by Amanda Boone
There seems to be one of them, perhaps two. In the darkness, he can see a figure, sprawling on the ground. Bugger must be passing out, he thinks. A twist to the neck, and...
“Bryce!”
“Sophie..?” Then, “What in Heaven's name?”
Bryce feels blinding rage enfold him and he hurtles from the woods towards the man, who sprawls on the ground. Bryce feels his hand tighten on the man's neck, as he forces his head into the leaves and strangles him at once. He is kneeling on his back, crushing the air from him.
“I'll kill you... kill you. Bastard... Bastard!” He can hear his own voice, snarling unrecognisably, in his ears, as he feels the warmth of the other man's throat beneath his hand.
“Bryce. Bryce?”
Bryce grunts and blinks. He hears her voice lancing through the blinding rage that fills his head.
“Leave him, Bryce. Leave him. He is as good as dead.”
He shakes his head, and looks down. The body of the man is lifeless under his hands.
“Come on.” Her voice is urgent. “Get away from here. They'll kill you.”
He opens his eyes. Focuses.
“No.” His voice is slurred with the lateness of the night and the action and sudden exhaustion. “No.” He says it again. “Taking you...with me. How can I... leave you here?”
He grips her shoulder. She shrugs, violently, throwing the grip off.
“Don't touch me!” She spits. She draws back. She is, Bryce notices, as the fog lifts from his mind, shivering. . Her eyes are wide, angry and glossed with tears of rage.
He steps back, raising his hands. “Easy, lass.”
“Go.” She snarls. Her fear for him mingles with her shock; and both are making her body shiver, violently. She is so cold.
“No.” He closes his eyes and grips her shoulder. “Not without you.”
“No!” She tries to break his grip, but it tightens. He closes his eyes tighter. He does not want to hurt her, but he cannot leave her here. That bastard was raping her! How can he leave her in a place where that could happen?
Heedless of her struggles, then, he drags her into the woods behind him and up the hill.
***
“Angus. Can you take the charge here? I need to get home. Urgently.” Bryce inclines his head towards where Sophie stands, near his horse.
“Aye, lad. Certainly.” Angus nods gravely. “You get yourself off home. Leave this to me.”
“Thank you.” Bryce grips his hand, firmly.
Sophie is standing with her back to him. She does not turn, when he comes up and puts his saddlebag across the saddle and turns to give her a lift onto the horse's back.
When he touches her body, she recoils. . She sits in front of him stiffly as they start the long, slow ride back home.
It is morning, when they arrive in the clearing at the manor. The mist hangs over the buildings, soft in the first rays of morning's light.
“Here we are.” Bryce swings himself down, and lifts a hand up to Sophie. She takes it, unseeing, and slides off the horse.
Wordlessly, they cross the courtyard and walk to the house.
Inside, Sophie walks mechanically up the stairs to the East wing. She opens the door and closes it behind her. Sits down on the bed.
Ten minutes later, a maid comes in with a bathtub. Another joins her, with a bucket of water. They fill the bath and leave, without a word.
Five minutes later, Sophie walks over. Her eyes are blank. She takes the gossamer party-dress from her body coldly, then sinks into the warm water, and lets it close over her.
When the water is cold, she steps out. She slips on the floor. Her knee hits the hard surface and the ache of it is unbearable.
Suddenly, Sophie is crying. Sobbing. The tears flowing down her face. Her thoughts are wild and confused.
My knee hurts. Why more pain? Haven't I had enough?
Nothing happened. Nothing. Don't say it, don't think it; and nothing has happened. No-one knows.
Bryce? Why did you have to come back from the dead, then? I could hate you, for seeing me like that. Now you think nothing of me, too. Dragging me back here, like a cut of meat. I am nothing, now, aren't I? Nothing.
She sobs quietly to herself, until the water cools in the bath and her skin dries and then, exhausted, she crawls to the bed and sleeps.
