The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

  Dara was on the cusp of a climax when he tweaked one of her nipples between his finger and thumb. She winced, clenched her quim, and tossed her head back.

  “You played with me. Now I play with you,” he said pleasantly.

  As she bucked and ground her hips into his pelvis, he teased and tickled her breasts. He used his hands, his lips and tongue; he kissed and sucked, fluttered or rolled his tongue around each nipple in turn. He kneaded with his hands, trapping her breasts as she bounced. Throughout, she had to keep going, because if she slowed, he nudged her with a gleeful reminder by using his teeth. When the sharp stings transformed into a subtle caresses, she moaned. Her legs were weakening, her muscles cramping. She cried out in frustration. She did not want to stop, but she could not keep going.

  “I’ll help you,” he said soothingly. Once again, he had her arse cheeks cupped in his palms and with that wonderful ease of strength, he propelled her up and down.

  Her hair flew in all directions, catching his face. She scraped her nails down his bare chest and arms, clawing at him, oblivious to the crushing grip of his hands. The throes of crippling pleasure were joined with joyous pain. The climax, which he masterfully engineered from the moment she had straddled his thighs, was designed to herald what he planned for her next.

  He lifted her off his cock, twisted her around, and brought her down onto the sheepskin rug at his feet. She landed, without discomfort, on all fours. He immediately penetrated her from behind on bended knees, driving his weight into her. What prevented her from flying forward was a firm grip on her shoulders. Below, her breasts swung in tandem to his thrusts. She came again instantly and grasped at the fleecy tufts. Now she knew the true purpose of the rug—to cushion her knees.

  The quaking erupted throughout her body, each tiny contraction of a tender muscle joined to another, and on, until she was rippling from calf to arms. The tension dissolved in conjunction with the waning orgasm. In its place, she felt only bliss and because she was neither rigid nor soft in her flesh, she simply yielded to his thrusts, the steady pounding of his hips against her bottom.

  “Mm, you are a greedy girl,” he growled. “But so am I as voracious.”

  Abruptly he halted, muttered a curse, and retrieved his cock. As she anticipated, he slid the tip of his cock up her slit into her furrow, then into the tiny opening, just in time to capture his lengthy spillage. The heat of it scorched her insides, burning its way into her core. The miniature thrusts stopped, and he withdrew. She slumped forward and ended up spread-eagled on the rug, and in seconds, she was asleep.

  She woke to find a quilt covering her body, the fire lit, and a plate of food by her nose. She was hungry and thirsty. Matthew was back in his rocker, a tankard in his hand, and with a fresh pipe of tobacco.

  “You slept like a baby,” he said, smiling. “Did I wear you out?”

  She propped herself up on her elbow and nibbled on a slice of bread. “No. I thought you needed the rest.” She shook her unruly hair out with a flick of her hand.

  He leaned forward, the chair tipping with him. “That’s good, because I’m not finished. You eat up, Dara, restock, and then we’ll see what you’ve learnt.”

  She swallowed a dry lump of bread with a solemn gulp. “You’re not finished?”

  “Aye. I’m weighing up whether to fuck you this way or that, seeing that you’re rested.” He had re-buttoned his breeches. It was obvious there was movement; his cock was bulging.

  She stared, the tip of her tongue caught behind her lower teeth, and watched as he rose to his full height, plucked the buttons from his breeches, and grasped his fully erect shaft.

  “Finish up, there’s a good lass. The day is still young.”

  From chair to table, then onto the bed, they moved, often coupled together, other times he picked her up and carried her. There were calm periods, when she ate hungrily, bathed a little, slept perhaps in a strangely dreamless way. At one point, she giggled uncontrollably. She could not remember why exactly, only that he had his fingers inside her.

  By the time candles were lit, she was too spent to think, never mind command her body to answer any of his wishes. Finally resting on the bed, she found she was not alone with her exhaustion. Matthew had succumbed to slumber. Naked and lying on his back, he had one arm tossed above his head, the other resting on her bottom.

  “Well,” she murmured, “that’s the best Sunday I’ve ever had. I wish all days were Sundays.”

