The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  “Come back, you foolish creature,” she yelled.

  The rain swiftly drenched her to the bone. She sought the shelter of nearby trees, but the lightning reminded her that it was best to keep moving. By the time she had walked a mile along the track, her skirts were too heavy to lift, her stockings were soaked, and her shivers were uncontrollable and racked her from head to toe. In the space of an hour, summer was forgotten. It might be the middle of winter given the bitter wind and downpour.

  She had to find a barn. There she would wait out the storm, and hopefully, if Mary had followed this same path, she would cease her gallop and come to a halt along it. The wall by the track turned, and Dara followed it. The wall led to a barn, a thatched one, and beyond it to her delight was a rambling complex of farm buildings, including a small cottage.

  The farmyard was thick with congealed mud. She struggled to wade through it. The closer she was to the cottage, the further away it seemed. She fell forward, landing on her knees heavily. Her dress was now weighed down by the worst kind of filth. She cried out, not for help, but in despair. What more would go wrong with her life?

  * * *

  He came out of the cottage with his jacket pulled over his head. His long boots made easy work of the quagmire. By the time he reached her, she was on all fours, cowered by the storm. A beast of a man, she quickly deduced, he towered like a stallion over her, his shoulders twice her width. Without a word, he scooped her up as if she weighed nought, hung her over his shoulder, and picked up the saddlebag in his other hand.

  On any other occasion, she would squawk in protest at his manhandling of her personage. Today, with her head dangling limply, she was too tired to cry out in alarm. Inside, he would have a nice wife who would feed her broth and wash her clothes. Then together, they would find Mary, and Dara would be on her way.

  The door closed behind him. He carried her over to the fire and lay her down on the rug.

  “Stay,” he said, as if to a dog. He possessed a deep voice.

  She was too exhausted to move. She closed her eyes. There were noises she recognised—the stoking of the fire, the crackle of the blaze, then the hiss as the sap in the wood took the heat. He poured water into a vessel. It clanged as he placed it on or near the fire.

  She might have fallen asleep. But abruptly, she jerked. He was touching her. Somehow, with her semi-conscious, he had removed her cloak and outer gown. She was floppy, like a ragdoll, and weak. She could not decide whether to resist him or not. She opened her eyes. He was bent over her, kneeling at her side. He had stripped off his own wet coat and taken off his boots. A bowl of water was next to him. He dipped the cloth into it and used it to wipe the grime from her face.

  “Thank—”

  “Hush,” he said gruffly. “I’ll take these sodden clothes off you and clean the filth that sticks. Tis farm muck and best removed quickly.” He peeled away her petticoats.

  Astounded, too shocked to speak or protest at his unashamed handling of her body, she lay dormant. She let him undress her. No man had ever touched her so. She stared at him, her lower lip trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. What if he... was that how it happened, an acquiescence in the midst of kindness?

  He had big hands. A square chin and sculptured cheekbones. Set above them, two dark eyes, long eyebrows that formed two rich crescents, and a mop of damp nutmeg hair. The shadow he cast over her was enormous, she was a waif beneath him, and stood little chance if she chose to resist him. He touched the laces of her bodice.

  “It’ll have to come off. Nothing will dry on you. You’ve nothing to fear. I won’t harm you.” He pulled on the threads and the bodice quickly unravelled.

  She was breathing rapidly, sucking in air as if the bodice was being tightened, not loosened. Underneath was her last layer of protection: a thin cotton chemise that went no lower than her knees. The bone-latticed bodice was discarded, joining her gown. She glanced down to her chest. Two pert nipples stuck up under the wet fabric, every one of her ribs was visible. Her hollowed stomach was a pool where the wetness had gathered.

  Next, he turned his attention to her stockings.

  “Sir,” she whispered, “have a care.”

  “They’re torn.” Without warning, he ripped them off, snapping the silk threads. He reached up her thigh to the garters, to draw them down. She went stiff, completely rigid under his hands. With her arms and legs bare, she was close to nakedness.

  He wrung out the cloth and stroked it down her calves, bathing away the mud that was drying on her skin. The water was warm, soothing. His touch was light and efficient. He cleansed her ankles and feet, lifting her legs to circle around them.

