by Jaye Peaches
It explained his unusual quietness and lack of interest in Dara. He had retreated into mourning. “What became of her?”
“She was with child. Rosy-cheeked, everything was fine. Then she fell ill suddenly with a fever and terrible fits. She slipped away and never woke up. Never saw the babe. That really shook Master to the core.”
“Did her family come?”
“Family? She had none. You see, miss, she was French—”
“French!”
“One of them religious kind that were thrown out of France, and she came with her folks looking for work. They travelled from town to town. Sadly, her parents died of a fever, leaving her destitute and on the streets. Master was the only one who could understand her. She hadn’t learnt much English.”
“Matthew speaks French?” The books of poetry—they had to belong to his wife, and likely to have been brought over when her family escaped persecution.
“Aye. He’s an educated man, miss. Mainly self-taught, I believe, as a boy. French, Latin. He helped Kurt learn English, because he speaks some German too.”
“Educated,” she murmured. “He speaks so uncouthly for a man of education.” He had been reading the poetry book and fell asleep at the table, exhausted by his grief. Now she understood the bitter nature of his behaviour when she addressed his past.
Ezekiel rose to his feet. “I can’t say anymore. He’ll be furious as it is. But, to answer your question, miss, he’s not a bad man. He just can’t get over the grief of losing her. He won’t let us even say her name.”
“What was her name?”
“Marie.” The answer came not from Ezekiel’s lips, but Matthew’s.
She looked over her shoulder. He was standing in the doorway, the low sunlight behind him, his figure a silhouette. He turned on his heel and walked away. Dara chased after him.
“Please, Matthew, talk to me. I didn’t mean to upset you; I just want to understand you better.”
He strode ahead, his long strides preventing her from catching up with him until he reached the interior of the cottage. His coat was saturated with rain, his hair wet and spiky, the cap gone.
“There’s nothing to understand,” he said gruffly. “I expect Ezekiel has told you all you need to know.”
“Please don’t be cross with him,” she pleaded. “He only told me the bare bones. Will you not tell me yourself?”
“No!”
She had lost him. There was no point in arguing further. “I’ll get my saddlebag—”
“No,” he repeated, but without the hard edge of anger. “Don’t go.”
“I cannot see any reason to stay. I shall go back to Willowby Hall and await my husband’s return.” She spoke without joy at the prospect of living again in the lonely hall with her cold husband.
Matthew sighed. He removed his damp overcoat and hung it back on the hook by the door. She waited, knowing he was collecting his thoughts. He slumped into the rocking chair, his eyelids burdened with a heaviness she had never seen before. She perched on the stool.
“I loved her. Her sweet face. Her merry laughter. I gave her hope again after she’d lost so much faith in the world. I bedded her, married her, and she was as meek as any wife might be. She taught me patience at first, because I wasn’t prepared for the passion, the strength of my urges. Her love of poetry came from her heart, but what she gifted me was her body and all that I desired from it, things that men can only dream about. She’d no qualms about doing things that many maids would find strange and unnatural. We played, many nights up there, at games until we were ready for a child.”
“Ezekiel said she died giving birth.”
“They both died on the same day. The baby came too early.” The colour slipped out of his face. For a while, they were both silent. There was more he could tell her, but now was not the time to ask about money or his education.
Finally, Dara spoke. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t speak of her again, if that is what you wish. But now I know why it is you want nothing from me but my body, not even a child, which I’d be willing give you. Your heart is living with another’s memory.”
He flinched. A slight bodily movement, but she saw it. The poor light barely revealed his face, the fine structure of his cheekbones and the contours of his nose and chin. She was familiar with all those features, and the thought of never looking on them again would bring her hardship. However, that was what she must do when she left his side. She started to rise to her feet.
He shot out his arm and snatched at her wrist. “My heart has changed,” he said simply. “It’s finding a new place to live.”
She felt the flurry of butterflies in her stomach. “I can’t stay here forever; I have to honour my vows,” she reminded him. “It will only break both of our hearts to fall in love.”
“Aye,” he said with emphasis. He squeezed her hand. “Stay for now, not because of our arrangement, but because you wish to. Let’s not ruin what little time we have left with anger and misgivings. I’m not a man who speaks of things of the heart, or the past. I live here and now. That’s the farmer’s way. I live with the seasons.”
Their agreement had lost its original purpose. Returning to her husband, and making use of what Matthew had taught her, was no longer her goal. She would rather Lord Coleman continued to pay her no interest and abstained from his marital duties. Matthew, likewise, would not wish for her to be bedded by him. What little time she had left with Matthew was precious. She trailed her other hand down her front; finding the lace of her dress, slowly she tugged on the loose end.
“Let me be your summer until the autumn comes, and I must away.”
The gown slipped off her shoulders. Matthew rose to his full height and let go of her hand. He stooped, brought his lips to meet her upturned mouth. The kiss was hard, passionate, the kind she hoped a husband might bring to the bedroom. She bent under him and relied on his enveloping arms to keep her from falling. The gown reached her waist, revealing her bodice. With nimble fingers, he plucked at the laces. The undressing continued while they kissed.
