It's Marriage Or Ruin

by Liz Tyner

  His hands overpowered her with their tenderness.

  With all the force of her own nature arguing with her, she pushed him away and reached for his chest. She had to touch him. She had to feel the muscle, the energy in him. The beating of his heart and the vibrancy in his skin.

  She lived through the movements of her hands.

  He pulled back and gazed into her eyes before his lips closed over hers and blocked the world away.

  Marcus explored her skin, tracing her and bringing need alive.

  ‘Em...’

  She heard him groan out her name and she loved the sound of it on his lips. No one had ever said her name as Marcus said it and no one ever could.

  His teeth grazed her neck, sending shivers throughout her arms and legs and leaving her unable to comprehend anything other than the moment.

  Her fingers caressed softness mixed with hardness and absorbed the steamy heat of his skin.

  She touched him carefully, awash with the sensation something so simple, yet with more complexity than she could measure, created inside her. His other arm was around her, pulling her tight against him, and she surrendered easily, comforted by his presence.

  He wasn’t at her side to make the night long. He was there to ease her into a world of the two of them and make the journey easier.

  Emilie studied the contours and curves that led from Marcus’s neck to his jaw and her finger followed her gaze.

  She skimmed the stubble appearing on his chin and opened her clasp so she could embrace more of him. His lips rested soft in her hand and he put a kiss against her.

  She continued on, exploring the skin over his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, and retraced her movement to graze the softness of his earlobe. She intertwined her fingers in the tendrils of his hair, again amazed at the delicateness contrasting with the rest of him.

  She didn’t think—she existed—existed as if she would only ever feel this moment and it would last her to eternity.

  He moved closer into her reach and absorbed her hand, as she immersed herself in him.

  She didn’t ask—his response had given permission and she swept a nail to the edge of the sheet, and pushed the scant piece of the fabric away, but she could not completely unveil him.

  When she touched the coverings, he stilled, waiting.

  Searching his eyes, she knew he accepted her perusal of him, but she couldn’t move the sheet away. The fabric rested, baring his shoulders, but covering him as modestly as Moses had been.

  But Moses was marble and Marcus wasn’t. She heard the moving fabric and looked in time to see it slide completely away from his body, revealing something she’d never seen in any piece of artwork, or imagined.

  She reached to pull the cover over him again, but he stopped her.

  He moved the sheet to conceal his hardness. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘You didn’t...exactly.’ It was enlightening. Overwhelming and overpowering. And all she’d imagined.

  She spread her palm and reached down where the sheet ended and leg began. Hairs curled under her fingertips as she moved from his skin to rove over the sheet. She swept her hand up, remaining on the covering, and then tugged the cloth free again.

  Resting her palm against skin, she again brushed her hand over him, almost above him, but close enough so that her senses could translate the touch into form for her.

  She spread her fingers, rubbing over his hard nipples and tracing the contours of his abdomen. His skin was muscled, just as the statues had been, only it was alive, warm, and the hair gave texture to her touch, then receded as she found his maleness.

  He didn’t speak and she understood the connection that two people who made love could share. The moments of vulnerability and discovery.

  ‘I could never get tired of this,’ she said, aware of each intake of air and the soft exhalations he made.

  ‘That’s why there are so many hours of darkness,’ he said. ‘So we can share moments like this.’

  ‘But you were made for light. At least...’ she paused ‘...for my light.’

  She committed every place she touched to memory. It would linger inside her for ever, yet awareness began afresh with each stroke.

  He closed his lips over hers again, lingering, tasting and beginning the slow descent into something he could not return from. Just as he felt himself going too far, he stopped.

  Taking control, he traced her body, lingering at her lips, her breasts and her hips.

  Then he snuggled her close to him and swept lower, caressing her, finding her pleasure and stroking it until she cried out, and he experienced the moment through her gasps. Waiting, he lay against her, intertwining their legs, content for her, but awash with contained emotions inside himself.

  His forehead dampened so that when he moved, her hair attached to him and he untangled from it.

  When her breathing softened, she relaxed in his embrace.

  He savoured the togetherness and the memory of holding his wife near, and the closeness of sharing a pillow. Waiting, he let her snuggle into him and use his body as her refuge.

  By morning he expected to strengthen the bond they had started and make love to her fully.

  * * *

  ‘I would like to draw you,’ she said sleepily.

  The words hit harder than any direct blow. They speared him. Their lovemaking hadn’t made her realise that there was more to living than she could ever find at the end of a pencil.

  ‘I want to be your husband, not your model,’ he said.

  ‘You can be both.’

  ‘I suppose I could. But I don’t want to be.’

  ‘These moments meant nothing to you?’ she asked, fully awake now.

  He palmed her cheeks and kissed her, another one of tasting and even surrender, but only a surrender into the kiss, not into something he couldn’t risk. ‘This isn’t enough to build a family on.’

  ‘Did you not like...me?’

  ‘I don’t know the masterpiece to compare you to, but it’s true you are a Venus, or an Aphrodite, or whomever pleases you to be the most. You are unequalled and none could top you. I must consider my place in the sum of what matters to you.’