  Her arms he handled gently. Tiny goose bumps rose behind the cloth. He dropped the cloth into the bowl and settled on his haunches, examining her. Satisfied she was clean, he rose, fetched a towel.

  “Take off that sodden thing and dry yourself. I’ll make you some broth.” He left her side, and began to bang around inside a cupboard, fetching a bowl.

  Dara rose onto her knees and examined the cottage. There was one room. One living space with a truckle bed wide enough for two positioned in one corner, a brick oven and fireplace along the back wall, a tall pine dresser displaying some rudimentary china pieces, and an oak sideboard. In the middle, a solid-looking table with four chairs, and a broad rocker and accompanying stool.

  “Sir, where is your wife?” she asked. With his back to her, she swiftly undressed and wrapped the generous towelling around her midriff, hiding her breasts and hips from him.

  “I have no wife.” He turned and placed a crockpot on the hearthstone, carefully stepping around her.

  “No sisters?”

  “None.”

  “You’re alone.”

  “Aye.”

  She swallowed hard. “My horse bolted.”

  “We’ll go look for it tomorrow.” He stirred the pot.

  “Tomorrow,” Dara stuttered.

  “I’m keeping you here. You can’t go out in that weather. You’ll drown before you’ve crossed the yard.” Above his head, the rain pounded on the thatch, but the room was dry and warm. “Will you be missed by anyone?”

  She should say yes, but impulsively, she shook her head. “Nobody who cares. I ran off from a convent. The nuns hate me. They’ll be glad to see the back of me. I’m an orphan.” The lies came easily.

  Whatever he was thinking was not clear from his face. “Eat this, then go lie on the bed to sleep.” He ladled out the broth into a bowl and left her side.

  The broth was wholesome. It tasted of carrots and swedes, and slightly of chicken. It warmed her chest, spreading down her arms and legs until it tickled her toes. Licking her lips, she put the bowl and spoon down.

  The bed was not as soft as hers, but in the circumstances it was surprisingly comfortable and not the slightest bit cold. She lay on her back, covered herself with the counterpane of quilted layers, and discarded the damp towel to one side.

  He walked over to the bed and loomed over her. The bristles on his chin twitched. She could not stop staring at him. The breeches he wore were clean and stretched tight around his magnificent thighs. She had not known that men could grow such proud muscles. A broad belt tucked his shirt into his waist, although the shirt he wore was unbuttoned about his breastbone, revealing a tanned flare of smooth skin.

  She had the wherewithal to know she had lost her senses. There was no point in fighting her instincts. For nights she had lain in bed waiting for just such a visitation as this and now that it was upon her, she was filled with exotic feelings. They centred on her belly, a confusing morass of stimulants. Ripples of nervous energy raced to her beating heart, then to her throat and finally her heated cheeks. She was richly endowed with blushes, above and below.

  He reached out with a finger, hooked the counterpane, and slowly drew it back. He sucked in air at the sight of her rounded breasts. A slight sound, but in the silence it was audible. She kept her arms to her sides. He contin
ued to unfurl the covers, exposing her navel and hips. With one last flick of his wrist, he tossed aside the counterpane. She was nude and without a thread of protection.

  “Part them legs,” he said.

  She shifted them sideways. Her womanly hair was sprightly and lightly coloured, like the hair on her head. Fair in many places, she was the opposite of his brooding darkness.

  “Bring them knees up and out. That’s it, lass. Don’t be afraid.” He moved to the foot of the bed to admire the view. He smiled. His teeth were white and straight.

  She should scream, cover herself, and make her escape. But she was doing the opposite. She was thinking that this was the moment to bring her waiting to an end. If Lord Coleman could not be bothered to visit her chamber, then she would offer her virginity to man who had taken more care of her in one hour than her husband had in three weeks of marriage.

  He unbuckled his belt and drew it out of the loops, discarding it at his feet. The breeches were stretched even further and beyond their natural seamline. The buttons of his shirt flew off as he dragged the sleeves off his arms. He grinned. He was so excited; it actually pleased her to think she was the cause of his excitement.