He carried her to the bed and lowered her, letting her lie on her back. He undressed, exposing every hardened muscle and the rigid line of his cock. There was little else to see given the poor light. However, she needed no sight to know him. She used her hands and lips to explore his body, and he replied in a similar fashion, grazing his fingers down her waist and between her legs, kissing her throat and breasts. With her legs spread and knees bent, she was aligned to his body and prepared.
Matthew’s thrust was accompanied by a deep groan. He arched his back, driving himself as deep as he could go. She did not mind the pain of his spearing, the friction that greeted his arrival. She longed for that kind of pleasure. He withdrew and rested his cock on her mound.
“Again,” she whispered.
He kissed her first, another lengthy indulgence, then he entered her again with an equal measure of force. She closed her eyes, tipped her chin up, and offered him her surrender. Matthew took it, accepting her unspoken request with an urgency she had come to love. He grasped both of her wrists above her head and pinned her down; his cock was buried to the hilt, his breathing heavy and rapid. She matched him with her own, panting as he exerted himself.
The strokes of his cock were steady and metered like the chimes of a clock. Each one knocked the breath out of her lungs and was designed to remind her that she yielded for his pleasure, and hers was born out of that compliance. She came ferociously, her hips bucking against him, her quim clenching his cock in a vain attempt at trapping him inside of her.
“Yes, my beauty,” he said huskily. “You’ll not be free of me, yet. I’ll claim you like this every day.”
He brought her through sheer determination and incredible stamina to another climax, then another, exhausting her to the point of dizziness. His physical strength and willpower sustained his erection and its uncompromising authority over her. The only respite he gave her was to stretch her legs from time to
time; otherwise, he commandeered her body with soft instructions.
He shifted his hands from her wrists, allowing her to cling onto his shoulders, but only so he could clamp his hands around her buttocks, or hold her ankles above her head or cup her breasts. He reminded her of his strength and the power of his body, the very first thing that had persuaded her to submit unconditionally. If their first night together had resulted in the loss of her virginity, this passionate coupling was to confirm what she had come to suspect for weeks—she was in love with him.
He shuddered; she recognised the movement, but his cock was still inside her.
“Matthew,” she said, alarmed. “Are you sure as I am?”
“Yes,” he said in the midst of his climax.
The liquid heat seared and filled her belly. Too late. What was done could not be undone. He had abandoned his usual cautious nature to savour her melting quim.
Finished, he stilled and carefully extracted himself. “I’ll bathe you,” he said, as if nothing of consequence had happened.
She caught his arm. “What does this mean?”
“From now on, I’ll give you my all, my every heartbeat, and you’ll know that what we have is real. It’s a risk worth taking.”
“And my husband? What if...” It would be disastrous to return to him pregnant.
He drew the covers over her cooling body. “Sleep. Don’t trouble yourself with him, he’s had his chance. We still have time to make memories that’ll last for eternity, lass.”
Chapter Nine
Matthew wandered down to the river, taking his time. Barnaby ran back and forth, chasing the flies and bees with his darting tongue. He paused under the shade of a tree. The summer had lingered for a few more days, resurgent and hot. Tomorrow he and Dara would part company. Dara had chosen their final day together to bathe in the pool. It was his last opportunity to catch her down there by the river.
He removed a piece of string from his pocket and tied Barnaby to a bush. “Stay down, boy.”
The dog was obedient and dropped onto his belly. Matthew patted his head.
He watched her from a distance, not wishing to disturb her until he was ready. She was already naked, having had half an hour’s head start on him. Up to her waist in the cool water, she was inching in cautiously. He smiled at her whoops, the way she waved her hands around in attempt to stave off the cold. When the water lapped at her breasts, she pressed her lips together and ducked down, sinking beneath the surface. She came back up a second later and gasped for breath.
She could not swim. He wasn’t worried. The pool went no deeper than her nipples and the current was gentle. Folding his arms across his chest, he admired her pale skin and straight back. With her head tipped back, her hair floated on the surface of the water in a fan. Slowly, she dipped again and combed her fingers through her wet hair. She massaged her scalp and closed her eyes. However cold she might feel, for those moments alone she was content to enjoy the fresh water and allow it to cleanse her.
While she was oblivious to the world around, Matthew moved. He walked quietly to the riverbank, removing items of his clothing as he went. By the time he was level with her, he was naked. The ripples of water he formed upon his entry brought her back to her senses. She smiled in greeting, waiting for him to wade over to her. With a few yards to go, he plunged under the water and swam toward her, breaking the surface in front of her.
She giggled. He had a good grip of her waist and lifted her out of the water, tossing her back. She squawked and flayed about with her arms. Rising onto her feet, she glared at him with eyes filled with mirth. Her response to his strike was to splash water at him. For a while, they played as children might, and he laughed. For three weeks, he had found plenty of reasons to laugh. It was as if a great burden had fallen from his shoulders. Marie was not forgotten, but it was time to let her go. Time to look to the future and finally carry out his plans.
