Like Chaff in the Wind (15 page)

Chapter 21

“Graham!”

Matthew turned towards the voice. Obey, he reminded himself, always obey. After the flogging he had become pathetically docile, a beast that went wherever he was pointed, and now he shuffled towards Jones hoping that it wouldn’t be too much additional work, because he was too tired, too hungry, and some days all he wanted was to lie down and never rise again.

He no longer allowed himself to hope, never looked in the direction of the road, and every now and then he asked God to take him soon, not leave him to die piece by piece in this unbearable existence. And yet…there were still moments when his head rang with her laughter, when she danced before his eyes, and in her blue, blue gaze he could see just how much she loved him. These fragmented images filled him with quiet joy, a conviction that he had to live through at least one more day, a week, a month.

Matthew came to a silent stop in front of Jones. His foot throbbed, and he threw a look at the soiled bandage that he’d wrapped around it in an attempt to protect the gash where a hoe had sunk into it, just below his ankle.

Jones flicked his riding crop against his buck hide breeches. Once, twice, thrice the leather cracked, and every time Matthew had to force himself not to flinch.

“You have a visitor,” Jones informed him.

Matthew kept his eyes on the ground. He’d seen Jones play this particular game far too many times to fall for it, and he wasn’t about to give anyone the pleasure of seeing first hope, then disappointment, wash across his face.

“Your new owner,” Jones clarified and lifted his whip in the direction of the curing barns. A new owner? Apprehension rushed through him, and he raised his face to look in the direction Jones was pointing.

Had he been alone he might have tried to call her name or even broken into a run. Now all he could do was stand absolutely still as the ground under him seemed to sway and fold, praying silently to the good Lord that she not be a mirage, please God, not that.

“Go on!” Jones barked, unfreezing him. “Get yourself over to her, now. I have instructions to see you off the property immediately.” At Matthew’s continued immobility, he raised his hand in a threatening gesture, and Matthew, to his shame, cringed and began to move.

He was acutely aware of how he must look through her eyes; dressed in rags, dirty and unkempt, his hair and heavy beard crawling with lice. And that was only on the outside, the damage to his inside was far, far worse.

He stumbled towards her. He must seem a scarecrow, stick thin limbs protruding from what little was left of his breeches and shirt. He tried to lengthen his stride, swayed like a reed, and almost fell. His knees buckled, he had to stop, take a breath, take two.

He looked at her from under the fringe of matted hair, and she was just as he remembered her, all the way from the unruly curls escaping constraints of cap and braid, to the way she smiled, arms held out. She had come! His Alex was here, her eyes uncommonly dark and brimming with tears.

Matthew lifted his face, stretched his uncooperative lips into a smile. He heard her loud intake of breath, and here she came, the lace cap fluttering to the ground as she ran towards him. She crashed into him, and only her quick reactions saved them both from tumbling to the ground. His Alex; so warm, so strong and full of life. Her arms wrapped themselves around him, she said his name, she wept and laughed. Matthew closed his eyes, stuck his nose in her hair and inhaled.

After that initial embrace they didn’t touch on their way back to town. It was a long walk, and Matthew’s foot screeched in protest, causing him to limp. And yet he plodded on, wanting very much to take her hand. But he didn’t, far too conscious of his griminess, his torn fingernails and heavily callused hands.

As they walked towards the boarding house, Matthew became aware of all the eyes; eyes that regarded him with revulsion, her with pity. She must have felt them too, because suddenly her arm was slipped through his, and they walked arm in arm through the town.

Once at the boarding house, she steadied him up the stairs, hanging back as he entered the room.

“I’ve ordered a bath,” Alex said, indicating the tub. “I thought that maybe…” She went a dusky pink. “…maybe you’d like me to wash you like I used to do?”

A lifetime ago, in a world where he was whole. Matthew studied himself in silence. He was caked with dirt, from his bare feet to his crown. God knew what he would find once he started to wash the protective layers of dust off him.

“But maybe you’d prefer to be alone?”

He heard the uncertainty in her voice, and wasn’t sure how to reply. He didn’t want her to see him this way, but she would sooner or later anyway. In her eyes he saw her need to touch him, to let her hands rediscover him, and it made all of him crawl, an involuntary shudder rippling through his body.

