The Fallow

by Alicia Britton

“Hardly,” he replied, crossing his hands over his chest. The sunlight was warm, but the breeze was a touch crisp. He was probably chilly and not used to the ogling.

  Parody was at his back and poked at his well-defined shoulder blade. “Not bad for a literary guru, though.”

  “Why do I feel like a piece of meat?”

  He nudged Parody and Doxy out of his way and dove underneath the water. His head surfaced between Virtue and Blasphemy. He was in a relaxed position, his feet in front of him, and he had twisted around to face the two Fallows he had abandoned.

  But Doxy was quick to pursue him. “Oh, you’ve been objectified,” she pouted, splashing him. “One time. That’s so sad.”

  Herald wiped the excess water from his face and eyes. “Point taken.”

  “Are we scaring you yet?”

  Now Blasphemy was closing in on him. Herald stroked backward until he came against Virtue. She ducked down to her neck and slipped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips.

  Herald wasn’t startled, uncomfortable with her there, or at all inclined to get rid of her. “A little!”

  He pushed off the ground with his feet, sending himself and Virtue adrift.

  “Thought you’d like it . . . four on one,” Doxy said, a lilt to her voice.

  “I’m not that kind of boy,” Herald replied, mocking her tone.

  “Does that mean you don’t want a whole castle full of wives?” Blasphemy then challenged, crossing her arms.

  “No, just one for me. Thanks.”

  He lightly pinched the bottom of Virtue’s thighs. She responded by clenching her arms tight for a moment. And then she let go of him. Any more affection than that and everyone would know how attached to each other they truly were.

  ***

  The wind was unrelenting. It started to drizzle.

  Virtue was shivering so hard that her teeth hurt. The rattling was also making her head pound.

  Otherwise, she was numb. She was becoming ice.

  “Why don’t you come on out of there?” Captain said, his voice a harsh reprimand. He was prowling around the edge of the shallow water, getting his leather boots wet, and he clearly wasn’t happy about that.

  Virtue had no choice but to obey . . . if she wanted to live.

  “I’m sorry.” With her head down, she trudged back to shallow water. “It’s just . . . it’ll be so hard to say goodbye.”

  Once she was within reach, Captain set his grip on her shoulder. “Well, maybe you won’t have to,” he said, a degree or two kinder than he sounded before. His statement was just as terrifying, however, not for the tone but for its meaning.

  She would have been better off saying nothing at all.

  “Let’s return to Cliff Haven East right away.” He began leading the way to his estate, one large enough to require a name as well as a designation to set it apart from west, or north, or south. “We’ll get you out of those wet clothes.”

  She shuddered harder.

  And she was guided like a little pet along the sandy path leading inland. She remembered having damp clothes there once before. And yet she managed to move like a blossoming fertility goddess. Or something along those lines. Whatever it was, she finally had some pull and some power, though not with any will to either abuse it or keep it at bay.

  They were about to pass the point she once veered toward a true seaside “haven.” The wind had removed almost all sign of their footprints. But when she squinted through the burn in her eyes and the drizzle, she could almost make out a trace of the lust that had compelled her to go over there.

  ***

  “Virtue?” Herald asked her from behind. “Weren’t you wearing a scarf at the end of your hair?”

  They had swum as much as they could tolerate and dried off as much as they could. And Parody, Doxy, Blasphemy, Virtue, and Herald, in that order, were marching back to the lighthouse for an early supper.

  Virtue stopped to pull her braid over her shoulder. And she noticed the same thing that Herald had. The red scarf she usually wore at the end was missing. All she had left was the white string she kept underneath it.

  While she was checking her damp clothing and her blanket to see if it had gotten caught somewhere, Herald called to the others. “Hey, Virtue lost something.” They paused and turned around to look back. “But we’ll take care of it. You three can head back.”

  “Sure, Herald.”

  “Okay, chief.”

  They complied, but with glances that were a mix of doubt and amusement.