  ‘You don’t want me to paint after all?’ Her jaw tensed.

  ‘I cannot say that now, can I? I promised you and I meant it. You could not be happy without creativity. I know that.’

  Emilie was an artist. He’d once heard it said that artists developed a bond with their subjects. But he wasn’t going to pose for Emilie to find out. Marriage was a different attachment and he would have love or keep the distance between them.

  He thought of his parents. Now he understood their relationship better. It was easier to be away from someone who hated you, than to be married and living under the same roof. His mother could survive easier by detesting his father than trying to be considerate. And by instigating fights, his father felt vindicated by not being with his family.

  Hearts. Lovely things. He should be like Nate and lock his away. He already had the box for it, resting under his bed—the lone object there.

  He kissed her goodnight and moved back to his room.

  * * *

  Marcus woke, aching for Emilie but not willing to bend to become less than a man. Bright light streamed into the window.

  Waking fully, he would long for her the entire day. But making love to her had rewarded him.

  He’d explored his sensations through her instead of experiencing them fully himself.

  Whether she had grown closer to him in the night, he wasn’t sure. But he became closer to himself.

  He’d brought his wife to pleasure and he hoped it had brought her to something else, a realisation that he wasn’t just a detour on her journey, but part of the destination.

  Marcus rang the bell to alert Robert to bring
the shaving water.

  * * *

  He’d waited a quarter of an hour when he realised that Robert would not be shaving him that morning. No matter, he ran a palm down his jawline, feeling the stubble.

  He went to Emilie’s room, the bed made perfectly. It no longer bothered him that the rest of the place was a shambles. He rang the bell for a maid to bring him the warm water Robert always had simmering in the kitchen when Marcus awoke.

  Donning a dressing gown, he waited in the hallway for the maid and told her what he required.

  He returned to his room and, within minutes, a pitcher was brought to him. The girl was new and, from the steam rising out of the jug, Marcus realised it hadn’t been mixed with cold to bring it to the right temperature.

  Well, he would not miss shaving one day so much.

  He had a new journey before him.

  Stormhaven would become a home, a woman would be beside him and within a few years he would remember this as the day he started anew. He moved to the top of the stairs and began his downward descent.

  The stair tread buckled under Marcus’s boot and he grasped the banister. He would have to have that floorboard mended immediately.

  He strode into the kitchen. No one was there. Dishes were scattered. He saw cold bacon on a platter and took a bite.

  Outside, the sun beat down on him. The thuds of hammers mixed with the sound of a saw being pulled through wood.

  A wagon rumbled to the gate, bringing more supplies. Jonas dropped the handsaw, rushing over to help with the unloading.

  A man who’d just arrived with the wagon ran to him, holding out a letter. ‘My pardon,’ he said to Marcus. ‘I’m to give you this.’ Then he went back to the workmen and they began to remove the wares.

  Marcus opened the letter. From his man-of-affairs. The two maids he had hired, sisters, had taken another job. He had another prospect and would send her as soon as possible, if she would consent to move to the country.

  Marcus put the paper in his waistcoat pocket. They would manage.

  Emilie and Robert emerged from the woods, Emilie swinging her sketch pad. The cook followed along behind with the handle of a small wooden box in her hand.

  With each stride, Emilie kicked her skirts in front of her. Then she caught a glimpse of Marcus and she brightened.

  It was as if he saw her for the first time, ever, and her gaze was for him only.

  Emilie marched right up to Marcus and she beamed.

  Oh, it would be so worth it. The responsibility of getting the building in order and creating a place for family would mean the world to him.

  ‘Lord Grayson,’ she said, waiting. Then she touched his wrists, sliding her hands down to grasp both of his. ‘I sketched in the most beautiful stag today. An outline, but it should be one of my better works. When I finish, I’ll show it to you. Perhaps I’ll place it over the mantel.’

  ‘This is getting heavy, Lady Grayson,’ Robert complained.

  She turned to go into Stormhaven. ‘I must get Robert settled before he complains again, then I need to get the colours started.’

  Robert trudged by Marcus, the easel under one arm and a bundle of supplies on the other side.

  They moved through the doorway and the foreman of the work crew called to Marcus. Inwardly, he berated himself for the fairy tale he’d created in his mind earlier. He’d perceived that one night with Emilie and she would fall into his arms, profess love for ever and they would continue on as the master and mistress of the grand Stormhaven estate.

  She would see that canvas was only fabric—it didn’t have a beating heart. That he stood before her and—

  What nonsense. She would ask him to move aside as he was blocking her view.

  Marcus, feeling bearish, forced himself not to growl at the workman, and worked silently beside them, instructing what he wanted, then taking guidance from the foreman on how to get the details accomplished.

  * * *

  When the supply wagon arrived later in the day, he finished work and returned to the house. The cabinet had arrived. ‘Take it upstairs. Turn right. Second door. The library,’ he spoke to the men unloading it.

