by Amanda Boone
“My lady.”
He could not have said something worse. She grits her teeth. That's Sophie to you...The words of her last conversation with Bryce echo around her head, mocking her.
The violins start another measure, the introduction to a minuet, lilting and graceful. Sophie groans, as Lieutenant Brand takes her hand. Then they are dancing through the measure.
Sophie feels stiff and wooden. Each time Lieutenant Brand's hand touches her waist, she feels herself stiffen with revulsion. Something about the man, and his presumed ownership of her, makes her feel wrong inside. The only man she wants is Bryce, and Bryce is dead.
I don't want this. I don't want to be here. Let go of my hand. She almost pulls her hand from his.
“My lady.” He says again. He is bowing over her hand. He is, Sophie reflects, slightly drunk. She tries to extricate herself politely.
She hears a voice behind her.
“Daughter!” It is her father.
“Lieutenant.” He continues, smiling at the man warmly, even though even Sophie, through her resentment, can see her father thinks the man is a complete mutton-head.
“I am pleased to see you cut such a fine figure in the dance, Lieutenant. I think it good that my soldiers are as cultured as they are lethal. I will be looking for men like you for senior office; if you show your worth.”
Oh, God. Sophie groans internally. Not enough to force her to dance with the man, to be charming, now he offers him promotion in exchange for marrying her? She wants to scream.
She smiles, tightly. “If you men have matters of warfare to discuss?” She raises her eyebrows, sweetly, tilting her head towards the refreshments table. At least she can use this moment to get away.
“Oh, no, Daughter. I wouldn't dream of keeping him from such charming companionship as yours.”
Damn you, Sophie thinks, savage. Damn you, and damn him. Damn everything.
“Very well.” She smiles, acidly. “I shall stay and entertain the lieutenant. I am sure Colonel Lawford has something important to discuss.”
She inclines her head to where a portly, retired Colonel is standing patiently near her father's place. At least, she thinks, he can suffer being bored to death and being told what-for by the old officer. She has the satisfaction of seeing her father close his eyes. She knows he is already feeling a headache coming on.
“I'll leave you to the Colonel, then Father?”
She smiles sweetly, and, as Lieutenant Brand crosses the room with a glass of sweet wine, she smiles at him, and takes the proffered glass.
***
“Come now, step easy. I've...got your hand.”
Colonel Brand's voice is unsteady, as he and Sophie walk out in the night.
Behind them, some of the guests have taken to the garden as well, seeking the airy coolness.
Before them, the forest is whispering, alive with the night. Why am I here? Sophie thinks, distraught. And why won't this man leave me alone?
“S'alright,” Colonel Brand slurs a little. “I've got your hand. You won't fall.”
You might, Sophie thinks, acidly. He is, by now, rather profoundly inebriated. “Thank you, kind Sir.” She says instead, smiling. If he cannot hear the sarcasm in that tone, he is drunk indeed.
She stands at the margin of the trees, aching to enter the silent peace of the forest. Impulsively, she takes her hand from his, and steps into the wood. Just a short way, she thinks, and I will be rid of him and I can be alone with my thoughts of Bryce.
Bryce. For a moment, she almost thinks she can see him. Then she shakes her head. Takes two more paces into the trees and sinks to the ground, her arms around her knees.
Sophie stays there for a while, and then she decides to go back. She should rejoin the party before her father notices she is gone. She starts the walk back.
“So! A forest elf, are we?”
Colonel Brand looms out of the trees. He is blocking the path before her, completely sated with drink.
Sophie grits her teeth and walks forward, trying to push past.
“Not so fast.” He grabs her wrist. “The pretty forest elf wants to get away, eh?” He lifts her fingers to his lips. “Why leave, pretty elf?”
Sophie feels herself stiffen with revulsion, but lets him hold her hand to his lips. He is strong, and dangerous. Perhaps if she ignores it, he will stop. Even he must know some limit, some propriety?
His lips part, warm saliva on the back of her silk-gloved hand. She can no longer suppress the revulsion.
