*
After the lingering dusk outside, it was very dark inside, but Matthew had no time for lanterns, for fumbling with flint and steel. He spread first his cloak, then hers into a makeshift bed on the cabin floor onto which he dropped the pillows. Alex made as if to undress, but he stilled her hands. “Let me.”
He took his time. The buttons on her bodice he undid one by one, fingers lingering on her chest, mouth pressed softly to her throat. She swayed and leaned into him, head thrown back as he kissed his way from one shoulder to the other. The cotton fabric of the undone bodice slid down her arms to fall to the floor. Her skirts and petticoats, the recalcitrant lacings on her stays – it was like peeling an onion.
“Lie down.” He held her eyes as she complied, gracefully sinking to her knees before reclining backwards. He undid his breeches, no more, before kneeling beside her. The embroidered shift was new, with an interesting and decorative lacing all the way to her navel. One eyelet at the time, and for every inch of her skin he bared, he had to stoop and kiss it. It made her twist and squirm, her hands coming up to touch him, to tug at his shirt. Matthew took hold of her wrists and held her captive, his mouth travelling slowly over her breasts.
He could feel her pulse through his fingertips, and when he kissed her, she moaned into his mouth, and he marvelled that it should still be like this between them. He released her hands, his mouth still covering hers, and undid her hair. She shook it free of braids and coils, a ticklish, dark cloud that framed her pale face. He combed his fingers through it, draping curls to adorn her shoulders, her chest.
She was by now entirely naked, while he remained mostly dressed. It was strangely alluring, her so vulnerable in only her hair, while he, fully clothed, held her in place with his weight and his strength. She was all soft skin and rounded curves, from the slope of her hip to the silky texture of her inner thigh. Warm and welcoming, round and rosy, and when he nuzzled her throat, she sighed, widening her legs. He entered her, still in shirt and breeches, and held still. She stared up at him, eyes dark smudges, no more.
“For all that I am six and fifty, I come to you like a callow lad. Should it be like this, that it takes but a graze of your fingers, a flicker of your tongue, to rouse me?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s a gift.” Her hands floated up to grab at his head, and she raised her back off the floor to kiss him breathless. His cock strove deeper and deeper inside of her, nudging at her core. He came with a muffled groan, and for a fleeting instant regretted they were now too old for there to ever be a bairn again.
Afterwards, she pulled off his shirt and massaged his back, and he was surrounded by the scents of mint and lemon, the sound of her wordless humming. He was nearly asleep by the time she was done, noting through half-closed eyes how she slipped into her shift and stepped into her petticoats. His hand closed on her ankle.
“Where are you going?” he said drowsily.
“Hungry,” she said, patting her stomach.
“I’ll go. You stay here and wait. I don’t want you filling the crew with indecent thoughts.”
“I was planning on dressing first,” she said.
“No doubt, but any man with eyes in his head can see you come directly from your lover’s arms.” He sniffed, grinning when she blushed. “You smell of it as well.”
He was still laughing when he closed the cabin door behind him, walking over to the leeward side to relieve himself. A strange, breathless sound came from the direction of the mast, and Matthew turned, stuffing his member into his breeches.
“Charlie? What’s the matter, lad?”
His nephew raised a contorted face and used a fisted hand to beat himself on the chest. “The matter? These are the matter, these, you hear?” He opened his torn shirt, baring the unsightly brands. “I want them gone. How can I walk straight and free when on my skin I carry the constant reminder of my erstwhile owner, Mr Sassafras Brown?”
“Unless someone knows you have them, they won’t see them,” Matthew said, which made Charlie look at him with such dislike Matthew retreated a foot or so.
“I must get them off.”
“Impossible. There is no way to purge your skin of yon letters – well, unless you take a knife to yourself. Nay,” he continued at the hopeful expression that flew over Charlie’s face, “to do so would be too dangerous. You might die in the attempt.”
Charlie ducked his head.