***
Bryce is sitting in the breakfast room. It is evening. He has just come back from the forest, where he has spent the last weeks working with his men.
She wants nothing to do with me, he thinks, sadly, as he sits watching the long, slow light of evening between the trees.
I don't blame her, he adds, feelingly. Why would she want a man to come near her, after what that one did?
He decided that the best thing he could do would be to keep out of her way.
That was two weeks ago. Now, he has just returned. Mhaire has said nothing of Sophie, only reported that she will not eat and does not speak, and sends every platter back almost untouched. Even Mhaire seems to be blaming him, he thinks, sadly.
He watches the slanting light on the lawn, and thinks of his memories of her. That bright, laughing spirit, with her mischievous gaze and grave soul. How can he lose her?
Selfish, he thinks, angry with himself. How can you think of your own petty sadness, when she is suffering?
He shake his head. He should go out. Go riding, perhaps. Take his horse and the dogs and get out. She would like that, he thinks. She loves animals and nature. Comes alive in places of beauty.
She did. She is as good as dead to him, the girl he knew.
He is lost in thought, staring at the golden sunlight on the lawn.
Silvered laughter reaches him, and the sound of feet, running. He stands and moves hastily to the door, wanting for her not to have to see him. He hides himself just in time.
She walks in, flushed and laughing. Her hair is down, and there is dew on her feet. She is wearing an old lace gown from the wardrobe in the upstairs room. Her cheeks are scarlet with exertion, her mouth still smiling.
“Hey, Silver?”
She is patting a vicious-looking boar-hound, and smiling with affection. Her voice is still a little strained from the exertion of the run. She must have run all the way back.
Bryce makes as if to walk towards her. She seems to sense the movement, and starts. Then she walks past, unruffled. She is humming under her breath. She goes up the stairs.
A few minutes later, and she appears in the breakfast room, her feet dried and her hair combed back into a casually-elegant style.
“Is it time for supper?”
Inwardly, his soul leaps with delight. Outside, he smiles, as if they do this every day
“Yes, why not? Pull the bell, and Mhaire will bring it in.”
“Good. I'm famished.”
He steps towards her, a hand lifts, to clasp her shoulder. She stiffens, and he lets it drop. He smiles.
“Good. So am I. I think the menu is roast capon today? One of the men shot some, in the woods. I've been rather looking forward to them.”
“Good.” She touches his shoulder.
Inside, his heart melts. Outwardly, he smiles.
“Just so.”
***
The capon is, indeed, delicious.
The light from the fire weaves gold in Sophie's hair. She is on Bryce's left, at the head of the table. As if she has sat there always.
“Are the men safely back?” Sophie's voice is warm, languorously interested.
“Yes.” Bryce replies, through a mouthful of capon. “We finished our...exercise yesterday.”
“Good.” She smiles at him. The firelight reflects in her eyes, making them more luminous than ever.
He feels his breath catch in his throat. But he keeps his hand where it rests, afraid to scare her.
“You will be away again soon?”
“Not within the month. We'll make one last push before the Winter sets in.”
“Good.” Sophie's voice i
s soft.
“I need to be here to help the tenants collecting the harvest and helping to stock up for winter.” He smiles, wiping the mulled wine from his lips.
“You're going to work the land?” Sophie asks, grinning.
“What's so funny about that?”
“Nothing.” She is still smiling. “I just can't imagine it, is all. You seem a little fancy for a farmer.”
“Fancy? Me? I'm the least-fancy man. I pride myself on it.”
She laughs. “So unfancy that you're the showcase of unfanciness. The fanciest unfancy man.”
They both laugh. They lean forward, and it is quite natural that their foreheads meet.
They both sit very still. The warmth of her forehead on his seems to shudder down right into his very bones. He tries hard not to breathe. Deep within him, he can feel a need building, a fire kindling, ready to rage through him.
Her hand moves over the table and, warmly, clasps his.
Their eyes meet.
They kiss.
