by Laura Parker
He wanted to put her at ease, but he did not know what to say. Words were never easy for him, particularly when she knew so many more of them than he did. His inclination was to put his arm about her shoulders, but he was certain that she would shy away if he did. She had turned her mouth from his kiss after the ceremony, offering him the cool, damp velvet of her cheek instead. He could scarcely remember the feel of her skin, and it rankled.
Give it time, Thomas, lad. Give it time, he counseled himself.
Aisleen looked up suddenly. “Do you mean that?”
“Mean what?” Thomas questioned, surprised to find himself staring into a pair of poteen-colored eyes, as rich and warm an amber as any whiskey this side of Dublin.
“That we have time, that you will give me time to become accustomed to marriage?” Aisleen replied.
“Aye, we’ve a lifetime for that,” Thomas agreed, but puzzlement resonated in his words. He did not remember speaking his thoughts aloud. He must be more anxious than he realized.
The desire for whiskey that he had been denying himself for two long days suddenly loomed as an overpowering need. He rose to his feet. “There’s a matter or two of importance that I should have out of me way before nightfall. If ye will not think badly of me, I’ll be leaving ye some short while to attend to it.”
Aisleen rose instantly to her feet. “By all means, see to your business. I shall deal splendidly well alone.”
Thomas removed his cravat and opened his collar, too caught up in his own desire to leave to hear the relief in her voice. “I may not be back before dark, but I have the landlord’s word that ye’ll receive anything ye may wish. We’re staying the night and then it’s for Parramatta tomorrow where we’ll meet me mate who’s waiting to accompany us home.”
He reached for his floppy-brimmed hat and then crossed the room and opened a door, motioning with his head. “The bedroom’s in here. They brought our things up before we came up to eat.”
Aisleen moved to the doorway, stepping carefully past him to keep her skirts from brushing his legs. The room beyond the door was small but neatly appointed with printed wallpaper, a chair, valet stand, and, dominating the small space, a narrow brass bed with a crocheted cover.
Blood stung her ears as her gaze slid from the bed to the baggage stacked in one corner. It did not seem possible that two human beings could share that tiny confine and long remain in ignorance of one another. How should she broach the subject?
When she turned back and saw that Thomas’s complexion had turned strangely red beneath its heavy tan she knew she could not. “Very well, Mr. Gibson,” she murmured.
“Thomas, Tom, or just plain Gibson, but ye’ve no need to call me Mister anything after the morning’s work,” Thomas answered shortly. He set his hat on his head at an angle that shaded his eyes from her view. “G’day, then, missus,” he said and walked to the door.
“Good day to you, Mis—Thomas,” she replied. She was not surprised that he turned to smile at her, but, to her astonishment, he winked at her!
“Well!” she let out in a great sigh when the door was closed behind him. That man had no manners at all.
*
Thomas was in fine high spirits as he ordered the third round for the company of the Wallaby Tavern. It was quite gratifying, he reflected through the haze of amply imbibed grog, to know that a man could walk into a tavern a stranger and within moments have the entire assembly drinking his good health. Marriage had made him a roomful of new mates.
The rousing chorus of “Carroty Kate” sung to the tinny accompaniment of an upright piano filled the air with boozy conviviality as man after man slung a fraternal arm about the shoulders of the man nearest him to form a circle about the player. Thomas’s rough baritone underscored the Irish tenor of Michael O’Casey as they sang,
“…Her hair was the color of ginger,
She could reckon you up on a slate.
My colonial, she was a swinger,
And they called her Carroty Kate!
“She was very fond of riding,
As you can plainly see.
For one fine day she rode away,
With a chap from the Native Bee!”
As the next verse began, Thomas fell back from the circle to reach for his cup, but froze as Jack Egan’s mighty frame filled the doorway of the tavern. Jack did not cross toward the singers but walked over to a table in an empty corner and sat down.
“Will ye nae give us another chorus, Tom?” Michael O’Casey cried, clamping a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.
“Nae. Ask Tim there, he’s a fine voice,” Thomas answered. “I’ve a mate just come in.”