  With Herald urging Virtue to take the lead, they retraced their steps on the path that led back to the stream.

  While Virtue was scanning the ground for the scarf, Herald seemed more concerned with checking over his shoulder.

  Once the voices had dimmed and vanished, Herald suddenly took Virtue’s fingertips in his and whisked her in an unexpected direction—toward the beach.

  The sand was loose and dry, and their ankles fell deep. And still Herald moved with such haste. “I think I know where to find it.”

  “But,” Virtue began, confused, “we never came over here.”

  They reached a grassy dune that ended at a ledge. It dropped to the beach—a man’s height at its peak and smaller than Virtue at the side—and the lower edge was where Herald helped her down.

  There were roots above them acting as an overhang. Rocks and windblown sand provided a slight inlet. It was like a tiny cave, just large enough for two people to sit down and experience a private view of the ocean.

  After taking it all in, she wasn’t surprised when she spotted a patch of red underneath the untucked flap of Herald’s dress shirt.

  “You,” she said calmly. She approached him slowly and took her sweet time fishing the scarf out of his pocket. “Are nothing but trouble.”

  “I know.” He savored her closeness with closed eyes and a slow, deep breath. “But it had to be done.” He stroked her cheeks and looked about to kiss her. And then he pulled back, as if shaken by something. “I can’t stop thinking about you. It’s driving me insane! I’m so afraid that. . .”

  He never had a chance to say what he was so afraid of. Because Virtue placed a soft kiss on his lips. Whatever it was that was tormenting him, she wanted to free him from it for a little while.

  Her tongue grazed his, sending her whole body into a shudder.

  “You’re cold,” he whispered, easing away.

  “A little.”

  He rubbed his hands over the damp fabric of her sleeves. She, however, went for the buttons of her blouse. She’d be a whole lot warmer without it on at all.

  And she was right. Having his eyes fixed on her—no witnesses, no Marriage Bond stress, or silly Letters of Intent—and his hands fumbling with his own buttons, it was the hottest she had ever felt. It was emboldening . . . invigorating. He would be her first . . . someday. But for now. . .

  They kissed. Like mad. Grappling for more skin to place at their lips and fingertips.

  Soon, she went for his belt buckle. And began moving her devotion downward.

  Thankfully, Virtue had sisters who loved sharing with her all the intimate details of their experiences, all of which she had incorporated into her writing. Her vivid imagination helped her through the rest. So she was well aware of how to maximize pleasure without losing that which was considered “sacred.”

  On her knees, she stroked and then sampled the length of him she could manage . . . some but most certainly not all.

  Herald laughed for a blip and it ended with an airy groan. “If my intention was to get you off my mind, I don’t think this is working.”

  And for a man who launched a life, a living, a rebellion out of words, he had nothing further to add.

  About some sensations, it was better to say nothing at all.

  As she deepened her kiss, her mouth steadily encouraging the outpouring of his desire, he liked watching. Perhaps to him, there was nothing more beautiful.

  He was so pent up, so s
tressed, and frustrated, for years, it seemed, it didn’t take him long to surrender all of himself to her and the bliss. And still, she was determined to give him more, until the final tremor undid every last kink in his body.

  When she stood, there was a moment of uncertainty. What could she say? What would he say? This wasn’t dialogue for a story. It was a huge part of her truth. And she was shy all of a sudden. Was it a mistake, too soon, and now he’d think less of her?

  And what was supposed to happen next?

  Herald alleviated all pressure to be perfect, all concerns about his opinion of her. He still wanted her and continued to be in the mood.

  It all began again. The kissing, the undressing—what was left—and this time, she was the center of his attention. He went to his knees, and in one eager swoop, he placed her on her back on the blanket. His lips wandered a path over her breasts, nipples, then down her heaving stomach, and it continued to descend to a place no man’s mouth had ever gone before.

  “You don’t have to do that. I—” she blurted and then stopped. She didn’t want to dissuade him. She wouldn’t have been able to find the words regardless.

