Isaac,” he went on, unnerved by the way all of her seemed to be curling inwards with dejection. “It’s a bonny name. Wee bit Old Testament.” His mild teasing made her smile, albeit weakly. He hugged her and stood up, using both hands to lever her back onto her feet. “Look at you, you’re all wet from sitting in the grass.”
She looked down at her wet jeans. “I’ll live.”
“Aye, of course you will.” He wasn’t referring to the damp. When he held out his hand she took it, her fingers twisting hard into his.
The skies cleared, wild gusts of wind drove fog and clouds away, and a warm sun was steaming wet off the ground.
“Won’t his father take care of him?” The laddie was a bastard, born out of wedlock, but such children were often recognised and cared for by their sires. And from the way she said his name, this John seemed a decent man, no matter that they had lived in sin.
“He doesn’t have a father.”
He struggled to look unperturbed. Not John’s son. He couldn’t help himself.
“All bairns have a father. But mayhap you don’t know who.”
She pulled her hand free and slapped him. “What is it you’re insinuating, that I’m a whore? Some sort of irresponsible cow who sleeps around and just gets herself pregnant for the fun of it?”
“Cows would in general be considered irresponsible.” He rubbed at his cheek. “I won’t have you raise your hand to me again.”
“And I’ll not have you casting doubts about my character. That’s the second time today, you oaf.”
They walked in silence up the steep incline.
“He’s dead, my son’s father is dead.”
“Ah.” He threw a look at her tight features. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. I hope he rots in hell.”
He raised his brows in surprise. “I take it you didn’t like the man then?”
“You take rightly, I saw him die and I was glad.”
He came to an astonished standstill.
“You did what?”
“You heard me,” she said, still walking. Her fists were clenched so tight the knuckles stood white against her tanned skin.
He caught up with her and put a hand on her arm. “Won’t you tell me? It may be that the telling of it can help.”
She looked at him from under tear hung lashes. “How can it help?” She wound her arms tight around her midriff, looking so desolate it made him want to cradle her, whisper words of comfort in her ear. “How will a boy of two grow up without his mother?”
“I don’t know,” he said, extending an index finger to catch a tear that slid down her cheek, “but doesn’t he have other people that love him?”
She hung her head, dug her bare toes into the grass. “Yes, my father loves him. And so does John.”
“Well then; that’s not so bad, is it? Two men that love him; surely they’ll care for him.” They began to walk again. “So, will you tell me?”
“Tonight,” she said. “I’ll tell you tonight.”
*
They were making their way up a low ridge when Matthew drew her to a stop.
“Look!”
At first she thought it might be more soldiers, was already preparing to flee, but when he pointed through the screen of shrubs she saw a stag and a hind, the male deer dancing behind the passive female who had politely lifted her tail out of the way.
“He seems kind of new to this,” she whispered, having watched the stag mount and dismount several times. Matthew chuckled, shook his head.
“That’s the way they do it,” he said in a low voice. “Mayhap it ensures the female is more welcoming.”
“Welcoming? If you ask me she looks bored stiff, all she’s doing is standing still.”
“It’s a good start.”
She licked her lips, very aware of the warmth of his thigh where it pressed against hers.
“Although most males can outrun the female and corner her,” he added, “make her stand still.”
“Really? Are we talking deer or in general terms?”
In the glade before them the stag had gotten it together, and they were silent.
“He looks exhausted,” Alex commented once the stag was done.
“He has several hinds to serve.” The deer bounded out of sight and Matthew stood. “Shall we see, then?” he said, helping her to her feet.
“See what?”
“If it applies only to deer.” There was a green sheen to his eyes.
He’s flirting with me, Alex thought, and her blood fizzed in her veins.
“I’ll give you a head start, but mayhap you don’t dare to?” He pointed up the slope to a collection of granite boulders. “If you get there before me you’re safe.”
“And if not?” Alex said, trying to sound casual.
Matthew winked. It made him look very young, and with a little jolt Alex realised that he hadn’t done much playing or flirting the last few years. So she nodded, whirled and set off, flying like an arrow in the direction of the stones – after all, she didn’t want to make it too easy for him.
He caught up with her halfway up the slope, leaped ahead with the grace of an antelope, and Alex slowed her pace to enjoy the sight of him. He ran effortlessly, long legs striding over the ground. He jumped up to stand on one of the stones, jiggled his hips in a triumphant dance, and stood there, grinning at her as she walked the last few yards. He dropped to land before her.
“A forfeit,” he said, and his hand rose to touch her hair.
“A forfeit?”
He was standing close enough that unless she tilted her head back, all she could see was the neckline of his shirt.
“Aye,” he said and then he kissed her.
He was quite good at this, Alex decided, even if it would’ve been nicer had he brushed his teeth. But what the heck, nor had she, and his tongue was warm and strong, his lips just wouldn’t let her go, and Alex’s arms were round his neck, all of her she pressed against him, and with a surprised squawk he overbalanced and sat down, with her still in his arms.
“Oops,” Alex grinned, and she was back on her feet, not quite certain what to do. “We could do it again, but this time you get the head start.” She pointed back towards their discarded bundles. “And if I win, I claim a forfeit, right?”