Thomas made his way smilingly among the revelers, who were two-thirds drunk on his coin. Ah, well, that’s as it should be, he thought. When he reached Jack’s table he asked preemptively, “Are ye mad? What are ye doing in Sydney?”
Jack had drawn his pipe from his pocket and continued to tap tobacco into it. Knowing that he would answer in his own time, Thomas sat down and folded his arms across his chest.
When the tobacco was to his liking, Jack pulled a straw from his pocket, stuck one end into a blazing lantern that hung nearby, and then lit his pipe with the smoldering end. “She’ll be right plain looking, Tom,” he said finally, releasing a puff of smoke.
In that simple sentence was the answer to his presence in Sydney. Jack had been at the wedding, a silent and unseen witness. “Perhaps, but did ye hear her, Jack? She’s a lady, a thoroughgoing lady.”
“Manners will nae keep a man warm at night,” Jack said shortly. “But ’tis none of my affair.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed at the curt dismissal of his bride. “I’m not asking ye to like it, Jack. I’m asking ye to give her a chance, that’s all.”
Jack exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. “Open up the station to her like, and what will ye get? Respectability, civilization, and the law.” His voice was low but edged with rage. “Next thing, she’ll be building a bloody church and calling the drovers in for prayer!”
“She’s going to the station with me,” Thomas said flatly. “She’s me wife, and ye’ll give the respect she’s due. By the by, it’s not safe, ye being in town. Or have ye forgotten the wee matter of the Macquarie murder?”
Silence stretched between them as Jack continued to suck on his pipe. After a moment, he stood and started for the door.
“We’ll be in Parramatta tomorrow night,” Thomas called after the retreating man. “Ye’ll be there to meet us?”
Jack did not slow his step or reply.
“Bloody hell!”
*
Aisleen retied the bow at the neck of her bed jacket for the twelfth time. “Oh, bosh!” she exclaimed as she peered into the mirror that hung above the wash basin in the bedroom. She jerked the ribbon free. It looked horrid. Everything she had was horrid. Why had she not thought of what it would mean to share close confines with a man?
“Because you did not expect that eventuality to occur,” she murmured. Absently she began to massage the pain from her temples.
The headache that had retreated during the ceremony had returned not long after Thomas had departed. The ache had increased in intensity as she had spent the afternoon going over again and again in her mind what she would say regarding the double bed and the single bedroom when he returned.
At dusk, a knock had sent her nervously to the door, but it was only the landlord’s wife with her evening meal. She wondered if her husband had been considerate enough to order it for her before he left or if the landlord had simply taken the initiative. She had not inquired. Instead, she had asked for an extra pillow and blanket, saying that she was cold by nature.
She had waited until the meal was cold before eating a portion of it. At any moment, she had expected a tread to pause at her door. Now it was fully night and he had not returned.
Her mouth primmed at the memory of the landlady’s words when she had brought up the extra bedding. “Ducks, ye’ll not be needin’ muc
h cover after this, not with that brawny man ye wed to keep ye warm.”
This giddy anxiety was alien to her nature, yet she could not still the wake of quivering that followed her thoughts. She had chosen a practical answer to a very trying situation, but that did not quell her nervousness. She had bargained away her freedom for comfort and she did not yet know if it would be worth the price.
She closed the bedroom door and sat down on the edge of the bed, reviewing her strategy. She would feign sleep, if in fact she was not truly asleep when Thomas returned. She doubted he would awaken her. Perhaps he might not even enter the room. She had left a pillow and blanket in a conspicuous place in the outer room. He could scarcely misunderstand her intent. In the morning, they would discuss future arrangements.
The noisy rattling of the parlor door latch made her jump. Thomas had returned. With an agility and swiftness rarely resorted to, she tiptoed to the lamp and blew it out. In heart-stopping anxiety, she heard the door creak as she crept back to the bed and slipped off her bed jacket. She raised the sheet and slid under the bedding as she heard her name called.
“Aisleen? Aisleen, me love,” Thomas called as he stood on the threshold gazing at the empty room. Squinting, he looked about. She was not there. He stepped back, peering down the hall at the other doors along the corridor. No, he was not mistaken. This was where he had left his bride.
