As he wiped away the liquid, the stain formed what briefly looked like a tumble of curls. Dark curls, that soft, unobtrusive colour he’d seen in the paintings of quiet maidens in Venice. Pictures of servant girls, passers-by; the women no-one looked at…
… But it was the colour of her hair. And oh, how he looked at her.
One more look couldn’t hurt. Not if he’d be sitting here uselessly in this filthy pub otherwise. He could go to the coffee-house, her coffee-house, and sit in the half-concealed seat in the back corner. He could carefully give his order to the harassed young server, the one who wasn’t her father, and see…
Her. His.
Her.
What she really needed, Jane Winterson thought idly, was for someone to ruin her. Someone to pull her out of her humdrum life with such expert force, such towering strength, that she would be left a completely different person.
Or perhaps she just needed a puppy. Or a new hat. Or a marriage proposal from someone, anyone, that wasn’t John Sweeting.
Maybe not even the marriage proposal. She stared out of the coffee-house window onto Powell Street, watching the whirling snow, wondering about the inner lives of the two handsome horses huddling together for warmth as they stood tied to a post. Happily leaving the world behind, she sunk deep into her reverie—coming back, again and again, to the idea of someone disgracing her virtue.
It would certainly put John Sweeting off, at any rate. Jane had no real distaste for being matched with one of her father’s business associates—a coffee-house needed strong ties to London’s premier coffee traders, after all. She understood the need for economic security, and would have quite cheerfully played a part in maintaining it… but John Sweeting, with his fine suits and tender speeches, insisted on treating Jane like a small, docile animal. And Jane, to her real regret, absolutely hated him for it.
She was deaf. She wasn’t stupid, simple, moonstruck, or any number of the words she saw men mouth when they spoke of her in the coffee-house. She didn’t speak to anyone in this place, or smile at anyone in this place, or notice anyone in this place, for the simple reason that most of the drinkers here were boorish oafs. Not because she couldn’t understand their crude jokes, or the insulting gestures they made behind her back.
None of these people would ruin her with the elegance she felt she deserved. They were either brutes, or patronising idiots like John Sweeting. And she couldn’t very well ask any of her friends at the Deaf Society to ruin her; they were terribly nice men, of course, but ruination didn’t call for niceness. Adam Barton would probably jump at the chance—but then Adam Barton would ruin her because she was conveniently close by. Put a wig and skirts on a mop, and he’d follow it to Newcastle.
No… it would have to be someone else. A man so glorious, he lay just beyond the limits of her imagination. Tall, of course, and dark, and hopefully very brooding… and someone her father wouldn’t suspect in the slightest.
That would be a problem. Her father suspected everyone. It was why Jane was forced to spend the evening rush in the coffee-house, instead of taking in any of the entertainments London at Christmas had to offer. It was why she was shepherded away from anyone who, in her own subjective opinion, looked remotely exciting.
Why, she barely even saw half of the people who drank here regularly. Her father made her stay in the most docile part of the place; next to the great glass windows, currently showing London at its most festive. Great swags of mistletoe, holly and ivy bedecking the churches, roasting nuts and stalls of oranges, laughing couples walking by laden down with gifts for children—
Whoosh.
Jane found herself lifted off of her feet. Covering her eyes, wincing with pain as she slammed against the table, she cried out as splinters of broken glass stuck jaggedly in her dress. Her hand burned hot, then cold; a line of pain lanced along her lifeline as she curled up, crying… and stopped.
Stopped as she was lifted effortlessly upward, cradled in someone’s strong arms. Someone that smelled of dark wood and bitter coffee; someone who gently rested her on her feet, giving her agency to stand, even as he shielded her from the broken window.
As she looked up, dazed and thick with plaster dust, she found herself staring into the most beautiful pair of eyes she had ever seen, Dark brown, ringed with thick black lashes, they stared at her with an intensity that left her as out of sorts as the explosion had.
