How Far the World Will Bend

by Nancy Klein

  He laughed appreciatively. “Why should I mind? It is one less garment to remove, and I am able to feel you rather than your stays.” His smile was warm and intimate as he encircled her waist with his hands. “I find I rather enjoy playing ladies’ maid,” he murmured, rubbing his thumbs against the tender skin under her breasts and kissing the side of her neck.

  “You are very good at it,” she remarked in bemusement, and gasped as he lowered his open mouth to the cleft between her breasts. She felt the soft plush of his tongue play over the silken contours of her skin, and her knees buckled. He supported her in his arms and continued his exploration, untying the ribbons of her chemise until the folds of fabric fell away and she was exposed from neck to naval. He raked his hot eyes across the lovely expanse of skin, and she felt scalded by his expression. “Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was asking, and he smiled as he continued exploring her body with his hands and his hot, hungry mouth.

  She could do little except lean against him, willing and pliant, and thread her fingers through his thick hair. When her legs at last gave way, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bed.

  With lethal precision, he stripped himself of his own garments. She stared at him—he was so beautiful, all angular planes and muscled skin. Rising on her knees from the bed, she ran a hand down the smooth skin of his chest. He caught her hand and kissed her palm before tugging her inexorably toward him until they were flesh to flesh, soft skin against muscle. He kissed her greedily, as if he would never have his surfeit. Slowly lowering her, he covered her with his body, holding himself on his elbows above her to study her beautiful, flushed face.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked in a husky whisper.

  “No,” she whispered in return as she reached up to stroke his cheek, and her confident smile made his heart soar.

  He kissed each finger of her hand, bringing her to a boil of frustrated need. He lowered his head to devour her mouth again, and they rolled in a tangle of heated limbs, forgetting everything except their overwhelming need for each other.

  John wanted to be gentle with her, but his desire was so great he felt as if a wild wind roared in his ears. Clasping her face between his hands, he gazed down at her rosy complexion and closed eyelids, and felt a rush of love and lust so powerful that he feared it might tear him in twain.

  “Meg,” he whispered hoarsely, “Look at me.”

  She opened dazed eyes and stared up at him. He brought his mouth to a scant inch above hers and whispered, “You belong to me now. You are mine. I’ll never let you leave me.”

  He watched as her eyes widened and her mouth curved into smile of such warmth and intimacy that he caught his breath. She reached up to pull his mouth down to hers.

  He felt his constraint snap as his mouth claimed hers. He slid slowly into her until he filled her and she could feel nothing but the urgency of his mouth and the power of his body. Her hands grasped his shoulders, opening and shutting convulsively as if she searched for something to bring her relief, she knew not what. With a ragged cry, he thrust into her and found completion.

  They lay immobile and silent for a time before he began to move within her once more, dark and deliberate, for a second coupling. Whereas her first bout of lovemaking had been uncomfortable—and unpleasant—she felt increasing pleasure in their second and third couplings. No longer urgent with need, they spent most of the late afternoon exploring the unknown territories of each other’s bodies, and finally dozed lightly before a tap on the door announced that it was time for dinner.

  They rose and washed, using the tepid water in the pitcher, and helped each other dress. When Meg went to brush and pin her hair up, John stayed her hand. “Please,” he said coaxingly, “wear it down for me tonight. It reminds me of the evening you came to dinner and had cut your hair.”

  She smiled at the memory. “I was certain I had shocked you that night, and given you a disgust of me.”

  “On the contrary,” he countered. “I thought you were beautiful.”

  “I am astonished—I thought you would find me beyond forgiveness.”

  “I found you irresistible. I was more than half in love with you, though I would have denied it. It took the riot to show me how dear to me you were.” He looked at her intently. “You saved my life that day, just as you saved my life when you returned from the future.” He saw her open her mouth to protest and he continued quickly, “Oh, I would have lived, of that I have no doubt. But my life was hardly worth living, was it, without you? You are my heart, Meg. I find that I cannot live without you.”

