“My mother told me she’d hired a new maid for the scullery.”
Eloise jumped, turning. A man stood in the back doorway, his hands on his hips. She had a vague recollection that the farmwife Mairy had mentioned grown sons. This must be one. He had Mairy’s look about him.
“Uh,” she said, paddling her hands in the water, reaching frantically for the cloth there. “I was…”
“Don’t worry. I’m not running to her to complain.” He walked toward her. He was a slab of a man, handsome but fleshy, his fair hair shorn close at the sides but loose on top in that Mendean way she found so ugly. His neck was broader than his head, she noticed, and his skin weather-beaten. “I’m an easygoing man. You’ll like me.”
She wasn’t sure about that last at all, although his body language was all affability he was getting close enough to make her nervous. She wasn’t sure what she should say, so she only smiled weakly.
“What’s your name?” He was at her shoulder now.
“Ella.”
“Ella. That’s nice. She said you were pretty. Mine’s Duggan.” He stood with head tilted, watching as she started to draw the sheet out of the rinse water, twisting it as it emerged. “That looks like hard work.”
“Uh. Yes.” What did he want? “Have the men all finished in the field then?” she asked, hoping Severin would be back soon.
“Mmm. Mostly. Let me help you with that.”
Since he was not a servant, and she was hired help, she assumed that she ought to be polite to him. So she didn’t object when he took the heavy linen from her, even though he stood behind her to do it and reached round her with both arms. It was his house, after all. She just pressed herself against the stone of the sink, trying to take up as little space as possible.
He had big, muscular forearms. He wrung the water out of the linen as if it were curd cheese. But her meek stance didn’t stop him brushing up against her from behind—just a gentle bump at first, and then again, rubbing against her rump and back. Eloise’s eyes flew wide open.
“I should go out and hang these up,” she stammered.
“Out?” Bump. Was it deliberate? It must be.
“If you’ll just…”
“Have you got your eye on one of the fieldmen then, Ella?” he murmured, laying the twist of cloth aside on the wooden slab. His thighs brushed her again.
“My husband,” she said with a leap of hope.
“Oh? Which one’s he then? I’ll make sure he gets extra rations.”
“Sev.”
“He’s a lucky beggar,” said Duggan, and cupped her breast gently.
Heat flashed through Eloise like a lightning stroke and dew sprang out on her spine. She wanted to shriek—and yet she made no sound. The air seemed to catch in her throat. She had never encountered a situation like this. The only interest ever shown in her had been by scrupulously formal noblemen whose thoughts were more on her inheritance than her person. She had no idea how to react, and so she did not react at all. She froze, as a leveret in its form between the furrows freezes when a dog presses in to sniff it.
“Told you you’d like me,” he murmured in her ear. His thumb found the soft nub of her nipple through the coarse cloth and circled it, the tiny friction doing terrible things to her flesh and her mind.
“Stop that,” she whispered. She couldn’t understand why her legs felt like lead, why her hands seemed frozen to the stone.
“Stop?” He was nudging her bottom quite stiffly now, though with no forcefulness. To push him back would be to push against that. “But you like it, Ella.”
“I don’t!”
“Your tit does. Can’t you tell? You’ve got beautiful tits, Ella.”
His caress had raised her nipple to a thick peak. Waves of confusion and shame and fear were washing through her body so fast she felt like she was being pulled down by the undertow. “Please don’t,” she whimpered.
“Don’t?” Duggan laughed. “That’s fine. No problem, Ella.” He let her go with breathtaking abruptness, stepping slightly back. “See? I’m not harming you.” Then he took her hip and turned her against the sink, so that her back was to the stone. “I’m not even touching you.”
True enough, he wasn’t. He was smiling and he looked relaxed. If he’d been leering and grabbing she would have known she had to fight him, but as it was Eloise just stood there wide-eyed, canting her upper body away from him over the sink but trapped by her shame.
“You’re not scared of me, are you?”
There was no good answer to that, she knew.
He looked down at her breasts. “Oops. Got you a bit wet there.”
She made the mistake of looking down too. There was a big damp handprint over her right breast, and her hard and treacherous nipple was poking up against the sodden cloth. As she looked, Duggan caught the nipple in a good firm pinch.
“Now don’t tell me you don’t like that,” he said, smiling gently. “I can tell.” He tugged at the nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb—and as the pinch crackled through her nerves Eloise could feel her mind draining out of her body, leaving her breathless and empty, ready to be filled.
Duggan saw it in her eyes. The gap between them was down to a finger’s-breadth. He took her skirt in his free hand, starting to gather the folds. “I wonder if you’re as wet down there?” he murmured, and pushed his hand in against the cloth to cup her sex.
The touch jolted through her. Suddenly she could move. She wrenched herself from his hands and toward the door, smacking her knuckles on the wood, stumbling out into the sunlight. Severin was out there, walking across the yard with a drift of other servants, and she felt a great flood of relief at the sight of him. As Eloise hit the bottom of the steps she was almost running; she threw herself against him and wrapped her arms tight about his torso, burying her face in his chest.
Severin went stock-still. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.
