by Laura Parker
None of her fears transmitted themselves to Thomas. He found the opening of her gown and with eager interest slipped his hand inside. She was so soft, he could scarcely credit his first light touch of her, and he wondered fleetingly if ladies were indeed different from other women. His caressing hand grew bolder, heavier, until his fingers brushed the peak with its unbudded nipple. Her gasping response made him repeat the gesture, and this time the bud rose. Again and again he stroked the soft peak until a hard little bud stood at the apex.
The whiskey whispered urgently, urging him to hurry before he exploded. Gently, he cautioned himself, but his body was not listening. It was too late. She was too soft, too sweet, too much of what he had not dared to hope for. He had expected her to be as thorny as a rosebush. Instead, she was as soft as new-budded petals. His own flower, his secret rose.
With quick, near-violent movements that gave no thought to her needs or fears, he stripped the gown from her body. She was not unlike a young heifer brought to stud for the first time, he mused, as he savored his body’s response to her seductive writhing.
He murmured broken whispers of assurance to her, not realizing when he traded English for the older Gaelic tongue of his ancestors. His hands swept over her roughly, quickly, wanting to touch every part of her but knowing that there was little time. Next time, he told himself, he would be better able to explore and pleasure her. But not now.
Aisleen cried out in fear as he plunged a knee between her own, separating them. Panic jackknifed her up in bed, but he was there, pushing her back against the bedding and mumbling endearments that had no effect on the terror churning her middle. His hand slid between her thighs and for a long, mortifying moment, she prayed that she would die. But she did not.
Inexplicably his probing fingers brought her not death but a sinful pleasure that made her want to weep in shame. Appalled by her ignorance of her own body, she did not know why he should do this nor why it should feel pleasant despite her anger and embarrassment.
Thomas smiled as he reached in to stroke from her the moisture of desire. She was so hot there, so impossibly soft. His bride. His wife.
He plunged into her with an enthusiasm that made no provision for her virginity. He held her tight, not really hearing her cries nor feeling the pummeling of his head and shoulders by her fists. He was home, she was his.
Aisleen felt she would smother when he stopped her cries with his mouth. He plunged again and again into her abraded flesh. The unrelenting rhythm continued as he buried some hot, hard part of himself inside her. I will die, she thought. He will kill me!
Thomas arched himself higher and harder into her, aware only of the summing of tension swelling the flesh he buried deep within her. Never had it been like this. The sudden bursting of his seed from his body made him moan in pleasure and pain, the shooting forth a release and regret as he collapsed upon her.
“Macushla!” he whispered harshly into her ear. “Ye are now me own flesh and blood.”
All true love must die,
Alter at the best
Into some lesser thing.
Prove that I lie.
—Her Anxiety
W. B. Yeats
Chapter Eight
Aisleen awoke to the thin milkiness of first light, her arms and legs tangled with those of the man who had shared her bed and her body. The heavy blanket of his embrace kept out the chill of the dawn but, recalling the events of the night, she trembled. Her new husband had done more than destroy her innocence; he had destroyed her peace.
In her ignorance of his character, she had not believed him capable of overriding her protestations and violating her modesty. To her shame, she had learned the truth.
Her body ached in a dozen places, each a taunting reminder of the superiority of his strength. He had taken her with an utter disregard for her feelings, her embarrassment, or her virginity. And that had not been enough. Once his lust had spent itself, he had not been content with that victory. Later, in the black abyss of night, he had set about destroying her last shred of pride.
Silent tears broke through the golden thicket of her lashes and raced silently down her cheeks. He deserved nothing but contempt for his actions. If only that was all. It was not. To her everlasting shame, she had allowed him the second victory. No—God help her!—she had participated willingly in her own ruin! That was the worst humiliation.
Even in the light of day the damning images and sounds would not release her. Aisleen threw an arm across her eyes to blot out the memories but, unwillingly, she was pulled back into a remembrance of the night past…
*
A moan escaped her as he plunged his tongue again and again into her open, unresisting mouth. This was sweet torment, the lick and stroke of passion-fed kisses soothing away the last of her doubts.
She was on fire everywhere his lips touched—her lips…her shoulders…her breasts.
She whimpered as he caught the crest of a breast between his lips. This miraculous feeling, this dry suckling, fed not him but the liquid tension that ran in an ever-rushing surf from her breast to the secret sea tide rising in her lower belly.
“Aye, touch me there! ’Tis a fine feeling, yer hand on me, colleen lass,” she heard him encourage with the careless charm he wielded with such assuredness.
His hands were on her back, sliding down over her hips to lift her up against him. One hand moved even lower, over the curve of her buttocks, dipping into the narrow canyon below. Fingers spread, parting her legs, and then he was delving once more into her wet warmth. And she did not try to stop him. Did nothing. No, did more than nothing. She sighed in guilty pleasure and joy and desire, wanting…wanting…wanting…more.
She stretched exploring fingers over the taut expanse of his smooth chest, finding the wide, solid slopes of his shoulders strangely comforting. The heavy corded muscles of his arms no longer held her in check but trembled under her caress as she did under his seeking fingers.