  Unable to speak, she moved into his arms and he kissed her forehead. “Come, let us have our supper. I am famished.” He wrapped his arm about her and led her to the dining room, where a maid awaited them.

  “Jane,” Mr. Thornton said to her, “would you please tell Cook that we are ready for dinner?”

  She nodded and hurried toward the kitchen. Mr. Thornton led Meg into the dining room and pulled out a chair for her. She found herself seated opposite him at the long table, and noted with dismay how far away he seemed. With sudden determination, she rose and, picking up her table setting, walked down to his end of the table and set her place next to his. He looked up at her, startled. “I cannot converse with you if I am so far away,” she explained, and returned to her original place to retrieve her glassware and napkin.

  “Meg,” he said in protest, “the servants can see to that.”

  “I am certain they can,” she replied mildly, “but, as I am able bodied, so can I.”

  He began to laugh. “I can see that life with you will be very different from what I am used to.”

  While they ate, they spoke of their impending trip, and laughed at several funny things that had occurred during the wedding breakfast. In making a toast, Watson had called Meg “Molly,” which had incensed John at the time. However, Meg had laughed merrily, and he joined in her laughter now, coaxed by her good humor.

  Once dinner was over, he reached out for her hand. “I am so glad you changed your place setting—I shall tell Jane that you are to be beside me at table for family dinners from this time on.” She smiled and turned her palm up so that they interlinked fingers, and he lifted her hand and held it to his cheek.

  After they dined, John returned to the mill office in search of some correspondence that he had left upon his desk. Meg was too restless to read, and wandered into the parlor. Seeing the grand piano, she settled herself upon the bench. When Fanny had married, her husband had insisted on buying her a new piano, and so she had left her old piano behind. Meg was happy to have such a fine instrument. Raising the lid, she rested her fingers on the keys. She recalled the dinner months before when she had played Chopin for the assembled guests, and began playing the same piece. Within minutes, she was caught up in the music, oblivious to the world around her. She shut her eyes and remembered the expression of wonder in her husband’s eyes as he had watched her performance all of those months ago. She recalled how his hands and mouth had pleasured her that afternoon, and ached with anticipation for the night to come.

  It was thus that her husband found her moments later. He stood on the threshold, the letter in his hand forgotten, and observed her performance. Once again, he thought how beautiful she was, caught up in the glory of the music. He felt a surge of lust rush through him with the force of a gale as the thought struck him that, unlike that previous night, she was his now.

  As the notes of the piece faded, he thrust the letter into his breast pocket and moved toward the piano. At the sound of his footsteps, she opened her eyes, startled, and gazed into his dark face.

  All amusement was gone from his features, all patience over. She knew that he burned for her—she could see it in his expression, and felt an answering spill of need deep within her. She rose from the bench, and he stepped forward and lifted her into his arms, taking the steps two at a time and into their bedroom, where he kicked the door closed with a reverberating slam.


  They spoke no words—they had no need for words. He removed her garments and his own as swiftly as he could manage. He could not be leisurely; his need was too great. He was overcome with a dark passion that would brook no delay. When he thrust into her at last, he gave a great sigh, as if he was now complete. He teased her with the movements of his body until she sobbed out her need; then he took her quickly, holding her tightly in his arms as he watched her reach her fulfillment. They slept close to one another, and for the first time in weeks, John did not dream of her departure through the mirror. He hoped his demons had been laid to rest at last.

  ********&********

  Meg was delighted with their charming cottage in Blackpool. It was small but picturesque, and covered with climbing roses. She asked Mr. Thornton how he had found the time to acquire such a lovely place, and he explained that when she agreed to marry him, he had sent Williams to Blackpool to secure lodgings for them for a week.

  It had taken them two days of leisurely travel to arrive at Blackpool during which it had rained, but the day of their arrival was glorious. During their journey, Meg thought over their departure from Marlborough Mills. She did not know who had been more unhappy to see them leave—Mrs. Thornton or Dixon.