“Fine,” she said with a brittle smile. “I’ll leave you alone then, right?”

His shoulders slumped with relief, and with a strangled sound she left the room, almost barging into the lad carrying two huge buckets of hot water.

He regained some sense of self with each sluicing, watching with abstracted interest how his body reappeared. Horribly thin, full of welts and unhealed scars, but still, to some extent, him. He stepped out of the dirty water and inspected himself in the shaving mirror. The eyes of a damaged man in a ravaged face stared back at him, and he took a shocked step back. It would help to shave, he told himself, and lifted a shaking razor to his face.

The beard came off in narrow swathes, baring skin that was startlingly white in comparison with the rest of him. He fingered his features, trying to reconnect with himself, looking for something of the old Matthew in the stark face that looked back at him. A death’s head, he thought, the bones plainly visible under the tautened skin.

Alex recoiled at the sight of him. He’d shaved his head as well, and the shirt she’d left folded for him hung flapping round his frame. He smiled ruefully at her reaction and ran a hand over his bare skull.

“I had to,” he said, and those were the first words he said to her. Even his voice was somehow different, he reflected, as dark as always but cracked. Alex nodded and moved closer, inching towards him as if she feared he might turn and bolt, like an unbroken horse.

He closed his eyes at the look on her face. I don’t want your pity, damn you! Still, he stood quiet under her hands, so conscious of her proximity it physically hurt. When she unlaced his shirt to trace light fingers across his chest, he flinched, unused to being touched by someone wishing him well. Her hands went on with their inspection, and his cock sprung to active and urgent life, hard beneath the hem of his shirt. He was too weak, his vision blurred, but he didn’t care. He was alive, he was safe, and he hoped that he’d gotten rid of any wee creatures, because he was going to, oh dear Lord was he going to! Her fingers found him, closed round him, and he jerked at the warmth of her grip.

“Nay,” he gasped. “Undress. Let me look at you.”

For a long time her eyes held his. She backed away a few steps, undid buttons and lacings, and stepped out of one garment after the other, standing finally only in her shift.

“That too.” His gaze never left her as she did as he said. She raised her arms to her head, drew out her pins, and his breath hitched when her hair tumbled down to frame her face in waves of browns and bronze and here and there a dash of deep red. His hand moved of its own accord, fingers finding a long strand of curling hair, tugging at it until she stood close enough for him to feel the warmth of her naked body against his own.

“Merciful Christ,” he groaned. “I won’t be gentle with you, Alex. I don’t think I can.” In reply she stood on her toes and kissed him.

Fortunately the bed was only a few feet away. Whatever strength he had left in him, had collected in his cock, and he stumbled and swayed, supported by her. There; his wife, arms held out to him, her thighs wide and welcoming, her secret places bared to him, pink and velvety folds of flesh like petals on a rose. His wife, his Alex. He couldn’t breathe. He gripped the bedpost for support and stared down at her. Her hand on his thigh, her fingers finding his, tugging ever so gently, and he let go of the post to kneel clumsily on the bed.

She made as if to pull his shirt off, but he shook his head, motioning for her to lie back down. His balls hurt, his cock twitched. Blood pounded through his head, heat pooled in his loins, and he fell forward. She gasped when he pressed his weight against her.

A fumble, a positioning of hips and legs that no longer fit together quite as naturally as they used to do, but he didn’t care. Ah, at last! His cock inside of her. His Alex. Again, again, and he was vaguely aware that mayhap he was being too rough, that perhaps he should not pound himself quite so hard against her, but he couldn’t stop himself. She’d come for him – almost too late, but she’d come. Alex, his Alex. He drove himself into her, she twisted below him, and with a sound somewhere between a sob and a howl he came.

“We’ll miss supper,” Alex commented a couple of hours later. Her hair was a tangled mess, her skin was rosy in patches, and she smiled lazily at him, one hand drifting up to stroke his cheek. He just shrugged, bent his head to nuzzle her neck. After that first urgent coupling, he had curled to shake with dry sobs by her side, and then he had slept, his head pillowed on her chest. He had woken and needed her, and there she had been, a solid reassuring presence beside him. But this time he had taken his time with her, and now she lay sprawled under him, his cock shrinking slowly back to size inside of her.

