The Borrowed Bride

by Jaye Peaches

“Er... Smith.” The lie came easily but the name was a stupid choice.

  He grinned and tapped his nose. “Secret’s safe with me, Dara. I’ll not tell anyone you’re hiding here.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it. Lie upon lie was never a good idea. Instead, she smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

  Ezekiel accepted her anonymity with a surprising lack of curiosity. He showed the same disinterest in Matthew’s affairs, too. She understood why Matthew employed the brothers, even with their lazy tendencies. They did not care who he was, and what better way to hide secrets than employ young men with limited imagination.

  Matthew returned in time for supper, his pockets jangling with coins.

  “Good day, Master?” she asked.

  “Aye.” He did not elaborate.

  “I need ink and paper. Do you have any?”

  “Why?” He was busy emptying his pockets onto the table.

  “I must continue the illusion of my absence. I promised to write to my maid Estelle. I’m supposed to be with my cousin.” She drew up a chair at the other end and moved a candleholder closer.

  Matthew seemed perplexed by her request. He scratched his head. “There might be some...” He rummaged around the dresser and from behind a pile of pewter plates, he retrieved an inkpot. The pen was in a drawer. The note paper was buried in the bottom of a chest.

  He sniffed it. “Not the finest paper, but clean.” He handed it to her.

  Matthew was not a reader or writer. He had not written a word since her arrival and had paid scant attention to the books left in the corner of the room.

  She composed a suitably colourful tale of her journey—how she had ridden through the storm unaided and eventually reached her cousin’s house. An older cousin with a husband and young children. Dara described the games she played with them, the walks and rides, the visit to the coast, a trip to the local town to buy dresses, and so forth. She blew the ink dry and reread her lengthy letter. If she were still stuck and alone at Willowby Hall, such things would have tempted her away with ease. The truth was, her cousin was boring, her husband miserable, the children disobedient, the servants rude, and the neighbours just as bad. She glanced over to Matthew, who was counting his coins. She was much happier here, for the most part. Only one problem was on the horizon and she was not sure how best to handle it.

  She folded the letter several times until it fitted into her palm, then sealed it with a drop of candlewax. There were no ribbons to tie around the paper, which was unfortunate, since her cousin was bound to use them. She wrote the address on the front.

  “It will need delivering.”

  “Lemuel can drop it at the gatehouse when he moves the sheep that way tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” She placed the letter next to his pile of coins.

  He frowned at the address. “You don’t miss home?” he asked brusquely.

  “No,” she replied emphatically. She rested her hand on his shoulder. “I’m happy here. Except...”

  “What?” He turned, trapped her wrist in his hand, and plopped her onto his lap.

  She lowered her eyes demurely. “I do miss the company of ladies.”

  “For the purpose of gossip?”

  “Oh, no. I wouldn’t stoop to that. I mean tittle-tattle and useful advice... advice that is womanly in nature. I don’t think you can provide me with those things, not without causing you embarrassment, and I would not wish to undignify you.”

  He laughed. “As undignified as fucking you? I’ve seen you grovel on your knees for my cock in your mouth, begging for it. Only last night, when I stuck it—”

  “Yes, I remember.” She squirmed with discomfort but not at the memory of the pleasure he had bestowed upon her, but that she wanted to return to that moment again and swiftly. He had no shame for what they did, but there had to be one thing that he would not do. “Could I go visit Maggie this week? From tomorrow, likely would be good, then come back in a few days... I shall learn much from her.” Her doleful eyes collided with his coal black ones. They shared the gaze silently.

  Matthew patted her legs. “Of course you may go. You’re not my prisoner. You can leave any time.”

  “I’ll come back. It’s not that I wish to leave your side, only necessity will keep me gone.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows. “Necessity? Well, if it must. When that necessity is done, you can come back here and fulfil your other necessities. Come Sunday, you’ll be making up for them.” His cock stirred and poked her bottom through her skirts. “Tomorrow, you say?”

