by Raina Wilde
Breathe, Frances. Breathe.
His mouth found hers. This time, it tasted of alcohol and sourness, and was warm and wet. She really wanted to be sick then, the bile rising in her mouth. His tongue pressed between her lips, and he forced her head back, so that she felt she would choke. His fingers tickled her throat. His other hand pressed her hand against his thigh.
He sat back, laughing.
“I should save something for tonight, eh?” His eyes gleamed. “I shouldn't expend myself now.” He laughed.
Frances had no idea at all what he meant. The “duties of the bedchamber”, as her nurse had referred to them, were a haze of half-heard phrases. She was terrified and confused. How was this connected to the feeling she had when Duncan held her hand?
Frances opened her eyes, as her new husband sat back. He lifted the whiskey flask and drank again, deeply. She looked through the window and wished she was outside. She counted things—the posts on the fences, the trees, the milestones—trying to forget where she was. One tree. Two trees.
After two milestones, the coachman started to slow.
A swaying, drunken Jamie McNeil laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her flesh. He kept it there as the carriage slowed and stopped, and only moved it when he slid out off the seat and helped her, clumsily, out of the coach. They walked across the gravel path and into the hall.
“May I present my wife?”
He stood, swaying, on the dais, his hands on her shoulders. The men of the hall cheered and saluted him, mostly his men and a handful of her family.
They took their places on the dais. The meal was rich and long. Frances could barely eat, she felt so nauseous. And so tired.
After an age, the light outside the windows was darkening, and musicians started playing. It was time to put the couple to bed.
France was crying. She tried to hide it, did not sob aloud. Her husband took her hand and lifted her, and then he was trying to pick her up, to pass her over the threshold of their bedchamber. Three of his friends had to support him while he did it. His arms around her body felt like a prison. Frances closed her eyes, tears running down her chin.
Then they were in the bedchamber, and the door was shut. They were alone.
“Take off your clothes.”
Frances looked at him, her face pale and frightened.
“Come on.” His voice was raised, angry. “Or I will.”
She had no idea what she was supposed to do. She was frightened, perversely, of doing the wrong thing, and shaming herself. What was happening?
He reached for her, impatient, tearing the dress at her throat. The costly linen parted fast.
Frances gasped as he reached through the gap. His hands were insistent, and bruised her where they grabbed for her breast.
She writhed and tried to move away. He pulled her back, and then collapsed backwards onto the bed, swearing.
His breathing was heavy. He sat up, ponderous, and found her mouth. His hands were in the rent in her dress, squeezing the flesh of her breast until it hurt. His lips slobbered on her face. He smelled rank and his body felt heavy, unwashed and weighty on hers. She tried to move away, but his mouth choked her.
“Stay still,” His hand came out and tried to swat her shoulder. She cringed. Stayed still.
“Got to...undress.”
He stood, unsteadily. His hands undid his plaid from around his shoulders, fumbling with his shirt buttons. His body was stubby with muscle, a swollen liver marking his drinking habits, coarse hair covering his chest.
He collapsed next to her, with an arm that went round her waist, and he dragged her dress down. His body was pressed against hers, the chest hair prickling against her pale skin.
He leaned onto her and pressed himself against her. She tried to move out from under him, but he made to cuff her again, and she stiffened, afraid.
Then he was sitting up. His hand moved down to the thick hair between his thighs. Frances had no idea what he was doing; had never seen a naked man's body before. His eyes were quite blank, and he was having trouble keeping his balance on the bed. His hand moved a few times, and then he swayed forward, and keeling over, his head hit the pillow.
Frances was to afraid to move, but after a minute she rolled over and looked. His eyes were closed, and he looked as if he slept. After another minute, he was breathing noisily, deep snores filling the room.
Frances stood; gathered the torn remains of her dress around her. Shivering with cold and revulsion, she pulled a coverlet out from under his body. She took the flowers from her hair and curled up in the velvet chair across the room.
Her feet hunched up for warmth, and the coverlet over her shoulders, she huddled in the chair, shaking. I am so cold. She lay there for an age, thoughts whirling, before she fell into exhausted, drained sleep.
***
Frances was outside, walking. It was morning, the mist still grey and close about the walls of the garden. She had been two days in Castle McNeil, and she had escaped each morning to the garden, exploring it slowly.
The walls were high, and over them she could hear the pounding of the distant sea. She could not see out of the garden, but inside at least it was dense with green shrubs and small trees; places enough to hide.
Stands of trees gave way to a small grove, with a round stone near the centre. She sat down, the dense trees screening her. She pulled her knees up to her chest for warmth and the safety it gave, thinking about the events of the past two days.
Her new husband had not touched her again. After her wedding-night, when he had collapsed so mysteriously, he had avoided her, unable to meet her eye. Frances spent the day trying everything to avoid him—sewing in the turret room, walking in the garden.
She looked out over the grey morning landscape, and felt a tear roll slowly down her cheek.
Duncan? It was the first time she had dared to think of him. Her heart was too scared, and too raw, to risk thoughts of him indoors. She would not let her husband see her cry, would not grant him that victory.