  Chapter Five

  She walked out of the farmhouse carrying an empty wicker basket and halted. The sun had already baked the mud in the yard dry and Barnaby, the largest of the dogs, was running around in circles barking. Across the other side of the yard, leaning against the gate, were three young men. Two with fair heads, one as dark as coal. All three had a complexion that was ruddy and tanned. They wore thick belts around their long breeches, leather jackets, and no vests. The tallest was fanning himself with a flat cap, the smallest chewed on a stem of straw. The short stout one climbed onto the gate and sat on the top of it.

  The fairest whistled. “What have we ‘ere. ‘As the master got himself a wench?” He clapped the shoulder of the dark-haired man, nearly knocking him off the gate. The trio burst into raucous laughter.

  Unsure if she should retreat into the house or continue to the barn, she stayed on the spot.

  “Come ‘ere, girl, so’s we can get a better look at thee,” said the one with the straw dangling out of his mouth.

  “Who are you?” she yelled.

  “They’re my farmhands,” Matthew growled from behind her. He emerged from the house and marched toward the men.

  Immediately, they changed their stance. The straw was whipped out of the mouth, while the tall one clutched his cap to his chest. The silent one climbed off the gate where he’d been perched.

  Dara followed Matthew.

  “These are my hired labourers. Ezekiel,” Matthew pointed at the tallest. “Lemuel, his brother.” The other fair one. “And Kurt.”

  The dark-haired one bowed his head. “Fraulein.”

  “He’s from Germany. Came for a visit and stayed. Now, lads, are you finished at Mother Hobbs?”

  They nodded. “Barn is up. Field is ploughed and planted.”

  “Good.” Matthew turned to her. “Mother Hobbs lives in the valley yonder. Her husband broke his leg barn building. So I sent my three lads to help finish it and do other chores for her until the leg fixed. I can manage for a while on my own.” He took Dara’s arm and drew her closer to him. “This is Dara. She’s a milkmaid and will be living in the house as my servant.” He squeezed her arm to stop her protesting at the description. They had not agreed on a suitable explanation for her presence.

  “Miss Dara,” said Lemuel with a cheesy grin. “It’s been a while since...” He withered under Matthew’s stare and stepped back.

  Matthew planted his hands on his hips. “Well, now you’re back, you can be about it. There’s work waiting for you. And as for Dara here, you’ll leave her be. She’s busy.”

  “Master,” they murmured in chorus.

  The three men dispersed, one to the barn, the other two to the fields.

  “You employ them?” Dara asked.

  “You didn’t think I looked after all this on my own?” He waved at the expanse of fields. “Ezekiel is the oldest. He looks after the pigs, mucks out their pen. Lemuel is my shepherd lad. Shears the sheep for wool, which I sell in the market, and does the lambing. Bullies the goats when he’s in a bad mood. And Kurt, he’s a strong back. Ploughs the fields. We grow cabbage and barley to make beer. Now they’re ‘ere I can deal with other matters. There’s a wall that needs mending and a roof repairing and...” He nudged her arm.

  She was watching Lemuel stroll across the field, Barnaby chasing after him. “Lass,” growled Matthew. “You’ll keep them pretty eyes off my hands. They know their place. They sleep in the barn, and go home on Sundays. They don’t come into the house without my permission. You feed
them in the barn, they keep it homey enough. Make sure there’s a pail of water for them and wrap some bread and cheese, leave it in the basket. If they come into the house, they knock and wait outside, rain or shine. But you keep out of their way.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What do you take me for? I don’t dally with servants.”

  He slapped her rump and she jumped. “They’re good lads. Don’t corrupt them. One day, they’ll marry good girls and settle down. Go get those eggs.”

  * * *

  He treated them sometimes like sons. Laughing and joking with them. When he wanted their company, he called them to help him in a task, usually something that required brawn. She quickly learnt that Lemuel was a talker, jabbering away; Ezekiel was the trio’s spokesman—they sent him to the cottage door when they needed more food or returned the empty basket; Kurt was softly spoken with hooded eyes and huge hands, even bigger than Matthew’s. He whispered in the ears of Bert, the Suffolk Punch who pulled the plough, and the horse neighed in reply. He spoke English but with a clipped accent. When he muttered to himself, it was in German.