  “Or the day after.”

  “Maggie will enjoy your company. She’s used to young ladies’ needs. I’m sure she’ll treat you kindly. You must take her something, though, if you intend to burden her with your necessity.”

  “What would you suggest, Master?”

  “One of them books. You read to those sisters, teach them words. They have none.”

  “They can’t read?”

  He tapped her chin with his finger—a tiny rebuke for her ignorance. “They haven’t had your good fortune. So take a book and show them.”

  “I think that is an excellent idea.” She paused, gazing thoughtfully upon his face, the straight nose at the centre and high cheekbones, the depth of his eyes and rigidity of his strong jaw. She dropped her eyes when her heart started to flutter too fast. “Thank you, Matthew.”

  He absorbed the gratitude without changing his expression. “The chicken pie... I liked it. I didn’t mean to belittle your efforts in making it. You can make it again.”

  It was close to an apology, probably the best he could manage. Abruptly, his face creased into a more familiar expression: agitation. “Off with you, lass. Go make my supper.”

  * * *

  Maggie welcomed Dara and quickly identified the nature of Dara’s necessity.

  “Don’t you fret, missy. We’ve plenty of napkins.”

  Dara could barely hide her relief. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “Matthew says you’re going to teach my girls to read.”

  “I will try,” said Dara earnestly.

  “We’ve no school for girls hereabouts. The Sunday school tries, but we’ve not time for any church schooling. You’ve brought a book?”

  Dara fished out the book from the saddlebag. She gave Mary a wistful look as one of the daughters led her into a shed. “It’s just for a few days, Mary.” Having spent many days grazing, Mary was too fat. Matthew had insisted the horse be taken out every day and ridden, but still the old mare chewed too much hay for his liking.

  The book Dara had chosen was Aesop’s fables. She had also brought another book for herself. At the bottom of the chest, among the volumes of poetry, she had found two selections of French poems. Her French had been neglected, and unless she worked hard, she would forget what little she knew already. Regardless of having to guess at the meaning of some words, she loved the lyrical sounds and just reading French aloud produced a glowing warmth in her bosom. If only Matthew had had one tenth of her education, he might enjoy it too.

  Maggie was kind enough not to work Dara too hard. However, she was not permitted to lie on her mattress as she might at home on such days.

  Maggie had her own opinions. “Being a woman is tougher than a man. You ‘ave to be all he expects and more, because he doesn’t know the ‘alf of it—what us womenfolk ‘ave to put up with. No excuse for being lazy, mind you. You put your back into scrubbing them clothes and I’ll bake us currant buns.”

  Dara leaned over the copper pan and prodded the linen with a flat-sided washing bat. Steam rose up and she wiped her brow. She had no clue until she started to do the laundry what washing entailed. Her sympathy for the washerwoman at her parents’ house, stuck in the humid basement, had grown considerably, especially on a summer’s day.

  If the days were hard work, the evenings were entertaining. She learnt about Maggie’s other neighbours, and although she had told Matthew she was not staying for the gossip, the truth was sh
e loved hearing their humorous tales. This wife caught in the haystack with that husband. The boy who had stolen eggs and ended up in the stocks in the centre of the market. The highwayman caught and hanged. The world beyond her limited viewpoint was exciting and dangerous. Dara had lived in a protective cocoon all of her life, only fed what information her father deemed appropriate; he read from the broadsheets every morning over breakfast. Listening to him drone on was very tedious.

  After the chatter had run its course, Dara retired to her mattress and read a few poems by candlelight. She repeated each one until she had learnt a few lines by heart.

  The pattern of the next day followed the first, until three days later, feeling suitably feminine and suffering no discomfort, she packed her bag, said a fond goodbye to Maggie and her daughters, and rode back to Matthew’s farm.

  At a brisk canter, it was no more than twenty minutes’ journey on horseback, but it seemed much longer. She was excited to be returning. Had he missed her? She hoped he had yearned for her during her absence. She would know surely by his manner upon her arrival.

