Jayne Fresina (27 page)

He made love to her slowly this morning, entering her from behind, careful, deliberate, anchoring her hips in his hands as he plowed her furrow, inch by inch, until his loins were flush with her buttocks and there he stayed a moment, evidently delighting in the possession. He ground into her and she muffled her cries in the bolster, her hair an untidy, tangled sprawl over her shoulders and his bed. Then, just as slowly, he withdrew until he was almost all the way out, but not quite. He stopped again, reaching around to clasp her breasts in his hands, before he re-entered, thrusting deeper still.

She felt his chest arching over her back, the power of his thighs braced against the back of her legs and, as he gently squeezed her nipples, she clamped her teeth down on the luckless bolster. To be on her hands and knees before him was the ultimate submission and before she met him she would never have imagined allowing this. Ever. But then there were many things she’d never imagined before John.

She sheathed him eagerly each time, pressing back against his groin, trying to hold him inside longer, the desperate craving building with every lingering, torturous retreat. Her breasts hung into his hands like ripe fruit and when he plumbed her again, harder this time, losing a little of his self-control, the bed trembled, shaking his juicy prizes so he closed his fingers around them, gripping tighter. His breath scorched her neck as he covered her like a stallion to a mare, nibbling her skin, working his hips against her.

The tide came in faster waves as she, unable to hold still any longer, pushed back against the tumultuous pressure, squeezing, her orgasm fluttering around his cock as it swelled inside her sheath. And they both felt it, like a thousand tiny kisses lavished on his thick shaft, a decadent sensation comparable to none other. Then he came. The cry rolled out of him like thunder as he emptied wildly, his hips slapping against her bottom, finally pushing her down to the bed.

He slumped over her, breathing hard, still holding her hot breasts, his heart pounding madly where his chest pressed to her back, her own orgasm still coursing through her body, leaving her limp and careless, glad to die under his weight if need be. There were no words. None at all.

And she knew she wasn’t leaving that day.

Perhaps tomorrow would be soon enough.

Perhaps tomorrow she could give him up.

Chapter 18

When John tripped downstairs an hour later, whistling merrily and pulling a leather jerkin over his shirt, his mother had just come in from the hen house holding a basket of eggs under her arm. They exchanged the usual greetings, but he always knew when something troubled her.

She stood by the fire with her back to him, complaining of a chill in the air this morning. He walked up behind her, laid his palms on her shoulders.

“It’s all right, mother. You don’t have to be angry with me.”

Immediately she turned around, the poker in her hands. “You shouldn’t have done it, John. The poor girl…couldn’t you resist your base urges?”

“It’s all right, mother,” he repeated calmly, planting his feet firm, hands on his hips. “I’m going to marry her. Of course. What did you think I planned to do?” And then he laughed easily, clapping his hands together while she turned pale and wan.

“You might have told me!”

“I just did, didn’t I?” He eyed the poker in her hands. “Do put that down, mother. I thought you were going to take a swipe at me for despoiling your precious Lucy.”

“Hush!” She put the poker on its hook, scrutinizing the low ceiling. “Is she still asleep?”

“No, she’s up,” he replied loudly, “and fiddling around with her hair. She’ll be down shortly. Where’s breakfast? I’m famished.” Resuming his jaunty whistle, he began juggling three eggs from the basket, until his mother took them off him, one by one.

“When will you be married then? Let it be soon. There’s been enough gossip in this village.”

“As soon as the parson will take us,” he replied with a grin, bursting at the seams with it this morning, exhilarated. She was his now. She was staying and he would make her his wife.

He quite liked this wooing business after all.

His mother looked relieved, putting the eggs gently back in their basket. “Best tell Alice first. Wouldn’t want her to hear it from another.”

“I will, I will.” He groaned, not looking forward to it. Taking an apple from the dresser, he bit into it, complaining he thought breakfast would be ready by now.

“And when you tell Alice, be a gentleman for once and remember where you come from and don’t…”

“Oh, mother,” he rolled his eyes, taking a second, bigger bite of apple.

“…roll your eyes at me,” she continued, not even looking up from the pot over the fire. “If you’re going to be a married man with a wife, you can start remembering your manners, because you’ll soon have your own sons to be an example to.” She paused then as the reality hit her. “My John, a married man at last! I began to think I’d never see the day.”