  Matthew only let them near her when he was present. She was not sure if his possessive nature pleased or offended her. When he was not happy with them, he lashed them with his tongue. On one occasion, he caught Lemuel napping in the haystack. Lemuel was dragged about by his ankles and castigated so loudly, Dara heard it all from the yard where she was feeding the hens.

  “Who owns this land?” Matthew bellowed.

  “You does, Master,” said Lemuel, twirling the cap around in his hands.

  “Who owns the sheep?”

  “You does, Master.”

  “And who owns that lazy arse of yours?”

  “I does, Master.” He bowed his head.

  “Do I tell your beloved ma that you’re a lazy curd?”

  The lad blushed crimson. “Please don’t, Master. She’ll have me guts. She’ll sent me to Black Daniel.”

  Matthew patted Lemuel’s face. “Then don’t fall asleep. Off with you.”

  He wandered over to join Dara.

  “Who’s Black Daniel?” she asked.

  “His uncle. A brute. Beats them. Broke Ezekiel’s arm with a staff.”

  Given Matthew had spanked her, threatened her with a strapping, she was surprised that he considered this other man a brute. “You brought them here instead?”

  “Aye. Their ma begged me to take them and turn them into men. Black Daniel is rumoured to have killed one of his labourers. As for Kurt, he wandered in, picked up the plough as if it weighed nought, and asked for employment. Never quibbled what I pay him. I think he ran away from the army.”

  “I guess they’re fortunate.”

  “Aye. But don’t go telling them about the begging part. As far as the brothers are concerned they belong to Black Daniel if I let them go. Their mother, bless her soul, would be horrified to send them to him.”

  Dara smiled. “They’re nice boys.”

  Matthew stepped closer and whispered in her ear, “If they lay a finger on you... you say. I’ll not let them touch you.”

  She swallowed. “I’m sure they wouldn’t dare.”

  “Aye.” He left her to the chickens.

  They called him Master, a title sometimes given to the youngest son of a noble house, and it suited Matthew to have a title. There was something about his manner, if she ignored the rough words and brevity of his speech, that made the hairs on the back of her head stand up. Perhaps he had been a junior officer in a regiment... no. Matthew was not one for following orders. He certainly was not the son of a clergyman. In the end she concluded the title was born out of respect. He treated them fairly, although sternly. He was a natural born leader.

  Later that day, when the sun had dipped lower and sent its golden rays bouncing off the grass, Matthew came into the cottage. He kicked off his boots, which she collected and cleaned, and accepted the tankard of ale she’d poured from the pitcher. He sat on the rocker and stretched out his long legs. From out of his pocket he fetched his pipe and he knocked the ash out. The tobacco he kept in a little pouch in his breast pocket.

  “Do you need me... Master?” She bit on her lip.

  He swung around to look at her. A soft smile spread across his face. “In a while, in a while.”

  She smoothed down her apron with trembling hands. She made sure he saw they were quivering with anticipation.

  The days began to blur into one another.

  * * *

  She found the scraps of paper at the back of the cutlery drawer. Each one had neat rows of handwriting listing ingredients and a recipe. The crumpled notes were yellowed, the edges torn in places. She picked one—chicken pie. She still had some leftovers from the chicken Matthew had cooked on the fire. Rolling the pastry was a challenge; it stuck to the table and tore, but she persevered. Eventually, she had enough to line the pie dish. She filled it with the chicken, some carrots and onions, and the stock she had made with herbs. With the pie topped with another layer of pastry, she placed it in the small oven that was built into the brick fireplace. It was where she baked the bread.

  The temperature of the oven was unpredictable. Mostly too hot, occasionally too tepid, it meant keeping an eye on the pie in case it burnt. The smell filled the cottage; she was proud of the way it made her stomach rumble. When the top was crusty and golden, she lifted the dish out and left it on the hearthstone. Stepping outside, she called to the men; Kurt heard her first and came running.