“You are drunk, Sir. You will stand aside to let me pass.” Her voice is trembling. He is big, and armed, and she is alone, and desperately afraid.
“...S'funny.” he is continuing, as if he has not heard her. “I've wanted you since that day I saw you in bed.” His voice is cracking, now, maudlin. “I need you. How can you deny me?”
Despite herself, Sophie feels compassion. How can she deny him what he needs? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe I can do that.
Her head is pounding, and she is desperately afraid. She is all alone in the forest, with an unpredictable man. But if she screams for help, the humiliation will ensure she can never again enter society. What choice does she have? None.
His arm has crept around her shoulder, and his hand is feeling for her breast. She feels her whole body tense. This feels repulsively wrong. She thinks of Bryce, and his warm kiss on her lips. That was so beautiful, so wonderful. Bryce.
She feels a tugging at the ties of her dress. She tries to struggle, but the grip around her shoulders tightens.
“...No...” her voice is a thread, But she is unpractised in denials, and she knows he has no reason to heed her. He could strangle her, if he wanted to.
And, stupidly, she feels guilt; as if she owes him this. It's what Father would want, she thinks, crazily. He wants me to have to marry this man. He will be happy, Colonel Brand will be happy. And why do I care? Bryce is gone. If he loved me, he would have kept me with him.
She closes her eyes. Feels her dress open down the back, the night air on her skin. She feels his touch, skin-crawlingly repulsive, on her bare shoulder. She shudders. Bryce, her mind calls. She tries to lose herself in thoughts of him. Bryce.
***
In the bushes, from his vantage point behind a tree, Bryce hears a laugh.
Hellfire! He thinks. I am close, now. He drops to the ground.
Bryce has been walking, tortuously silently down the hill, for about two hours. He is at the base of it now, near the camp. Up ahead, he can see and hear movement, and the same grunting laugh as before.
Damn fellow must have had too much, Bryce thinks to himself. He's probably vomiting in the trees, there.
There seems to be one of them, perhaps two. In the darkness, he can see a figure, sprawling on the ground. Bugger must be passing out, he thinks. A twist to the neck, and...
“Bryce!”
“Sophie..?” Then, “What in Heaven's name?”
Bryce feels blinding rage enfold him and he hurtles from the woods towards the man, who sprawls on the ground. Bryce feels his hand tighten on the man's neck, as he forces his head into the leaves and strangles him at once. He is kneeling on his back, crushing the air from him.
“I'll kill you... kill you. Bastard... Bastard!” He can hear his own voice, snarling unrecognisably, in his ears, as he feels the warmth of the other man's throat beneath his hand.
“Bryce. Bryce?”
Bryce grunts and blinks. He hears her voice lancing through the blinding rage that fills his head.
“Leave him, Bryce. Leave him. He is as good as dead.”
He shakes his head, and looks down. The body of the man is lifeless under his hands.
“Come on.” Her voice is urgent. “Get away from here. They'll kill you.”
He opens his eyes. Focuses.
“No.” His voice is slurred with the lateness of the night and the action and sudden exhaustion. “No.” He says it again. “Taking you...with me. How can I... leave you
here?”
He grips her shoulder. She shrugs, violently, throwing the grip off.
“Don't touch me!” She spits. She draws back. She is, Bryce notices, as the fog lifts from his mind, shivering. . Her eyes are wide, angry and glossed with tears of rage.
He steps back, raising his hands. “Easy, lass.”
“Go.” She snarls. Her fear for him mingles with her shock; and both are making her body shiver, violently. She is so cold.
“No.” He closes his eyes and grips her shoulder. “Not without you.”
“No!” She tries to break his grip, but it tightens. He closes his eyes tighter. He does not want to hurt her, but he cannot leave her here. That bastard was raping her! How can he leave her in a place where that could happen?
Heedless of her struggles, then, he drags her into the woods behind him and up the hill.
***
“Angus. Can you take the charge here? I need to get home. Urgently.” Bryce inclines his head towards where Sophie stands, near his horse.
