by Nia Farrell
Poor Daniel looked like he was about to die. “Nine days,” I said. “Edward, it’s nine days. What should we do?”
“Bang him,” he rumbled. “Fuck him. Take him like a slut. Milk the seed from that cock of his. Let him finish in your cunny and fill you to overflowing.”
Of course that’s what Edward wanted. Holding himself deep inside me, he wished to feel it, too.
I unbuttoned Daniel’s waistcoat, grabbed his braces, and tugged on them. “Come on then, Paddy.” I cooed like a soiled dove and ground myself against him. “Come for me. Come on. Give it to me. Give it.”
I felt his peaked nipples against the backs of my hands. Parting my fingers, I caught his tips between them, pinched them and pulled, making his breath hiss from between his clenched teeth. He bucked his hips once, twice, thrice, then rasped my name as he burst inside me, flooding my walls with his cream.
Edward practically purred in my ear.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Fuck,” I swore when I could speak again.
Edward chuckled. “Put in an official request, and we shall take it under consideration.”
“An empty threat,” I hastened to assure Daniel when uncertainty clouded his eyes. “How’s the leg?”
I’d tried to spare Daniel as much of my weight as I could, but still, I was virtually sitting atop him, pinned into place by the unexpected jokester at my back.
“The doctors recommended Epsom salt baths, warm compresses, and massage,” he husked. “I don’t suppose I could talk ye into playing nurse?”
“You might,” I hedged, feeling ill qualified. I had no training. Even if I’d maintained my gender during the war and pursued that avenue of service, I would not have been accepted by the Army, young Catholic woman that I was. Dorothea Dix’s rules for Federal nurses had practically screamed that only plain, Protestant spinsters need apply. “Hmm. Shall I dress like one of Dragon Dix’s women as well?”
Daniel cocked his head, his sloe-eyed gaze as sly as a fox. “I was thinking more like Miss Barton. Get you in green and arm you with oil.”
“Now that sounds promising,” Edward rumbled, his baritone voice sending shivers down my spine. Shaking open his handkerchief, he slipped free of me and settled on the opposite bench.
“Anything else?” I asked Daniel, motioning for Edward to hand me my reticule. Thankfully, I’d thought to pack extra handkerchiefs and a small folded linen towel. Next time I’d bring an extra pair of knickers, too. Used as I’d been through the crotchless opening in the ones that I wore, I was certain that mine needed to be laundered.
“Exercise,” said Daniel.
“Well. I think we just did that.”
Daniel winced as I dismounted him. I wiped clean with a handkerchief, then tucked the toweling between my legs like a menstrual rag, all the while praying that nine days was still safe. The way he climaxed, I’d be carrying triplets.
“Nay.” Daniel applied his own handkerchief to the mess we’d made. “Specific exercises to strengthen the muscles. If I can get them built up enough, to better support the bone…well, they think it might help.”
“I will show you what I have,” Edward told him. “Anything else you need, we shall get.”
I knew that Edward had weights of some sort in his fencing room. Despite his avowal that swordplay and sex kept him in shape, he engaged in other forms of exercise as well.
Edward called for the driver to take us home. We arrived to find Sydney and Mary Margaret gone, with a note promising to be back tomorrow. While the glass plate negatives were all developed, they were still working on making prints. I said nothing about my plans to pose for Sydney. Although it had been tacitly agreed upon, the details were nebulous. Nothing was truly set.
I found the print that she had shown me earlier and conveyed Sydney’s request to copy it for use in her portfolio. Edward remained adamant that all the prints and plates be kept private.
Daniel was visibly relieved about that much, at least. There was no mistaking the lust on Edward’s face in the one print. Seeing the image had rattled him. The way that he eyed the whiskey before he poured it seemed wistful, rather than needful. I suspected that the shot he drank was more to calm his nerves than take the edge off his pain.
Although the chances of being recognized were slim, Edward preferred to not risk it. I could not say that I blamed him. How many times had I been certain of something, only to have it vanish like ice in July?
