Time of Her Life

by Josephine Scott

  TIME OF HER LIFE

  Josephine Scott

  First published in 1993 by Nexus

  ISBN 0 352 32894 0

  This one is for W.C.B., a dear friend for a long time.

  This book is a work of fiction. In real life, make sure you practise safe

  THEN

  Laughter and talk, stiff skirts sweeping the rush-covered floor, jewels sparkling in the light from the fire and the flaming sconces set high on walls. Light glanced from stiff lace collars, fans fluttered and created their own flares of colour. Small pointed beards, small moustaches, long flowing hair; so elegant these men, so naturally graceful in ribbons and silks. So unlike the men Abigail was used to.

  An air of expectation hung over everything, keen glances turning towards the far door where someone was going to make an entrance.

  Abigail moved carefully along the stone wall, her naked thighs whispering under her stiff skirts, quim aching with desire - would this be the night she would find the nerve to approach him? She caught sight of herself in a polished shield, glad to see that her black hair was dressed just as the ladies had done theirs, with combs and curls, and that the floury mask she had applied fitted well with the look most ladies wore. The shield distorted the shape of her face; she knew it was oval, but in the reflection it was more elongated. People looked because she was a stranger, not because she looked out of place.

  She hoped her lace collar didn't appear too machine-made. It was different from the rich, expensive and beautiful lace they wore. Abigail couldn't afford hand-made lace.

  She moved on towards a tall, clouded window, apologising with a nod and a smile for disturbing guests. She received more curious looks but people soon turned away again, back to the door.

  Waiting.

  A fanfare of trumpets shook castle walls, a boy herald in scarlet doublet and leggings, angelic face, dark hair, perhaps 10 years old, stepped in front of the fire, and everyone fell silent.

  "My Lord Danverson bids you welcome to the midsummer ball!" The high-pitched childish voice carried to the minstrels" gallery. On cue, Lord Danverson entered the hall, ermine robe careless around his shoulders, a doublet glistening with jewels in the rushlights, huge leather boots rustling as he walked. Abigail noted (again) the broad shoulders, strong legs and harsh profile. She also noticed that no woman accompanied him (again).

  "Welcome!" His voice filled corners where shadows hung and ghosts lingered. Someone - a trusted man servant? -handed him a tankard of ale, the wood polished and shining like pewter in the reflected light. "Welcome to Castle Danverson. Musicians, play!" A huge roar went up as he waved the tankard high in the air, foam and ale spilling onto dogs which scampered, barking, at his feet, affected by the tangible excitement and the crowd.

  Music began to fill the air, competing with voices and roaring laughter.

  "And people, eat!" Another roar, larger and louder than the first, shook dust from the rafters. Abigail brushed smuts from her scarlet dress, smoothed the black overskirt, tugged at the starched collar and pushed the choker into place. She had an appearance to maintain in the eyes of strangers.

  Men fell on the food with hearty appetites. Women hung back, waiting for the men to clear a space for them. Food. It was one thing she couldn't do. Not here. She turned back to the window, looked out at rolling downland, fields cultivated in small strips of regular appearance and size. Over it all hung the indefinable sadness of twilight, sun giving way to dark, pinkness giving way to the pressure of purple and then black. Abigail wished the window were open so she could smell the sadness that tinged the land. It stirred her each time she came here.

  "I do not remember seeing you before." A wave of perfume as Abigail turned to see a dark-haired woman smiling, eyes bright with curiosity. A dress of blue overlaid a rich petticoat of gold silk; fluttering fan and eyelashes; a coy smile. Abigail wished she had a chance to get her hands on a dress like that. Or a smile like that.

  "No, I... come from ... far away, just for the ball." Weak, even to her ears. "My Lord's reputation has spread some distance away." That was surely safe.

  "Did you see my Lord's prowess with the falcon in the hunt today?"

  "I would rather see my Lord's prowess in bed at night!"

  Abigail took chances with boldness, trusting the look in the eyes didn't let her down. They were talking of the same thing, surely.

  The woman's laugh was short and harsh.

  "Not me. They say he is a cruel man with a taste for hurting women. But I admire a man who hunts and who can control the falcon as well as my Lord does."

  "I would take my chances if I could bed him, for all that."

  Abigail glanced at her companion, hoping she'd said it right. There seemed no hint of confusion or suspicion. Talking under rather than over the sound of the minstrels in the gallery helped cover some of the defects in her accent.

  "Dance!" bellowed Lord Danverson. Abigail's companion smiled, accepted the arm of a tall blond man in a large padded green doublet encrusted with gold, and moved gracefully into the dance.

  "You must talk to me again," she murmured as she left.

  Abigail leaned against the windowsill and watched. The castle hall was alive with swirling skirts, lace and gold trimmings. Ladies with starched collars framing their faces rested ring-encrusted hands on their partners" arms, creating a kaleidoscope of colour and movement. Sword hilts sparkled with jewels as the owners moved, hands rarely far from their sides, always alert for any sign of trouble. Were men never at ease with themselves? Abigail wondered.