Now that she thought of Duncan, her mind was awash. So many questions unasked. Did you receive my letter? Did you care? And last, but most important: Do you love me?
She thought about that. If he loved her, as she loved him, would he not be here? Would he not, at least, have sent word? Have tried to send her comfort? Perhaps she was fooling herself. Perhaps she was nothing. Her father thought so—he sold her for his debts. Her husband thought so—he touched her like he touched the servants. The whole staff thought so, she was sure —she knew they whispered about her. Duncan must think so too. He had not written. Maybe she really was nothing?
Frances' pale face was frozen as she watched the deer moving across the woods. A tear ran down her cheek, and then another, faster, joining it.
Duncan? Why do even you hate me?
She sat still, drowned in misery, blind to the deer that ran from the clearing, deaf to the drizzling rain.
A stone bounced beside her. She did not look up. Another joined it.
Is the wall falling? Frances thought, disinterested. It can cover me. I do not want to live.
Thwack. Another stone hit the boulder she sat on. She turned.
Her eyes fell on pale gold hair, on a white shirt, on a lithely-muscled form, stepping out from behind a tree.
“Frances?”
His voice was a whisper. They stood for a moment, eyes full of each other. Then his arms were around her body and her arms were around his. His lips were on hers, and they were leaning together. She was laughing, and crying, and holding him. His hands caressed her hair, her neck, her face.
“Frances.”
“Duncan.”
They stood apart for a moment, then kissed again.
Their bodies moved over each other, pressing deliciously close. Her hands caressed him, and his caressed her.
They leaned back on the grass, her body yielding to his. He leaned over her and their bodies moved together. He gasped, and her gasp joined his. They m
oved together longer, each lost in the delicious sensation of their bodies so close and warm. His mouth was on hers and her hands on his hair.
He sat up, suddenly, and looked down at her, his face a mix of tenderness and wonder.
“Is there somewhere...safe?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes alive with warmth and need and longing.
Frances nodded. Her breathing was strained and her whole body throbbed with need. She sat up. Her hair was loose from its pins, and tumbled around her shoulders.
“The garden house.”
Probably built as a hunting pavillion, the garden-house was two rooms near the middle of the woodland area.
Their breath heavy in their throats, they stood, hand in hand, and walked the short distance to the lodge.
They went inside, and closed the door. Their eyes met. Then their world was shrinking, closing down to just touch, and taste, and nearness and each other.
His lips were on hers, his body close. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders, her fingers tracing the muscled arms as he leaned down to kiss her. His hips pressed against her and she moulded her body to press against his, wanting only to feel him close.
They clung together, and collapsed, panting, onto a low seat by the fire. His hands moved her shift back, caressing the skin of her shoulders with a fingertip.
His leg came between her thighs and she leaned back. He moved the dress off her shoulder. She moved, moaning softly, as he moved lower, to carefully kiss her breast. They inhaled sharply together as he found her nipple and took it between his lips. She arched back, pressing toward him even as he bent towards her, his mouth eager on her nipple.
He sat back, and his hands, tenderly, undressed her. She found the buttons and unfastened them, as eager to remove it has he was.
They clung together, their bare bodies moulded to each other. He sat back, reluctant to part for a second, and moved into her.
They both gasped. They swayed together, moving slowly and then faster, their need driving them, pressing hard and harder against each other, their breath mingling, bodies joined in the ageless, ancient dance. Augmenting his penetration, Duncan’s fingers deftly worked her pleasure zone, bringing her slowly to heights of ecstasy she had not know possible. She cried out, a wash of pleasure flowing through her body, feeling as warm as fire and as delicious as summertime. She heard him cry out, a moment later, a shuddering gasp of need and desire and passion beyond words.
They collapsed on each other, breath mingling. After an age, he rolled off her and his arms came around her, holding her close. Her head moved, nestling on his shoulder. They lay together, close and safe and warm.
He sat up and looked down at her, his eyes glowing. She looked up at him and smiled.
“Frances.” His finger traced her lips. She kissed it.
“Duncan.”
They did not move until midday, and then it was only to tenderly make love again, until the first lengthening of the shadows in spring's dusk.
At length, they sat. He dressed, and she dressed, their hands lingering on one another.
“How did you find me?”
“Your letter.” He smiled at her, grey eyes brimming with warmth. His voice was hoarse. “Thank you. For sending it. For thinking of me.”
Frances smiled, She felt as if her heart would break from the tender feeling overwhelming her.
“Of course I did.”
They kissed.
“Jessie brought the letter to me.”
She smiled. Jessie was a good friend, a real angel.
After a moment, he smiled at her again. “Would Jessie agree to have you stay with her? The sea air would do you good, and give you the time to adjust to your new life.” His lips lifted in a warm smile, tender with hope.
“I think she would.” Frances grinned back.
They kissed, and parted at the door, the evening light tender and white-edged, lining them in pewter as he walked silently through the door.
Frances stayed a while in the summer house, her mind whirling, a sweet, slow smile radiant on her lips and in her eyes.