  Mrs. Thornton arrived home from Fanny’s house in time to fuss and fret over what was to be done with the mill for the week. John reassured her that all would be in fine fettle, but Meg could see she was anxious. As for Dixon, she was shocked that Meg would go without her. “Who will see to your clothes, and make sure all is in order?” she demanded of Meg.

  Meg soothed her, saying, “The cottage where we will be staying is small, Dixon. We shall not attend any grand balls or fancy dinners.” She twinkled irrepressibly at the servant. “I doubt we will leave the cottage much.”

  Dixon pursed her lips in disapproval. “Very well, Mrs. Margaret,” she said stiffly, and left Meg’s room in a huff. I shall have to bring her a gift, Meg thought resignedly. I only hope she can rub along with the other servants until I return.

  The day of their arrival in Blackpool, the newlyweds spent most of the afternoon exploring the town and strolling along the shore, watching the seabirds and breathing in the bracing air. Mr. Thornton had arranged for someone to deliver meals to their cottage so that they might spend their first few days alone, without the world intruding.

  They ate in front of a blazing fire, and tumbled into bed soon after to make rapturous love. John dozed off afterwards, but Meg could not sleep. She was excited to be at the sea—she had not been to the seashore since she was a girl, when she had spent a number of summers at Brighton. Gran and Lily had rented a house for a week during the late summer, and she and Amelia has splashed in the waves until they were old enough to learn how to swim. Once the war had broken out, however, it had become impossible to holiday at the seaside, and Meg had missed the sea immensely.

  She longed to swim once again. Unwilling to disturb her sleeping husband, she crept from their bed and, donning her night rail and dressing gown, managed to leave the cottage without making a sound. She ran down the path to the shore, and stood along the shoreline where the waves lapped at her toes. It was cold, but not too cold for a brisk dip, she decided and, walking several feet away to a dry spot, dropped her robe on the sand.

  She ran into the sea, gasping from the shock of the cold, briny water. Her breath left her momentarily, but returned as she struck out through the waves. She had always been a strong swimmer; Gran had marveled at her strength and stamina. She cut a swath parallel to the shore line, turning in the silky water like a mermaid. The moonlight shone upon the water and gilded the foaming waves a brilliant silver hue, and she felt a surge of wellbeing unlike any she had experienced before. When she began to tire and felt the undertow tugging at her, she set out for shore.

  As she reached the shoreline, before she could gain her feet, her elbow was grasped a strong hand and she was dragged upright onto the beach. Pushing her long, wet locks from her face, she met the furious gaze of her husband. He was barefoot, dressed only in his trousers, and his pants legs were wet from the waves. He spoke in a carefully controlled voice. “I awoke and found you were missing. Can you imagine what I thought?”

  Beneath his fury, she sensed his panicked fear, and regret flooded through her. She had been back in Milton few scant weeks, and had pledged to never leave him. When he woke to find her gone, his fear had overwhelmed him. She sank back onto her haunches at the thought of his panic upon awakening in a solitary bed.

  “John, I am sorry,” she said in a shamed voice. She could not bring herself to meet his gaze, afraid of the pain she would see. “I was stupid and thoughtless. I could not sleep—and thought a swim would help to tire me.”

  She stood and reached out toward him in contrition, but noted that he was not listening, but was staring at her. She looked down and realized that her wet night clothes were transparent, clinging to every curve and leaving nothing to the imagination. A muscle moved in his cheek; he lifted blazing eyes to hers, but it was not anger that set his gaze afire. Without a word, he clasped her by the wrist and dragged her up the beach to the cottage.

  Once they were in the cottage, she attempted to explain, but it was apparent that he was beyond conciliation. With a single motion, he tore the night rail from her body. Before she could utter a word, his hot mouth came down on hers, muffling every protest.