  Smoke from the huge fires hung over everything, disturbed by dancers, by sudden loud shouts from groups of men exchanging pleasantries and jokes at others" expense, standing in corners and near the table.

  Abigail shivered. Midsummer, yet it was cold; the fires were welcome. Some guests hugged the flames, in danger of scorching by sparks which leapt from logs. Steam rose from food set out along vast tables stood foursquare to the floor. Rushes were kicked aside as dancers moved apart and together, swung apart and together again in an intricate courtship. Over it all hung the mingled scents of wood ash, food, perfume, dust, mould and body odour. Yet it didn't seem unpleasant to her.

  Lord Danverson seemed to be everywhere at once, drinking, shouting, dancing with abandon and gusto, a man who lived life to the full. Abigail saw him look at her, saw the appreciative smile, knew scarlet silk suited her well and that her face was the equal of any at the midsummer ball tonight.

  The dance ended. Lord Danverson left his partner and pushed his way through dancers to approach her.

  "Might I enquire if you are enjoying the ball?"

  "Yes, my Lord."

  "I have seen you here before but I do not know your name or where you have your home."

  "My Lord, I have been a guest at your celebrations before. I live in a village not far from here. You may know it: Wal-church."

  "I know it, but I have no knowledge of the families who live there. And your name?"

  A great roar of laughter went up behind Lord Danverson. He smiled and edged closer to Abigail, pinning her against cold stone. Musicians came to a sweeping finale and immediately began another dance. Someone bumped into Abigail, half apologised as they moved away, spilling ale from a pewter tankard.

  "Abigail Brandon, my Lord." She curtsied as elegantly as she could.

  "And on whose arm did you come to the ball tonight?" He leaned against the sill, closer, almost whispering. Abigail strained to catch the words.

  "I came alone, to see my Lord Danverson."

  "Wait for me in my room." It was an order, not a request.

  "Yes, my Lord." No questions asked. Accepted. Just as she hoped. He walked away, a smile twisting his dark face. Abigail saw a pageb
oy standing to one side, anxious, ready to move at command. She beckoned to him.

  "Madam?"

  "Which is my Lord Danverson's room?"

  "On the floor above the gallery, four doors along, a room with blue tapestries and a large bed."

  "Thank you. Not a word, now, why or what I asked."

  The pageboy nodded. He had seen his Lord with her, and knew not to ask any questions.

  Abigail slipped quietly away, ducking invitations to dance with a smile and shake of her head. Her companion in blue and gold half raised a hand, saw Abigail was leaving and turned back to her companion. Relief - for had she seen machine stitching on the dress she might have asked questions Abigail could not answer. Not here, not now.

  She hurried up the stairs, slippers clicking on the worn stone and thighs whispering their secret as moisture began to seep onto the skin, adding to her barely contained excitement. He had noticed her, he wanted her, he had spoken to her and ordered her to his room. This night she could have him for her very own.

  The gallery was chill, the sun leaving the sky to creeping hands of darkness. Thick stone walls had hardly had time to become warm before night caught them in an icy grip. Feeble rush lamps flickered and flared in draughts which found their way through velvet hangings and tapestries. She thought (again) England in the summer of 1625 was not really warm enough for her liking.

  Lord Danverson's room. The bed was indeed large, draped with blue hangings of rich velvet. It held his scent, smoke, ale, tobacco, leather and cotton. Clothes tossed to one side held the smell of the hunt, horses and woods, blood and sweat. A huge chest stood to one side, carved with a hunting scene. Abigail ran her hands over it, appreciating the workmanship. Back home such things were only found in museums, or expensive antique shops. The thought occurred to her that she could become an eminent historian with first-hand knowledge of furniture and antiques, but then they'd wonder how she knew.

  And there was the mirror in its ornate frame, hanging over the mantelpiece. It had been moved. Last time it was in one of the drawing rooms, framed by tapestries with wild hunting scenes and mythological stories on them. It had been easy to find. This had been pure luck.

  She was grateful for the small fire. Crouching down and lifting her heavy petticoats, she daydreamed. He was as handsome as before, strong long jaw, short pointed beard in the fashion of the day. Dark piercing eyes, Roman nose, a strong handsome face. Would he be good, this man of the manor, of the land, of the whole damn county by the look of him? Would he be hard and long and would he satisfy her? She could but hope. Surely she hadn't made the journey back again for nothing!

  And he had remembered her! Abigail's brief appearances at the castle on the earlier midwinter and midsummer feasts had been cautious, moving carefully through the guests, not catching anyone's eye, but waiting her chance. This time she had decided to be bold, to experience the man for her own self.

  He was long in coming. She huddled on a small stool, then sat on the floor, and finally lay down on a large fur rug stretched before the hearth, dozing and starting awake a dozen times before the door scraped open and she heard slippers coming in.