Matthew’s long mouth curved into an expectant smile.
“And what would that be?”
“That, Mr Graham, is something you’ll find out afterwards – unless you win of course.”
*
They were still arguing amicably as to who had won the race, when three men appeared from the surrounding shrubs. Dirty and ragged, one of them barefoot, the others in clunky boots, and all with daggers in their hands. Like rats they emerged, silent and fast. Matthew was sitting with his back to them, but must have seen something in her face and whirled – too late.
Three against one makes for nasty odds, and before Alex had gotten her wits about her, they’d pinned Matthew to the ground, laughing at his angry protesting yells. Alex backed away. Not soldiers, but she wasn’t all that sure that was a good thing. And those knives…
They kicked Matthew, telling him to shut up. He curled together. They kicked him again, and Alex’s hands tightened into fists when blood spurted from Matthew’s nose. It was all she could do to stop herself from flying at them, but what good would that do? They’d probably stab him if she did. No; better wait – lure them away, improve the odds.
She wiped her hands against her jeans. She wiped them again. Stop sweating, goddamn you! One man sat on Matthew while the others rifled through his bundle, muttering with disappointment at the meagre pickings. And then they turned to her.
She saw the gleam of interest in their eyes, uncertain if it was because of her or because of the rings she wore on her fingers. She tensed, a slight shifting as she raised herself onto the balls of her feet, bouncing lightly up and down to find her balance. Breathe; long, deep breaths through your nose. Her pulse steadied.
She let the shawl drop to the ground, and one of the men laughed, nodding at the discarded garment.
“Aye,” he said, taking a step towards her. “’Tis better if you’re willing. Not that I mind if you’re not.”
He reminded her of an overconfident fly facing a spider – except that she didn’t like the idea of herself as a spider. A mouse and a cat? Yes; she could do the cat. He studied her jeans with curiosity and took another step in her direction, his eyes locking on her chest, her mouth. Keep on dreaming, mister.
She swallowed. She hadn’t done much real fighting, only once before had she used the full range of her martial skills outside the mat. Big no-no, that. The man’s eyes did a cursory run up and down her legs, lingered yet again on her chest and stopped at her hands and ears.
“Give us the rings, the earbobs, and the pretty link around your wrist.”
She shook her head, making him smile in anticipation.
“I’ll get it off you anyway, and I don’t much care if your finger comes off with it.”
“Arsehole,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. The smile vanished and he moved determinedly towards her.
“You need to be taught manners,” the man said. What? He expected her to curtsey and simper while he tried to rob her?
“Really? I would say exactly the same thing about you. Bastard. Son of a bitch.” Come on, she urged silently, come on then.
She cast a look in the direction of Matthew; not dead, not even unconscious, but angry like hell, trying to heave his human fetter off his back. The man in front of her took two quick steps, she skittered away. The idiot grinned. Horrible teeth.
“Fearful, are you?”
“Of you? Don’t make me laugh.” But she sidled away, head twisting as if she intended to run, and the other man snickered, moving to block her escape.
“She won’t be quite as loud when we’ve finished with her, will she?” he said to his companion, waggling h
is tongue.
She spat at him. “Come closer and you’re dead,” she threatened and they laughed.
“Give them the rings, Alex!” Matthew yelled. “Just give them the rings and your wee trinkets. It’s not worth your life, is it?” He strained against the hold on his neck, raising a bloodied face in her direction. “You can’t fight them, they’ve got knives!” He struggled, but the man on his back sank a knee into his kidneys, there was a glint of metal as the bastard brought his right hand down hard on Matthew’s upper back. With a grunt, Matthew slumped to the ground, and Alex wanted to rush to his aid, but her way was blocked by the other two.
“Wise man,” one of the ruffians told her, indicating Matthew with his head. “Why fight? It will only mean us hurting you the more.”
“You wish, we’ll see who gets hurt.” Sheer bravado. She gulped; concentrate Alex. One mistake and you’re dead – or wishing you were.
She let them get very close, spitting obscenities at them. They laughed, promising her she wouldn’t forget the coming afternoon. No, she probably wouldn’t. She licked her lips, had to swallow a couple of times. Aim for the head – or the balls. Or both. Oh God; here they come.
When they were within reach she exploded, a kicking dervish that flew at them. Thwack! A head jerked back. An astounded gasp, hands that grabbed at her arms. Aah! What was that? Alex stumbled back. He’d kicked her in the shin, the bastard.
Only one of them was standing, the other was trying to get back up. She crouched; the man sneered. Two steps to the right, he mirrored her. She raised her arms, hands held straight and stiff. He jabbed at her with his dagger. His eyes slid over her shoulder, at the last moment Alex threw herself to the side and the other man stumbled to his knees with his own momentum, his knife digging into the moss.
She wheeled and kicked, did it again. And again. And again. Again. Again. Air whooshed, spines sagged. There was a dull tinkling as an unhanded dirk landed on a stone. Alex turned towards Matthew, and the third man stood and fled.
Matthew stared at her. “What was that?”
“I kicked them,” she whispered, and collapsed to her knees. “Shit,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 12