It had been an explosion, hadn’t it? She’d felt the vibration rip through the street. She tried to stand, to see what had happened to the poor horses that had been stationed outside, a throb of sudden pain made her wince.
She looked down at her hand, at the blood already welling up through the delicate skin of her fingers, and fought a rush of nausea. Tears sprang to her eyes again; she gasped, suddenly terrified. What had happened? Where was her father, what had—
She stilled, her thoughts coming to a sudden halt as she looked back into the eyes of the man who had his arms around her. A rough finger wiped away the tear falling down her cheek, lingering against her skin, and for a single moment—a single, shattering moment—all was calm.
Then her father’s usual footsteps hummed through the floorboards, his frantic arms pulling her to him, and Jane began to cry with quiet gratitude as she realised both he and the coffee-house were intact.
She let herself be fussed over just a little, accepting attentions from her father than she would normally reject. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders; she bit her lip to stop it trembling as her hand was bandaged, blooms of blood welling up through the gauze. Leaning against the unknown man’s broad chest, hardly daring to open her eyes, she thought she could feel the rapid beating of his heart.
With a small cry of surprise, she was pulled away; her father smoothed her hair, signing quickly. I have to go. Shadows flickered rapidly on the walls; running figures. Her father spoke urgently to the stranger who had shielded her; Jane narrowed her eyes to make out the words. Helen’s in the bakery. I have to check. Stay here and watch Jane, please.
As he ran out onto the street, his shadow dwindling away to nothing, Jane realised her heart was still beating desperately fast. She looked up at the stranger, biting her lip, her gaze as unguarded as his. Such eyes, such tremendous eyes… tall, too, and so impeccably dressed, in a way that suggested both wealth and taste.
She was vaguely aware that she should be alarmed by the intricate blue tattoos on his face, his dark skin—but really, how could anyone focus on those aspects without getting lost in the tenderness, the power of his gaze? It would be like finding diamonds at the bottom of a lake, and getting distracted by the fish. If anything, his distinguishing features only added to the air of nobility that clung to the man as naturally as his waistcoat did.
He was Maori. She had learned the barest of facts about his people; the Deaf Society had held a series of lectures. Looking at this man, though, the fact of him, made her realise with sudden certainty that she knew absolutely nothing at all. Nothing she could say without feeling utterly stupid.
She almost wanted to sign to him. He looked as if he would understand her meaning, even if he didn’t know what the movements of her hands meant… but as she shifted, bringing her hand up, a lance of pain shot through it. She winced, more out of embarrassment than agony, and the strange man’s eyes clouded over with concern.
Jane watched, confused, as she drew a piece of paper and a pencil from his waistcoat pocket. He scribbled hastily, but as he held it aloft Jane saw the true, clear hand of a man that wrote often.
Are you hurt? I can call for a doctor. I can find some laudanum for your hand.
Jane shook her head, mildly bemused at the man’s gentle nod. She hadn’t met many men who simply agreed with a decision she had made for herself; being deaf seemed akin to being foolish for a worryingly large number of people. And he knew she was deaf—that meant he drank here. Why had she never seen him before?
She gestured for the paper, mentally thanking God that her wri
ting hand had remained unscathed. Smiling, she wrote,
No need. I would like to know, though -
My name? He wrote quickly. Nikau Roera.
Jane Maldon. She performed a small curtsey. But I must know—
She stopped, mildly irritated, as he held up a hand. What was he going to do, correct her handwriting? He leaned over her, producing another pencil, adding a line of text underneath her own.
Forgive me, but I just remembered - the two horses are alright. I saw you looking at them. They only caught the tail-end of the blast; they’ll have warm hooves, at most.
Jane looked up into his grave face, his eyes twinkling with humour, and felt her chest constrict. He’d seen her watching the horses… he’d seen her lost in her private world, and hadn’t assumed she was simple-minded.
That was rare. Especially rare in a man. All of Nikau Roera, from head to toe, seemed rare and astonishingly lovely.
He bent down, writing again; Jane breathed in the warm, clean scent of him as her heart quickened further.
