Angel of Ash (27 page)

He unlocked the door without a second thought, his heavy maleness thickening under the muslin cloth of the towel, led to her room by the burning of the candles, the smell of roses from fresh plucked flowers emanating the room, seeping into his pores unwillingly, wanting her sex, just her sex and nothing more, he promised himself.

She sat upon the window bench across from her bed unaware of his entrance, the notes of music upon her crossed legs, dressed only in a thin linen shift and no more, her hair long, silky brushed upon the curves of her shoulders and traveling to the small of her back. Humming slightly she played the bars of music upon her knees with her right hand; with her left she tapped a steady rhythm. “No,” she muttered to herself, taking a pencil from the window sill and marking new notes on the papers. “It will sound better as E flat, rather than sharp,” she commented to herself, making the necessary changes. Finally, smiling she nodded. “A symphony that would make the great Mozart proud,” she deemed, humming the tune to herself, smiling slightly unaware that Asher was watching her every move.

“A symphony for whom?” Came the voice across the room. Instead of jumping in surprise even though her heart raced as soon as she heard his voice, she slowly brought the papers down to her lap again, her gaze slow and sure as she met his eyes.

“No one,” she said quietly. “An illogical pastime I have created.” She finished. Her hand shook slightly as she rubbed stray pencil marks from the paper. What was he doing in her room, she thought with trepidation? What did he want from her?

She tried not to stare at the splendor of his form, his hair was wet, curling in the warmth of her room, beads of water was drying upon his golden skin, his eyes shone mysterious in the light of the fire, the muscles upon his form splendor beyond anything she had ever viewed before. Would ever view again. The weakness her soul created for him was an abominable curse within her. Whatever he wished for she would willingly give him, if only to make him understand that she loved him. Where once she had mistakenly thought love made you strong and unconquerable, she now understood love weakened one and caused only untold pain and suffering. Especially when that love was not reciprocated.

“Come here, my lady,” he commanded her, his form still except for the movement of his perfectly curved lips, the beating of his heart, his pulse ran high. He felt strange, exhilarated on the one hand, depressed and melancholic on the other hand. His rational mind told him to leave turn from her and make swift strides to his room, but his feet lay rooted to the soft rug beneath him.

She stilled and he thought she would not come as he studied her, her head bent, her teeth biting a small portion of her lower lip. She let her abused lip go, however, and looked up, an unreadable emotion in her eye. The what Asher could not tell. Did not want to know even if he had the chance to decipher it.

Finally placing the papers on the window sill she stood slowly, unhurriedly and step by slow trembling step she walked towards him, the firelight behind her causing Asher to see every supple curve of her body, from the large bounty of her breasts to her still trim waist, the curve of her hips and the graceful length of her legs. His manhood hardened as she stopped within a foot of him, the heat overtaking her face, causing a rosy flush to bloom upon the golden coloring of her cheeks.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, she dared not meet them and she stared somewhere behind him, wanting to run, distance herself from him, but no, that greater part that wanted his touch, wanted to forget and forgive his painful words and actions if he would just touch her kindly, speak one kind word to her would erase two months of anger spoken. She’d forgive him within a second; she’d forget it as if it had never happened. That was love, forgiveness. As was right as she so wanted to do. She wanted to forgive and forget and start over anew. She wanted him to know she loved him still no matter how much he tried to destroy it.

She wanted so much and it was all so unattainable and so she stood still, her heart in her throat, her pupils dilated, scared, excited and strangely fearless. It was she who touched him first, still not meeting his eyes as she placed the tips of her shaking fingers upon the back of his hand and slowly ever so slowly and carefully trailed them to his hard and large muscular bicep, almost unaware of her actions.

She closed her eyes in relief that she was finally able to touch him without his sharp and hurtful words. She was finally able to erase some of the hurt just by one touch.

