Marriage Made in Rebellion

by Sophia James

  Her neck arched and she opened to him, his tongue and teeth upon her, no small query now, but only taking. She could barely breathe or think, the weightless truth of wonder and rightness.

  Home. With Lucien.

  Her own hands came up to his hair, threading through the gold, entwined and pressing close, and the old magic that had got her through four years of hell returned, roaring against weakness and replacing doubt.

  She loved him. She did. She had loved him from the very first second of finding him unconscious on the high fields of battle. A connection, a communion, a man who was her other half of living.

  Take a risk and live, he had said.

  She pulled back a little and looked him straight in the eyes.

  ‘I will love you for always and I will never stop.’

  ‘Marry me, then, Alejandra. Be my wife.’

  She was speechless, shock tightening her throat as tears welled. She allowed them to fall down her cheeks and on to the green-and-gold silk of her beautiful gown.

  ‘Yes.’ No thought in it save delight and hope.

  And then it was easy kissing, soft and honest, quiet in the way of disbelief and wonder. He would be hers for ever as everything and everyone else had not been, her husband, her lover, her friend.

  ‘You are certain?’

  ‘More certain than I have been in my entire life. Right from the beginning it was only ever us.’

  ‘Us,’ she whispered back and, standing on tiptoes, she found again the warmth and sweetness of his mouth.

  * * *

  Lucien wanted her. It was all he could think of. He wanted to be inside her. He wanted to know the pounding fury that had haunted his every moment since their trysts on the road down into Pontevedra from the high hills of the Galicians. Every other woman ever since had been irrelevant and shadowy and he had struggled for four years with intimacy and honesty and desire.

  His member was rock hard against her, the physical embodiment of his desperation, and he did not try to hide it. He could not. He pressed against her and let her feel the extent of his need even as his hand slid beneath the green-and-gold silk of her bodice, undoing the buttons and cupping one round and full breast.

  ‘You are mine, Alejandra, and I will be yours, too, for ever.’

  In answer she simply pulled the gown from her shoulder and allowed him everything.

  He suckled hard and felt her gasp, but he could no longer be careful. His teeth closed over the nipple and her nails scraped down the back of his neck, drawing blood, he thought and smiled.

  They would mark each other again as they had done before, in ownership and in power. Already the red whorls of where his mouth had been were drawn into her skin.

  He wanted to lift her up and take her to his bed, through the corridors of the town house, past his mother and his family, ignoring all of them to assuage the pounding beat of his heart that drummed in his ears.

  But he could not because by doing so he would ruin his one chance of getting it right this time, of doing it properly, of cherishing her and protecting her in all the ways that he had failed to do so before in Spain.

  He did not want another child out of wedlock, either. He wanted his friends there to witness his wedding and his mother watching to understand the love he brought to his wife. He wanted it beautiful and honest. He wanted to say their vows in the Linden Park chapel in front of God because he knew right there and then that Alejandra needed that. She needed to be back in the fold of religion in order to be whole. And so did he. With family and friends. Together.

  Repositioning her bodice, he brought her in against him and took a breath.

  ‘When we are married we will finish what we have started here. I promise. I want to be married at the chapel in Linden Park and the ceremony shall take place as soon as the banns are read and a dress is made.’

  ‘A dress?’

  ‘I hope the Church of England is suitable for you, my love, for this time we will be wed by the grace of God. This time it will be perfect.’

  * * *

  Dinner that evening was a strange mix of elation, tension and shame. Lucien’s two younger brothers were at the table as were Christine and his mother.

  The Countess of Ross had been crying, Alejandra could tell, and she held herself stiff and silent as news of the forthcoming wedding was given by Lucien.

  Christine was the most excited, all her chatter about the gown she would design and of how she had seen a picture of a beautiful woman in Boston with exactly the dress she could imagine Alejandra in. The boys watched her covertly, blushing when she glanced at them and hardly talking.

  Young men were always simple, she thought to herself and smiled as Lucien took her hand there at the table and held it firmly.

  ‘We will be married at Linden Park in the chapel. We do not wish for a big wedding, but the Wyldes will come as well as the Hughes and Francis St Cartmail. And all the aunts, of course.’

  ‘What of the Bigley cousins and the Halbergs? You will have to ask the Kingstons, too, for they would be most upset if they were not invited.’ Christine chattered away and the list of potential guests became larger and larger until Lucien drew her ponderings to a close.

  ‘We will have who we want, Christine, and that is the end of it.’

  ‘And the banns will need to be posted?’ This was the first thing the Countess had offered all night.

  ‘I will make certain they are when we go down to Linden Park tomorrow.’

  The older lady nodded and twisted the kerchief that she held in her hands this way and that.

  ‘Are you of the Anglican faith?’ This question was directed at Alejandra.

  ‘No. I was Catholic, Lady Ross.’

  Christine frowned. ‘Was?’

  ‘I have not much being in church for few years.’

  ‘Because your faith was tested and found wanting?’ These words came from Lucien’s mother and they were barely audible.

  ‘Tested?’

  Lucien translated and the silence about the table was heavy.

