The Prodigal Son

by Belfrage, Anna

  Matthew produced a large flask and stood it on the floor. “Brandy, I recall you never took to whisky.”

  “You think I need it?”

  “I would,” Matthew said, bowed and left.

  He found Simon waiting just outside, a worried look on his face.

  “What?” Matthew asked, eyeing the two guards standing to the side.

  “A word, Mr Graham?” The nasal voice came from somewhere behind him, and Matthew turned to face the commanding officer of the Ayr garrison, a Major Stapleton as he recalled it.

  “About what?” Matthew asked.

  “This and that,” the major said, gesturing in the direction of the closest building. The guards closed in on them, indicating this was not an invitation, this was an order. “I have a witness,” the major threw over his shoulder as he preceded Matthew across the yard.

  “A witness?” Matthew had to struggle to sound unconcerned. Had they mayhap arrested Peter, or one of the other two, beaten the truth out of them as to what happened the night half of the garrison yard was reduced to blackened timbers and ashes?

  “Yes, a man. He claims he saw you strike down those two soldiers on the moor – in cold blood, he says, and from the back.”

  Matthew almost laughed with relief. As he recalled it, no one had been close enough to see him, and as to him killing the two soldiers from behind, well, that was a blatant lie, so whoever had come forward had not been there.

  “Me? I was fishing with my son.”

  “So you say, so you say.” The major clasped his hands behind his back. “But then you would say that. Wyndham is convinced you’re involved.”

  “Aye, but then he insists I murdered Tom Brown – a remarkable feat conducted over several miles, seeing as I was here at the time of the poor man’s death.”

  “Hmm,” the major said. He entered a small room, with Matthew and Simon following behind. “These are serious accusations,” the major went on, sitting down behind a narrow desk. Matthew and Simon remained on their feet in front of him.

  “Oh aye; but whoever that has come forth is lying.”

  “Really?” the major drawled. “And can you prove that?”

  “No more than he can prove he saw me.”

  “You think?” the major smirked. He clapped his hands, and a man was escorted into the room.

  “I’ll handle this,” Simon said in an undertone to Matthew.

  “Well?” the major said to the moon faced creature standing before them.

  The man took his time. He tilted his head this way and that, walked back and forth, hemmed and hawed. For a long time he stood before them, looking Matthew up and down. Finally the major cleared his throat.

  “Is it him?” he said.

  The man threw Matthew a triumphant look and nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, this is the man I saw on the moor. He stabbed them in the back, he did!”

  The major grinned, at which point Simon stepped forward.

  “I am Matthew Graham.”

  It could have been amusing, if Matthew hadn’t been so angered. He wanted to throttle the life out of this lying wee Englishman.

  The man did a double take. “Matthew Graham?” He inhaled, licked his lips. “And as I said, it was you I saw on the moor! You!” He stabbed his finger in the direction of Simon. “It is men like you, Graham, that cost all of us in strife and suffering!”

  “Oh aye? All the way down in England?” Simon inquired, and the man and the major went blood red. Simon clapped his hat on his head, bowed at the major. “I assume this farce is over.” He stood on his toes, swaying towards the major, for all the world like a top on the point of overbalancing. “It would be foolish to assume that all Scotsmen are Presbyterian hotheads with no connections whatsoever. I dare say my Lord Lauderdale will not be entertained when I recount this little matter to him.”

  “This has nothing to do with me,” the major said. “It was him who came to us, him that told us he had witnessed the slaying of our two comrades.” He waved his hands at the guards. “Take him away and have him flogged.”

  “Me?” the false witness squeaked.

  “You,” the major said, “for lying. Forty lashes, I think.” He stood, mouth like a narrow spout, and watched the man be dragged away before turning to face Matthew. “I remain convinced that you were involved, Graham, and I fully believe you to be an active supporter of all these accursed preachers, foremost among them that Peden. And one day…” He stopped to draw breath. “Well one day I’ll apprehend you. All the time I’ll be watching you; keep that in mind.” He bowed slightly in the direction of Simon. “And no matter how often you sup with Lauderdale, you’ll not save him then.”