Are you well? You look shaken.
Shaken? Try rocked to the very foundations. Jane looked at the piece of paper, wondering what on earth she could write.
I’m well, but I might die if you leave?
No.
Marry me?
Perhaps a bit forward.
Take me to bed?
The same problem, but a compelling idea. She looked up at him, and was struck by a flash of devious inspiration.
In truth, I am feeling a little weak. She deliberately trailed her handwriting, making it faint and wobbly. Could you carry me to the back room, please? There is a sofa. I could lie on it. She watched his brow furrow, and quickly added a footnote. No need to call Father. I simply need to recuperate.
She watched him hesitate. He leaned down, writing more slowly than before.
I’m not sure that would be wise. Passers-by could… misunderstand.
Jane felt her face colour as the implication sunk in. It wasn’t fair, not in the slightest, that strangers would read the worst of intentions in someone merely because they stood out from the general mass. They would never believe that she was the one with designs; if she had any sense, she would rescind her request before it drew the both of them into trouble.
Oh, but it was hard to have any sense. Especially with his eyes on her again, staring at her with an intensity that left her breathless.
She quickly glanced at the shattered window. No passers-by. With an urgency that bordered on panic, she scribbled down a single word.
Please?
She looked at him beseechingly, wondering if she would have to pretend to faint. For a moment he stared, stock-still—and then, with a strength that almost made her gasp, he took her in his arms.
She curled against his chest, marvelling at the hardness of him, her hair coming loose from its pins as she let herself relax. Or perhaps relax wasn’t the right word. She was still tense, tremblingly aware of his body… but that, really, was no bad thing.
It was bad, of course. Bad if she told anyone. But as a secret, private pleasure, one that knitted itself tightly to every nerve and breath, she didn’t think she had ever experienced anything finer.
The back room lay only a little way away. The back room with its worn green sofa; a sofa she could lie on, staring up at a man so glorious in every particular that she was almost sure she’d dreamed him up.
She had wanted someone to ruin her. Now, with a jolt of fear mixed with pure excitement, she realised that she had the opportunity.
Nikau, carrying Jane into the cramped, dusty back room of the coffee-house, didn’t know what to think.
A part of him was focused on the blast. What had it been; a gas explosion, or combustion from the parkesine factory nearby? A bomb? Nothing too big, but enough to cause damage in the street. Enough to injure—maybe even kill, if some poor passer-by had ventured too close. It would certainly require a lot of labour and time to clean up.
The part of him making analytical calculations as to causes and costs, however, was very small. A considerably larger part of him—his body, and blood, and wildly beating heart all bundled together—was focused on the woman in his arms.
Her. A woman he never thought he’d actually touch; not in this world, anyway. The source of his fantasies, his night-time longings, cradled in his arms. She was even more exquisite up close; all shadow-colours, her hair in shades of ash and cinders, and two dark grey eyes looking up at him with considerably less fear than he had imagined.
She was hurt. Not badly hurt, thank goodness, but injured. Injured enough for Nikau to swear private vengeance on anyone responsible, directly or indirectly, for the explosion.
He lay Jane down on the sofa with utmost care. She stared up at him, idly cradling her hand, looking… well. Not that weak, if he was going to be objective about it.
Unobjectively, decorum and injured hand aside, she was the most ravishing thing Nikau had ever seen. He looked away, furiously marshalling his thoughts, determined to be dispassionate.
The sound of creaking sofa springs rippled through his mind, making him think irresistibly of beds. Beds, and the best use of beds, and… and her.
His passion could not be fought. He turned back to her, prepared to wait for her father in grim silence… only to find her shyly beckoning.
What was wrong? Did she need to sign something, and was worried he wouldn’t understand? He leaned closer, lost in the light, smoke-tinged scent of her… and stopped, eyes wide, as her lips suddenly met his.
Oh. He almost cried out, such was his surprise. The sudden faintness, the insistence on being carried… oh.