“Charlie!” Matthew shook him, hard. “I haven’t travelled for months to buy you free only to have you die on account of vanity.”
“Vanity?” Charlie spluttered. “How can you say such? Look at me! Branded like a beast!”
“But alive, aye? Alive and strong, and with your life before you.” Matthew gave him yet another little shake. “Promise me, lad, that you’ll not do anything daft.”
For a long time, Charlie studied his hands. “I promise,” he finally said. “I’ll not do something foolish.”
Chapter 38
Michael had heard the hue and cry for Sarah Graham – it was inevitable that he would in a town as small as Providence – and in his chest his heart flipped. She hadn’t been waiting for him beyond the graveyard, and he racked his brain trying to think where she might have gone, spent several hours searching for her, before deciding that she would of course return home, however reckless it was to brave the wilds alone.
He set off that same afternoon, riding at a steady pace due north-west. He found her at dawn, a sad little huddled shape under an oak, and urged his horse towards her, overwhelmed by a need to wrap his cloak around her and take her in his arms to comfort her.
“What happened?” he asked once he was close enough for her to see him. He dismounted and walked over to her, Pegasus trailing him like an obedient dog.
“He raised his hand against me. He called me wanton and punished me for it.” She was trembling, he could see, but the September morning, if chilly, was not uncomfortably cold, and she was warmly dressed. She looked up at him, and in returning light, she was bleached of colour, just a varied selections of greys. “I’ll never let a man hurt me again.”
“Surely, he wasn’t that harsh,” Michael said, sitting down beside her. He knew what she was referring to, but as the subject had never been broached between them, he couldn’t very well pretend he did.
Sarah kept her eyes on her hands and the rosary beads she was twisting round and round. “Carlos always said you had to forgive to be able to go on, but there are some things you can never forgive, never, however hard you try.” She slipped the beads back into their keeping place but still refused to meet his eyes.
“And now you will never forgive Minister Allerton.”
“Julian?” Sarah laughed. “What do I care about him? He is mostly a nice man, even if he’s old like the hills.” She shifted on her backside, a sibilant intake of breath accompanying her movement. Michael studied her and frowned. Had the minister belted her? A wave of protective anger rushed through him, and he moved closer to her.
“I’ve never told anyone before,” she said in a voice that was strangely colourless, “well, with the exception of Carlos, of course.” Michael didn’t at all like how her voice softened when she said the priest’s name, nor how something of regret washed across her face. She took a big breath, she took two, and turned to face him, and his windpipe clogged at the panic in her eyes.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Michael said, and he meant it.
“Aye, I do,” she answered, and he shook his head hard enough that his hair should fall, as it tended to do, like a heavy curtain over one of his eyes. Sarah’s brow wrinkled, eyes on his irritating forelock.
“What?” he asked, shoving the curls out of the way.
“Nothing,” she said, but her gaze remained glued to his hair.
For well over an hour, she talked, and Michael twisted inside as her slow, dispassionate voice retold every detail of what had happened to her well over a year ago. Her hands strayed to her ears whe
n she told him of how she was forced to use her mouth, and Michael clapped his hands over his own ears, begging her to stop. He knew enough now, didn’t he? She didn’t hear. She was talking just as much to herself as she was to him, and she just couldn’t stop. Finally, her voice wound down, and she sat in abject silence waiting for his condemnation.
Michael didn’t know what to say or do. She described an act of violence, a permanent rending of someone’s soul, while Philip had retold the taming of a young wench, an inexperienced girl that had been taught quickly to offer up and be quiet. Anger and shame, disgust and pity warred inside of him. Philip had died too easily. A shot through his heart and he was gone, when he should have wept and begged for mercy, when he should have crawled and howled as everything that was done to her, to Sarah, was done to him. Michael swallowed and knew he had to tell her the truth, and maybe she would stand and spit him in the face, and how was he to bear it if she did?
“I shot him,” he said.
