Sanctifying Grace (Resurrection) (2 page)

Today was a good day. I’d had a visit from Hilary, my Macmillan nurse: late thirties, no-nonsense, yet full of unspoken compassion and I had no idea how she had the emotional strength to do the job she did.

After she ass
essed my walking, she organised a Zimmer frame to be delivered, and for a wheelchair to arrive shortly after that, for when the Zimmer became obsolete. She arranged for a hospital bed (‘you’ll be much more comfortable in that and it will be easier for your mother to care for you later on’) and a raft of other little necessities I didn’t know I needed. I also got to meet her sidekick, Alison.

‘I do have time off, you know,’ Hilary declared, ‘and Alison will be there for you when I can’t be.’

I didn’t begrudge her any time off; I was grateful for her being there at all and not just for me: she would support my whole family in the difficult times ahead, before, during, and after my death.

She left me in the living room watching the flames of the fire my mother had lit because she knew how much I liked it, but it was at least half an hour before I heard Hilary’s car start up.

My mother, when she came to ask if I wanted any tea, was red-eyed, but composed. I was glad she felt she could grieve, even if it wasn't in front of me. I shook my head and she went to prepare the evening meal.

The room began to darken, slowly and surely, and I debated whether to turn on the TV for the news: not that it mattered to me anymore
, because it was strange to think that life was carrying on just fine without me.

There was no gentle tugging at my mind this time, no warning at all: I was sitting in my chair, still and quiet, alone with my thoughts, then I was jumping out of my skin as some kind of large insect whizzed past my ear with enough speed to ruffle my hair. This was immediately followed by a loud bang! I wasn't a farmer’s daughter for nothing – I knew gun fire when I heard it and it only took a microsecond
to realise someone was shooting at me.

I leaped around madly, trying to make my body as difficult a target as possible, ignoring the sharp stones under my feet as I zigzagged around an enclosed garden like a rabbit being chased by a fox.

‘Fucking hell, Grace! I nearly shot you!’

Roman. Of course it was. And I had never heard him swear before.

I ground to a halt, quivering with shock and indignation.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I called sarcastically as I spotted him up near the house, a long-barrelled rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. I walked towards him, gingerly avoiding the worst of the stones. As I got closer
, I could see his composure had left him; he looked shaken and disconcerted.

‘You materialised right in front of the target,’ he complained. ‘It was a miracle I missed you.’

‘Did you miss me on purpose or are you just a bad shot?’

The composure was swiftly coming back, especially when I accused him of being less than perfect. The Roman I was used to, the arrogant, aristocratic, overbearing, implacable, immovable one, was taking charge once more.

‘It was my skill and the swiftness of my reactions that caused me to miss. If you had appeared in front of anyone else, you would be dead.’

I smiled to show him I was teasing and took a deep breath of satisfaction. I was with him once more and not only that, I was well and healthy and everything worked. I couldn’t contain myself and took off for a lap around the walled garden to celebrate, not caring I was totally nude. It was wonderful to feel how strong my legs were as they scissored me forwards, eating up the ground. I wanted to do hand-stands
and back-flips, but guessed this might be taking things a step too far; I might feel I could leap tall buildings, but I hadn’t ever been able to do back-flips in my normal life, so why should I be able to expect to do them now? I satisfied myself by hopping and skipping like a newborn lamb let out onto grass for the first time.

Roman stood quietly and impassively, never taking his eyes off me
, and I began to feel a different sort of joy as I cavorted in front of him, one that started deep down in my belly and spread rapidly throughout my body until even my fingertips tingled.

I halted in front of him.

‘I am very glad to see you, Grace,’ he began. ‘There is so much I want to tell you.’

I frowned: talking was definitely not on my immediate agenda.

‘Look,’ he continued, holding out the rifle for me to inspect. ‘It’s a Winchester 94. I got it in America last time I was there.’ He caressed the length of the barrel. I glanced at it briefly, not liking the look of the sleek, dark metal. I had no interest in guns and wasn’t motivated to start now.

‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he cooed and I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye, unable to believe that Roman, the unemotional, impassive vampire, was getting all warm and fuzzy over a piece of metal. I admit I had been known to go all weak-kneed and gooey-eyed over aircraft, but I was human, it was allowed.

‘Do you want to see me shoot?’ he asked. ‘I have yet to miss.’ He pointed to the far end of the garden and I could barely make out a target pinned to a board. In the rapidly darkening evening, I had no chance of telling whether he had actually hit the damn thing.

‘See,’ he insisted, forgetting that my eyesight was far weaker and less sharp than his. ‘There is only one hole, dead centre, and I have fired this seven times.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said. ‘Got a cloak handy?’ Roman always had a cloak and I was starting to chill as it was still only March.

‘In the house. There are some clothes for you somewhere. Don’t expect them to be in fashion, though,’ he warned.

‘Aren’t you coming inside with me?’ I had never been very good at flirting, but I gave him one of my best come-hither looks.

‘I wish to stay and practice some more,’ he replied, his attention all on the gun, so I huffed n
oisily and stomped to the house: difficult with bare feet, but I tried anyway.

The house was a grey stone, slate-topped, square, solid chunk of a building, with floor-to-ceiling French doors opening onto the garden. I quickly glanced around the room, the sounds of rifle fire following me inside. I could see a staircase beyond the open door to the hall and I stamped my way up the stairs hard enough to rattle the pictures which lined the walls.

I didn’t care. I was sulking. I wasn’t used to Roman more or less ignoring me. I certainly wasn't used to playing second fiddle to a lump of metal: a meal, maybe, but not a boys’ toy. He was as deadly, probably more so, than the gun he was playing with and I wondered why he bothered with it.

As I brooded I rooted around in the first bedroom I came to and found some women’s clothes stuffed into a cupboard. Grimacing, I pulled on a badly creased skirt and a blouse, together with a long cotton petticoat. Again, no knickers. There were never any knickers. I don’t know whether panties had been invented yet
, but I certainly missed wearing them.

I slipped the petticoat over my head and was relieved to see there wasn’t an excessive amount of fabric. The skirt was considerably less bulky than I was used to wearing whenever I was with Roman: navy, high-waisted, narrow over the hips, falling to just above the ankle. The blouse was a cream lace-and-silk affair with a square neckline and three-quarter sleeves. Not yet the clothing from my era, but getting there. The one thing that had definitely attracted my attention was the quality of the fabrics and the workmanship. This felt like high-end designer and not the mass produced high street chain stuff I bought in my own time. That didn’t stop me from wishing I had a pair of jeans and a hoodie though – I was ever the tomboy.

I dug out a pair of button-up ankle boots from the bottom of the cupboard and pulled them on, then went in search of my lover.

He was still playing soldiers. It didn’t seem to matter how old a man was, thirty-
five or one thousand and thirty-five (Roman was actually older than that), they didn’t really seem to grow up.

I sighed loudly and dramatically, but it made no difference. He knew I was there and he ignored me. Completely. He was busy seeing how quickly he could load and shoot, and to my eyes
, he was nothing more than a blur.

Eventually
, the box of ammunition on the ground next to him was empty. I prayed he wouldn’t go fetch any more. He didn’t. Instead he swaggered over to the target and retrieved it, waving it at me, and like women all over the world when faced with a pleased-with-themselves, tail-wagging male, I made ‘well done’ noises.

Finally
, we retreated to the house, but not before he turned to look longingly at the now empty board where the target had hung. I gave him a gentle shove through the French doors, my exasperation beginning to show. Roman appeared not to notice and I wasn’t sure whether it was an act or whether he really was oblivious. I suspected the former: Roman noticed everything and even if I wasn’t easy to read (I was), he’d had centuries of studying humans. He knew alright: he just wasn't bothered.