Every breath he drew came harshly by her ear, punctuating his thrusts that carried her a fraction higher off the mattress. This rutting, this deep plunging of his body into hers, carried less anguish and more pleasure than the first. The near-violence of his rhythm chased her retreating senses. No, no, she mustn’t, she couldn’t feel pleasure in this. And yet she did: hot, searing, swelling, flooding pleasure that flowed from her in breath-catching cries of mindless abandon.
*
Aisleen sat up with a jerk, tumbling Thomas’s body from her own. He snored in the long, slow rhythm of deep sleep and did not move. His long, naked limbs sprawled in boneless contentment on the bed sheets were lightly furred with black hair. Unerringly her gaze sought and held an instant upon that part of him folded softly now in a nest of black curls. For this, she had lain beneath him panting like a whore, begging his pleasuring.
Anger and shame pulsed hot and cold by turns through her. She had been uncertain of the details of the act which bound a man and wife together, but she had known that the consummation of their vows would mean that she was bound to the stranger beside her forever. Why, oh why had she not thought of that before this minute!
She turned abruptly and rose from the bed, reaching for her gown, which lay on the floor. As she lifted it by an arm she spied the gaping rip from the neckline to hem, and she dropped the obscene reminder of the night.
She shot an angry glance at her sleeping husband. Drunkard! Defiler of women! Rutting boar! The epithets came quickly to mind, but she held all of them at bay for, far beyond her desire to vent her rage on him, she feared his awakening. What would he say to her? Would he gloat over his victory of her body and her spirit?
“Of course he will,” she muttered low. What man could resist? He had mastered her body, and she, fool that she was, had allowed him to betray her with her own emotions. Her stomach lurched. If a single night in his embrace was any measure, he would want her again…and again…and again…until he grew tired of her.
He had been drunk, as her father
had been so often. Memories darted about in her head, memories of her mother’s haggard face the morning after her father had returned from one of his journeys. Then she had been too young to suspect the cause of the teary eyes and sleepless puffiness. Now she knew too much. Her father had kept a mistress in Cork while bedding his wife in hopes of siring a son. He, too, had demanded and bullied his way when the drink was flowing freely through his veins. He, too, had been capable of violence. He, too, had possessed the charm of the Irish when it suited him. Horror hammered her chest. Had she married a man exactly like her father?
“No!” The agonized breath was torn from Aisleen. As she spun away from the bed, her gaze fell upon the pistol butt lying half-hidden beneath a trouser leg. Once Thomas Gibson had placed that weapon in her hand and dared her to pull the trigger. She bent and picked it up. Then she could not entertain the idea. But now…
She turned back to the bed, her eyes once again on Thomas’s naked body. His mouth was open, and the garbled sounds of an animal lowed forth. What more should she expect? He was an animal, a vicious, low brute who would use her again and again until she was haggard and broken.
What right had he to lie so peacefully when she would never again know complete tranquility? She raised the pistol, using both hands to steady the steely weight.
He had demeaned her in a way that she never thought possible. He did not deserve to live. With her teeth braced against her lower lip, she pulled back the hammer.
Perspiration gathered in her brows and trailed down her temples as she sought the courage to pull the trigger. She took a step forward and then another, closing the distance and improving the odds that her shot would have fatal results.
As she took a third step a whisper came softly, unexpectedly upon the morning breeze. Macushla!
A knock on the bedroom door sent Aisleen spinning about, the pistol poised to confront the intruder.
“Breakfast!” she heard the landlord call cheerfully from the parlor. “It won’t keep long,” he added with a chuckle. “Be back later to collect the dishes.”
When the parlor door closed, Aisleen swung back around. From the corner of her eye she spotted movement, and she glanced right to see herself, pistol in hand, framed in the gilt mirror which hung over the wash basin.
Without realizing it, she lowered the pistol to stare at the harridan in the reflection. A wild tangle of red hair framed a pallid face. Eyes swollen with tears and smudged by misery stared back at her. She looked quite and thoroughly mad.
Unwilling to believe that it was an accurate reflection, Aisleen glanced down at herself. She had not bared herself to the light of day since she could remember. At Miss Burke’s Academy bathing had been accomplished in darkness or under the cover of a wrapper.
The color and shape of her own breasts were unfamiliar. She had not realized that they were quite so full, the nipples so pink. She looked at her stomach, still tender from her husband’s unfamiliar weight, and then spied a thin, dull red streak on her inner thigh. Nearby she spotted the bluish coin of a bruise.
Aisleen began to tremble. Fear had made a beast of her, an unthinking, senseless, frightened creature, cowered and cornered and mad enough to consider murder as the only escape. But she was not a beast. Nor was she a coward. She was married, and nothing could change that. Yet she would not allow Thomas Gibson to bully her into submission. She would stand and fight…because she had nowhere else to go.
The pistol fell with a thud onto the floor. Numbness replaced the anger as she bent to pick up and then don her ruined gown. When she had gathered her nightcap and slippers, she crept out of the room.
*
Thomas awakened to the rare sensation of complete contentment. His arms and legs were heavy with sleep, and he savored the moment by keeping his eyes closed. Dawn usually meant the beginning of another endless day of work. But this day was different; he sensed it even before memories came stealing over him.