  “Smells good,” he said, wiping his face with his grubby sleeve.

  She frowned. “Wash properly, Kurt.”

  Lemuel and Ezekiel arrived together and joined Kurt at the trough.

  “What have you made, Dara?” Lemuel asked.

  “Chicken pie.”

  Matthew emerged from behind a barn. He had his sleeves rolled up.

  “It’s pie, Master,” Lemuel said. “I can smell it from here.”

  Matthew sniffed. “Is there enough for the lads?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Plenty.”

  She served the portions onto plates and lay them on the table. The three labourers followed Matthew into the house, removing their hats and bobbing their heads at her. She pointed at the table. Matthew hooked the biggest chair for himself.

  They spooned the pie into eager mouths. Lemuel smacked his lips. “This is good.”

  “Good,” Kurt repeated.

  Matthew picked at a piece of chicken. He had not spoken yet. Dara waited apprehensively.

  “It reminds me of the one Missus—” Lemuel’s comment was cut short. Ezekiel kicked him under the table. Kurt spluttered on a mouthful.

  Matthew slammed his spoon down. “Out, get out,” he roared.

  The men grabbed their caps and bolted, leaving behind half-eaten food and a stunned Dara.

  “Why did you do that?” She planted her hands on her hips. “They liked it. I worked all day to make it.”

  “They know why, that’s all that matters.” He would not meet her eye.

  Dara stopped short of slamming the cottage door behind her. Not one word of gratitude. Outside, Ezekiel was loitering, walking in circles. He started when she approached.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said unconvincingly.

  “You mentioned a missus? Yours?”

  “No.”

  “Then... was Matthew ever married?”

  Ezekiel backed away. “I can’t talk about her. Master needs to say her name, not I. But the pie, it was like the one she made.”

  “Who?”

  Ezekiel ran off.

  She returned to the cottage. Inside, Matthew was poking the fire with a stick. His plate of food was barely touched. He hated it. She slumped into a chair, too angry to cry. He had ruined a perfectly good meal, embarrassed her, and given no reason why.

  He sighed heavily. “Where did you find the recipe?”

  “On some scraps of paper in a drawer.” She pointed to the cupboard.<
br />
  He rummaged around and pulled them out. “I thought...” He crumpled them into his fist and walked to the fire.

  “No, please don’t burn them. They’re helpful. I don’t know what to cook. Please, Matthew. Don’t.”

  His expression was sombre and wary, and she detected a shade of sadness in his dark eyes.

  He looked at the notes. “Very well. Keep them.” He thrust them into her hand and walked out of the cottage.

  Dara smoothed the pieces out and returned them to the drawer. What else was he keeping from her? It was apparent that she was not the first woman to live in the cottage. He probably had been married, but for some reason he could not speak of it. Had she left him or had he lost her to a worse fate? Unless he was prepared to explain to Dara, she dare not ask.

  * * *

  “All this land is his,” said Ezekiel, pointing from one spot on the horizon to another.

  Dara had brought the labourer bread and cheese for his lunch. He was standing by the pigsty. She was used to the stink now, the grunting of the hungry pigs, and the squeals of the piglets. Truth was, she found the smaller ones sweet and amusing, and she often joined Ezekiel and threw them leftovers. She and Ezekiel were alone on the farm. The other two men had gone with Matthew to the market to buy and sell.

  “That is many acres,” she agreed. “A large tenancy for one man.”

  Ezekiel removed the half-chewed piece of bread from his mouth. “Oh, he’s no tenant, miss. He’s the master of his own land.”

  “Owns it? He’s a landowner?” If the acreage was substantial enough, Matthew had more authority than she had realised.

  “How came he by the land?” she asked.

  “From his parents, I assume. He didn’t buy it. He’s never built upon it, or taken tenants.” Ezekiel shrugged. “He’s his own man.”

  “What’s his family name?”

  “Denzel.”

  She pursed her lips. Unlike Barraclough, this name meant nothing to her.

  “What’s yours?” Ezekiel asked.