“Matthew, you need to eat.” Alex shoved at him.

“Aye,” he said disinterestedly, busy rediscovering her breasts. It was all a dream; her here with him. He bent his head to her nipple and smiled at her responding ‘oh.’ Kate never liked it when…Kate! He sat up so quickly it made his head spin. Alex scooted up to kneel beside him.

“What?” she said. “Is it your foot?”

He looked from her to his bandaged foot and back again.

“What?” She cradled his face with her hands. “Matthew, what is it?”

He covered her hands with his and disengaged himself from her hold. He should tell her – no, he must tell her – and he inhaled in preparation of doing so, but at the last moment his nerve failed him and he just shook his head.

“I don’t know. Mayhap I just need my supper.”

Alex narrowed her eyes and under her scrutiny he felt himself flush. But she didn’t ask.

Matthew was somewhat overwhelmed by Mrs Gordon. If she was shocked by his reduced state, she hid it well, busying herself instead with the practicalities surrounding his present state of health. He answered her barrage of questions, sat down to allow her to inspect his foot, and smiled when she told Eliza she’d be doing the cooking for Mr Graham – after all, she knew what he liked.

Mrs Gordon plied him with sweetened wine that went directly to his head, she served him stew and bread and watched him like a hawk to ensure he ate it all. When she ordered him to bed, he just nodded. A bed; he was to sleep in a bed with clean linen. He leaned heavily against Alex as she helped him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He fell into the bed, was kissed and patted. He yawned, turned on his side, and…

“He wouldn’t have lived much longer,” Mrs Gordon commented when Alex came back down.

“No,” Alex said, emotionally exhausted after this very long day. Eliza set down a slice of spice cake before her, and Alex gave her a grateful smile. Just what she needed; a sugar rush. Mrs Gordon sat down beside her and gave her a hug.

“You did well lass, you found him and saved him.”

Alex leaned into her. “I would never have done it without you.”

“Aye, you would,” Mrs Gordon replied. “Of course you would. You Swedish lasses are mightily stubborn, no?”

*

In the early morning he began to talk to her nape, and over the following hour he told her everything, from the moment he woke on the ship to the day when he crawled at Jones’ feet and admitted that aye, he was a slave. He told her of never ending days under a burning sun, of nights spent shivering in the cold, and of week after week of monotonous, endless toil. He described how ill he’d been and how he’d almost died, but how it had been her, the dream of her that kept him alive. He told her every detail of this long, long year – but he never mentioned Kate.

And then it was her turn and she spoke of her travels and the storms, of Don Benito and of the night when she’d seen Magnus in the sea. She told him everything – well almost. She didn’t tell him about Fairfax.

*

It wasn’t until Monday that they had any reason to leave the boarding house. Matthew winced at the unfamiliarity of shoes, and spent much time adjusting the buckles to minimise the pressure on his healing foot. He was finally satisfied and raised his eyes to stare in astonishment at his wife.

“You won’t go out in that,” he informed her once he had finished his detailed inventory.

Alex gave him an exasperated look. “What? Don’t you think I look nice?”

Matthew smiled at her understatement. “Aye you do. But for my eyes, not for all.” He reached across and tugged at a curl. “My wife. My bonny, bonny wife, but this is only for me to see.” He traced his finger over her exposed bosom. “So I’ll just wait while you change.” He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. They were going nowhere until she was appropriately dressed. Alex glared, but he just shook his head and with a sigh she twisted to undo her lacings.

“Other men would flaunt their wives,” she grumbled as they hastened down the dusty road some time later. She stopped to adjust her cap, tucking in a stray lock or two of hair.

“I’m not other men, and you’re being looked at enough as it is.”

“I am?” She sounded quite pleased, and tightened her grip on his arm.

“You know you are.” He frowned as yet another man threw his wife an appreciative look, and adjusted his dark breeches. He snuck a look at himself, still surprised to find himself in stockings and shoes, a dark coat and a clean linen shirt. He stretched, preened even, and beside him Alex laughed.