  He was so . . . gentle, careful, but so . . . unbelievably on point.

  What’s he like? Is he any good?

  Yes. Definitely.

  He seems like he’d be clumsy and a tad dull. . .

  Wrong and wrong again.

  He’s probably passionate in all that he pursues. . .

  Oh, God, yes!

  He was a fair amount older than she was. Between six and seven years to be exact. And yet she never took him to be the type that had profuse experience. Never while she was in the picture, as far as she was aware. But there had obviously been a lover or two that brought into being those heavenly tongue strokes.

  They made her long for the day he’d press inside of her, fill her womb. They’d start their full life together—one husband, one wife, and many children, conceived, nurtured, and raised with love.

  She couldn’t wait. She could barely contain herself. Her body was begging for it. Before long, it burst with joy, love, and giggles and such calmness and relief.

  She was exactly where she was meant to be.

  Then later, with their clothing still strewn about to dry, Virtue seated herself between Herald’s legs and leaned against his chest. She had her toes dipping into the incoming tide.

  Herald had draped the blanket over their shoulders. He held her close and kept her warm at the waist and across her bare chest.

  Relaxed and sated for the time being, they watched the sun set together, though Herald seemed more consumed with the beauty he could fully embody. Every breath. Every heartbeat. The scent of her hair. The taste of her skin. The feel of it. Did he still find it soft and innocent?

  “You were about to say something earlier,” Virtue reminded him.

  “Hmmm?” he mumbled, his mouth nuzzling her neck, buried beneath her now loose hair, thick and long, and still damp to the touch.

  “What are you most afraid of?”

  He stopped kissing her and sighed. He rested his chin on her shoulder. Then gave her body an enamored embrace. “Losing you.”

  Chapter 5

  Captain

  Captain absolutely hated being behind schedule. Taking a late lunch would disrupt his entire routine . . . his entire day! And that could affect his health, his vigor, and his tomorrow as well. A late lunch would mean a late dinner, and then he’d be tossing and turning all night with dreadful indigestion.

  But he had other matters to attend to and if all went well, it would be worth his while. He had also overindulged on his wives’ quiche a few hours ago. So he wasn’t particularly hungry.

  Martha, his first wife, wasn’t the best cook. That was Charity. And Martha wasn’t the best company—Belinda this time—or the most beautiful—Amber. Martha was nowhere near the most desirable, either. That was Claudia . . . when she was healthy. He adored her full bosom and generous spirit. As a bonus, it was her inability to get pregnant that had him requesting her company the most. He didn’t mind the fever, but her cough lately had been insufferable.

  And then there was Virtue. He had wanted to marry her, sight unseen, merely for her gift with words. Highly illegal, treasonous in fact, and yet too luscious to pass up. Then, upon discovery that in every way, she would put all of his other wives to shame, he had made up his mind. She would be his thirteenth wife . . . today.

  Ears piqued, he could make out the sound of someone approaching. It was a slow, uneven pad and much to his dismay, his thoughts shifted back to Martha and her unsightly bum knee. The image, disenchanting.

  Yes, she ran his household like a tight ship, the way he demanded. She served him his food on time, every time. And he was appreciative—on most days—but that day, she was knocking on his door every fifteen minutes on the dot!

  “No, not quite yet!”

  It was really getting on his nerves and making it impossible to plan his afternoon of marital bliss.

  “You get cantankerous when you’re hungry,” she popped in to say, her hands pressed to her wide hips.

  “I’m well aware!” he bellowed back.

  “And you’ll be late for tea.”

  “I’ll most likely skip it today.”

  Martha bristled with disbelief. “But Charity made her macaroons!”