“She’ll be disappointed, but I will let her know,” I said. Edward would be off to teach and Daniel would likely be at the abbey, leaving me to oversee things here. Meanwhile, I was much in need of a bath and excused myself, leaving the men with the images and a promise to see them at supper.
There was a palpable change in the air when next I saw them, like a breath held in anticipation, or the charge one felt ahead of a rain, heavy with promise, laden with unease. When Daniel picked at his food, I sought to divert his attention by discussing the therapies that Doctors Wainwright and Marshall had prescribed.
Daniel planned to exercise in the evenings, followed by his Epsom salt bath, then massage that he hoped would help him sleep. Without whiskey went unsaid.
Daniel might be an Irishman and undoubtedly enjoyed bending his elbow, but he hated being dependent on drink to ease his pain. He wanted to drink by choice, not from necessity. He abhorred the idea of being “enslaved to Demon Rum” (or whatever the Temperance movement termed the abuse of alcohol) almost as much as he dreaded the thought of old soldier’s disease, the bane of wounded veterans who were dependent on laudanum or opiates to mitigate their suffering.
I wanted that for him, too. I had no wish either to see him suffer or watch him grow old before his time. He’d already sacrificed his pension by following me to England. I was avowed to make certain that he would not regret his choice.
While Daniel headed to the third floor to exercise his ankle, knee and hip, Edward and I withdrew to his study. He wrote, and I read the next book on the list he’d made, marking them off as I committed them to memory. My eye kept straying to the clock, checking the time, not quite certain how long it would be before Daniel needed me to play nurse. Edward had stocked Daniel’s room with the best herbal blend of massage oil. All Daniel needed were the hands to work it deep into his tissue.
An hour went by. Another half hour. And another. I was just getting ready to go up and check on Daniel when Young Frank brought word that he was ready for me.
Edward, of course, wanted to watch but the muse had hold of him and he was compelled to write instead. Being an artist, I understood perfectly. “Make Old Avery eat his liver,” I said, and kissed his cheek good night.
Daniel had exercised, and soaked, and had placed a layer of towels over the bottom sheet of his turned-down bed, protection from drips, should there be any. I changed into my wrapper, retaining only my chemise underneath. I might not know what the hell I was doing when it came to therapeutic massage, but putting my hands on Daniel’s body (even if it was just his leg) had very predictable results.
He’d wrapped a towel around his hips, no doubt for Young Frank’s sake. Tucked in the front, it rode well below his waist, revealing the splendid expanse of his torso and his Adonis belt—that carved, tempting V that flanked his lower abdomen and furrowed south, leading to the treasures below. The way he grimaced as he climbed on the bed, I knew that he’d overdone it.
“Here,” I said, handing him a glass with three fingers of whiskey. “Doctor’s orders.”
He shook his ginger head. “I need to do without.”
“You need to use your head, Paddy.” I used the company’s nickname for him, spoken almost like a blessing for one born on March 17th, their patron saint’s day. “You can’t correct nearly six years in one night. It’s going to take time to build up the muscles, hours of effort and sweat and pushing your limits, but you still have to sleep. Still have to function. And I’d better not see you like this again, or I’ll come up there and mana
ge you myself, then leave you to do your own damn massage.”
“Just shoot me,” he groused, taking the glass from me. Tossing back his drink, he handed me the empty jigger. “There. Happy?”
I gave him the skunk eye. “Wanting to do our own massage, are we?”
He had the good grace to blush. “Sorry, darlin’ girl. Here. Take me. I’m yers to do with what ye will.”
This, purposefully drawled in an Irish brogue so thick, I could cut it. “That’s better. Now lie down on your stomach. I’ll work the back muscles first.”
I wanted to make sure that we finished the massage, or most of it.