He grabbed her trailing hand with his opposite hand, stilling it and Angels’ heart raced faster. She tensed anticipating him calling her a name, of cutting her soul with his words but he did none of those things. He placed her hand upon his towel and hesitantly she pulled it off him and dropped it at his feet and glanced down, her cheeks now red, for he was so achingly large and ready…for her.

He had as of yet to speak and she feared speaking, feared breaking the spell that brought him to her room. She stood still as he brought his hands up pulling the straps of her shift down past her shoulders, arms until it lay loosely at her waist and her breasts and stomach was bared to his view. He did not stop there, however, and helped her step out of her light gown as they stood bare to each other, each hurting, each with their heart thundering within their breasts, each uneasy and achingly aware of the other. Each with fear clinging to them.

He nearly died at that first view of her body after so many months of enforced isolation. He nearly took her then, standing up, uncaring as to anything but being inside the beauty that was her body. He could not show weakness, would not allow him to. Yet, he could not hurt her, not in this one thing which they had done so well together. He lifted her, and her legs wrapped around his waist, they wouldn’t make it to his bed. He would have her and be done with her.

He lied so to himself.

Managing to stand up after long quiet moments upon the floor, Asher reached for her hand, leading her to his room in which she followed like a deaf, mute. Unwilling to realize the power she held in her hands, unwilling to stand upon her own two feet, unwilling to chastise him for his horrible misuse of her person. She couldn’t for fear stilled her vocal chords. She wanted no more animosity, no more hateful words, no more painful days. She wanted peace and quiet with Asher, her husband and love. For whatever wrong she had done upon him imagined or real, she wished for forgiveness in this sad tale of their marriage.

Yet her hope was that of a child’s. Only in the fairy tales in which she had escaped in did such a perfect world exist. Marriage wasn’t about meek wives and domineering husbands, wasn’t about who could argue less, wasn’t about unspoken words. It was the passion, the excitement, the anger, exhilaration that made marriage. What they had now was not a marriage; it was a facade, forced isolation and enslavement. Misery for the both of them.

“Go to sleep,” he said quietly as the couple settled in the bed underneath rich covers of brocade.

She did almost instantly, facing towards him on her side, her fist clenched beneath her chin like a small child, trusting and innocent, sweet and beautiful.

Sighing, Asher stared at the ceiling, one arm folded behind his head, the other upon his chest, the heavy, simple gold ring as always achingly unfamiliar, and the soft glow from the fire made his marriage ring shimmer slightly. He lifted it; it had been a gift from his father, the matching band given to Angel. He had not wanted to wear it, had no use for it and would have told his father no had it not been for the way Angel had cast melancholy eyes at him and he’d hatefully taken it from his father, knowing that no ring on earth would make him ever feel married.

At times he wished for the marriage of his parents. Two people had never fit so perfectly with the other. His parents had their share of arguments and tears, but they had also had a love as he’d never seen. He smiled softly to himself, allowing his gaze to rest on Angel. He could perhaps mold her into the perfect wife, he thought to himself. She was young and biddable. Beautiful and innocent he knew how much she wished to please him. She’d make the perfect wife, he said, not understanding why he’d fought so hard against this marriage.

It would be a welcome respite to have a warm and loving woman in his bed. To see himself in the children that were sure to come. Angel would be a perfect wife, he promised himself again. She’d want for no other except him. She’d need for nothing upon this earth. In him would be all that she needed.

They awoke, early in the morning, dawn not yet arisen, Angel smiled, and Asher was still in bed with her and had not left as she thought he would. A little bit more bolder she touched his arm and smiled even more when he did not tense. Instead he grabbed her hand, bringing her hand to his lips in a soft caress of a kiss.

“Good morning, my lady,” he said, turning towards her pulling her into his arms for a deeply intense kiss. Lips locked and met, breath became hurried and excited. Asher smiled again against her lips. What a fool he had been. Two months he could have had her in his bed and he’d naught.