He was glad he’d pleased his mother. She may not be the sort to let her emotions overrun these days, but he knew the signs of her excitement. His father used to say she had a temper when she was younger, but she’d mellowed over the years and now, when she felt life getting the better of her, she would sip her plum wine and soon get over it.

His merry mood uncontainable, he surprised his mother again, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m sorry, mother, if I haven’t always been good to you.”

“Good to me? For pity’s sake, what brought this on?”

“I’ve spoken harshly sometimes, not been respectful as I should be.”

Her dark eyes twinkled. “That much is true.” She reached up, slapping a playful hand against his sun-tanned stubble. “I see Lucy’s been a positive influence on you already.”

He chuckled. “She has that.”

“The girl has a wise head on her young shoulders. Sees through you right enough. She’ll handle you as I never could, for all my years on this earth.”

His mother claimed not to know her age, but his father used to say she was sixty-five. Unfortunately he said she was sixty-five every year, sometimes changing it to a hundred and twenty, whenever she’d pricked his temper for some reason. At other times, when his father wanted to make up for some quarrel, he would say she was one and twenty. Since no one knew exactly how old she was, she seemed to think she could live as long as she liked, but often she’d remarked to John that even she couldn’t live forever to see his children born.

He thought of his first born child, still marveling at the idea of fatherhood. It was a good thing, he decided, to be done with boyish games, to grow up, settle down. Someone had to continue the Carver name, since his sisters, of course, took their husbands’ names. Perhaps he’d name his first son Sydney. His mother would be overjoyed.

“I’ll go and see the parson today,” he said through a mouthful of apple, thinking practically.

“Aye. You’ll need the banns read.” She paused, finger to her lips. “I wonder if there’s time to get some silk and lace from your sister for a wedding gown? She might send us some from London since she’ll be there next month. I’d like to make Lucy something pretty, something to do her justice for once.”

“Lucy doesn’t need a wedding gown, mother. I’d marry her stark naked. That’s the way to do her beauty full justice.”

She grabbed her ladle and batted him round the shoulders while he laughed and dodged away.

* * * *

By the time Lucy made her way downstairs, John was already gone out with his dog. Worried they’d made too much noise last night, Lucy was surprised and grateful when Mistress Carver hurried over to embrace her, exclaiming she couldn’t be happier and she’d known it from the first moment she saw her.

“I’ve wanted John to be happy and find the right woman, but I began to despair of it, I admit.” She held Lucy’s face in her hands, brought it down to her level and kissed her brow. “No woman was ever quite right for him. They were all too in awe of my son and would let him get away with anything. Not you, though. When I saw you and the way he looked at you…you made him nervous, Lucy.” She chuckled. “And that’s always a good sign.” She trundled off to the pantry and Lucy took the bucket of scraps out to her pigs, as she did every morning.

It wasn’t until later, as she and his mother collected the last of the apples from the orchard to make cider, that Lucy learned they were all at cross purposes.

“I shall write to my daughter and see if she might spare us some cloth for the bridal gown. Her own wedding was such an extravagant affair.” The old lady stooped to gather some wind-fallen apples from the grass at her feet. “I’m afraid we can’t put on anything quite so grand, but it should be a memorable day. After all, my son is a Sydney, as well as a Carver!” She tossed the apples in Lucy’s basket. “There’ll be no rushing about, no scandals. It’ll all be done properly.”

Lucy gripped the basket in her arms, watching his mother’s lips as they moved, but not quite certain she’d heard correctly. “A wedding?”

“You didn’t think I’d let him dash you off to the parson for hasty vows, without all the feasting, dancing and bridal lace, did you? The day my son finally gets himself a wife? This will be a very special day and we’ll celebrate accordingly.”

A drowsy wasp passed her line of sight, but with her hands holding the basket she couldn’t bat it away. She stared as Mistress Carver shook her apron at it, knocked it to the grass and then ground the insect under her foot.

“Don’t you worry, Lucy. We’ll have the finest wedding Sydney Dovedale has ever seen.”