Everything he’d ever wanted, wrapped up in a Christmas bow.
Oh.
His body commanded softness; gentleness. This kiss was an act of reverence—of worship. She was so delicate, her lips so light against his, that every part of him urged to meet her sweetness with his own. She didn’t expect force from him, no cruel air of command. Just himself, as he was; the gift of it made him tremble.
A pure, sweet, simple kiss, a shaft of gold in a vast darkness… but she lingered on his lips, an irrepressibly carnal edge to the taste of her, and he knew that he should stop it.
He couldn’t. What man could? When the angel on the altar, the Venus in the marble, became living flesh, only the most callous man would refuse such a gift. He’d been waiting, longing, behaving for so damned long, denying every natural impulse a man could have, just to sneak stolen glances at her like a commoner watching a queen… and now, for this brief, spectacular moment, she was his.
When she pulled away, he felt robbed. He forced himself to stay still, to watch her bright eyes and flushed lips as she lay back against her pillows. She looked at him for a long moment, unblinking, before reaching for the pencil and paper in her lap.
Her handwriting seemed much more decisive, now. In fact, she seemed much less faint in general.
An adequate thanks, Mr. Roera, but I still don’t feel as if I’ve quite thanked you enough. Again, please.
Again? Nikau looked at the word in astonishment. It couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it meant… but she was lying there, utterly relaxed, looking up at him with a mixture of shyness and anticipation.
He reached for the pencil, his fingers briefly brushing against hers. Forgive me. Again?
Yes. She almost snatched the pencil out of his hand, so eager was she to write. Kiss me. Again.
Well there it was, in black and white. And of all the things Nikau placed his faith in, the written word was definitely the most important.
He leaned over her again; she reached up hungrily, her lips meeting his with a little less timidity. He couldn’t resist moving downward, his mouth travelling with utmost care along the long line of her throat. It was still unreal, her proximity, the scent of her—so it really couldn’t matter, in this unreal moment, if he let his teeth graze oh-so-gently against her skin. It couldn’t matter if his hands moved under her prost
rate form, softly curling around her shoulders, bringing her closer to him as she sighed with evident pleasure.
Pleasure! She was pleased by him; she welcomed his attentions, meagre as they were. His body took every small moment Jane made, every small sound that escaped her lips, as reason to go further—to kiss a little harder, touch a little more firmly, even as his mind whispered that nothing good could come of it. Nothing good could come of his idol in his arms, her good hand playing idly with his hair in a way seemingly designed to swell his cock even further… even if it felt damned good already. So, damned, good.
His mouth reached the neckline of her dress; Nikau kissed his way along the simple grey brocade, all too aware of the stiffening peaks mere inches from his lips. He had already transgressed so much; did he dare to take another step? Her breasts would feel so right in his hands, warm and soft and deliciously abundant, so smooth against the roughness of his fingers…
As he debated, his kisses soft against Jane’s skin, he felt her move beneath him. Her hand moved from his hair, finding his forearm, insistently taking his hand in hers and moving it to her waist. Moving it up, boldly, to her breast.
Nikau’s thumb stroked reflexively over Jane’s nipple before he could stop himself. God, how he ached to rip away the layers of fabric that separated him from her… and from the look in Jane’s eyes, the eager curl of her lips, she wanted that too. She wanted his mouth on her breasts, his hands between her thighs; she wanted him ferocious. Merciless.
Savage.
That was all she wanted from him. Exotic pleasure; a sort of high-stakes novelty, just as the society women had demanded in his previous life. His own feelings were blinding him; this was no deep passion on her part. No cherished, unspoken longing.
It was meaningless for her. If it meant anything, she would know not to give herself entirely to him. No woman was so accommodating, in his experience, if she considered the encounter something to repeat.
Nikau’s heart seemed to shiver in his chest as ice flooded him; freezing, unconscionable disappointment. He moved away abruptly, taking the paper and scribbling what he knew he needed to write—even as her confused expression made him doubt his own actions.
Private Passions Page 8