  Matthew took a huge gulp of air once they were outside.

  “Luke,” he said, “that was Luke’s handiwork.”

  “Or Wyndham’s,” Simon said. “Although that does seem unlikely given his present constrained circumstances.” He brushed at his coat, frowned and scraped at something with his nail.

  “Do you?” Matthew asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Sup with Lauderdale.”

  Simon straightened up and grinned. “Not as such. It may be we’ve been in the same inn once or twice – but no need to tell the major that.”

  “Quite the threat.” Matthew studied his brother-in-law gloomily. He had no illusions regarding the recent lack of inspections. Now that Captain Howard had resigned there would be a new energetic officer in charge and anyone fingered as a Covenanter would find his every move perused in detail – as the major had so kindly pointed out. Men had been dragged from their homes and beaten to an inch of their lives just for reading their bibles and he had problems keeping his temper in check; last time it burst from him it had cost him his daughter.

  Simon listened to his little diatribe in silence, light eyes never leaving him. He cleared his throat, cleared it again.

  “You have to leave; it breaks my heart to say thus, but you must go. It’s but a matter of time before they trap you.”

  Matthew shook his head in denial. This was his home and he wouldn’t be run off by a band of cut throat soldiers; soon enough it would all calm down.

  “Nay, Matthew, it won’t.”

  Matthew scowled, and Simon held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture before suggesting they repair to the inn and get royally drunk.

  He woke to a horrible headache and a throat that felt as if someone had tipped buckets of ash into it. Beside him Simon snored heavily, fully dressed, and a bleary inspection confirmed that Matthew himself was still in his coat and shoes. He groaned as he sat up, running his tongue over his coated teeth. It was years since he’d drunk so much and he leaned his face into his hands, trying to stop the spinning. Simon started awake at his movements, coughed once or twice and rolled out of bed, looking disturbingly sprightly.

  “Not even your lovesick wife would find you attractive today,” he teased.

  “Seeing as my cock is too drunk to even attempt to stand, even less find its way out of my breeches, that doesn’t matter greatly,” Matthew mumbled. He stood up carefully, supporting himself against the bedpost. “Ah, Jesus.” He turned itching eyes in the direction of Simon. “We best make haste; he hangs soon.”

  Simon looked disgruntled, but nodded, leading the way down the narrow stairs.

  “That wasn’t pretty,” Simon commented once they were safely away from Cumnock. Neither of them had said a word throughout the hanging, nor after. Matthew had thrown up on his way to the stable, not certain if it was an effect of all the drink or if it was the spectacle of a gibbering, pleading Oliver, crying that he was sorry, so sorry, but please, no, that had so turned his stomach. They’d had to drag him over to the noose, and despite his fine clothes and his newly shaved face Oliver had died without a shred of dignity.

  “He deserved it,” Simon said.

  “Aye, but it doesn’t help much, does it?”

  Matthew sank into a deep sullen silence, mulling over not only Oliver’s death but also
what Simon had said yesterday. Leave or be destroyed… Despite all of him protesting, deep down he knew Simon was right, but he just couldn’t bear it, sickening inside at the thought of leaving his home. Hillview thudded through his bloodstream, lived in his flesh, and he couldn’t envision himself anywhere else. How would he survive without his woods, his fields surrounding him? Still; mayhap he should write a letter to Thomas Leslie, just in case. He glared at nothing in particular and kicked Ham into a trot.

  The black mood lifted the moment he saw Alex. She was standing some way off when he rode in, raising her hand in a little wave before retreating into the shadows of the trees. He barely greeted Joan and his sons, eyes fixed on the spot where she’d disappeared.

  “Here,” he said to Mark, taking off his coat and hat. “Carry this inside for me.” He handed Ham’s reins to Ian. “You take care of the horse.” And then his legs were carrying him towards his wife, all of him stirring with longing for her.