He entered, liquor singing in his blood. He felt absolutely wonderful. Gone was the anxiety, the doubt, the gnawing concern that Jack’s appearance had planted squarely in the midst of his joy. Aisleen the name was Gaelic for “vision”. His Aisleen might not be a beauty, but then again he had not seen her properly yet to know.
Properly. He chuckled. Improperly would be more like it. He had waited nearly twelve hours to claim his bride, and though his thoughts were less coherent than they might be, one singled itself out. She would not be his until he had bedded her.
He shut the door behind him with exaggerated care. She must be in bed. How neglectful a bridegroom he was to keep her waiting. Poor lass, was she wondering if he would ever return?
He removed his hat and tossed it carelessly aside. “Aisleen, lass. I would not desert ye. Not ever,” he called through the bedroom door. There was no answer.
“Poor wee lass, must be sleeping,” he murmured as he struggled to remove his coat. One arm was caught. He gave a hard tug and heard the broadcloth tear as his arm came free. He did not care. He had no intention of ever wearing the fancy coat again.
“Boots,” he whispered to himself, then put a finger to his lips to remind himself to be quiet. But the whiskey was humming louder, warming him and whispering to him of the delight that lay waiting for him beyond the door.
“Me wife,” he murmured as he bent to pull the first boot from his foot. Aye, he liked the sound of that, a woman of his own, for himself alone. That was something he had never had. His first woman had been an aging whore who had taken pity on a rangy convict boy without a penny. Over the years, he had known a number of women, but they had always been for sale to any man or belonged to another. Only Sally had offered herself to him alone.
Thomas sighed as his first boot came free, and he moved to the second. Dear, sweet Sally, he mused, remembering her soft, full breasts and the warm scent of her skin. She had been a virgin. He sat upright. So was Aisleen. What did he know of virgins?
“One woman’s made the same as another,” he said in answer to the whiskey murmurings. It would sort itself out.
When the second boot came free he walked to the bedroom door and turned the latch, only to remember the lantern. Padding on bare feet, he crossed the room and pinched the wick. From the corner of his eye, he spied bedding piled on a chair, but the darkness eclipsed it before he thought much of it. Immediately, he retraced his steps and opened the bedroom door.
The cry of the hinges sounded in Aisleen’s ears like the mighty blast of Gabriel’s trumpet, but she remained perfectly still. When she heard nothing more, she opened an eye.
He stood in the doorway, his shirtfront luminously white in the gloom. Aisleen held her breath. How long did he intend to watch her sleep? Did he know that she faked sleep? Did he hope to catch her? The very idea made her angry. She was not a small child seeing to escape the eye of a governess. She was a grown woman. A married woman.
Go away! Go away! she thought anxiously. “Aisleen, love?” she heard him call softly, and his words strummed the chords of tension within her.
When he moved inside, she lowered her lids, afraid that he would detect the gleam of an eyeball in the dark. Scarcely breathing, she heard him move toward the bed and then a rustling. What was he doing? Why did he not simply go away like any sensible person would?
The answer was suddenly clear as the bed creaked under his weight and a callused hand came to rest on her shoulder. He was not going to leave. He had come to sleep with her.
Aisleen’s eyes flew open, all pretense abandoned. “What are you doing!”
“’Tis only me, Aisleen, lass,” he answered softly, patting her shoulder “’Tis only Tom, yer husband.”
“I—I did not expect you,” she answered, pulling the sheet up tightly under her chin.
“Did ye not? And me thinking ye could think of nothing else but me return.” He reached up and touched the ruffle of the nightcap she wore. The lass had more covers for her head than any woman he had ever known. “Did ye miss me?”
His breath brushed her face and Aisleen’s eyes narrowed. “You, sir, have been drinking whiskey.”
“Aye, that I have,” Thomas agreed pleasantly, “and never had a man a better reason than in the celebrating of his wedding day.”
“I do not approve of drinking spirits,” Aisleen maintained as his fingers worried the lace of her nightcap.