  She released Mary into the field with Bert. The workhorse was friendly to Mary, allowing her to touch his nose before she ignored him and barrelled into a heap of fresh hay as if starved.

  Dara swung her bag by her side and walked into the cottage.

  “Hello? Master?” He was not home. “Oh, well.” He might be in the barn. She would go look for him.

  She nearly reached the door when it sprang open. A somewhat breathless Matthew collided with her. He grabbed her arm before she fell backwards.

  “Lem heard the horse neigh,” he said. He kicked the door shut with his heel.

  The trembling in her legs was acute. “She’s in the field—”

  “You’re in fine fettle?”

  “Yes.” The fever in his eyes was devilish.

  “Then let’s be having you.” He walked her backwards until she bumped into the table, spun her around and hooked her skirts over her head, all it seemed in one seamless, surprisingly graceful movement.

  She was ready for him. How it was possible to be so in minutes remained a mystery. He plunged his cock straight in, grabbed a fair portion of her tender behind in both of his hands and thrust hard until she was fully occupied with her belly flat on the table and her hands scrambling to anchor themselves.

  Finding the table edges, she gripped left and right and braced herself for his fervent pounding. She was left in no doubt that he had missed her. He was impatient and rough, more so than he had ever been before. Her absence had caused him some grief. If he were not pummelling so hard, she might have smiled at the thought and appreciated it. However, the pace of his thrusts and the power of them left her unable to articulate any sensible sound or thought. She gasped with each one, clung onto the table, and listened through the cacophony of her heartbeats to his heavy breathing and firm slaps of his hips against her bared bottom.

  “Come,” he bellowed. “Come on me.”

  She had the ability, she thought, to conjure up a climax, but not the speed he wished.

  “Patience, Master. She’s nearly—”

  He slapped her bottom with his palm; she shrieked in reply. “Now, I said. You’ll not keep me waiting. I’ve waited enough,” he said gruffly.

  “You go too fast for me, sir. I am not a machine.” Her voice split apart at the idea of disappointing him. Tears filled her tightly closed eyes.

  Matthew slowed, eased his harsh grip and sighed. He reached under, sought out her clitoris, and rubbed it with his fingertips.

  She howled, as if she was being tortured, so tender it had become since their last coupling. He resumed his thrusts, and although the haste was gone, his rapid finger movements kept time with the rhythm of his pelvis, bringing her closer to what he desired, and giving her little opportunity to counter his movements or even squirm. Trapped beneath him, she submitted her body to him and succumbed to his passion for lust.

  He leaned over her, nuzzled her unravelling bun of hair, and kissed the back of her neck. “Now,” he said softly. “Now you can.”

  And she did. The rippling spasms lasted long enough for him to extract his erection and find release over her raised bottom. The liquid pooled in her furrow and down her legs. She did not mind. It was the sweetest of sensations.

  He took a step back. “I shouldn’t enjoy it like that, but I do.”

  She stirred and straightened, finding she ached in places. Her skirts dropped to her ankles and she turned to face him.

  “If that is how you need it... then I shall do my best to accommodate—”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s not right, and you know it isn’t. I didn’t have you stay under my roof to treat you with contempt. You’re a lady.”

  “Back at home, maybe,” she said.

  He had his back to the window and was in silhouette; she could not determine his features in the shadows. She moved toward him, but he spun about and walked to the door. The light streamed through the open door and blinded her.

  “Matthew,” she called after him. “I mean it when I say I am yours.”

  He paused in his strides, then continued. The infuriating, contrary man was intent on keeping his thoughts secret and his feelings masked.

  Chapter Six

  The river flowed through the lower fields, gushing down from the hills, through a small copse of trees, then over a rocky outcrop into a pool, where the water lay still for a while before meandering down to the village in the distance. It was the only place that she could bathe. Matthew suggested using it, especially when the days were hot and sticky. It was easier to bathe in the evenings than the mornings, which were still nippy. She gathered up a bag of clean clothes and a towel and walked the mile to the pool.