I drizzled a beaded line of oil from mid-thigh to ankle, spreading it with my fingers. I poured more into my palm and rubbed my hands together, then started below the perfect curve of his buttocks and made my way down to his ankle, working out the tension as I went. “How’s the back? Shoulders? Arms? Hips?”
“I only worked the hips.” Daniel spoke into his pillow.
In other words, he didn’t want to be a bother. I smacked his ass. “That’s not what I asked. Now, answer me, please.”
“Ow! Fine!” he said. “Foin. The back’s been better. Me shoulders are stiff. Arms, not too bad. The hips need help. There’s a pinch on the right side that will take more than a dram or two to loosen.”
His shoulders were tight. And his neck. The arms, as he’d said, weren’t too bad, perhaps because he worked with them in his joinery. I kneaded the kinks from his back, then had him lift long enough for me to loosen his towel. I draped it across his legs for warmth while I worked on his hips and buttocks, finding the sore spot and digging in deep despite his protests.
“Christ, Lanie! It feels like an awl poking me!”
I didn’t let up. “Give it a minute. If it doesn’t improve, I’ll stop.”
In my head, I did one verse and the chorus of “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which runs exactly one minute, done at the proper pace. “How about now?” I asked. “Any change?”
“It’s better,” he grudged.
“Then I’m going to keep pressure here, see if it eases some more.” It did, to both of our delights. Once I’d mastered his hips, I had him roll onto his back and draped the towel across his loins, less for modesty’s sake than to remind him why I was here.
More oil went on his chest, his abdomen, hips, thighs, and shins, but I started with his sturdy, calloused feet. Where Edward’s feet were perfect, Daniel’s told a story that my fingers itched to read. I found soft spots, sore spots, tender points and places that made his hands fist and his penis grow. I worked his ankles and both shins, comparing the perfect smoothness of the one to the scarred flesh of the other, where he’d been shot. I massaged the fronts and the backs of his knees and made my way up his thighs. By this time, of course, he’d pitched a tent in his towel. I ignored it and shifted to work on his hands, arms, and shoulders, then massaged my way down his chest.
He’d been oiled when we posed, to help delineate his muscles. His skin glowed golden in the gaslight. His chest rose and fell with each laden breath. The flat brown discs of his nipples had tips as hard as his cock. I made him wait. Made him lie there while I ministered to his one need before I finally stripped away the toweling and took care of the other.
“We probably shouldn’t have done that,” I remarked, fishing for his towel to use before lifting off of him.
“Why not?’ he asked, satiated as a Bacchanalian from his climax.
I tucked one end between my legs and cleaned him off with the other. “It doesn’t seem right, mixing business with pleasure, so to speak. The doctors ordered massage, not sex.”
Daniel rolled to his side, pulled me into his arms, and kissed me. “God’s truth, I needed both. Thank ye, darlin’ girl.”
“Yes. Well.” It was futile to resist his charm. Succumbing to it, I wriggled into place and pulled the sheet over us both. “How’s the leg? Do you need another drink to sleep?”
He pressed a kiss against my hair and caught my hand to hold against his heart. “Don’t need a drink. Just ye, darlin’ girl. Stay?” he asked.
And I did.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Daniel left the next morning as Sydney arrived, alone this time, without Mary Margaret in tow. Edward was already gone, leaving me to get Sydney settled.
Babs had packed the men’s lunches. I let her know that there would be two of us here, not the three that she’d planned for, then went upstairs to my studio to work on Young Frank’s portraits. I would be glad when the prints were done—not just because I was anxious to see them, but because the smells for the chemicals were not only unpleasant, they seemed to have a detrimental effect on my judgment. I shouldn’t have fucked Daniel last night. We needed to focus on his healing, not have his mind wander back to where we’d been, thinking that’s how every session should end.
Too late, I supposed, though I promised myself to do better tonight.
I finished the water colors on the first portrait and set it to dry. The sepia lines alone would have made an arresting picture, but the addition of color truly breathed life into it. I was beyond pleased.