It is all warmth, and firelight, and magic. Her lips are sweet and warm on his, the spices from the wine mingling with the taste of her. He cannot quite believe it.
After a few minutes, they part. Sit back. Look at each other.
Their arms find their way around each other, tentative at first, and then urgent.
They walk, slowly and uncertainly, the long, short, uncertain distance to the bedroom.
And such a night.
Bryce kisses her again, his lips slow, so slow, on hers. Her lips part, and they spend whole minutes in tasting each other, their lips light and soft, then heavy, on each other.
Bryce is unsure, but his need for her, and his care, guide his hands. He reaches up and strokes her throat. She stiffens, then relaxes. He kisses her, and his lips move down to the warm satin of her neck. He bites it, gently.
Her breasts are pale satin. He kisses them, where they gather at the neck of the gown. His eyes are on hers, and she nods. He unfastens the neck and works the dress down.
Her nipples are pale, the skin as soft as the petals of a flower. He takes one in his mouth, and works it, gently, and it hardens at his touch. She gasps at the sweet fire his lips send coursing through her, to ignite, warmly, in her womb. She lets his weight push her back, onto the bed.
His mouth kisses its way down to her navel, his hands easing the dress from her body. She is bare before him, her body pale and curved and quite exquisite.
He bends over her and kisses further. Her thighs are soft and silken, and they part, yielding, as he kisses them. He cannot resist. He kisses her thigh, and moves inwards, parting her legs gently as his mouth finds the warm, pink slit between. She gasps, and parts her legs, his tongue working her and sending pulses of sweet sensation rocketing through her body.
He sits back, his body afire with need. She wraps her legs around his waist.
And then he is sliding into her, and her breath catches in her throat. He pushes in gently, the clinging damp of her a pleasure almost too much to bear. She is soft, and pink and golden, and her body is a wonder he will never stop exploring. He pulls back, and they both gasp as he thrusts in again, deeper this time.
They both feel it, and then they are riding the crest of that sweetness, pulling back and thrusting, their bodies pressing hard and harder as they thrust and meet and part, the pressure and urgency rising like a wave.
Their voices break the scarlet velvet silence of the night together, as first one and then another cries out in an aching, sated sound of unimagined bliss.
He collapses onto her, after a moment, breathing heavily. He is still inside her, their bodies locked together.
As the darkness of the night gives way to greyness, they sink into sleep.
***
Bliss.
Sophie thinks it, as she rolls over and in bed, slowly coming to wakefulness. It is the best thing, to wake beside her lover. Bryce. His name is a sweet pleasure, just in thinking it.
She grins in her half-wakefulness, and rolls over, searching for him in the bed. Rolls back. Fails to find him.
She sits up, long hair ruffled and tumbling loose about one bare shoulder. That is strange, unlike him.
What time is it? She rolls over and reaches for a taper. The clock opposite reads five minutes after the fourth hour.
Bryce? Her heart is suddenly seized with uncertainty and fear. He needs me. She does not know why she thinks that, or how; only that he does. She lifts the taper, and uses it to light a lamp.
Her feet are silent on the floor. It is freezing out here. She hurries downstairs, and finds her outer shoes at the back door, pulls them on. She does not know why she feels her feet take her to the back door; she only knows that she has to go there. Her heart is guiding her outside, towards the path into the woods.
Outside, the night is deepest charcoal-grey, the greyness the only hint of morning. It is silent out here.
Bryce? Sweetheart? Her mind is calling out as she walks. She is walking into the woods
Bryce? The call her heart heard is somehow fainter, as if the caller faded.
Ten more minutes. She is far from the house, now. The air is becoming colder. It is closer to the dawn.
Then she sees it. Sees him. Ten paces ahead of her, there is a huddle in the pathway. A dark shape, with sandy hair spread limply out before it, one hand thrown forward, the other beneath his body, sprawled on the path.
No! Sophie did not know it was possible for the heart to break.
