by Bianca Bloom
But in my dream, I was walking there again. Because it was the height of summer, the sky was dim but not dark. I knew that I was walking after midnight, though, as the beach was completely deserted.
Except for the form that I could feel approaching me from behind.
When I turned sharply, out of fear, I saw that it was my new husband.
He was wearing nothing, and his body stated quite plainly that he was ready for me to fulfill my vows.
All of them.
Every man that I had ever known was fair-skinned, but Lord Hamilton Bell had much more color to his face – and, I discovered, to his whole body. In order to avoid the sight of his tackle, I tried to keep my eyes on his face.
“Hamilton,” I said, “My husband.”
But he was not interested in words.
And as he approached me, taking me in his arms and kissing me deeply, I realized that I was also naked, from the soft soles of my feet to the top of my now amorously befuddled head. In fact, Hamilton was drawing one of my legs up, ready for us to mate on the beach like a pair of animals in heat.
“We cannot, not here,” I told him, drawing my lips away and turning about, hoping that there was some clothing nearby that we might be able to make use of. “We may be seen. Or we may drown.”
He only pushed me down, into the sand, which was already wet from the tide. I knew that the high tide would come and force us from the beach, but Hamilton seemed to have no such worries in his head.
I could not understand how anyone would wish to touch the ocean’s water. To me, it had always symbolized death and ruin. Even when I was young, and too stupid to worry about the possibility that Sean would drown, I avoided it and took great care to know the tides.
“Please,” I whispered, torn between my desire to save us from the water and my very strong inclination to arch my back, letting the man take me.
Taller than me and much larger, he had his pick of actions, and what he chose was one that I did not in the least expect. He plunged his length between my thighs, yet without entering me. It was something I had tried with Sean, as it gave me great pleasure and was said to do away with the chances of more children. But my late Sean had never had much patience for that method of ensuring that we had no more mouths to feed. And I was too naive to insist upon it.
But Hamilton appeared to enjoy the act. He forced my legs together, and he rubbed me with such force that I cried out, getting saltwater in my mouth as a wave broke over me.
I knew that we would both drown, and again I tried to pull away. Then I tried to move my legs up, hoping that he might have one of Gilbert’s quick explosions and then we could both move.
“My laird,” I begged him, as the waves lapped at our bodies. I could feel the rough sand on my skin, and knew that it would soon be in my mouth if we did not move. “Please, do it properly. I am not some whore that you must shrink from – I am not ill.”
There was only a grunt from my husband, and I shuddered with desire as he held my waist, neatly preventing me from moving.
“You married me only for my grand house and my title,” he panted, still thrashing about between my legs. “What other word is there for you?”
I tried again to escape his grasp, but my body insisted on staying pinned beneath his, as he sank his teeth into my shoulder in a fit of desire.
“You married me for my money,” I told him, breathing heavily with lust in spite of my anger. “That would make you the same.”
My lord pulled back from me for a moment, and a great wave came, carrying us into the sea. He continued to clutch my body, and we did not drown, but floated on the waves. Transfixed by the sight of his hair, framing his salty face, I allowed his warm body to stay on mine, and finally he did spread my legs and enter into me, filling my aching crevasse as if he were born to do so.
We both cried out, and he looked into my eyes. “I married you,” he said, “Because I desired you. Because I yearned to take your small and supple body and make it my own.”
And all of a sudden I could feel no difference from the salty liquid that a groaning Hamilton Bell had pumped into me and the water about my skin, suddenly warm and soothing, carrying my husband and me off into a land of undivided pleasure.
24
When I woke in the morning, it was with a gasp of panic, the knocking on my door suddenly turned into something fearful.
Throwing on a dressing gown, I welcomed the two maids who came bearing a piping hot breakfast. As soon as they had left, Hamilton Bell himself slipped through the connecting door.
He had clearly been awake for some hours, as he had already shaved and dressed himself. His hair had none of the wild, salty look that I remembered from my dream, though his face certainly had the same handsome lines that I had admired.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked, drawing up a chair and pouring himself a cup of tea as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
In a way, I supposed, it was. I was not bothered by the fact that I was sitting in my dressing gown, about to eat breakfast with a man about whom I knew rather little. I was disturbed because I could not reconcile the man before me with the rake who had lifted me and stroked me during my most embarrassing dream.
His eyes were still on me, dark and amused. “Lady Bell? I suppose I may as well call you Marion, at least for appearances’ sake?”
I nodded mutely, thinking of how heavy his hips had been on mine. For a moment, it seemed as if he were an incubus, and if I lifted my dress I should find bruises.
“Marion, did you hear me? I take it you did not sleep well.”
With a ragged breath, I realized that I was about to complete one of the largest monetary transactions of my entire lifetime. If I were to do so with a functioning spirit, I would have to gain control of my thoughts and my heart. Sitting straight in the chair, I endeavored to rein in my wild feelings. “I slept rather well, Lord Bell.”