I took up the second board that I’d started, opened my ink pot, and continued making the copy, so that both mother and son would have one. I might be starting a dangerous trend. Each of the servants would hope for their own portraiture—and in time, I certainly hoped I could do that, but I knew better than to make promises. Life had a way of intruding on best-laid plans, and the way to hell was paved with good intentions.
Sydney (being Sydney) carried on a mostly one-sided conversation at lunchtime, her running monologue interspersed with bites and swallows and an occasional bone thrown my way, typically a yes? that prodded me to agree with her. I was sensitive to a shift in her energy. Without Mary Margaret, she seemed a bit softer, somehow. More personable. As if the dominant side of her that kept her partner in line could relax just a bit and lower her guard—enough to let me get closer, even if I wasn’t allowed in.
She invited me to see what she’d done. When we’d finished eating, I followed her up and watched a proud mother with her progeny, as she introduced me to them one by one, each a part of her, conceived in her artist’s eye and born from our shared vision, art and life forever entwined.
“Oh, Sydney!” I sang. “Edward will be so happy!”
She knew that this was more for him than for me. He’d told her about my perfect ocular recall. She had yet to test me on it but I suspected that she wanted to and was suppressing the urge to ask, attempting to be polite and not insist that I perform like a trick pony.
“Thank you,” she said, sounding almost humbled. “Really. I can’t tell you…I know they’ll never be seen, but your sculpture will, and to think I was here, at the beginning. It’s exciting, and an honor to be part of your process, helping fill in the blanks that the mirrors left to help complete your vision. I think we did it, Elena. Don’t you think?”
The word yes was still on my lips when Sydney kissed them, winnowing her fingers into my hair and holding me fast against her. “God, I could eat you,” she murmured against my mouth before letting me go.
I stood there, rather shocked, definitely discomfited. I lifted my hands, palms up, not wanting to hurt her but she had to know. “Sydney, I….”
She smiled, a bit sadly. “No. I know. And I apologize. Please don’t tell Edward. I accept that you’re his and not mine, as much as I might wish otherwise.”
To salvage the friendship that we’d started to forge, I offered a half-smile and reminded Sydney that she had Mary Margaret.
“And you have Daniel.” She sighed theatrically. “You and that Irishman of yours would be wonderful play partners if you were so inclined. Unfortunately, I don’t see that ever happening.”
“No,” I said, ignoring her pout. “We are Edward’s. I know that you understand that, and you will from henceforth respect it, yes?”
Sydney barked a laugh when I turned her tables arou
nd. “Yes. Of course. Total respect. Hands and lips off, hmm? I can’t promise not to look,” she added, winking slyly. “Especially when we do your portrait as Lane. How soon, do you think? God, I’m hot just thinking about it.”
“We’ll need to do it in your studio. I can’t risk it here, not if it’s to be a surprise. Once you’re finished with Edward’s commission, we can coordinate schedules. I should be able to work around yours, while the men are gone during the weekdays, at least.”
“In that case, shove off and let me work. I need to get cracking and finish!”
She spent the rest of the week making prints for our archives. I chose a sequence that showed us like theatre in the round, from every angle, and had her make an extra set of those that I could keep locked in my trunk. Not that I needed to refer to them, once I’d studied them, but because I wanted a set of my own as part of my studio archives separate from Edward’s keepsakes.
Daniel decided to adjust his schedule and came home earlier each day, to complete his exercises and Epsom salt bath before supper, saving the massages for afterwards. I continued to serve as his nurse, but I’d drawn a strict line between my Irishman’s therapy and anything else, otherwise the entirety of my evenings would be devoted to him, and that simply wasn’t fair to Edward.
On Friday, Sydney moved out, taking her darkroom with her (although I suspected it would take days, if not weeks, for the pungent chemical smell to dissipate). The house seemed strangely empty without her constant chatter, but I would see her again soon. We’d made a tentative date for next Tuesday, on the twenty-second of September, when I would transform into Lane and pose for the portraits that we had discussed.