“Aye, lad. Certainly.” Angus nods gravely. “You get yourself off home. Leave this to me.”
“Thank you.” Bryce grips his hand, firmly.
Sophie is standing with her back to him. She does not turn, when he comes up and puts his saddlebag across the saddle and turns to give her a lift onto the horse's back.
When he touches her body, she recoils. . She sits in front of him stiffly as they start the long, slow ride back home.
It is morning, when they arrive in the clearing at the manor. The mist hangs over the buildings, soft in the first rays of morning's light.
“Here we are.” Bryce swings himself down, and lifts a hand up to Sophie. She takes it, unseeing, and slides off the horse.
Wordlessly, they cross the courtyard and walk to the house.
Inside, Sophie walks mechanically up the stairs to the East wing. She opens the door and closes it behind her. Sits down on the bed.
Ten minutes later, a maid comes in with a bathtub. Another joins her, with a bucket of water. They fill the bath and leave, without a word.
Five minutes later, Sophie walks over. Her eyes are blank. She takes the gossamer party-dress from her body coldly, then sinks into the warm water, and lets it close over her.
When the water is cold, she steps out. She slips on the floor. Her knee hits the hard surface and the ache of it is unbearable.
Suddenly, Sophie is crying. Sobbing. The tears flowing down her face. Her thoughts are wild and confused.
My knee hurts. Why more pain? Haven't I had enough?
Nothing happened. Nothing. Don't say it, don't think it; and nothing has happened. No-one knows.
Bryce? Why did you have to come back from the dead, then? I could hate you, for seeing me like that. Now you think nothing of me, too. Dragging me back here, like a cut of meat. I am nothing, now, aren't I? Nothing.
She sobs quietly to herself, until the water cools in the bath and her skin dries and then, exhausted, she crawls to the bed and sleeps.
***
Bryce is sitting in the breakfast room. It is evening. He has just come back from the forest, where he has spent the last weeks working with his men.
She wants nothing to do with me, he thinks, sadly, as he sits watching the long, slow light of evening between the trees.
I don't blame her, he adds, feelingly. Why would she want a man to come near her, after what that one did?
He decided that the best thing he could do would be to keep out of her way.
That was two weeks ago. Now, he has just returned. Mhaire has said nothing of Sophie, only reported that she will not eat and does not speak, and sends every platter back almost untouched. Even Mhaire seems to be blaming him, he thinks, sadly.
He watches the slanting light on the lawn, and thinks of his memories of her. That bright, laughing spirit, with her mischievous gaze and grave soul. How can he lose her?
Selfish, he thinks, angry with himself. How can you think of your own petty sadness, when she is suffering?
He shake his head. He should go out. Go riding, perhaps. Take his horse and the dogs and get out. She would like that, he thinks. She loves animals and nature. Comes alive in places of beauty.
She did. She is as good as dead to him, the girl he knew.
He is lost in thought, staring at the golden sunlight on the lawn.
Silvered laughter reaches him, and the sound of feet, running. He stands and moves hastily to the door, wanting for her not to have to see him. He hides himself just in time.
She walks in, flushed and laughing. Her hair is down, and there is dew on her feet. She is wearing an old lace gown from the wardrobe in the upstairs room. Her cheeks are scarlet with exertion, her mouth still smiling.
“Hey, Silver?”
She is patting a vicious-looking boar-hound, and smiling with affection. Her voice is still a little strained from the exertion of the run. She must have run all the way back.
Bryce makes as if to walk towards her. She seems to sense the movement, and starts. Then she walks past, unruffled. She is humming under her breath. She goes up the stairs.
A few minutes later, and she appears in the breakfast room, her feet dried and her hair combed back into a casually-elegant style.
“Is it time for supper?”
Inwardly, his soul leaps with delight. Outside, he smiles, as if they do this every day
“Yes, why not? Pull the bell, and Mhaire will bring it in.”
“Good. I'm famished.”
