Enchanted by The Lord (Historical Victorian Romance)

by Catherine Hamill

  “You still don’t want to.” She sounded so limp and resolved that Eddie immediately regretted his silence, and sought desperately for the right words.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He reached across the table, holding his hand open in request for hers. She hesitated, then put her smaller hand in his; a ripple of electricity shot through his arm, and he saw Martha shiver. “I want to…I’m just so afraid that I’ll mess it up. I wasn’t made for marriage.”

  “No one was,” said Martha angrily. “It’s about finding the right person.”

  Eddie groaned. “You’ve known me for a week, Martha, you can’t say that I’m the right person for you!”

  “Then how can you say I’m wrong?” she challenged. He fell silent, absorbing the truth of her words. When she saw the contemplative expression on his face, her anger softened. “You won’t know until we try. Let’s try.” Her eyes connected with his, and he felt another charge pass between them. He wanted to say yes---the words were right at the tip of his tongue---but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

  “Who’s Lola?” Martha asked suddenly. Eddie’s heart stopped, and his mouth dropped open.

  “What?” The word came out like a cough, short and rough. He didn’t remember saying the name.

  “On the first day we met, you said that ‘Lola was right’. You were too broken. Who is Lola?” Martha’s voice was soft and uncertain.

  Eddie put his head in his hands. “My mother.” He heard Martha gasp, but he continued anyway. “She left me when I was 12. She said I looked too much like my father, and that I was too rebellious and would turn out like him. I already liked drinking and cutting school at that age, and I was too much for her. So one day she told me I was going on a trip, and she put me on a train to my uncle. I’ve been there ever since.” Eddie raised his head, holding back the tears threatening to fall. “And she was right. I know it.”

  “You don’t,” Martha said fiercely. “And your uncle doesn’t believe it either. He knows you’re a good man who just needs a chance, and someone strong to help you. I can be that person.” Martha spoke carefully, but with force behind every word. “I am that person. Let me be your wife, Eddie.” She gazed at him, urging him to speak. Again, Eddie felt the urge to accept…and couldn’t. Yet.

  “Give me one night,” he said instead. “One night to think about it.”

  Martha stared at him. “Okay,” she said sourly. “On one condition.”

  An hour later, Eddie lay in the plus bed, waiting for Martha to finish pulling on her dressing gown and join him. He’d resisted as hard as he could---which wasn’t very hard, it turned out---but Martha had won in the end.

  “We’ll see if we’re really comfortable,” she said. “And I’m tired of sleeping alone. It’s very cold at night. Are you really going to make me freeze?”

  So he had relented, and now he was staring at his ceiling in the darkness as the sound of Martha’s quick footsteps came down the hall. The door creaked open, and he saw that she had her hair braided again. Her gown was a deep green, and it made her eyes pop like gemstones. She blew out the candle in her hand as she approached, and Eddie held his breath as she pulled back the covers and slipped next to him. He expected her to get comfortable on her own, but she moved until her head found his chest and rested her cheek there.

  “Your heart is beating so fast,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he replied. “I can hear it in my ears.”

  Martha laughed and pulled his arm around her waist. His body flooded with heat, and he fought to keep his thoghts clean; the curve of her body was soft and warm that he found himself imagining running his hands further down her body until they lifted her gown to find bare skin. Eddie tried to think of anything else: boats, paint rollers, stray cats---but everything brought him back to her. He wondered if she was having this much trouble, and nearly asked, before he realized her breathing had already evened out: she was sleeping.

  Wow, so fast, he thought. Is she that comfortable with me already?

  Soon after, however, he’d closed his eyes and was drifting off as well, the smell of cinnamon on his mind.