I finally got mad when he pulled out a pistol and said ‘Smith and Wesson,’ with the sort of overtones a man used when talking to his lover.

‘Right! I’m off!’ I announced. ‘You obviously don’t want me here, so I’ll go and find something else to do until I go back to my own time.’

I flounced into the hall, skirt swishing most effectively as I twirled away from him. He was there before me, laughing.

‘Grace,’ he chuckled. ‘Don’t be so cross. I
am
pleased to see you, truly I am. You caught me unawares, that’s all.’

I was only a little mollified. I always caught him unawares
, but he had never reacted like this before.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, slipping his arms round me, but I refused to relent and remained rigid even as his scent, that erotic, evocative smell, swirled around me, filling my head with the sweetness of summer meadows, the fresh tang of  ocean-salt air, the mouth-watering aroma of chocolate, the –

The bastard was seducing me! Even as I knew what he was doing, I was powerless to stop him. Though he could not enthral me, he had no need to. His nearness was enough to render me helpless. I don’t know if he was able to consciously manipulate the scent he gave off or not, but either way, he was reducing me to nothing but a puddle of hormones without any conceivable effort on his part.

I relaxed into him and his grip tightened. My lover was back. I could tell he no longer had guns on his mind as an entirely different sort of weapon pressed urgently into my stomach. My mouth went dry with desire, whilst another part of me flooded with wet heat.

He breathed deeply, savouring my own scent, and growled in satisfaction deep in his throat. I felt the rumble in his chest and, suddenly, I wanted to lay my hands on the hard muscles under his shirt and to feel his cool, cool skin next to mine. I wanted to stroke the dark curling hairs scattered like jewels over his chest and follow them down his stomach to where they grew in abundance around his manhood.

He didn’t give me any more time to contemplate the contours of his body beneath his clothes. He bent his head, his hair falling loosely around my face, the stubble on his chin grazing my cheek, as he sought my mouth. His lips were cool
, but the inside of his mouth was all sun-baked heat. I ran my tongue over his teeth and he shuddered deliciously when I touched his canines, which were sharp and fully extended. For Roman, sex would never be totally complete if he couldn’t use those fangs.

He dragged his lips away from mine and trailed kisses down my neck, pausing at my throat where the blood pulsed and surged strongly in rhythm with the pounding of my heart. I knew it aroused him, the flow of that sweet, red liquid through my arteries and it probably aroused him even more not knowing if I would let him bite me or not.

The power I had over him was purely imaginary – he could sink his teeth into me whenever he wanted and I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it, but he let me pretend the choice was mine and, because he respected my wishes enough to comply if I didn’t want him drawing my blood, I could tantalise him with the promise of it. And, to keep him on his toes, I didn’t always let him bite me. Not knowing was part of the fun.

He began to slowly undo the buttons on my blouse
, but I wanted something rougher and more primeval, so I pushed his hands away and, gripping the top of the blouse with both hands, I tore the buttons off the front of it with one savage rip.

Roman cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing slightly
, and a smile spread slowly across his face. He knew my mood instantly and was very happy to comply. Both hands went to my breasts and he kneaded them roughly, pinching each nipple between thumb and forefinger, not quite hard enough to hurt, walking that thin line between pleasure and pain.

I threw my head back and moaned, revelling in his touch,
and then gasped as he grasped the back of my head as he kissed me hard. His other hand hiked my skirt up and delved underneath. He grunted in satisfaction when he discovered my lack of underwear, the palm of his hand cupping my mound and grinding against me. I answered by pressing my hips towards him, encouraging him in his exploration.

He slipped two fingers deep inside, working them in and out and as I squirmed against him, feeling the delectable pressure building and I, too, was busy, unfastening the buttons on his trousers. I delved around until I found what I was searching for and his member sprang free of its cage. He most definitely wasn’t thinking of guns right now
; no indeedy!