She looked over her shoulder, and he followed her glance. Duggan was coming down the steps from the scullery. His loose trousers were tented by the jut of his erection and he had a genial smirk on his face.
“What’s wrong?” repeated Severin, his voice going suddenly hard. He pulled her off him and dropped his rake on the flagstones with a clatter, his gaze fixed on Duggan. “What did he do to you?”
Duggan’s smile broadened. He was a head taller than Severin and saw nothing to worry about. “She just got a bit wet, that’s all.”
“What,” said Severin, almost hissing the words, “did he do?” And he took the first steps toward the farmer. Eloise saw it even if Duggan didn’t—the shift in the way Severin moved—no longer the amble of a tired field hand but the coiled, silky poise of something far more dangerous. His left hand slipped to the small of his back, up under his loose shirt.
To where the knife was concealed.
Fear spiked through Eloise. They were surrounded by witnesses, and this was Duggan’s farm. Everyone was stopping to watch. “Nothing!” she gasped. “He didn’t do anything!”
Duggan’s smirk became unbearable as he nodded at her in approval. Severin took another step.
“Sev! He did nothing!” she moaned, catching his arm. “Please!”
For a moment he seemed to take no notice of her. Then he uncoiled and turned and caught her arm. His face was set and expressionless. He marched her out of the yard, past all the incoming field hands who stared and grinned. He took her round the corner and then when they were alone at last he pushed her against the wall, her back to the stones, and gripped her shoulders tight enough to make her squirm.
“What happened?” he demanded in a low voice, leaning in close. “Tell me.”
“Nothing!” Her hands made their own protest, catching the front of his shirt. “He didn’t have the chance—I walked out.” She could hardly believe now that it had happened, so quickly and so completely without reference to her will.
Severin’s jaw clenched and she saw the muscle jump in his cheek. “Ella,” he
breathed. “You must never give any man even half an opportunity—”
“I didn’t!” Tears flooded, burning, to her eyes. Severin let go of her abruptly and put his hands on the wall instead. She was as cornered as she had been by Duggan.
“Shit,” he hissed to himself, fury dancing in his narrowed eyes. Then he blinked, shook himself and asked, his voice hoarse but much gentler, “Are you all right?”
She nodded, sniffing back the tears before they could fall. Her hands were still snagged in the front of his shirt.
“Are you sure?”
“Mm.” She stared up at him, breathing hard.
“Right then.” He covered her fingers with his dusty hand and detached her gently from his shirt. “Let me think this through, Ella. Go…go finish your work. I’ll join you.” Then he turned away and walked off, head tilted like a man trying not to see what was before him.
Eloise didn’t understand why his thinking couldn’t be done in her presence. She didn’t want Severin to leave her on her own. She wanted him to stay, even if he was angry with her. Sagging against the wall, she shut her eyes in misery and then flashed them open. She was starting to shake. Nothing had happened—or almost nothing—and yet it had left her shocked and lost and filled with horrible guilt. She could still feel the pressure of Duggan’s fingers on her nipple, on her sex. She pressed her hands to herself and stifled a whimper. She could still feel the effect that Duggan had had on her betraying flesh—and yet when she shut her eyes it was Severin she saw in his place. Severin’s hand on her breast. Severin’s lips, parted and hungry. Severin’s fingers holding her nipple captive, and pushing between her thighs to take possession of her aching, eager body.
* * * * *
That night at dinner they sat at the long farm table with all the other hired hands. The hay harvest was almost over and Mairy had issued pitchers of yeasty new beer to all the laborers. The room was noisy, crowded and soon rowdy despite the former weariness of the workers. Servant girls flirted with the hired men and were pulled into laps. Boasting and crude jokes echoed under the oak beams. Everyone was looking forward to tomorrow, when the last meadow would be shorn and the night spent under the stars. There would be fires and drinking and wild swiving in the stubble, and everyone was eager.
Through it all Severin sat with his cold glare locked on Duggan at the head of the table, and Duggan looked at Eloise and grinned and whispered to his brother and cousins. Eloise glanced to Mairy for some support, but the farmwife only smirked with proud indulgence at her eldest son and Eloise huddled up against Severin, mortified.
You! cried Duggan down the length of the table, swaggering to his feet and waving a tankard. You—whatsyername—Sev. You really need to fuck that woman of yours. She’s so ready for it she nearly melted on my hands! Have you not been giving her enough cock?
Severin jumped to his feet, gripping the edge of the table.
No, said Eloise quickly; he’s right. We should prove to everyone that I’m your wife.
Severin’s look was dark and wild. Yes. Of course. With a sweep of his arm he knocked flagons and bowls from the table in front of him. Beer spilled over the oaken boards. Taking her by the hips, he lifted her up to sit on the table and then pushed her over on her back. He threw up her skirts around her waist and lifted her knees, spreading them wide to display the territory between her thighs. Everyone was on their feet now, craning their necks for a good view, shouting their approval and excitement. Eloise bucked her hips, running wet with eagerness. When Severin opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, it stood as thick as a threshing flail in his hand, dark and glistening.
Fuck her! they chanted, banging their cups on the table. Fuck her! Fuck her!