  “Then bring me some. Half past three.” Then he cringed at the thought of an interruption at that time. “On second thought, save them for dessert. And . . . I’ll hold off on lunch until further notice. But be prepared, also, for the refreshments I had you set aside. Oh, I don’t know!” He could feel himself breaking into a cold sweat, like he was a nervous schoolboy again. But he was thoroughly—and almost painfully—aware that he was a grown man, still in the prime of his life. Add the two together, and he wished Martha would leave immediately and that instead, he’d receive the knock he was really waiting for. “You’ll hear from me. And don’t return unless I ring for you.”

  Martha rolled her eyes to the Redeemer in Heaven. She could plead for sympathy, but she was too old to “spread the light” anymore. So Captain was sure the Redeemer would be on his side.

  After Martha shut the door, Wellesley, his Olde English Bulldogge, lifted his head from slumber, licked his jowls, and gaped at his Captain with such hopelessness. “You’ll be fine. You can wait a little longer too.”

  As if Wellesley understood, he voiced his displeasure with a grumble. After yawning, he fluffed up his flannel blanket to his particular taste and curled up on his cushion by the window with a view of the ocean.

  “Aw, what a tough life you lead.”

  Wellesley let out a grunt, and soon, he was snoring again.

  Then Captain, one last time, scanned over his Letter of Intent, the Marriage Bond Application, and the Prenuptial Agreement. “The Prenup” wasn’t a legal requirement, but it was thrown in to satisfy his own personal stipulations, all to be initialed and upheld for life, and not just his own. Above all, a wife and mother had to be faithful to his whole family, following all rules until her death. Once Captain passed on, the moral and legal obligation to maintain order and good behavior would fall upon the Maineland and his eldest living son. Upon his death, his eldest son would take over his legacy, and so forth. Marriage was a gift and a blessing, but it was also an unbreakable contract with man and the Redeemer.

  Virtue will say yes. . .

  And then. . .

  Captain shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had to stop thinking about her. But that little red robe he had given her to wear—her favorite color, if the red scarf in her hair was any indication—made that impossible. He was a gentleman and couldn’t exactly let her wallow in wet clothes, so he gave her something to change into. Seeing her in it was a welcome frustration, but there came a point. . .

  Alas! A knock erupted. It had a livelier and more robust rhythm than what Martha could muster.

  “Come in.” Captain wasn’t usually happy to see th
e porker of a man waddle in to his domain. “Dr. Wayward.” His family physician—a swindler in most cases—smiled too much, making his face seem that much rounder and ruddier, and he blinked too often. And his skin was always clammy to the touch. Captain grudgingly shook his hand as if it were something the seagulls had dragged in. “Great to see you again. Have a seat.”

  Under these particular circumstances, though, the banknotes he’d have to hand over to him by the fistful would actually be for a cause Captain could get behind, and hopefully—he checked his watch—within the hour. Dr. Wayward did, indeed, have his particular uses when it came to pushing paperwork through the bureaucracy.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Dr. Wayward scooted a chair over to the opposite side of Captain’s desk. He wobbled into his seat, and a bit nervously, he began massaging the leather handles of his medical case. “I’m afraid I have some bad news about Claudia.”

  “Oh, no,” Captain groaned. “What now?”

  “Pneumonia, unfortunately.”

  Captain pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the throb that would likely result in a massive headache. Between the pregnancies, illnesses, Martha’s knee, and what a few of his wives claimed were “mental conditions,” plus the twenty-three children and young adults they couldn’t seem to keep healthy . . . they could barely earn their keep in any way. And he was an open-minded man. “What’s the damage?”

  He pulled from his bag an itemized list . . . never a good sign. “Well, there’s Claudia’s exam, and with her pills, stronger this time . . . so ten days, twice a day. . .” He licked the tip of his pen and scribbled a few more numbers in the margin. “Amber is also due for her mood elevators. That’s another. . .”

  More numbers. And the damn pills weren’t doing Amber a shred of good. He proposed to her for her high cheek bones, full lips, slender limbs, and delicate features. And he asked for nothing in return . . . other than her devotion. She was a beautiful commoner and he was doing her a great service. And how did she repay him? Well, long story short, she was hostile and melancholy even on the best of days.