  He unbuttoned the flap of his breeches. The thing, the emblem of his masculinity, stuck out and up.

  She gasped. It was huge, far bigger than she had ever imagined. The head of it was purple, throbbing and smooth. It gleamed in the candlelight. The rest of it was coarser and covered in threads that pulsated. He spat on his hand and rubbed it up and down the erect thing.

  “Keep a tight hold of the back of ‘em knees. And relax, lass. Tis best to relax when my cock comes a-visiting.” He sank his knees onto the bed by her feet and leaned toward her. His whole body swamped hers as he lay his hips between her thighs and rested his hands on either side of her head. Lowering himself, he tipped her chin up using his nose, nestling his face in her flared hair about her throat, and inhaled deeply.

  “Thank heavens, you smell of petals and lavender, and not shit. Sweet.” He sighed. “Like an angel, you are, lass, coming ‘ere to me this day. A wondrous thing.”

  He lowered his mouth on one of her nipples and tenderly kissed it. Then he opened his mouth wider and drew the bud inside, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. She arched her back in response. He lifted his head, grasped a few locks of her hair in his hand, and tilted her head so that his lips could kiss her throat. He peppered more along her neck and shoulder.

  “Tastes as sweet, too,” he murmured. “Say you want it, lass.”

  “I do,” she muttered.

  “Then say it like you mean it.”

  “Take me.” She had no way to know what that might mean other than her deflowering. What little she knew about the coupling of man and woman had been taught by a frigid nun. She had spoken only of his thing between the legs. Only when this man was lying on top of Dara, pushing his thing up against her, did she understand he meant to enter her.

  “Don’t tense,” he said lightly. “Makes it harder for me to be kind to you.”

  Her lips trembled. All over she was quivering.

  He pressed harder, making her open up. “You’re wet. That’s good, lass.” He pressed against her, swerving his hips from one of her thighs to the other.

  Her arms finally came to life; she let go of her knees, allowing them to rest on the back of his legs. She grasped his thick arms above his bent elbows and dug her nails into his flesh. He growled softly in the manner of a tamed bear and responded by kissing her neck with firm lips, while below, he cupped one of her buttocks cheeks and gave it an almighty squeeze.

  She whimpered. He chortled. “Two can play that game, remember that.” He relaxed his grip on her bottom. “Fine arse.”

  More coarse words to memorise and bring out on another occasion. She hoped that this was not the only time a man would exercise his pleasure on her meek form.

  He shifted up and she felt the full girth of his manhood enter her. She held her breath, aware of the tight pinch, and how it was changing her forever. She opened her eyes. He was staring at her face, his black pool eyes focused on hers. There was a depth to his gaze that stunned her. Her husband glanced away when she looked into his eyes. The farmer she’d stumbled upon on a stormy day was nothing like that stiff, cold-hearted man.

  He lunged forward and the pain spiked. She cried out.

  “Ye gods,” he gasped. He had breached her and given his panting, he had not expected the resistance. He clearly enjoyed it though. The smile on his face spread from ear to ear. “You did not have to do that, lass. It’s too generous of you.”

  She was at a loss as to what to say.

  “You want me to stop?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then brace yourself. I’m going to fuck you until my cock is fit to burst. When I says turn, you’ll turn over and I can end it on your arse. It’s as good a place as any.”

  She had no clue as to what he meant, but she nodded.

  He pumped his thing, his cock, in and out of her with a rhythmic pulse. It probably was something he might do faster, because he seemed to be holding back, forcing himself to achieve his mission with leisurely thrusts. With each entrance, she gave, and with each exit, for he liked to withdraw to the tip, he savoured the tightness of her narrow passage. She bit back a cry, not of pain, because the worst of that was over, but delight. Something was tickling her mound—his cock or his soft hairs? She could not tell.

  The pace switched and changed. The candle flickered. The light was fading, his face was cast into deeper shadows. She wanted to remember this strange night forever. It was worthy of a painting in her mind, one that would wipe out the reason she was in the cottage, the frightening storm, the pity of the servants who knew she was neglected by her husband. He was likely to be impotent, a word that now made perfect sense. The virulent man between her thighs was far from incapable. He was the embodiment of masculinity. Leaving his side would bring her crashing back to the reality of her marriage. She preferred not to sully the moment by contemplating that misery.