As for Dara, he could not command her to stay. It was too great a risk. She had to accept her fate. Their short time together was a blessing and they would celebrate it for one more day.
Abruptly, she pulled a face.
“What?” he asked.
“Something moved by my leg. Eek, it slithers.”
He grinned. “Probably a fish. Or an eel.”
She squealed and flapped her arms around. “Get me out, out!”
He scooped her up and carried her over his shoulder, up the bank and onto the dry grass. There he spread out his jacket and she lay down, her arms stretched above her head and her eyes half-closed.
He covered her body with his, just as he always imagined when he planned his riverside seduction, instructed her with the firmness of his upright cock against her thighs, and she obediently parted her legs. When he entered, she sighed and grasped at the blades of grass. They moved as one, Matthew rocking gently, stroking her insides, Dara mirroring his actions with her hips, occasionally lifting her bottom up to meet his downward thrust.
There was no rush. The haste of the early days was gone, so was the fear of planting his seed. He focused entirely on the one point of entry, massaging it with his steely rod, and kept her on the cusp of an orgasm. He still liked to tease, to hold her still with arms pinned or legs held in his grasp. In same manner he let her suck his cock while he smoked his pipe in the evenings, he exuded the dominant part while she accepted her role as subordinate. Throughout the last three weeks, they had focused on activities that were both filled with calm pleasures and fiery passions.
He stilled, allowing himself the delight of emptying himself in one fluid spurt. She moaned, joining him, teasing out the orgasm with clenches of her pussy until he was fully spent. He rolled onto his back, taking her with him and she dozed for a while, curled up on his firm belly.
Finally, because the clouds were crowding the sky and a breeze picked up, she stirred, rested her chin on his chest.
He pursed his lips. “You went to Maggie’s house.”
“Yes. And if I had been with child?”
“As long as the child is happy and provided for, I’d be content.”
“It would have been yours, though. Not his.”
It would take considerable effort and time to come around to the idea of Lord Coleman raising his child. However, it would also be fate that finally he had achieved some kind of revenge upon the Coleman family. His child, a bastard, would be Coleman’s heir. It was a pity that Dara was caught up in the feud; it was an unkindness he would have to live with for the rest of his life.
Later, in the middle of the night, while she slept in bed, he smoked a pipe by the cold hearth. Unable to sleep, he tried to find a way that would mean she could stay. But there was nothing in his powers to bring a resolution that did not incur either Coleman’s wrath, which would be dangerous, or scandal for Dara. An annulment, even if it was by mutual agreement, would see her sent back to her parents and beyond Matthew’s reach. And if she pleaded with her father to allow her to marry him, she would receive no permission, and Matthew was fully aware of the consequences of marrying without consent. Her good name would be ruined.
He knocked the pipe against the hearth and the tobacco ashes tumbled into the fireplace. He should have foreseen the conundrum. If he had, he would have sent her back the day he met her and not succumbed to temptation. And there was his biggest regret: he’d kept a secret from her. One that was far from just and had nothing to do with Marie. But he had made a promise to his mother, sworn an oath to never speak of it, and when she’d died he stood by her grave with his heartbroken father, and cursed not just the Colemans, but the Barracloughs. For it was Barracloughs who had made the decision to banish Matthew’s mother.
Chapter Ten
In the morning light, Dara carried out her usual chores as if the day was as normal as the previous one. The routine so well established, she used it to calm her nerves. Gone were the days when Matthew chased her out of bed with the flat of his hand aimed at her bare bottom. She rose with him without prote
st.
She had named the chickens, against his better advice. She would miss the silly cows too, but not the smell of the cowshed. Of course, she longed for the company of her maids-in-waiting, especially Estelle. Dara had been pampered since birth. Her maids had arranged her hair, folded back the bedcovers each night, and dressed her each morning. The gossip of the servants was also invaluable in keeping her entertained. However, she also liked spending time with Maggie and her daughters. They soldiered on, always working hard, and managed without men. Dara had learnt much about the solidarity of womenfolk from stoic Maggie. The truth was her previous life had brought her little real joy; she had made a pretence at it, only finding happiness on her own, doing things that ladies of rank were supposed to shun.
She wiped her hands on the apron and removed it. Outside, Matthew shouted something. He had barely said a word to Dara since rising. The mood between them awkward and chaste. Preparations for her departure were in progress. Her bags were packed, her jewels returned to her, and out in the yard, Mary was waiting. Her coat shone in the morning light. Lemuel had cleaned the brass tack.
Matthew closed the door behind him. “Time to go, lass.”
“I don’t want to go back,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. The petulance was necessary. Her stomach was churning with anxiety.
“You must,” said Matthew. His eyes were feverish, his skin pale as if ill.
“I want to stay with you. I don’t care about—”
“Your honour? You should. And you must.”
“I do not care about my family name,” she said adamantly. “Why won’t you let me stay? He’ll divorce me. There are grounds for annulment—”
“Dara. I can’t.”
“Why?” she implored, practising a pretty pout. On any other occasion he would have tipped her over his knee for such a display of defiance. The circumstances had changed, though. He had no authority over her from today and onward.