  Matthew undid his shirt while he walked, stopped to kick off shoes and peel off stockings, leaving them by a tree as he continued barefoot up the slope. He ran a hand through his hair and in his breeches his member had definitely overcome any lingering effects of last night’s heavy drinking, flexing against the constraining cloth. Nine years he’d known her, bedded her almost as long, and still there were moments like this when it was all startlingly new again, when his ears filled with the sound of his pulse and his breathing grew loud and irregular with need.

  He had no idea where she was, but he walked on in the general direction of the mill. There was a sudden flash of white and he came to a standstill only yards from where she was standing, eyes huge, mouth slightly open. From here he could see she was trembling, and knew it was for him.

  This is ridiculous, Alex berated herself, he’s been gone for a day and you go all weak-kneed at the sight of him. He’s your husband, for God’s sake, calm down, woman! Except that she’d woken with a hunger for him, and he hadn’t been there, and all day half of her had been thinking of him and the things she wanted him to do to her. Now he stood on the other side of the clearing and she was squirming inside with lust, but was rooted to the spot by his eyes, and so she just remained where she was, waiting. A dull ache sprang from a point in her lower back, spread like tendrils down into her sex, up into her womb. Like a contraction, a huge, burning contraction, and she was aware of thousands upon thousands of nerve ends, all of them shrieking for him.

  At his continued silence she drew the pins from her hair and shook it out, hearing his loud intake of breath. She undid the bodice and let it drop to the ground to join her discarded straw hat and cap and shifted from one foot to the other to bring her thighs together in a soft rubbing motion that almost made her moan.

  He gestured at her skirts. The look in his eyes made her clumsy, her fingers struggling with uncooperative knots, with fabric that slipped through her sweaty hold. She wriggled her hips and the heavy wool slid down her legs to puddle round her feet. It was an effort to breathe, to move. Her knees folded and dipped, her heart was pounding against her ribs, and for some reason her mouth was dry, she had to lick her lips to moisten them. The grass below her feet tickled her soles, sunlight danced through the foliage above her, touching his hair, gilding his shoulders. She raised her hands to the lacings of her shift, the thin linen an oppressive weight she had to discard. Her skin screamed for his touch, her mouth begged for his lips and there was a hollow sensation between her legs that only he could fill. The shift fluttered to the ground and she was as naked as the day she was born.

  Lord, but she was beautiful, trembling like a cornered doe below the spreading branches of the oak. Matthew kicked off his breeches and advanced towards her in only his shirt, aware that his cock protruded like a prow before him. Her mouth… he wanted her mouth and then he was going to use his own, and… his cock jerked. He beckoned her to him and she stumbled, nearly falling before she righted herself.

  He traced her brows, her nose, the line from her jaw to the hollow between her collar bones. He so wanted to say something, to put words to the emotions that surged through him, but all he could do was kiss her, softly at first, a bare brushing of lips that changed into an intense, hungry possession, with her as hungry as he was, her fingers closing painfully in his hair to hold him still. And then she knelt before him… he swayed, his hands on her head, eyes closed against the glare of the sun.

  “No!” he backed away, “not yet… I want…” He fell to his knees beside her and now he had words, telling her she was his heart, the sun in his life, the single thing he could never do without and Alex laughed and cried at the same time, her hands on his arms, his chest.

  Together they rid him off his shirt, and he held her eyes as he eased her down to lie on her back. There was the softest of exhalations when he entered her. She tightened her hold on him, he pressed his groin against hers, bracing on his arms to keep his weight off her rounded belly. Her mouth fell open, her eyes closed and she lifted her hips towards him. He was drowning in a sea of sensations; the sun on his back, the rough texture of the grass under his knees and shins, but most of all his wife, the softness of her skin, the urgency of her hold on his hips and the moist, welcoming warmth of her cleft. Heat surged through his loins, his cock twitched and roared, and Matthew came, wave after wave of bright red pleasure washing through him.

  Afterwards he spooned himself around her.

  “I missed you,” she said, making him laugh.

  “Aye, I gathered that.” He nibbled her nape. “I missed you too, but then I always do.”