  She realized that his fear of losing her fueled his passion; he was furious, but she was not afraid of him—she could never be afraid of him. She knew there was nothing she could say to console him—but there was something she could do. She wound her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his, reveling in the feel of his fevered skin against her cold, damp flesh. He struggled out of his garments before pulling her onto the bed and pinning her body beneath his. Before she could catch her breath, he buried himself within her to the hilt, desperate to prove that she was with him, not some apparition who would disappear the moment he awoke. She welcomed his body into hers, and tilted her hips to bring him even deeper, as if she would take all of him into her.

  Their lovemaking was frantic. Neither slept for the remainder of the night, for each time she turned over, he pulled her back against him and used his hands and mouth to inflame her once more. As the dawn turned the sky an opalescent gray, he sighed and drew her close to his body. Her head tucked beneath his chin and their limbs intertwined, they fell asleep, satiated at last.

  The following morning, Meg kept a cautious eye on her husband as he ate his breakfast. Neither spoke much, but when he had finished and pushed back from the table, Meg rose and stood before him. “Please, forgive me for leaving you last night,” she said in a voice rife with regret. “I shall never do so again.”

  He cradled her against him and gently kissed the top of her head. She was looking heavy eyed this morning, and her skin had the delicious flush of one who has been well loved. “I am the one who should beg your forgiveness,” he said. “I was quite rough in my—dealings.”

  She shook her head, blushing. “Actually…it was perfect. But I am sorry that I caused you worry.”

  “If you insist on swimming again, I will come down to the sea to watch you.” He smiled down at her. “I was very angry, but not so angry that I did not appreciate the picture you made as you walked out of the sea. I thought you resembled Venus rising from the waves.”

  She smiled up at him, a gleam of amusement in her eye. “I shall swim just for you tonight—if you will carry me back to the cottage afterwards.”

  He lowered his lips to hers. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Chapter 26. Changing Direction in Mid-Air

  As their carriage pulled into the courtyard at Marlborough Mills from Blackpool, Meg was startled to find Dixon awaiting her on the steps outside the house, a wide smile on her face. As John helped her from the carriage, Dixon called out, “Welcome home, Mrs. Margaret. I have something you must see.” She nodded to Mr. Thornton.

  Mystified, Meg
glanced at John, but his bland expression told her nothing. “I must go to the office,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you go ahead without me? I will be along shortly.” He kissed her lightly on the lips, and walked away. She watched his carriage, and thought with amusement that she could see his transformation from husband to master as his expression sharpened and his strides lengthened. She stood gazing after him in admiration until Dixon cleared her throat, and she turned her attention to the servant.

  Dixon led her into the house and up the stairs to the parlor door. Turning to face her with a wide smile upon her face, she gestured to Meg to enter the room. Meg gazed with astonishment at the chintz chairs from Crampton which were situated in front of the fireplace. She recognized other pieces of well-beloved furniture, and looked at Dixon for an explanation. Dixon replied with great satisfaction, “Mr. Thornton left instructions to bring the best pieces of furniture from the house. He thought you might want some of your family’s things about you.”

  Meg felt a lump form in her throat, and blinked back tears at the tender thoughtfulness shown by her husband. Indeed, the parlor looked less cold with some of the warm, homey furnishings from her parent’s house, and she noted that several familiar water colors of landscapes had been hung on the walls, replacing drabber depictions of military men on horseback or still lives.

  Dixon motioned for Meg to continue upstairs to her bedroom, where she found her little vanity table, wash table, and chest of drawers, along with her mother’s lovely bed with the carved finials on the bedposts. The windows were hung with lace curtains, and her combs, brushes, and other assorted feminine objects had been carefully placed on the vanity. She stepped to the closet and found all of her gowns and garments hung on the racks, and her shoes lined up in neat rows.

  “He asked me to put what I thought you would like in your bedroom,” Dixon said anxiously. “I hope you are pleased.”

  Meg turned to Dixon. “It is wonderful,” she said quietly. “I feel as if my family were here with me.” She looked over Dixon’s shoulder and spotted a large package on her bed. “Dixon, where did that box come from?” she asked curiously.