  She hitched her bottom up higher and met his thrusts with a renewed keenness.

  With a sudden force, he flipped her over, grasped her tender arse cheeks and prised them apart. He meant to plunder there? Surely not. It was not possible!

  “Sir,” she shrieked.

  “Hold steady, lass. Don’t fret.” He nudged the furrow with the slippery head of his cock and grunted. Liquid heat impacted her tight nook, and she was sure some of it had slipped inside. Overwhelmed by the sensation, she quaked beneath him. “That’s it,” he said. “A little tease for your arse. You’ll like it better up there once you’ve weakened to it.”

  She groaned, feeling the warmth trickled across her bottom and back. Eventually, the spurts finished. But he had not. He plunged his thumb inside her deflowered channel and hooked his fingers underneath her mound. Slowly he rubbed the flat of his rough fingers there, right at the apex of her sex. She squirmed. He slapped her bottom with his other hand.

  “You’ll like this, trust me.” He captured one of her roving hands and pinned it behind her back. The other she used to clutch the pillow. “Women,” he tut-tutted. “Never know what’s best for them.” He clucked his tongue. “I’ll have it out of you.”

  What was he referring to? She quickly did not care to think about his words. His hand was committing some delightful atrocity on her body’s weakest spot and she gave into it. She thrashed and writhed, crying out, as the pain and pleasure spread from mound to belly, then her swollen breasts and finally her tightening throat. She could not breathe. He slapped her arse hard again.

  She spluttered, finding air at last to breathe. He let go of her wrist, withdrew his thumb, and lifted his body away from hers. She dozed, barely aware of the cloth on her back and bottom, wiping away his sticky residue. He covered her up. The last thing she remembered was the puff of his breath blowing out the candle.

  * * *

  In the morning light, she turn
ed over and spotted him in the rocking chair. He was stretched out, his head resting on the back, his heels on the hearth. She thought he was asleep, but as the straw mattress rustled with her movements, he lifted his head.

  “Finally, you’re awake. I’ve fed the cows and pigs since you’ve napped. We’ll go look for that horse of yours after breakfast. Then you’ll tell me why you’re giving away your virginity to a man you don’t know.”

  She swallowed. “What is your name?”

  “Matthew. That’s all you need know.”

  “Dara.”

  “That’s enough for me too. I’ve washed your clothes.” He pointed to the line he had strung across one corner of the room. “They’re too wet to wear. So, you’ll have to put on one of my shirts.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  He laughed. “Given that you let me fuck you, then I guess the debt is paid.”

  She felt the prickle of tears. She’d not thought she owed him in that way. She had offered herself willingly because something had stirred so strongly inside her she could not resist him.

  “What?” He sat straighter.

  “I don’t want to be in your debt if it means you think that you can take me without thought.”

  “Without thought? I’ve thought much about what we did yesterday. I was filled with the lust like no other. You have a gift for it, lass. But. I believe you did it knowing you were breaking a sacred vow.” He stood and pulled upon the waistband of his breeches. The belt was somewhere on the floor.

  She grabbed the counterpane and wrapped it around her tighter. “What vow?”

  “The marriage kind.” He grinned. “You ‘ave his ring on your finger, ninny. Do you think I’m blind?”

  “I am not married,” she said. She was not ready to explain why she thought herself free.

  “We’ll discuss that lie later, when you’re fed and the horse found.” He jerked his thumb. “Up and dress, before I change my mind. I’ve plenty to do about the farm without chasing after a nag.”

  The shirt reached her knees and she had to roll up the sleeves to find her hands. Her riding boots were dry but not the stockings. He offered her the modesty of his long overcoat; the heavy tweed covered her to the ankles. He served her cold porridge in a wooden bowl. If she wasn’t so hungry, she would have asked him to warm it on the fire. The tea, though, was pleasant and hot, although weaker than her customary brew. It was somewhat odd that he could afford good quality tea and live in such a humble abode.