  “Liar, I bet you didn’t think of me once last night.”

  “Too much beer,” he said. Too many other things to think about, but he had no desire to ponder upon them now, so he scooted closer to her and pillowed his head on his arm.

  She took his hand and lifted it to lie between her breasts, toying with his fingers. He yawned, slipping into that agreeable state halfway between wakefulness and sleep. Alex turned fully in his arms, raising her hand to his face.

  “I once read in a book that making love is something you get better at with practise – a lot of practise, preferably with the same person. We’re getting pretty good at this, Mr Graham.”

  He opened one eye and smiled. “Aye, but practise is always good, lass.”

  “Now?” she asked huskily.

  “Now,” he nodded and rose on his elbow to look at her before he lowered his head to kiss her.

  Thank you, Lord for my marvellous wife, this woman that drives me to the precipice of lust and beyond, who holds me so tenderly, who loves me so entirely.

  Oh God; oh God, oh God, oh God… This is my man, God, and you gave him to me.

  Chapter 37

  Three days later, Matthew was standing in the midst of his last un-harvested field when Ian came running through the rippling barley.

  “He’s here, Da,” Ian gasped. “Fath… Luke is here! He’s come to take me back, and I don’t want to go, and I don’t know how you can stop him, and…”

  “Ian,” Matthew cut him off. “We’ve talked this through.”

  The lad nodded.

  “So you know what to do, and so do I.” He frowned at Ian. “Go on, you must make him think you’re glad to see him.”

  As Ian wheeled to run, Matthew called him back. He studied Ian and looked at himself. In coarse linen shirts and homespun breeches of an indeterminate colour somewhere between brown and grey, they were very much alike. He leaned forward and brushed Ian’s hair back, so that it fell in wild locks around his face. He ran his fingers through his own hair, and from the look on Ian’s face assumed he had managed to make it stand messily.

  “We walk together,” Matthew said.

  Luke dismounted and paced the yard, glaring in turn at Simon, Joan and Alex.

  “You know why I’ve come,” he snapped at Simon. “I’m here to take the boy back with me.”

  “Your son,” Alex nodded, watching Luke go an interesting shade somewhe
re between a boiled ham and beef tartar.

  “Aye,” he replied, twitching at his elegant coat. He did yet another turn, walked over to talk to his men, stopped for a moment to rest his hand on one of the saddlebags his horse carried, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. When he turned in their direction there was a secretive look to him, lips pinched tight as if he was trying to stop himself from blabbing something. Alex felt a flutter somewhere just below her ribs. Luke Graham had something up his immaculate sleeve, that much was clear. Luke twirled on his heel, gave a short little laugh.

  “What a sad, small place it is,” he said to no one in particular, before wheeling to smile at Daniel, who was clutching at Alex’ skirts.

  “Oh aye? Then why not ride off and never come back?” Simon said.

  Once again that lurking little smile, green eyes darting over to the saddlebag. “Oh, I will,” Luke said, “once my business here is finished.” He made an irritated noise and raised his eyes to the sun. “Where is he?” he demanded of Alex.

  “Out in the fields somewhere, I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Boys tend to have an inner clock when it comes to food.” As if on cue Matthew and Ian appeared from behind the barn, deep in conversation.

  It gave Alex huge satisfaction to see how Luke’s composure shattered into undisguised shock. He blinked, looked about to knuckle his eyes but recovered, face closing into an impenetrable facade. Alex stifled a nervous laugh; no doubt he’d done it on purpose, her Matthew, because as he and Ian stepped into the yard – messy dark hair, bare legs and in more or less identical clothes – it was clear to anyone not absolutely blind this was father and son, hewn from the same block and moulded by the same hand. Luke’s hands fisted, his lips thinned out.

  “It hurts to realise that a cuckoo will take precedence over his beloved wee Charlie,” Simon whispered in Alex ear.

  “It’s not funny,” she whispered back.

  “You think not? I myself am enjoying myself immensely. Look at him, Luke Graham speechless.”