  He dreamt of the train station in his old hometown. He was smaller, and his mother was backing away from him on the platform. A crowd surged around him, swallowing her figure and carrying her away, and he cried out and stretched his hands forward, but she didn’t reach back. Her face was unmoving, and he finally lost track of her as she was overtaken by foreign bodies. He tried to call out her name, but he couldn’t remember it, and this stirred his panic more; he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he shrieked as he turned around. Eddie realized that he was gazing down at the person, not up---then he saw that it was Martha. She was glowing, and her hair floated around her like a red sea. She held out her hand and caught his, and immediately his panic was silenced. He gazed into her eyes, suddenly consumed with love and a sense of security. How was she doing this?

  “Pancakes,” she said, and Eddie was confused. Then he caught the scent of sweet batter, and he gasped as he was shaken awake. He blinked and opened his eyes, startled to find himself in bed with Martha smiling down at him. Was it morning already?

  “Hello,” she chuckled. She was holding a tray that was piled high with an array of breakfast foods: bacon, eggs, toast, and the pancakes he thought he’d dreamed. He sat up, gazing at Martha as though he’d never seen her before. Her smile faltered, and she took a step back, but he reached out and caught her wrist before she could move another step.

  “Martha,” he said hoarsely. “Say it again?”

  “Say what?” she asked, her face confused.

  “Are you going to leave me?” Eddie asked desperately. “Will you leave?” He needed to hear the words before he could bring himself to ask the question.

  “Never,” Martha said immediately. “I’m not going anywhere. And my answer will always be the same.” She smiled at him gently. “I’ve seen broken men, Eddie James. You’re not one of them. Bent, maybe, and a little bruised. But not broken. Not even a little.” She laughed. “Now, do you want to eat, or not?”

  “You’re happy here?” he pressed.

  “Yes,” Martha said, chuckling. “Are you?”

  Eddie realized he was. The tension had been dissipating all week, and he was down to a glass of beer a day. He hadn’t even missed his liquor, come to think of it. He looked at Martha, the decision forming in his mind. He nodded slowly.

  “Okay, so does that mean you’re ready to eat?” she asked, smiling indulgently.

  “Marry me,” Eddie said urgently. Martha’s smile faded, and she set the tray down on the table next to him. His heart sank; she’d changed her mind, then; how could she have change her mind? She sat next to him on the bed and looked at her hands while Eddie closed his eyes in shame.

  “Can we get married soon?” Martha asked quietly. “I’ve always wanted a spring wedding. If that’s alright.”

  Eddie took a moment to process her words, then grinned. “We can get married whenever you want.” He stood and pulled her roughly to her feet. Her brilliant green eyes locked on his, and she took a deep breath and tilted her face upward. Eddie bent forward instinctively, and the sweet smell of cinnamon hit him just before the taste did; a clap of thunder hit his brain as their lips met, and an exhilarating tingling sensation flooded his veins. Martha wrapped her arms around his neck as his hands encircled her waist and lifted her to him, and she cried out as her feet left the floor. He thought he felt the pounding of her heart, and he swore they were in unison. He let her back to the floor gently and stepped away, gazing at her as they both gasped for air.

  “Wow!” Martha said, laughing. “What was that for?”

  “Great night’s sleep,” Eddie answered. “Waking up to breakfast by a beautiful woman puts me in a good mood too.” He pulled her in for another kiss, and she moaned softly as he plunged his hands into her dark red hair. He pulled back and smiled, seeing her faze frozen in an expression of deliriousness happiness.
“I’ve wanted to do that since you first smiled at me,” he said. “Once I knew you were an adult.”

  Martha laughed and swatted him playfully. “You should’ve. It would have been a much better start than knocking me over.” Her smile faded, and her eyes grew serious. “But Eddie…are you sure? I’m so happy if you are, but I don’t want you to change your mind in a week. I need you to tell me why you’re sure.”

  Eddie nodded, grasping for the right words. “It’s a feeling,” he said after a moment. “It’s like you said before, everything has a solution. You taught me a new way of seeing, and it just changed everything. My heart’s been so black all this time, I thought it was rotten…but it just needed a new coat of paint.”