  She followed the stone wall, climbing over the sty that separated one field from the next until she came to the blackberry bushes that lined the edge of the river. One lone willow hung its branches over the water’s edge.

  There were shouts, raucous cries, and splashes. She ducked down behind the bush and peeped her head over the top.

  The three labourers were in the pool. From what she could tell they had no clothes on. Their chests and shoulders rose up and out of the water as they swam from one side to the other, and their legs kicked. When they reached the far side, they stood up, naked to their waists and splashed each other like children. Their clothes were lying on the grass in the low sun.

  She should go back to the farm. But her legs were glued to the ground. She was mesmerised by the sight of the young men, no older than herself, and in the prime of their existence. Ezekiel left the water first; clambering up the side of the bank, he picked up his shirt and wiped the water from his face. He had nothing on, not even underpants. She could not help looking at it, his thing. It hung limply between his legs, no doubt shrivelled by the cold, but all the same, it was not a dainty organ. It swayed as he bent over. She licked her lips, wondering if all men possessed such fine specimens. Matthew certainly had a well-endowed one if Ezekiel was her only point of comparison.

  Lemuel was next out and he too was bare. He strutted across the grass, a natural swagger of a man comfortable with his nudity. He dropped onto the ground and stretched out, tucking his arms behind his head. Finally, after swimming a few more strokes, Kurt joined them. He had black curls across his chest and thighs, and such muscles. She felt a bloom of heat swaddle her bosom and throat. She should not look. It was wrong. She belonged to Matthew, and another, who she would rather forget. Two men had laid claim to her, and no other was allowed to touch her.

  But, if she was forbidden to touch them, could she not tease herself with the idea of it? What if she imagined them touching her? Three men, all naked, tearing at her clothes, stripping her bare and launching themselves upon her, one after the other.

  She lifted up her skirts and tucked her hand underneath, searching for the wet spot. Kneeling there, her legs slightly parted, she circled the nub and continued to stare, watery-eyed.
Not even one at a time. She knew enough now to realise they could take her simultaneously. Her mouth for Kurt, because he was stout and quiet. Lewd Lemuel would take her between the legs and from behind, the bold Ezekiel.

  Dara sighed and slipped a finger inside, thrusting it back and forth as the heel of her palm rubbed her cherished spot.

  A twig snapped. She glanced behind her and froze. Matthew was there, no more than a few yards away, and he had a good view of what she was doing, and why.

  The men scrambled to their feet, grabbing at their clothes. Their hair was wet enough to drip water down their bare chests and shoulders. Each one of them hopped on their feet as they clambered into their breeches. Kurt fell over in his haste.

  They had seen her. Her face was visible, poking out over the bushes. Caught in her company, they were in trouble. And so was she.

  Matthew roared, “Get back up that hill!”

  They ran past him, clutching their remaining clothing. Dara remained on her knees, her hand extracted. It was shaking so badly, she had to hide it from him. Her skirts were rucked up by her knees.

  “Come with me,” he said, his voice seething with rage.

  She hobbled behind him. “It was nothing—”

  “Quiet. I have no wish to hear your excuses.”

  By the time they reached the yard, the men had vanished. She hoped Matthew was in a better mood. “Go indoors and wait for me. Best think hard how you should wait for me.”

  She stumbled into the cottage, tears streaming down her face. She had disappointed him badly. What she had done was a breach of trust. She had let him down, and herself.

  “What if he can’t forgive me?”

  * * *

  Matthew had suspected she’d gone to bathe in the river. Only when he approached the lower boundary of his land had it crossed his mind that she might not be alone down there. The lads liked to swim in the river, and he had not told them to forgo it, nor to inform him or Dara when they chose to swim. It was too late to warn her, they were already there. But, instead of turning on her heels as a good lass should and hasten back, she’d stayed.