He steps towards her, a hand lifts, to clasp her shoulder. She stiffens, and he lets it drop. He smiles.
“Good. So am I. I think the menu is roast capon today? One of the men shot some, in the woods. I've been rather looking forward to them.”
“Good.” She touches his shoulder.
Inside, his heart melts. Outwardly, he smiles.
“Just so.”
***
The capon is, indeed, delicious.
The light from the fire weaves gold in Sophie's hair. She is on Bryce's left, at the head of the table. As if she has sat there always.
“Are the men safely back?” Sophie's voice is warm, languorously interested.
“Yes.” Bryce replies, through a mouthful of capon. “We finished our...exercise yesterday.”
“Good.” She smiles at him. The firelight reflects in her eyes, making them more luminous than ever.
He feels his breath catch in his throat. But he keeps his hand where it rests, afraid to scare her.
“You will be away again soon?”
“Not within the month. We'll make one last push before the Winter sets in.”
“Good.” Sophie's voice is soft.
“I need to be here to help the tenants collecting the harvest and helping to stock up for winter.” He smiles, wiping the mulled wine from his lips.
“You're going to work the land?” Sophie asks, grinning.
“What's so funny about that?”
“Nothing.” She is still smiling. “I just can't imagine it, is all. You seem a little fancy for a farmer.”
“Fancy? Me? I'm the least-fancy man. I pride myself on it.”
She laughs. “So unfancy that you're the showcase of unfanciness. The fanciest unfancy man.”
They both laugh. They lean forward, and it is quite natural that their foreheads meet.
They both sit very still. The warmth of her forehead on his seems to shudder down right into his very bones. He tries hard not to breathe. Deep within him, he can feel a need building, a fire kindling, ready to rage through him.
Her hand moves over the table and, warmly, clasps his.
Their eyes meet.
They kiss.
It is all warmth, and firelight, and magic. Her lips are sweet and warm on his, the spices from the wine mingling with the taste of her. He cannot quite believe it.
After a few minutes, they part. Sit back. Look at each other.
Their arms find their way around each other, tentative a
t first, and then urgent.
They walk, slowly and uncertainly, the long, short, uncertain distance to the bedroom.
And such a night.
Bryce kisses her again, his lips slow, so slow, on hers. Her lips part, and they spend whole minutes in tasting each other, their lips light and soft, then heavy, on each other.
Bryce is unsure, but his need for her, and his care, guide his hands. He reaches up and strokes her throat. She stiffens, then relaxes. He kisses her, and his lips move down to the warm satin of her neck. He bites it, gently.
Her breasts are pale satin. He kisses them, where they gather at the neck of the gown. His eyes are on hers, and she nods. He unfastens the neck and works the dress down.
Her nipples are pale, the skin as soft as the petals of a flower. He takes one in his mouth, and works it, gently, and it hardens at his touch. She gasps at the sweet fire his lips send coursing through her, to ignite, warmly, in her womb. She lets his weight push her back, onto the bed.
His mouth kisses its way down to her navel, his hands easing the dress from her body. She is bare before him, her body pale and curved and quite exquisite.
He bends over her and kisses further. Her thighs are soft and silken, and they part, yielding, as he kisses them. He cannot resist. He kisses her thigh, and moves inwards, parting her legs gently as his mouth finds the warm, pink slit between. She gasps, and parts her legs, his tongue working her and sending pulses of sweet sensation rocketing through her body.
He sits back, his body afire with need. She wraps her legs around his waist.
And then he is sliding into her, and her breath catches in her throat. He pushes in gently, the clinging damp of her a pleasure almost too much to bear. She is soft, and pink and golden, and her body is a wonder he will never stop exploring. He pulls back, and they both gasp as he thrusts in again, deeper this time.
They both feel it, and then they are riding the crest of that sweetness, pulling back and thrusting, their bodies pressing hard and harder as they thrust and meet and part, the pressure and urgency rising like a wave.
Their voices break the scarlet velvet silence of the night together, as first one and then another cries out in an aching, sated sound of unimagined bliss.