“Please,” he said, taking his first sip of tea. “If we are to be truly man and wife, you should call me Hamilton.”
There seemed to be some edge of sarcasm in his voice, but I was unsure of its origin, so I forged ahead. “Very well. Hamilton. I was tired from the journey, that is all. But I trust that I will recover. More tea?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”
He did not say, “Yes, please,” or “Thank you, Marion.”
But if I were being subjected to some kind of test, I was determined to pass. I refilled his cup without complaint.
25
The only other private conversation that we had that day took place in our cramped little hired coach. After meeting with the solicitors, we sought to leave the city immediately, as I was fairly convinced that the farm would hardly survive without me for a full day.
“That was rather quick,” I said, taking out several periodicals from my bag. “We may not have a reputation for efficiency, and yet I think the Scots must be every bit as good as any people that claims to be quick and ruthless.”
This got a surprised and sharp laugh from Hamilton.
“I think you are just speaking of Highlanders, Marion. We used to be ruthless, and now that our clans have been unjustly suppressed, we must settle for being ruthlessly efficient.”
I smiled. “You agree with me, then, in spite of your travels?”
The coach began to gain a little bit of speed, and we both looked about us, but he nodded. Our coach felt empty with just the two of us, though I was thankful that we did not have to share it with any of the Englishmen who had begun to trickle over to the Isle of Skye on pleasure tours.
But then, I supposed that I should take a kind view toward travelers, as my new husband was one.
“The Germans,” he said. “Well, they are the definition of efficiency. But the Hungarians were much better than I expected. They certainly do not take their cues from Prussia.”
This made me smile. “And your friends on the Amalfi coast? Do they live up to their savage reputation?”
I thought that he might join in the joking, but for a moment his face was solemn. “There is a good deal of the Romans in them still, I think. They are intelligent, uncommonly so, and have an appreciation for art that they seem to take in with their mothers’ milk. But are they efficient? No, in matters of timeliness, I suppose they are rather savage.”
“You seem to have enjoyed traveling so very much,” I said, “Whereas the farthest that I have traveled is London.”
He blinked, seeming a little bit ashamed of the wealth that had catapulted him from Europe nearly to the ends of the earth. “London is a beautiful city,” he said. “Although its inhabitants are not particularly hospitable, that much is true.”
I sat a little bit straighter in my seat, the contents of my handbag now far from my mind. “Yes, but did you not wish to keep traveling? Or to live in some exotic land, learning a strange tongue and eating the local oddities? Even the life of a laird must prove rather staid compared to the things you must have seen on your travels,” I said. My heart held two opposing hopes. One, that my husband would tell me of all his travels, so that I might feel as if I myself had gone around the whole word. The other great hope was that he would speak so fondly of his wandering life that he would choose to renew it, annulling our marriage and letting me live in the stately home that had been mine for a decade.
“Well, I signed for another’s debt,” he said. “And that was the end of my life as I knew it.”
I frowned, insulted that he viewed my own actions so lightly. “Not quite. I might remind you that the debt has been repaid.”
It was as if the hills outside our window had stolen his eyes away from me. I would not see them again for many hours. And his voice, as he answered, was husky. He sounded nearly like a man stricken with illness, near death, when he reflected on his newfound status.
“Yes,” he said. “But my faith is gone. I would have taken on twice the debt if I had been allowed to keep my heart.”
I thought that rather an exaggeration. A game of cards goes wrong wrong, one vouches for one’s friend, and all of sudden there is a great business about innocence and wronged love? To me, it seemed like a rather melodramatic touch to add to what must have been a fairly simple (if unwise) dealing.
But I had not been married twice for nothing. I knew the correct response in situation such as this.
Burying my face in the latest farming news, I resolved not to say another word on any topic until my new husband was ready to speak.
26
My husband was not ready to speak at any point that night. We arrived at our home so late that I had barely time for two words with Esther before we slept.
My sleep, at least, was untroubled in this instance. There were no dreams of beaches or tantalizing male forms, only waves of relief to be back home, even I was to share the home with a tetchy and disagreeable laird.
When I rose in the morning, it was with some trepidation. Esther had anticipated me as usual, keeping the maids from bringing me a tray.
She must have known that I would want to eat with my newly arranged family, and that I would certainly hope to keep my daughters in check.
When I walked into the breakfast room, however, it appeared that there were no impending crises. Quite the opposite, in fact. Flora was looking over in her new stepfather’s direction, smiling and sitting so that her large bosom appeared to particular advantage. Frances was reading, and Grace was staring at her food.
Hamilton Bell was eating, and he was the only one who seemed even remotely at ease.
“Put your book away, Frances,” I said to my tall thespian, and I made a move for the edge of her plate as she whipped the volume out of view. When she was very young and chose to read dramatic texts at the table, she usually hid them in her lap, and I had developed the trick of flipping her plate and spilling food all over her books.