***
The carriage jolted to a halt outside the McGuire manor house. Frances alighted, and the coachman handed down her luggage. He bowed and climbed back up to the front seat, turning the coach behind her on the drive.
“Frances!”
“Jess!”
The two girls met in the middle of the path, red hair mingled with pale in a crushing embrace.
They stood back, smiling at one another. Jess had married, soon after Frances, wedding her lifelong sweetheart. She had not moved from her ancestral lands, she and James moving into a smaller house on the estate. It was there that she had invited Frances to stay with her, immediately on receiving her letter.
The two walked up the drive together, arms linked, heads together. As soon as they reached the house, Jess pulled the door shut behind them both and grinned.
“Frances! You can guess who's here.” She stood back, then, and a young man walked in, a shy smile lighting his face.
Frances walked forward, and she and Duncan embraced. Jess grinned at them both.
“Come on, you two! Not here!”
Frances and Duncan looked up, reproached. Jess smiled.
“Well...I've put you in the Summer suite, but you must come up and see the parlour...I had it redecorated and I'm rather pleased.”
Frances grinned at Duncan. Together they followed Jess up to the parlour, where a table was laid out with refreshments.
The room was indeed beautiful, decorated in the latest style. Frances complimented her, and Duncan nodded, smiling.
Jess did not keep them long, claiming that she had to plan dinner. She bustled out, grinning radiantly. Frances and Duncan were alone.
They sat, just looking at each other.
Frances moved first, leaning forward. Duncan moved, too, the gap between them closed. Their lips met.
For the first time, they had time. They kissed, slowly, their lips exploring each other's. Frances smiled to taste his mouth, warm and sweet and tender on her lips. They kissed for what seemed an age, their bodies close.
They broke apart, sighing.
“Well?” Duncan's voice was trembling a little. He grinned. “Shall we see the room that has been set out for us?”
Frances nodded, wordlessly. They walked upstairs.
Duncan opened a door on his left, and then closed it behind her.
They fell on the wide white bed together, their arms around each other. Someone had lit a fire in the grate, and the air was gently scented and deliciously warm.
Frances was lying beneath him, and then slid over him, smiling down at him mischievously. Her eyes were blue and slanted with desire. Duncan breathed out in a sigh. She looked breathtaking.
His hand caressed her neck, as Frances leaned in and kissed him. His arms held her close. They lay together, her body pressed to his, and then he rolled over, pressing her beneath him. His fingers caressed her shoulder, moving down to the ties of her dress.
Frances smiled, arching back as he slowly moved the dress down to her waist. His mouth moved over her breasts, lingering. She moaned. He licked his way down her chest, moving to her navel. She gasped. He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. He kissed lower. Her eyes flew open, with surprise. His mouth moved to between her thighs, licking and kissing.
She moaned again, a shudder of pure delight. He worked her with his tongue, her gasp of pleasure firing him with fresh desire. Her skin was porcelain, her thighs soft and pliant, the scent of her intoxicating in his nostrils.
She cried out with a crest of intense pleasure, her body contorted with the stab of it, and he could hold back no more. He had to be inside her. He sat up, and she found her hands moving over his chest even as he undid his buckle, hands uneven with their haste and need.
He moved between her thighs and they both cried out as he slid into her. The feeling of him filling her was a pleasure, the deep pressure of him inside her more satisfying th
an anything she had felt. They took their time, a slow, deep motion that made them both gasp, building to a wave of pleasure so intense that they felt transported when, finally, it crested.
They fell asleep in each other's arms.
***
Frances and Duncan were on the terrace.
Jessie, in her own domesticity, left them alone most days, and they spent each day discovering each other, learning all the little things they did not know, finding new nuances in each other, and in their bodies, that brought them even closer.
It was the last day of Frances' allotted visit. During the week, she had been transported with happiness. She and Duncan were more than close. In those five days, the feeling between them that had been there since they met had broadened to become deep and intense, a heartfelt love.
They sat in the late afternoon sunlight together, her hair a warm nimbus around her head, his hand resting over hers on the seat.
“Frances?”
“Yes?”
“You know I love you?”
“Yes.” Her voice was low, rich and satisfied. “And you know it's not as much as I love you?”
He smiled. Leaned forward to kiss her. “I didn't know it was a contest.”
She grinned warmly. “It isn't. I merely stated a fact.”
He smiled again. “And how would you know?”
“It's not possible to love anyone more than I love you.”
They both laughed.
“I love you infinitely.” He smiled down at her. His voice teased, but his eyes were serious.
She looked up at him gravely. They embraced.
“I cannot say goodbye.” Her voice ached.
“I know. I cannot either.”
They held each other, pressing their bodies together as if to join themselves inseparably together.
“You can come again, though?” He sat back, looking down at her.
“I will.” She sounded certain.
“Will you be safe?” He asked, concerned. “What we do is dangerous.”
“I do not care.”
They kissed, slowly.
Hours later, the carriage had arrived for Frances. They stood together for what seemed like an age, just looking at each other. No words came. What they had to say was beyond words.