  Marcus moved in line behind the workmen, supervising their delivery.

  Inside, Robert’s stature changed when he noticed the wares being delivered.

  ‘Ah.’ Robert watched the procession. ‘Lifeblood.’

  Robert limped along, following the wares.

  Emilie turned to him. ‘Is my new easel there, Marc? You know I must have a new easel. The old one is too heavy for Robert to carry.’

  ‘I am not a pack mule, Princess Emilie,’ Robert retorted. ‘Drink helps in periods of hard survival.’

  Marcus noticed the case of brandy and told the boy to put the bottles in the cabinet.

  Marcus needed to keep the peace, and the liquor cabinet might help. Assuming he bartered judiciously. He followed Robert.

  Marcus heard Emilie following and wondered if a conflagration would ensue.

  Robert rubbed his palms together. ‘That is a beautiful cabinet.’ Then he caressed the grain of the wood. ‘Beautiful. I will fill it.’ Robert spoke in ducal tones to the boy and the boy looked at Marcus with raised eyebrows. Marcus’s agreement was the solitary sound in the room.

  He went to the older workman and held out his hand. The man put a key in his palm.

  Robert saw the key and his shoulders dropped. ‘A key?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Surely that is fine with you. We would not want anyone making off with the brandy. And my cigars are to be delivered to me and I will put them in there as well.’

  ‘You cannot be serious. You hardly like brandy and you complain of the smell of smoke in your clothes.’

  ‘The cabinet will be locked. You can discuss it with me later, but my mind is set.’

  ‘How am I to follow after her—’ he thrust a finger at Emilie ‘—with a dry throat?’

  ‘You are capable.’

  ‘I will perish.’ His head rolled to one side and he put a palm on the door as he staggered from the room. ‘I may have to seek a post elsewhere as I cannot live like this.’

  ‘I will miss you so, Robert.’ Sunshine sparkled in Emilie’s voice.

  He stood straight again and Marcus saw Robert turn back, speaking softly to Emilie, and she responded, with a gasp, following him.

  ‘And that is not why we need so much brandy. No one has to be sotted to look at my drawings.’

  The delivery men watched the doorway as the two left, then one looked at the other and said nothing.

  ‘Let’s get the rest of the wagon unloaded.’

  After the supplies were put away, Marcus joined the crew to help with the barn. The roof needed a lot of work.

  * * *

  The sounds of hammers and saws, plus a few moments of the workmen jesting, were the interruptions of the afternoon.

  The older one watched Marcus. ‘My son can travel from London and help us.’ The man glanced to the windows. ‘He’d prefer carpentry and the fields. Not indoor work.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll go faster.’

  ‘And if you don’t mind my saying so, milord, you have a face like a line of wet washing.’

  Marcus helped lift a new brace post into place.

  ‘Marriage isn’t for everyone,’ he said.

  ‘I believe those two are not adjusting well to it,’ the workman who’d spoken earlier said.

  ‘They are getting along,’ Marcus said. ‘Friendly now compared to the first few hours of my marriage.’

  ‘Truly?’

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Well, a dagger was discussed.’

  The man’s jaw dropped and Marcus chuckled.

  The post went into place. Marcus kicked it with the sole of his boot to see if it would hold, then left the men. He could imagine the conversation th
ey would be conducting.

  As he walked to the yard, he saw Emilie outside setting up her paints. Her back was straight and she had paper hung on an easel. He could see a paintbrush in her hand and colours in the other. He saw the rinse cup on the edge of the easel and Robert stared over her shoulder.

  Robert didn’t have to accompany her after they returned. She was in plain sight. Safe.

  She put the tray of colours on her lap, pulled the cup to her and rinsed her brush.

  ‘What did you say?’ She turned to Robert and as she moved, she dropped the cup on his boot.

  ‘I was complimenting your unusual use of colours. And I thank you for washing my boot.’

  Marcus watched as Robert flicked the water from his boot in her direction.

  ‘Lord Grayson,’ she called as he strode by. ‘Might I have a word with you?’

  ‘I would like to have a word as well, Lord Grayson,’ Robert called. ‘And if you’ll remember, I saved your life once.’

  As he got to the top of the stairs, Marcus slowed long enough to reach above where a crack in the wall stored the key to the liquor cabinet. He walked into the library, then realised Emilie was close on his heels.

  He unlocked the cabinet and pulled out a bottle.

  ‘Robert has ruined my painting.’ She arrived behind him, Robert just beyond her, and held the work up for Marcus’s review.

  He moved towards her. ‘Shush,’ he said. She didn’t seem to comprehend. He kept moving towards her and she backed away, still listing Robert’s faults.

  He snagged her waist, and in the moment her lips closed, he placed a kiss on them.

  Robert held both palms up, ducked his chin and turned away. ‘I have nothing to say except I believe I will retire. There is entirely too much affection in front of me.’

  The valet made good on his words and Marcus remained with Emilie.

  Robert was right. Marcus did have an affection for her. It crept into him, and resided, bringing so many other potent things with it.