“Good morning, sir,” she returned after the kiss was finished. He nuzzled her neck, moving her onto her back kissing the feather light pulse at her nape

They made love once more and Angel pleasured in his body as he did hers. Beyond that, she had little inclination as to how her husband felt for her. Yet, she would not allow it to show. She spoke not of the piano which he had locked her from, she spoke not of the child which he never asked her on that lay in her womb. She asked not for her family or friends. She made no demands of him. She couldn’t, he was her heart and soul. In him she lived and breathed.

She obeyed his every command as the weeks came and went. She tried so hard to become the perfect wife. She dressed in the colors in which her husband favored. Styled her hair as he wished it of her. She walked upon eggshells, as he told her his likes and dislikes told her what was to be expected from her.

“Never wear blue again,” he commented one day, as Angel came down in a frost blue dinner gown.

Angel paused, staring with curious look, her heart starting to beat fast in her chest.

“Go back upstairs and change.” He commanded, dinner almost ready. The servants paused; he seemed to have no care the embarrassment which he caused her. She nodded, hurriedly turning towards the door once again.

Never wear blue, kept circling her mind, her throat clogged with unshed tears. Why, why?

She hurriedly changed in a simple dark gray gown, not understanding his animosity to her, wanting to question him, but fearing him. She did as he commanded because she loved him, no, was enraptured with him, she felt alone and broken, both with him and by herself. She could find no peace anywhere.

When she returned, he was already sitting at the dinner table, eating, not waiting for her. A footman held out her chair. She did not find food tempting, even though for the sake of the baby she knew she must eat.

Asher must felt the same way, his water and wine glass were refilled many times, but his plate stayed nearly full. He kept his eyes drawn on anything but his wife on his left side until he noticed her lack of appetite.

“Eat.” He commanded. “You grow thin. It is not healthy for the baby. In this, at least do it correctly.”

She forced herself to eat, taking small bites, not daring to make a remark to his words. She managed to drink her water and milk, managed to eat a few vegetables and one roll. More than that, she could not. Her heart was so heavy; her dark thoughts fell upon her mind so much.

“Lady,” Asher began his voice harsher. “You will not remove yourself from this table until your food is gone. Eat and bear me a healthy son and perhaps then you will have value in my eyes.”

He stared at her face, the paleness of which, she grew so pale, losing the healthy brown coloring which he’d first viewed. Tears leaked down her face as she nodded slowly, keeping her head bowed, taking small bites of food until, nearly twenty minutes later, her plate was finally empty, but for close to ten minutes, she did not move, instead staring at her empty plate, her hands folded neatly upon her lap, waiting for his next command.

He hated her, he thought constantly to himself, he wanted her to hate him as much as he hated her, needed to hate. He needed it. “Would you like to play me a score upon the piano?” He asked her softly.

She looked up quickly, not understanding what game he played. For weeks he’d not allowed her to play upon the piano. “If you wish it of me, sir,” she softly said.

Her head dropped again, her eyes glued to her plate.

“I would allow, if I was able to stomach such noise upon the piano. It is perhaps a good thing that I have stopped you; you should no longer embarrass yourself into believing you have any skill. Your skill lies between your legs and the bounty of your breast. No more, no less. Oh, and the fact that you are not barren.”

With her eyes still downcast, she turned her head from his view, squeezing them shut briefly, breathing in deeply, slowly, feeling his words stab at her, wound her as never before.

“So no one has ever told you, what skill you lack?” He asked snidely. “To entranced with visions of your large tits, perhaps.”

She bit her lip and kept her gaze averted from his, her heart thumping heavily in her chest, her palms sweaty, clutching her gray gown tightly. Please, escape, she thought to herself. I just want to escape.

“Don’t you agree?” He asked her softly, a smile in his voice, twirling the wine in his hand. She did not answer. Slamming his glass down and grabbing her hand he yelled at her, “Do you not agree?”