He had been drinking with his mates. They had toasted his good health and wished him the best of luck in his new venture. That venture was…marriage.
Thomas’s eyes flew open on a room bathed in full morning’s light. Slowly memories of the night came back to him, and he folded his arms behind his head, grinning. His thorny, red-haired wife had been his. His mind was too hazy from the effects of whiskey to recall in detail what she had done and said, but the lush, lazy feeling in his body told him that he had been more than satisfied with her. The discontent that had driven him to marriage was gone. In its place was a satisfaction that defied explanation. No, that was not true. The explanation was named Mrs. Thomas Gibson.
Thomas sat up and stretched his arms wide, arching his back until every vertebra snapped into line. Where was his wife? He would have preferred her to be within arm’s reach, for already he was filling with need of her. He looked about, frowning, until he remembered the parlor. She would be up and dressed, he guessed. After all, it was midmorning. In future, he would ask her to remain by his side until he awakened. He wanted to see her face after a night of lovemaking. He could not remember much—only vague sighs and moans of pleasure that could as easily have been his own as hers.
Fleetingly he recalled her resistance. She had been a virgin; the small stain he spied on the sheet by his thigh confirmed that. Resistance was to be expected. But she had been sweet to kiss, even sweeter to embrace. Too bad she had not remained, for he longed badly to see in the light of day all that he had kissed and caressed in the dark of night.
He swung his legs over the side. Perhaps he could coax her back to bed. She should not be so shy now that she knew the way of it. He stood up, giving in to another self-satisfied smile as he saw his clothes strewn about. He had been so eager for her that he had dropped them where he stripped them off.
As he bent to pick up his shirt, he noticed his pistol lying nearby. He frowned when he saw that it was cocked. Usually he was a careful man. Either of them might have lost a toe had they stumbled over it in the dark.
As his hand closed over the butt, an odd sensation traveled lightning quick up his arm, making the hair on his nape rise. Instinct made his skin contract and his senses quicken in recognition of the emotion affecting him long before his mind sorted out the response.
Rage: pure, consuming hatred was the sensation tingling through his body. In an instant, it vanished.
He shook his head. There was no reason for concern. Jack had, no doubt, left town. It was his imagination. He carefully lowered the hammer back into place and laid the pistol on the table.
After a moment’s reflection, he retrieved his trousers and stepped into them with consideration for his bride. She was a lady, he reminded himself. But if the night before was any indication, he mused as he rubbed his bristling chin, she was fast becoming accustomed to him. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he strolled to the door. He would bring her back to bed. They could talk later.
Aisleen had only a moment to compose her features as the latch of the bedroom door lifted. When the door opened, she was sitting ramrod straight, her hands folded primly in her lap, her expression implacable.
“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” she declared before she even saw him clearly. She did not blink an eye at the sight of his naked chest, wrinkled trousers, and bare feet. In the intervening hour, she had regained self-control and made up her mind how to handle the situation. She would behave as though nothing had occurred. If not for the hard thumping of her heart against her whalebone corset, she would have believed that his appearance did not affect her at all.
Thomas moved across the threshold with a lopsided grin on his face. “G’day, lass.”
“Come in and have a seat,” she replied in a formal manner. “Your tea is most likely cold, but I had no way of knowing when you would awaken. If you would prefer, I shall go below for more.”
“Won’t hear of it,” Thomas answered easily, but as his gaze moved quickly over her what he saw disappointed him. There was no smile of welcome on her face. Far from it
. Her gaze was distant and her expression was as reserved as the tightly buttoned-up gown she wore. He thought he had taken care of that clamshell posture of hers forever. How did she manage to look as untouched as the day before?
Aisleen poured a cup of cold tea for him. “Sugar? Lemon?”
“Both,” Thomas answered readily as he sat down across from her. “They’re hard to come by in the bush.”
“Is that so?” she murmured in a manner that did not beg a reply. “I suppose it is difficult to obtain many things in the wilds,” she continued politely. “If you will provide me with a list I will provision you accordingly.”
Thomas gulped half the cup of tea, wondering where his plan had gone astray. He had meant to sweep his bride up in a long and thorough kiss that left no doubt in her mind of what was going on in his. Then back to bed for an hour or so. Afterward he would fetch the wagon for their journey to Parramatta, where Jack waited for them.
He set his cup down in its saucer too hard, and tea splashed over the rim. “Sorry,” he mumbled when he saw her flinch and then instantly wondered why he had apologized. If he had broken the cup, he would have paid for it. “About last night,” he began.
“Best forgotten and never mentioned,” she interjected.
“Forgotten?” A grin blossomed in the nettle of his new beard, “Lass, I would nae forget it were I to live a hundred years more.”
“I see,” she answered in a reluctant voice. “Very well, we shall speak of it. Once. What do you say in your defense?”
Thomas stared at her as understanding dawned. She was angry; how could he have missed the signs? Sitting there with her arms folded before her bosom…her nice, soft, rounded bosom—He reined in his wandering mind. “I do not know what ye’ll be expecting a man to say.”