  Martha grinned. “My, that’s beautiful. Are you writing your vows as we speak, Mr. Poet?”

  Eddie laughed and kissed her again, but she broke away early.

  “Before I forget,” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to say…you taught me something, too. When I got here, I was expecting some mess of a man that I’d need to fix or nurse back to health. But you’re already so strong…” she shook her head, her eyes full of wonder. “You’re adding color to my life, Eddie James. You painted my heart, too.”

  Eddie’s lips were sore by the time they got to breakfast, and by the end of the day, his cheeks hurt from smiling. He wrote a letter to his uncle, picturing the look of joy and simultaneous disbelief that would overtake him when he read the news. They joined Evan and Cheryl for dinner that evening, and Eddie’s heart melted when he saw how sweetly Martha interacted with the children. Evan was watching him through the night, and before they left, he pulled Eddie aside.

  “She’s really something, huh?” Evan asked, nudging Eddie conspiratorially. “You look like a new man! Better color, eyes not as puffy…you even look like you’ve been eating better. You guys gonna have kids?”

  Eddie looked at Martha as she said goodbye to the babies, who were already wailing for her return. “Maybe,” he said, smiling broadly as she stood and walked toward him. He thought about what she’d said---you painted my heart, too. Eddie thought he would die if it were true; Martha’s beauty was so pure and lovely, he knew he had no part in it. But he liked that she insisted that he did. She was a work of art, and he was just starting to appreciate her masterstrokes. Eddie knew he was lucky to even be in her presence. She grinned at him and took his hand as the left. The colors of the sunset in front of him reminded him of her hair, and he wondered if he could replicate it with a brush. She saw his far-away look and smiled.

  “What are you thinking about?” she teased.

  Eddie smiled and squeezed her hand as he answered. “My muse.”

  THE END

  Highlander Desires

  by Ainsley Cameron

  It was generally agreed among the people of Bodhuvan village that Fingall MacAllarran was their favorite eccentric.

  Mártainn the Blacksmith - no longer the blacksmith for many years now due to a bad back, yet widely regarded as the village blacksmith thanks to his smithing sons - was fond of telling anyone who asked of Fingall that he was a “fierce, strange man.” To get Mártainn to tell tales would require that the asker loosen his tongue by plying him with whiskey. This would often result in good stories if the whiskey were meted out carefully and less coherent stories interspersed with songs and anecdotes if one weren’t careful about portioning.

  “Strange in his ways, that one. For all the years I knew the man, he never got a girl with child so as we know. There was many a lass wouldn’t mind a night of sport with that lad, I’d have wagered.” He told the crowd of younger men and women who gathered around him one wild, rain-drenched spring night. All of them had heard of Fingall, but few believed the stories were entirely true.

  Still, Mártainn had a way of telling tales that inspired the men through vivid scenes of battle and captured the imagination of the ladies with descriptions of Jocelin’s beauty, so all would sit and listen without interruption while the storm raged outside.

  Mártainn settled back with a drink in one hand, his pipe in the other. A big man, he buried the drink between his bearded lips, set the drink down, and stroked his great white beard.

  “You know him to be strange,” he reminded them, “but let me tell you how my friend became so strange in his ways. I can only tell you the parts of this tale he told me or that which I saw myself.”

  ###

  Mártainn and the brothers Fingall and Dhugall were spending their free time on the day before their lives changed in much the same way as men in the Clan MacAllarran would do; they were fishing in the Loch.

  “It tell you there’s no chance Ross will move against them.” Dhugall was saying in his usual argumentative way. He and Fingall loved their verbal sparring almost as much as they loved sharpening their skills with an axe. Both men were among the most respected fighters in the clan. While Mártainn could swing a two-handed axe with the best of them, in those days he was more focused on mastering his craft as a smith than he was in taking part in raids. Still, the three were friends and he enjoyed whiling away the hours with the brothers.