And Severin thrust his slat deep into her, stretching her with such exquisite fullness that she arched her back and slammed her head on the table, wrapping her heels around his back. Ella! he grunted, powering into her with animalistic thrusts. Ella! Ella!
“Ella!” His voice was low in her ear, his hand over her mouth.
Eloise opened her eyes, still half in her dream, aching and confused. Her hand slid along his thigh and Severin jerked in surprise and grabbed it.
“Ella! Come on! Wake up—we’re leaving!” Then he let her go and vanished.
She had to force her eyes open, blinking into the darkness of the servants’ hall. From all around came the sound, in many keys, of snoring. Beneath her was a straw pallet. She slithered to the foot of her mattress, pulled on her shoes without being able to see them, then stumbled out toward the door and fresh air and Severin.
He was waiting for her outside, tying up the cord of their backpack. It wasn’t yet properly light and the cobbled yard was a wash of shadows, against which he was a darker shadow. She heard the hiss of his greeting. It was chilly out here after the fug of the sleeping hall and she shivered, longing to press against him. Her dream still lay heavily inside her, making her legs wobbly and her sex slick. She could still feel the aching pleasure she’d felt under the weight of his body and the pressure of his thrusting member—feel it as intensely as if it had been real. Her clit still throbbed.
“What…?” she breathed.
“Shh.” In the shadowy confusion he still managed, somehow, to lay his fingers gently upon her lips. It was an ill-judged action because she nearly cried out loud at the contact, so close did it touch to her dreaming self. His fingers were cold, her breath on them hot and moist.
Severin jerked his head. She followed him in silence across the yard. Somewhere the roosters were beginning to mutter themselves awake and a dog yipped sleepily. He put his shoulder to the beam holding the yard gate closed and eased it from its bars, laying it aside with almost no noise. Then he caught her hand—something he had never done before, she thought, her confused emotions in no way straightened—and led her out onto the road verge. Their feet were almost soundless on the worn grass.
Only when they were well away from the farm did he drop her hand. She bent to sweep her hands through the dew on the long grass then, and wet her face and neck, daring to whisper, “Why are we leaving?”
“It’s not safe here. I saw the looks that farmer was giving you over the dinner table. There was going to be trouble.”
Eloise swallowed. Not all the details of her dream had been fantasy. “I’m glad we’re away,” she said.
But Duggan caught up with them before noon.
It was Severin, glancing back down the road as he had done frequently all that morning, who first saw the horseman closing on them. They were climbing a rise then, into a belt of evergreen oaks. “Damn,” he said. Then, “At least he’s on his own.”
“Should we hide?”
“He’s seen us. Keep walking. We don’t want to be caught out in the open.”
Eloise didn’t understand that, but she picked up her pace. They were inside the tree line when they heard the clop of hooves on the hard-packed earth of the road. Severin took Eloise’s sleeve and drew her onto the verge, placing himself between her and the road. He handed her the pack to hold.
“Hey there!” called Duggan as he trotted up on his broad cob. “Boscian! I thought I might pass you on the road. Where are you headed?”
“Rounay,” said Severin. His stance was neither servile nor defiant and his tone was calm. Eloise hugged the pack nervously to her chest.
“Rounay, eh?” Duggan’s grin was broad and easy. He drew his cob to a halt beside them. The mount was blowing a little, as if he had forced its pace. “That’s a long way.”
“That’s why we had to set off early.”
“So early that some might say you still owe half a day’s labor for the food you ate.” Duggan paused, still smiling, for a response, but Eloise was looking at Severin and Severin’s face was a mask. “No matter though,” Duggan continued. “No man ever called me tight-fisted. Perhaps we should travel together? I’m riding north myself, though only as far as the market at Yaylea.”
Severin did not shift. “We prefer to
walk alone.”
Duggan’s eyes flicked to Eloise. “What about your wife? She’s a delicate-looking thing, isn’t she, to be walking that far?”
“She’s strong enough.”
“How about I give her a ride on the back of my saddle here while you walk beside her?”
“I think not.”
“I’d rather walk,” said Eloise firmly, but neither man appeared to take the slightest notice.
“Come on, man—you can’t force a pretty thing like that to trudge all the way to Rounay.”
“You’ll find I can.”
Duggan laughed, a little too heartily. “They make cruel husbands in Boscia. Our Mendean women are not used to such harsh treatment. Go on—let her ride!” The light in his eyes went cold. “Or is it that you don’t trust me?”
“I trust you as much as I trust any man with my wife.”
“Oh—bitter words, friend.” He leaned forward a little in the saddle, looking hurt. “And we’ve been so kind to you, have we not? It was my family’s bread and beer and mutton that you ate last night, wasn’t it? My roof that you slept beneath? Yet you treat me as a villain. Haven’t I been more than good to you, Boscian—a stranger and a guest in my country?”
“More than good,” said Severin.
“Yet here you are doubting my honorable intentions. After you’ve run off from my farm still owing me work.” There was an edge in his voice now that might have been complaint or might have been something sharper. “I’m being good to you, Boscian. Aren’t I?”
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