She throws herself forward, crouching beside the inert form curled in the path. He feels cold. He might not be dead.
She sits back, takes stock. Feels for a pulse at the throat. It is there. Faint, but there. She almost weeps with relief. She does, in fact, stand; words of thanks to whichever deity has preserved him, on her lips.
She takes a breath, and feels along his ribs. He has been shot. The bullet has lodged at the shoulder-blade, not far from where it entered. If it had not, he would be dead. More miracles.
She rolls him over, as gently as possible. He groans.
“You're alright, dear. It's alright.”
She straps the shoulder and chest with a strip torn from her night gown.
“We'll get you back home, dear.” She wonders how. She will have to try.
“Let's lift you up.” She bends over and eases his arm around her shoulders.
Together, they walk back, her dragging his weight, which is lifeless against her shoulder.
It takes almost an hour, but they reach home. She pulls him over the threshold, and they both collapse in an exhausted heap. Then she goes to the kitchen. Calls Mhaire.
Mhaire returns, with Master Leeson, as it will take all of them to cauterise the wound. One to hold the iron, and strong arms to hold him, with a third on hand with bandages for the wound. As soon as Sophie has removed the bullet, they will help with cauterising it.
After about an hour, Bryce, his face sheened with sweat, is sleeping peacefully. Sophie sits beside his bed, keeping watch, half-asleep herself, exhausted.
When she wakes, the candlelight is brushing pale highlights in his hair, his face completely relaxed in sleep. Sophie feels her heart warm with love for him, and she also realises she has come to a decision.
***
“Lover?”
“Yes?”
It is eleven days since Bryce's wounding, and he is in bed with Sophie. He sweated out the fever after five days, and judicious use of yarrow. By the eighth day, he could again eat solids. He has been sleeping beside Sophie since the accident, and they are back to making love, if with care for his wounds.
Now, Sophie is beside him, her head on the pillow.
He is about to fall asleep.
“Lover?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I have something to ask you.”
“Yes? You know you only have to ask.”
She smiles at him, kisses his nose. “Yes, dear. But this is a big question.”
“Try me.�
�
“Could we...how would it be, if we were not here?”
“Not here? You mean not in this house?”
“Not this house, dear. This land. This war.”
Bryce is silent for a moment.
“That is a big question. But it is one I have thought about myself.”
“And?” She is looking down at him, wide-eyed.
“And...This is nothing, to me. Nothing I would not give up, to see you safe. To see us safe.” He strokes her shoulder. “I don't want to die, either.” He adds. “Not now I have so much to live for.”
They are silent for a moment.
“We could... where would we go?”
“France is... open to us.” She says it, musingly.
“Yes.” Bryce says, after a while. “Clever.”
She smiles, and giggles. “You, too.”
“To have come to the same conclusion?” He smiles.
“Yes. Certainly.”
They laugh. It is a long time before they rise that morning. They tell the staff that they were busy with matters of household concern. The staff smile, but don't believe them for a second.
At the Forest House, all is well in the world.
***
It is night. The sea is roaring. The fire from the torches spills, liquidly, into the rising flow of the tide.
“Bryce?” Sophie squeezes his hand. He holds hers tighter, reassuring.
They are on the beach, just after midnight. It is a month since their talk, and Bryce has found a passage for them, on board a whiskey-trader, bound for France.
His existence is enough to have him shot, never mind any attempt by him of fleeing the country. That would see him hanged. They could both be killed for this.
“He should be here any minute with the boat.” Bryce says. He is looking out to sea, holding the torch.
“Bryce?” Sophie asks. Her voice sounds cautious. “I don't like this.”
“Why?” He sounds genuinely concerned. He knows she has a strong intuition.
“That man...at the tavern. It felt wrong. Felt like he was watching us.”
It is true. At the tavern that evening, a man had sat opposite, watched them very carefully.
Bryce lays a hand on her shoulder, reassuringly. “I know, dear.” He says. He kisses her hair. “We have to hope it will be well.”