  ‘I did believe. Once. I hope this will come again.’ It was all she could say with any sense of truth.

  ‘I hope so, too.’ The Countess gave these words with a great sincerity and Alejandra smiled at her. Perhaps things would be all right one day between them. She could only hope.

  * * *

  When the meal was complete Lucien excused them both and took her out into the small garden behind the house. It was a warm evening, the promise of a late summer in the air, and bells rang from somewhere close.

  They came together easily, his arms wrapped about her.

  ‘I want you so much that it hurts.’ No pretext. No hidden meaning. She felt that want, too, and bit down on it.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Three weeks.’ He knew exactly what she meant. ‘I have to go north for a few days this week for there is business that needs my attention after being away for so long.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It might be better, too.’

  ‘The distance?’

  ‘The temptation,’ he returned and kissed her hard and quick before moving back. As he turned she saw the marks of her nails across the skin at his nape.

  ‘It will be a church wedding?’ She had been surprised when he had said that at the table given what he knew of her faith. ‘I am not entirely sure I should even be in a house of God, making promises.’

  He began to laugh. ‘Mama betrayed me in the worst way possible and she is at the chapel most days. Christine shared a bed with the man who was supposed to be marrying her, but he died instead, and I have killed more people than I can even remember and yet I am not rebuffed. What exactly is your crime, Alejandra? What is so terrible about what you have done?’

  ‘I have given up on God,’ she returned without a second’s thought.

  ‘Yet he brought you to me, to love again. Perhaps after all he did not give up on you.’

  ‘Lucien?’

  ‘Yes.’ />
  ‘Never leave me. Not ever.’

  ‘I won’t, my love.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  There were white roses on the end of every pew and more in large vases by the pulpit with blue and yellow ribbons tied in generous bows. Christine’s work, Alejandra supposed, nothing left to chance.

  Her dress floated about her legs, the soft blue silk embellished with flowers, and in her hair was a garland of fresh white rosebuds.

  But it was Lucien she looked at, standing tall and still at the top of the aisle, Daniel Wylde beside him. He was dressed today in unbroken black and it made the pale of his hair lighter and even more beautiful. His eyes were full of promise as he watched her walk towards him and when she reached him he held out his hand.

  And at that moment with the sun coming through the stained-glass windows in slivers of colours and an organ playing a hymn she knew and loved; with the scent of rose petals and the warmth of family and friends all around her, Alejandra felt a shifting, an easing, the warmth of belief coming back into her heart like magic. Celestial magic. Unexplained and beautiful. She could even feel Rosalie there beside her and her father and Maria and Tomeu and Adan. And Ross in the strength of Lucien’s grasp and in the love on his face.

  Perfect. This was a perfect moment that she would never forget and God had given it to her. After all the sorrow and hurt there was wonder again and grace.

  Lucien had known it with his insistence on such a wedding, celebrated with all that was good in the religious form and in the Church of England.

  She was home. Here. Understood and known. When the music ceased she looked up into his eyes and smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘You are welcome, my love.’

  Only now. Glancing at the minister, she gave him greeting and waited for the service to begin.

  * * *

  She was suddenly nervous, more nervous than she had ever been. He had not seen the scar on her thigh, not properly before, and it had been a very long time since they had last come together. Her wrist, too, was something he might ask about and there were marks across her stomach that had not been there last time.

  Ross.

  This was another fear. A baby or the lack of one. She could not quite come to terms with whether she would want to be pregnant again or would dread it.

  It was late now and she had left Lucien downstairs in the large drawing room at Linden Park. Everything about this place was huge. The house. The gardens, the staircases, the ponds. Even the bed behind her. Their bed now, a large four-poster with a draping of gauze around every side of it.

  The only small thing was the wisp of lace nightgown Christine had given her for her wedding night. She wondered if she should be wearing it at all as it reminded her a bit of the clothing in the brothel on Segovia Street.

  Another worry loomed. What if that was all he could remember? The drugged and angry Antonia with her lewd actions, cut-glass earrings and blood-red hair.

  She glanced in the mirror and was momentarily heartened.

  Her locks now were so much darker and shinier, a result of a shampoo Adelaide Hughes had concocted for her in her house in Sherborne and a good-quality hair dye. She had been eating better, too, and the thin angular bones of Spain had been softened somewhat here into more feminine curves.

  Lifting one finger, she carefully touched the diamond ring Lucien had pledged his troth to her with. Substantial and permanent.

  It was all enough. She was enough. Footfalls on the boards outside had her glancing worriedly away from the mirror.

  And then he was there, completely dressed, the dark of his clothes a contrast against the pale of her lacy white nothingness. He held a small box in his hands and he gave this to her without touching.

  ‘For you, Alejandra.’

  She had not thought to buy him a gift. Was this an English custom that was expected?

  But when she opened it she forgot about all her fears and gasped in delight.

  ‘A rosary?’

  ‘Of jets. I found it in a shop on Regent Street and thought of you. Like your old one, if I remember correctly, the one you used constantly in Spain.’

  ‘The one I draped across your chest as we took you from the battlefield.’