“Ah, well, that may be because ye’ve never drunk them yerself, lass. It would nae come amiss, a wee drop every now and then.” He bent forward to get a better view of her. “Are ye happy, lass?”
“Happy?” Aisleen whispered faintly, keenly aware of the intimate pressure of his chest against her breasts as she lay under the covers.
“Aye.” Thomas nodded. “I’m a happy man. I’ve everything I need. I would that ye were happy, but I hear in yer voice a sadness that I cannot understand.” His fingers moved to the curve of her jaw. “I can make ye happy. I know a way to make ye smile.”
One moment he was leaning over her, his boyish grin a pearly gleam in the darkness. The next Aisleen felt with stunning surprise the warm pressure of his lips against her own.
A shiver went through her, a sensation not entirely unpleasant but one that sent panic fleeing after it. She put up a hand to shove him away but encountered the hot flesh of his shoulder. Appalled, she jerked her hand away. He was naked.
Thomas reached out to catch her chin and bring her face to his. “Do nae be shy, lass,” he murmured as he bent to her once more. “’Tis yer lawful husband ye kiss.”
“Please!” Aisleen muttered against his mouth, beginning to struggle. He was drunk. Too often, she had witnessed her father in a drunken stupor, or worse, when the liquor had released the pent-up anger and violence in him. To the day she died, she would remember his beating. Now her husband was drunk and bent on physical assault. She struck out wildly at him with her fists. This was not what she expected. It was so unfair, so unfair!
Thomas caught her hands and easily pinned them to the bed on either side of her head. “Easy, lass,” he crooned, moving his kisses from her mouth to her ear. “Ye taste so sweet, never like the tart berry ye seem.” He felt himself filling, tightening, rising. “I know how to give ye what ye need. I know.”
“Get off me, you beast!” Aisleen cried. Frightened beyond care for propriety, she kicked at him as she thrashed about.
Thomas responded by holding her down with his weight. She was new to lovemaking. She would be shy and frightened, he reasoned, until he had proved to her that she would receive only pleasure from him. With deliberate slowness
, he walked his lips back from her ear to the side of her mouth, tasting the freshness of her skin. She was a woman, a soft and warm woman who was his wife.
He released one hand, his own wandering down over the covers until he discovered the mounded fullness of a breast through the covers. “Don’t fight me, lass. Let me make ye my wife.”
“No! Please!” Aisleen begged, but her words were crushed in the embrace of his lips. His kiss was long and hard, not like the first. His lips parted on hers, forcing her mouth open, and then the incredible heat of his tongue slipped through to touch the tip of her own. She gasped, unable to believe that anyone would want to do something so, so intimate. The beating of her free hand on his back was useless. She did not want to touch him at all.
Finally, the pressure of his kiss lightened, and with tormentingly slow movements he dragged his lips back and forth across hers. This time when she tried to turn away, he caught her nightcap in his free hand and with it a handful of hair. Exerting a slight but firm pressure against the hair at the sensitive juncture of her temple, he held her still. “Kiss me, Aisleen,” he mouthed against her lips. “Kiss yer husband.”
Aisleen caught her breath in a sob. She would not cry, would not allow him that victory. When at last his lips moved aside to climb the summit of her cheek, her breath was ragged. “Please. I beg you! Spare me,” she whispered, afraid that a loud voice would anger him.
When he answered, he did not sound angry, even to her fear-shocked senses. “Stop? How can I?” he questioned in good humor. “We’ve just begun. Just begun.”
He found the top of the coverlet and pulled it from her hand, rising up long enough to strip it from between them “That’s better,” he said softly as he settled down over her and reached for the long row of tiny buttons that closed her gown.
“Lass, ye do like buttons,” he said reproachfully. Without a second thought he grabbed the collar and jerked, sending pearl buttons flying and rolling and skipping in all directions.
The casual violence frightened her and she went limp under the heavy, feverish weight of his body. She had not realized the extent of his strength or the casual ease with which he could use it. She shrank back into the bedding in a foolish attempt to keep his naked skin from contacting her own. But it did, everywhere. She felt the rough furring of his legs as he embraced her gown-clad limbs between his own. His chest, hard and satin smooth, crushed her.