“Who?” Sarah rose on her knees. “You shot Julian?”
Michael shook his head, and once again his hair fell over his eye. Rays of sun were filtering down through the canopy of trees by now, touching her face into gold, and he shifted that much closer to her, close enough that his fingers met hers.
“Philip,” he said, and she threw herself backwards, scrambling in her haste to get away from him.
“You were there?” she croaked, and he nodded, explaining how he had been hidden in the blackberry brambles when Philip entered the kitchen garden. And when Philip raised his knife, well, there was no choice, so he just levelled the pistol and shot him.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why? I just couldn’t let him kill you.” He watched her warily, tilting his head to see her now that she was on her feet. His answer was clearly not the one she wanted.
“Why were you there to begin with?” she asked, eyes stuck on the unruly lock that covered half his face. She whimpered, and without waiting for an answer, turned and fled.
He caught up with her and tried to wrap an arm round her waist so as to bring her to a halt. Christ and all His Saints! The heel of her hand crashed into his face. He reeled back. Sarah pivoted, grabbed at his left arm. Aah! Her hip slammed into him, she twisted and wrenched, and he was airborne, tossed high like a doll. His head burst into thousands of pieces – or so it felt – when he hit the tree, sliding down to land on his knees. He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t obey him, and instead he fell flat on his face. He wanted to open his eyes, he wanted to ask her how she had done what she did, but his brain was one long howl of pain, and so he stayed where he was.
“Michael?” He could hear the quaver in her voice, and he wanted to reassure her that he was alright – but he wasn’t, not really, and was that blood that he felt trickling down his forehead? With an effort, he opened his eye to find her kneeling beside him. His arm…his sleeve was dark with blood, his left forearm badly gashed.
“Michael?” She tried to close the wide gash with her trembling fingers, and he gasped, making her fly away from him. He struggled up into a sitting position and blinked at her. There were two – no, three – of her, and Jesus, his arm hurt, and his head…His mouth was full of blood, and he spat, tried to lick his lips clean.
“How?” he asked, gesturing at his arm, his head.
“Mama taught me,” she said, her eyes very close to his. “She taught me to defend myself. Not that it helped when…” She closed her eyes for an instant. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did,” he wheezed.
“May I…is it alright if I…?” There were her hands again, fingers touching his aching head, his lips, his limbs. He just nodded, dizzy with pain.
His arm throbbed. She had torn her petticoat to shreds for bandages, and if he raised his arm to his nose, it smelled of her, of her secret places, and it made him even more light-headed than he already was. His head was examined and the shallow gash washed but pronounced unimportant, while the bump…Her fingers were light but insistent, lingering a bit longer than necessary on his nape. He smiled when, in passing, she washed his bruised face, dabbed at the swollen lip and brushed at his hair, forcing that mischievous lock away from his brow.
“He’s my uncle,” Michael said, “or rather he was my uncle, and my brother died at Graham’s Garden as well.” He was uncomfortable on the damp ground, but she insisted he had to rest, at least some hours more, and so she had fetched his horse and her few things, and they were now several hundred yards from the main path. “He told us of how your father had sold him and Uncle Walter as slaves to the Indians, and he insisted he wanted revenge.”
“Da didn’t sell them. They were planning on selling him.” Very briefly, she described how they had tortured Matthew, and Michael winced. Would Graham ever allow his daughter to wed Burley kin? The thought startled him so much he opened his eyes, if only for a second, and there she was, her braid having come undone from cap and coil.
The sunlight danced over her head, her face, her shoulders. It glinted on the mother-of-pearl that decorated her hairpin. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her exhalations against his skin, see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks. He closed his eyes again at the blue of her gaze, and attempted to bring some control into his jumbled brain. Wed her? He tasted the words ‘my wife’ in his mouth, and saw that they suited her. His wife…His head was thudding with pain, and he was so tired, so very tired. He groaned and rested back against the trunk.
“Does it hurt?” she asked in a worried tone.