Sunlight dripped between the branches like melting copper. Playful fingers of a gentle breeze lifted the leaves, rustling them idly, and birds, swooping and darting, performed their last songs of summer.

“What is it Lucy? You’ve gone white as snow.”

I’m a ghost, she mused, ghosts are meant to be pale. Surely she’d died. She couldn’t feel the grass around her feet, or the sun on her face. “Who told you we are to be married, Mistress Carver?”

“Why, John of course. He did ask you, didn’t he?” One hand slapped to her brow, the old lady moaned under her breath. “Fool boy, he would rush on ahead and not think to ask!”

“No.” She bit her lip. “He didn’t ask.”

“Then he just assumed! For pity’s sake.” His mother shook her head, but then carried on with the apple picking. “I’ll make certain he asks you properly, Lucy, and on bended knee! Fancy taking you for granted. I do apologize for my son’s clumsy manners, but how like him.”

Not wanting to upset the lady, Lucy merely smiled as best she could and followed along with her basket. This was it then, now the truth must come out. She’d known this day would come. She should have been prepared.

But even if she were, nothing would have prepared him.

* * * *

“What do you mean, you can’t marry me?”

She’d walked out to the fields to tell him, so his mother needn’t hear. They’d just passed over a stile and into the lane, when she told him she was very sorry but marriage was out of the question.

“Had I known that’s what you were thinking, I would have said sooner,” she exclaimed nervously, “but I never expected you to marry me, John.”

He halted, glaring at her, flicking sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. “Of course that’s what I was thinking. After last night, what else is there to be done but to marry?”

“You don’t need to feel guilty,” she assured him. “I was quite content just to share your bed.”

His eyes kept growing wider, but at the same time darker, when it was usually the reverse. “You’ll marry me and that’s all there is to it. I’ll not be accused of misusing you.”

“Who would accuse you of that?”

“I would! In my heart I would.”

“Oh, John…”

“I want you for my wife, Lucy. I want you to bear my children and live with me side by side, every day of my life.”

She covered her face with her hands, frustration and sorrow fermenting within, making a potent, volatile brew when mixed with anger at herself for not having the gumption to explain. “I can’t marry you, John. Please don’t speak of it again.”

He took hold of her wrists, pulling her hands from her face. “Why? Tell me! Because of my cousin? I told you, I don’t care about your past and he won’t stand in our way.”

She gritted her teeth, shaking her head, nauseous. “You and I can never marry. Would you get it through your thick, stubborn, mulish head? We can’t have everything we want John Carver, not even you!”

He released her wrists and stood looking at her for a few moments. His chest, bare under his sleeveless jerkin, moved rapidly in and out with the strain of holding his temper. His broad shoulders heaved, those thick, tanned arms lifted in supplication. “But you won’t tell me why?”

“I can’t. What do the reasons matter?” she cried, hating herself more with every word.

“I see.” He stepped back, face taut, knuckles cracking. “If that’s the way you want it. I must’ve been mad to think of marrying my cousin’s whore in any case.”

After this he gave her the silent, brooding treatment. Love was a cruel torment, she decided, if this is what it did to them, especially what it did to him, when none of it was his fault. She took all the culpability for this on her own shoulders. No one should be in pain, or bear the punishment, but her.

* * * *

He couldn’t understand it. She was willing to share his bed, yet she wouldn’t be his wife, neither could she tell him why marriage was impossible for her. They’d had word of English victory over the Spanish Armada and soon they should receive a letter from Nathaniel with some date for his return. John wondered if this was what kept her from making a commitment to him. Perhaps she waited for his cousin’s return, biding her time until Nathaniel came to fetch her.

He kept thinking of what she’d said. “We can’t have everything we want, John Carver, not even you!” It surely meant she wanted to stay with him, but something prevented it.

Although he pretended to ignore her all evening, he slyly followed her in any polished surface: the window, the blade of his knife, the plate over the mantle. In the corner of his eye he saw his mother exchanging glances with Lucy. The two women were of like willfulness, thick as thieves almost the moment he brought the hussy home from Yarmouth on his cart. He shook his head, slumped his shoulders, rested his forearms on the table and shoveled stew into his mouth, as if it might be his last meal.