  "I thought you might have left with the others." Slurred with drink, but firm enough for all that. Close to, he was as exciting as she had thought earlier, a lust gleaming in his eyes that brought his face alight. Abigail stood and stretched her arms around his neck, pulling him close, feeling dark stubble graze her face. She breathed in musk, the smell of food, sweat, smoke and manliness that was the greatest aphrodisiac of all. If only it could be bottled and sold! His arms went round her, iron bands holding her close. He darted kisses at her throat, her temple, her nose. She leaned back to look at him.

  "My Lord said to wait."

  "Yes, but the ball went on longer than I thought."

  "I would have waited a thousand days for my Lord," she whispered. She pressed against him, his muscles hard through her layers of petticoats and hoops. The swelling was there. Her body rarely betrayed her - it conquered the men every time. That and her boldness; they could never stand up to that.

  Between kisses he protested: "I do not know who you are..."

  "But you do. Abigail Brandon, of Walchurch. What more could my Lord ask? Come." She led him to the bed, pulling one work-hardened hand, and sat him on the edge of the huge goose-feather mattress. She disrobed slowly, watching his eyes, knowing his excitement. Her soft white skin, heavy foil breasts with large nipples, and her plucked pussy, something surely no 17th century man had ever seen, were good for all men. His eyes grew wide and a hand reached out and touched her quim, sliding over the silky whiteness, amazed.

  "I have never seen such things - not in my furthest journeyings."

  "It is for you and you alone," she whispered, drawing closer to him. He reached out, his hands sliding over her firm hips, touching her breasts, making the nipples come erect. She drew in her breath sharply as one hand found her spine, a sharp finger down the length, cupping and smoothing and turning her to admire her shape from all angles.

  Then he stood up, held her close, kissed her deeply, his breath smelling and tasting of ale and strong meat, a smoky musky smell and taste that thrilled almost as much as the look of his hard muscular body. She moved cautiously against him, not wanting to hurry, but wanting him to please, please fuck her and soon. Wet now, wet and willing.

  Lord Danverson moved suddenly, pushed her down on the bed and parted her legs, staring at her as he swiftly undressed, tossing his clothes into a wild heap on the floor. He stood erect, strong, gleaming with lust, and she held out her arms, almost groaning at the sight of him. She had waited, she had schemed to get back here, and it had been worth every moment for the sight of him alone.

  He climbed onto the bed, knelt between her legs, touched with both hands, letting his fingers slide down her thighs, around her hips, back up to her navel, under her armpits, shaved of course. He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, letting both hands trace both sides of her body. She stared at him, tongue pressing between her teeth, sometimes licking her lips, letting her hands find him, the heavy balls, hairy and firm, the thick handful she held, touched, caressed, reached for his buttocks as best she could, grabbing his muscled thighs, catching his hands at times and pressing them to her quim, begging him without words to do it now.

  The length and thickness of his member surprised, shocked, thrilled her as it slid home into her warm waiting body. It filled her completely, pressed against every nerve ending she had. He thrust hard, grunting with pleasure, holding both her cheeks in his large hands, again and again finding every part of her. She cried out in sheer pleasure, clawing nails down his back. Every part reacted to the feeling, it shook her to the toes, she all but swooned. He thrust harder and harder, pushing her into the mattress of feather and down. She cried out again as she climaxed twice in a blinding sweep of feeling that shut out all thought, all consideration and then swept over her again as he finally came shuddering into her.

  He raised himself up and looked at Abigail, an unreadable look, stern yet wondering. She tried to bring herself back down from the high. Something was going on here, she had to cope with it, yet she was. longing for more.

  Try persuasion.

  "Did I please my Lord?" Oh do it again, she thought desperately, do it again! But instead he got up, snatched up a robe, flung it around his shoulders and paced the floor. He stopped and stared at Abigail, his face unreadable in the mix of light from the rapidly diminishing candle he had brought to his room and the slowly dying fire.

  "You pleased me, but there is something wrong, something I dislike."

  "My Lord?"

  He appeared to come to a decision, turned towards the bedroom door. "It is the boldness, I think. I can deal with that and I will. Page!"

  The door sprang open as if by magic and a small boy stood there, blinking sleep from his eyes.

  "Sire?"

  "Fetch me a birch."

  The boy looked scared but said "Sire!" and
the door closed again.

  "A... birch?" Abigail stammered, pushing herself up the bed, getting away from the gleam of pure malice which had replaced the one of lust.

  "A birch, my lady, a birch - for the pretty cheeks which were so keen to be dealt with in one way must be dealt with in another." He leaned across the bed and caught hold of her wrists, his hands as hard as iron, dragging her towards the bedpost. He pulled her to her feet, held both hands together on one side of the post while she stood shivering with post-orgasmic pleasure and a touch of fear on the other. Events were taking a turn she had not anticipated, and it was a bit scary. Lord Danverson grinned as he slid the girdle from his robe and bound her wrists together tightly with the silken length. Around and around her wrists, pulling her veins close together, so close she could feel her pulse racing through them. Abigail bit her lips, looked at Lord Danverson with pleading eyes, saying "let me go" without uttering the words.