“Yes.” He peeked at her, groped for her hand. “I’m not like them, I—” The following words were lost in a violent bout of vomiting, leaving him shivering. Sarah helped him clean himself off, held the water skin for him, and sat down very close to him.
“Here,” she said. He opened one eye to see her patting at her thighs in invitation, her skin shifting into a pink hue.
Michael subsided against her with a grunt, winced as he lowered himself to pillow his head on her lap. His breeches were wet where he’d been sitting for too long on the mossy ground, and she managed to cover him with his cloak without jarring his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” he yawned, the words woolly in his mouth.
“Sorry? For what?”
“That I didn’t shoot him before he did all that to you.” His eyelids kept on dropping down, heavy as lead, they seemed, and as she didn’t say anything, he didn’t either, content to lie like this, half asleep with his aching head in her lap.
A finger tickled over his ear, brushed over his nose, his eyebrow. Michael’s lips twitched when her fingers danced over his mouth; he exhaled when she caressed his aching head. He had been riding in only shirt and coat, no cravat at the throat, and suddenly a warm hand snuck down the neckline, rested for a moment over his heart. Such a warm hand, such gentle fingers, and when she found his nipple, he gasped, making her retract her hand as if he’d been red-hot.
A few minutes and her hand was back, this time to once again travel over his head, his face. Gingerly, Michael twisted so that he lay on his back, opening his eyes to see hers hanging over him. He raised his hand, cupped her cheek, and ran a finger over her mouth. Sarah closed her eyes but sat still as his hand dropped down to her neck, her shoulder.
All of her trembled – a human aspen leaf – when he traced her neckline, and he reminded himself he had to be careful, so careful and gentle with her. Her thighs bunched under him when the back of his hand grazed her breasts, so Michael took her hand instead.
“I want you for my wife,” he said, and with a huge effort managed to sit up. His vision blurred, his head throbbed with pain.
Her tongue flickered nervously over her lips. “Your wife?” she echoed.
Michael nodded, brushed at a tendril of fair hair. His wife, mother of all his future children. “I don’t think your father will approve, and not only because of my kin, but also on account of my faith.” He leaned towards her and kissed her, and he
could taste his blood on her lips.
*
It was dark by the time they set off. She boosted him up onto Pegasus and clambered up behind him, her arms closing around his waist. She rested her face against his back, and sighed.
“What?” he asked, using his thighs to manoeuvre the horse towards the south.
“Nothing,” she replied.
He set his hand on her leg and gave it a little squeeze. His wife to be…He suspected Matthew Graham would be less than happy when he returned from foreign lands to find his daughter not only wed but a Catholic to boot. He had no idea why he’d insisted she should convert before they wed – maybe it was a gesture to his devout mother – but he had been agreeably surprised to find her willing.
Her arms tightened round him, he felt her shiver against him, and wondered if it was out of fear or exhilaration. A bit of both, he supposed. Well, she had nothing to fear, not anymore. Michael Connor would let no man harm her again – so help him God.
Chapter 39
Matthew woke to a heaving ship and the sound of wind and rain. Alex’s berth gaped empty, and after a few initial moments of concern, he calmed down, supposing the movements of the boat had brought back the greensickness. He was still dressed, and his head reminded him the previous evening had been far too long and far too wet as Captain Jan and he had sat sunk over an interminable game of chess. He had won, Matthew recalled with some satisfaction before the ship keeled to starboard, throwing him hard against the wall.
As he suspected, Alex was clinging to the railings, so white around the mouth it would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been for the look of absolute misery in her eyes. She smelled of vomit and fear, and from the state of her hands, it was evident she’d been out here for quite some time, holding on for dear life.
“Why didn’t you come and wake me?” he said, using his hand to smooth back her hair. The ship rolled, and he was almost pitched out to sea, laughing shakily as he righted himself.
“That’s why,” she croaked. “I don’t dare to let go.”
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 32