  ‘The one you brought with you on the march west to take me to the boat. It was always so much a part of you I thought you ought to have a replacement.’

  ‘It is beautiful.’ The beads slid through her fingers in the same old familiar way, the words in her head as they always had been and joy in her heart.

  ‘I will treasure it.’

  ‘Oh. I nearly forgot,’ he suddenly said. ‘My mother also sends you this.’ Digging into his pocket, he brought out a small fat statue of polished jade.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A fertility god from the ancient Chinese, but she swears it will work. She had six children and her mother had seven and they all attribute such abundance to this.’

  ‘It is an old heirloom, then.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘She wants us to have another child?’

  ‘She most certainly does. She believes she had some hand in Ross’s death and blames herself for it.’

  ‘She shouldn’t. He came too early. I do not think anyone could have stopped that from happening.’

  ‘Would you tell her that, perhaps, when you feel ready to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you tell me it, too, over and over, so that I might know...?’ He stopped and she heard the tremble of self-blame in his voice, the first time ever she had heard him anything but certain.

  ‘Make another child with me, Lucien. Tonight. So we all can live.’

  * * *

  God, she was brave, Alejandra, his wife. He noticed the pulse in her throat was fast and shallow and yet still she would offer him absolution and forgiveness.

  The lace nightdress she wore was very little. He could see the scars on her wrist and the larger one on her left thigh. He had touched the raised skin before once when he had taken her on the coastal path less than an hour before they had been parted in Pontevedra. He wondered who had hurt her so badly. Her first husband, probably, but the hacienda had been a dangerous place, too, as had the brothel in La Latina.

  He needed to be gentle with her, but already a desperate need was rising.

  He hoped they might have a child and that there would be something left of them when they had gone, but if they could not, then that was fine, too. He had Alejandra, finally, bound by law and church to him. For ever. It was enough.

  Reaching out, he ran a finger across her cheek and then down her neck and on to her shoulder. The same awareness he always felt when he touched her made him smile. She had filled out, her curves more noticeable in the month since they had left Spain. Her hair had grown a little, too, reaching past her collarbones now, a curtain of shiny dark silk.

  ‘You are so very beautiful,’ he whispered, and she leant in to kiss him, on his cheek, on his chin and then on his lips, her mouth finding him with her tongue. No quiet kiss this, but a full and sensual onslaught. He was completely dressed and she was in less than nothing when one of his hands threaded between her thighs and came into her secret place with a hard intent.

  She groaned and arched her head so that her eyes fell into his own, sparked with desire. He could see his movements in the verdant green, flickering as he pushed deep and her swollen flesh opened further.

  ‘Love me, Lucien,’ she murmured, her hands now at the buttons of his jacket and then his shirt. The neckcloth was unwound and his trousers fell.

  He stepped out of them and lifted her, legs wound about his hips keeping him close, and then the softness of the mattress was beneath them, the thread work of the quilt under his knees. Pulling the gauzy hangings around the bed, they were caught in their own private space, the candle blurred and the fire a soft glow across the room.

  He could no longer hold back, he needed her with the sort of desperation that
held no stopping. Opening her thighs, he simply plunged in, the wet warmth welcoming and tight.

  Their breathing was louder now, hoarse in the quiet and building upwards to the place where release came quick, beaching waves of pleasure cleaving them to the other and claiming what each craved, made one by the ecstasy. Alejandra shook afterwards when the tightness had waned, shook in his arms and tipped her head to his.

  And this time when he kissed her it was quiet and gentle, languid and heavy, open-mouthed and closed. They were still connected, still joined, the seed he had spilled thick inside her and the last shuddering spasms of muscle not quite yet gone.

  Taken. His. Even the thought kept him hard and he pushed in with purpose.

  ‘Again?’

  He nodded, his hand wrapped around her buttock as he lifted her against him, changing the angle, and when she finally cried out with the relief of orgasm he simply covered her mouth and took the breath of her to mingle with his own.

  * * *

  She felt heavy, swollen and full, the small wisps of lace torn from her body with the movements of their lovemaking so that what was left of the nightgown lay limp on the counterpane of bobbled silk.

  And she still wanted him. Inside her. Pleasuring her in that particular way he had that defied all she had ever known of sex. She was a wanton. The thought pulled her lips upwards and one hand fell across her breast, a budded nipple hard between her fingers.

  Then his mouth was there, suckling, using her breast as a babe might as she held him tight against her, fingers threaded through the hair at his nape. She wanted to nurture him and feed him. She wanted to bring him into herself where no one else might touch them and where they would never again be apart.

  There was pain there, too, and she relished it when his teeth grated across the softness because it told her she was alive and here and protected. She leant across him and bit him on the shoulder, not quite drawing blood.

  Then he was above and turning her, drawing up both hands and tethering her small fingers with his own.

  Helpless surrender. He took her exactly as he wanted and she loved every moment of it.

  Roughness had a different appeal to the soft and in it she felt the loosening of her past, the brothel, the deaths, the danger. She was small and he was large. He was pale and she was dark. He was hard and she was soft. She relished the differences as he showed her the mastery of his sex.