It was a great waste of food, which galled me, and of expensive plays. But a few judicious uses of that technique ensured that I was not saddled with an impolite daughter who regularly read at table.
With a sigh, I took my place among them.
“I hope you all behaved yourselves in our absence,” I told my daughters. “Did Esther take you in to be measured for new dresses?”
In return, I received three different nods. One from Frances, who plainly still had her book out, only she had moved it underneath the table, knowing that I was not likely to object too strongly (much less flip her food over) with a guest present. A mute nod from Grace, who still played with her food. And a smiling but silent one from Flora, whose eyes were flicking over to her handsome new stepfather every few seconds.
He still looked at his newspaper, though, oblivious to the crude attentions of his new stepdaughter.
In exasperation, I turned toward him, seeking to explain away the queer behavior of my dear daughters. “Well, Hamilton,” I told him, “All that remains is for me to assure you that you never saw three sisters as quiet as these three this morning. I can assure you that it is a rare enough scene in our household, so you may as well observe it while it lasts.”
To my surprise, he folded his paper up, giving me his full attention.
“Three sisters,” he said, “As in King Lear. Though much happier, I take it.”
Frances changed in an instant. She put down her spoon, sat up, and exploded with excitement. “Yes, like in Shakespeare! Although we do not have an ailing father,” she said, her voice troubled.
It seemed to get the barest hint of a smile out of the man whom I kept thinking of as our taciturn visitor. He’s not a visitor, I reminded myself. He is supposed to be the head of our small household.
“It is just as well that you have a mother, instead,” he said to Frances, “You have no old father who insists on flattery, which seems much more common with fathers than it does with mothers. Now which of Shakespeare’s ladies would you like to be? Likely nobody from Lear, I take it?”
“Oh,” said Frances, nearly knocking over her teacup. Flora looked put out that she was not able to hold her new stepfather’s attention, but Grace only picked at her food and looked out the window.
“I am like Viola,” said Fran. “I am clever enough to trick anyone if I someday decide to pretend to be a man, can’t you see! And Flora is like Juliet. She is the one who will marry young, even if she goes against the better judgement of her family.”
“Frances,” I warned, looking over at her.
But the new Lord Bell either missed my signal or chose to ignore it.
“Shakespeare is a genius. You must be upset that his plays are performed at only two theatres,” said Hamilton, tucking into some eggs.
Frances did not think to ask the new laird anything about himself, but simply prattled on about her own life.
“Well,” she said, “The best way to honor him is by making sure that he survives through the medium of his plays. So yes, I hope that the tyrannical English government will allow more of its citizens to see his work.”
This sounded like a lot of rebellious nonsense, and I scoffed at it, but Hamilton was more alive than I had ever noticed him to be.
“I saw a translation of Macbeth in St. Petersburg,” he said, his face growing a little bit misty with the memory. “That, and the ballet, and the opera. It is a perfect city for performers, and they have no restrictions on where one can go to hear the words of the Bard. But I wonder if you speak Russian?”
Frances was now taking in her tea in most unladylike gulps, as if the conversation required an uncommon measure of sustenance. “No,” she said, “I don’t speak a word. But in New York many Shakespearian plays are performed. Their government doesn’t put any restrictions on the theatres. If I only work on my accent, I might make a living there.”
My heart flipped. “Frances Sutherland, you cannot think of such a thing.”
“Mama,” whined my daughter, but when she met my gaze she quickly grew quiet. With a conspiratorial glance at her stepfather, she informed him that she was “very int
erested” in certain developments in England’s former colonies.
“I’ll tell you more about it later,” she said, taking a bite of her own breakfast, which was by now quite cold.
There was hardly time for me to finish my own before Esther came in, a look of apology in her eyes. “Ma’am, Mr. Jamieson’s here to see you.”
With a start, I recalled that I had put Mr. Jamieson off until my return from the so-called honeymoon. The poor man had encountered a most distressing situation with his sheep, and I was to be the one who sorted it for him.
Hamilton followed me into the library, where Mr. Jamieson stood waiting, hat in hand.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” he said. “It’s only that I need another field to use with them at night.
Exasperated, I sighed. “Well, I’m sorry to inform you that we do not have any fields left. Someone has laid claim to every single one, except for a few of the northernmost ones that have to be fallow this season.”
“Begging your pardon, could I not use the one off the western edge of the pony ring?”
“It’s for the ponies, as I’m sure you are aware,” I said, trying to ignore the fact that Lord Hamilton Bell had suddenly started to raise his hand, as if he had a thought to contribute.
Apparently he did not know that his “Lord of the Manor” bit was not going to work in actual matters that concerned the estate. In disputes such as this, experience and a firm hand were required.
“I’m only asking because they have grazed too much on the area that I had set out for them,” he said, giving me a small smile. “The sheep cannot be allowed to graze the grass too short. If they do, they will eat dirt and worms, and they will get sick.”