  That is, except when they were arguing.

  “You don’t know what the Clans will do, and you never did.” Fingall replied, his voice rising with irritation. “MacKay has gone too far and you can trust there will be hell to pay for it.”

  His brother laughed. The pair shared many physical qualities; tall, muscular, strawberry-blonde hair. The younger of the pair would never be mistaken entirely for his brother, though, thanks to an ugly scar across his right cheek and a signature laugh that resembled a donkey’s bray. “You think all of the lords of the Isles and Highlands are going to unite against him? It’s almost as though you wanted to fight.”

  Though the sun was high and bright, the mood of the elder brother darkened considerably. “You know I don’t want that.”

  Dhugall stared at Fingall. “I know you don’t, and were it any other than you I’d…”

  “You’d what?”

  “Well, you know what some say. No one will say it to your face, but you always sound full of fear, speaking coward’s words. Though,” he quickly noted, “you have proven your worth in battle many a time.”

  Fingall shrugged. His brother was the only man he would suffer to say such things without injury. “None would dare speak it to me, so it is of no concern to me. My heart is not the same as my skill and courage.”

  Mártainn sought to heal the rift between the two and their contention of the possibility of an approaching war, mostly to get them to be quiet. After all, the fish weren’t biting. He slapped Fingall on the back. “Take a wife at last! You won’t be young much longer and if you do, I promise your temperament will be much improved. You see how your brother and I are more relaxed, do you not?”

  “I’ll not marry until I find the right woman.” Fingall replied firmly.

  “Aye, a scolding wife can be a burden, MacAllarran, but a young, pretty, one provides certain... benefits.” He winked at Dhugall and the two shared a laugh.

  Fingall rolled his eyes in response, but chuckled despite himself. “At the rate you take advantage of these benefits, you’ll breed a village to rival Bodhuvan in five years.” He got up, brushed himself off, and slung his fishing pole over his shoulder. “You lads while away your hours at leisure here. There’s work to be done.”

  His brother leapt up to join him, leaving Mártainn alone to fish. The aspiring blacksmith with his short black beard sighed and watched them leave as he kept to fishing alone.

  Soon, Dhugall and Fingall were walking apace towards the village walls. Protected by high wooden barricades, the hilltop collection of huts afforded a nice view of the North Sea. Once, Norse and Danes had come to raid these hills and taken over the region. The North Men had long since faded into the genetic makeup of these people, Irish Gael and Scandinavian alike eventually displacing the former Picts and becoming known as the Scots. It would be many years before Bodhuvan or much of
this region would consider itself Scotland, but they definitely shared more in common than the people of the Lowlands or, worse, the English.

  “You’ll see you’re wrong, brother.” Dhugall assured Fingall as they approached Fingall’s outlying home. The young man had inherited the family’s cattle, while Dhugall had a more modest holding not far away. “No one looks forward to putting on the helmet and aketon more than I, but I’m telling you, they don’t dare take up arms. MacKay’s army is too great.”

  “Aye, we’ll see about that.” Fingall said, sounding worried. “I expect we’ll know soon enough if it’s time for more bloodshed. Pointless though it’s sure to be.”

  “I’ll leave you alone with your cattle and fishing, brother. Some of us have better things to occupy our time” Dhugall said, and just to goad him called over his shoulder. “My Murron has a cousin coming to stay with us, you know. Come round to meet her! Perhaps you’ll take a shine to her.”

  Fingall scowled. “Stop trying to marry me off. I prefer to be on my own, and you know it.”

  “Aye.” Dhugall replied, waving and smiling as he walked away. “Alone with your cows.”

  ###

  Despite ribbing one another, the brothers were fond of each other and each other’s closest living kin. When the day came around that Murron’s cousin was in town, she reminded her husband to reinvite Fingall to supper. “He’ll be around, woman.” Dhugall had reassured her as he dressed in the morning.