Fire Along the Sky
Page 88
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His hand was on her breast, callused fingertips exploring in light circles. A sound escaped her, a harsh sound that he caught up in his mouth, tongue against tongue. Sometime later he cupped her through layers of skirt to rock her on the heel of his hand. Behind closed eyes colors flashed, and she arched against him.
“Shall I take ye hame?”
“Please,” she said. “Don't.”
He picked her up and carried her up the stairs. In the dark she could just make out a bed, a single chair, a shelf. He put her down on the coverlet, made a sound that meant she should wait, and left her for a moment. The air was cold enough to show her breath, coming too fast; her skin erupted in gooseflesh and she pulled the coverlet over herself.
Then he was in the doorway with the candle painting his face in flickering golds and shadows. He looked at her for a moment and Lily thought, He's going to change his mind, he's going to take me home, and, I should go, and, God help me, I want this.
Simon put the candle on the wall shelf where it threw a circle of light onto the very middle of the bed, and then he sat down next to her, close but not touching.
“Lily Bonner,” he said roughly. “Have ye heard the expression ‘all's fair in love and war'?”
She nodded. “I have heard it.”
“Let me tell you then what it means to me. I'll do what I can to make you my wife, and that means I'll spend every minute in this bed doing my best to get a bairn on you. Now will you be sensible and let me take you back, or will you stay?”
She was shaking, in fear and arousal and a little anger too, that he should put it before her like this, should rob her of the lovely fog they had spun between them. And he meant it; she could see it in his face. She wanted him, she wanted this, but the why of it slid away from her when she tried to make sense of it all. Nicholas, she thought, Nicholas and Jemima Southern, and then, Is that the only reason?
No, it wasn't, truly. But was what she felt right now, what she felt when Simon Ballentyne put his arms around her, was that reason enough to risk the rest of her life?
He was a good man and a kind one, a man who loved her, and made her laugh, and would take good care of her. A man who had hung a painting on the wall because it was her work, and never mentioned it to her. A man who seemed to understand her body better than she did herself, and who might do just as he threatened and start a child inside her, if she would not be sensible.
When she got up from this bed again, she could be pregnant. A shocking thought, but she made herself contemplate it, thinking of the way women talked together, when no men were nearby.
Once Lily's courses had started they had allowed her to stay and listen, and it had been a revelation to her. Women who would not speak in front of their husbands, who cast their eyes down rather than reveal what they were thinking, those women put their heads together and laughed, talking boldly of things Lily had only dimly imagined. Her own mother, while she said little, smiled into her lap and blushed in the way of a woman who is satisfied with her lot.
Lily thought of girls who stood up to say their wedding vows with rounded bellies; she thought of others who had not married at all, but raised a child without a father. Such things happened often enough for Lily to know that she was not the first woman to find herself in this situation.
She thought of the women who came to Curiosity or Many-Doves for medicine that would start a child, or keep one from coming. There were no simple answers, but some things seemed constant: there was a rhythm to a woman's month, good times and bad ones, depending on what she wanted.
“Not every coupling starts a child,” she said, remembering the most important point suddenly, and with some satisfaction. Then she saw Simon's face. “And don't you dare laugh at me. It's true. I grew up in a household with books and I was encouraged to read and ask questions. I know a little bit about these things. One coupling doesn't mean a child.”
“Ah, but lass,” he said, running a finger down her arm so that she shuddered. “What makes ye think that either of us wad be satisfied with just once?”
At that she could say nothing. She opened her mouth to chide him for such arrogance and then shut it again, because he knew more of this business than she did, and it was a point she could not argue.
“Will ye stay?” he said again, calm now, so calm that she could barely contain her anger. Could not contain it. She leaned forward and cuffed him, hard, once and again, until he caught the offending hand and then flipped her over onto her back, held her there with the whole long length of himself.
Against her mouth he said, “Will ye stay or shall I take ye back to Iona?”
“For God's sake—”
“Ye'll no draw the Almighty intae this, ye wee heathen. Bide or gang?”
It took all her power, but she quieted herself, pulled in deep, even breaths, and made herself go calm.
And he waited, studying her as she studied him: the dark eyes under heavy brows, the shadow of his beard, the shock of dark straight hair shorn short, so different from the men of her family. Her father and grandfather and brother went to great length to keep themselves clean shaven; they wove their long hair into plaits.
Simon Ballentyne wore the hair on his head short, for ease, he told her, and cleanliness, as did the Roman soldiers of old. More than that, he was proud of his beard. She had noticed that early on.
Lily said, “There are two things you must know. First, even if I do have a child, my mother and father might not approve this match—and without their approval I will not marry. The second thing is a condition.”
“Shall I take ye hame?”
“Please,” she said. “Don't.”
He picked her up and carried her up the stairs. In the dark she could just make out a bed, a single chair, a shelf. He put her down on the coverlet, made a sound that meant she should wait, and left her for a moment. The air was cold enough to show her breath, coming too fast; her skin erupted in gooseflesh and she pulled the coverlet over herself.
Then he was in the doorway with the candle painting his face in flickering golds and shadows. He looked at her for a moment and Lily thought, He's going to change his mind, he's going to take me home, and, I should go, and, God help me, I want this.
Simon put the candle on the wall shelf where it threw a circle of light onto the very middle of the bed, and then he sat down next to her, close but not touching.
“Lily Bonner,” he said roughly. “Have ye heard the expression ‘all's fair in love and war'?”
She nodded. “I have heard it.”
“Let me tell you then what it means to me. I'll do what I can to make you my wife, and that means I'll spend every minute in this bed doing my best to get a bairn on you. Now will you be sensible and let me take you back, or will you stay?”
She was shaking, in fear and arousal and a little anger too, that he should put it before her like this, should rob her of the lovely fog they had spun between them. And he meant it; she could see it in his face. She wanted him, she wanted this, but the why of it slid away from her when she tried to make sense of it all. Nicholas, she thought, Nicholas and Jemima Southern, and then, Is that the only reason?
No, it wasn't, truly. But was what she felt right now, what she felt when Simon Ballentyne put his arms around her, was that reason enough to risk the rest of her life?
He was a good man and a kind one, a man who loved her, and made her laugh, and would take good care of her. A man who had hung a painting on the wall because it was her work, and never mentioned it to her. A man who seemed to understand her body better than she did herself, and who might do just as he threatened and start a child inside her, if she would not be sensible.
When she got up from this bed again, she could be pregnant. A shocking thought, but she made herself contemplate it, thinking of the way women talked together, when no men were nearby.
Once Lily's courses had started they had allowed her to stay and listen, and it had been a revelation to her. Women who would not speak in front of their husbands, who cast their eyes down rather than reveal what they were thinking, those women put their heads together and laughed, talking boldly of things Lily had only dimly imagined. Her own mother, while she said little, smiled into her lap and blushed in the way of a woman who is satisfied with her lot.
Lily thought of girls who stood up to say their wedding vows with rounded bellies; she thought of others who had not married at all, but raised a child without a father. Such things happened often enough for Lily to know that she was not the first woman to find herself in this situation.
She thought of the women who came to Curiosity or Many-Doves for medicine that would start a child, or keep one from coming. There were no simple answers, but some things seemed constant: there was a rhythm to a woman's month, good times and bad ones, depending on what she wanted.
“Not every coupling starts a child,” she said, remembering the most important point suddenly, and with some satisfaction. Then she saw Simon's face. “And don't you dare laugh at me. It's true. I grew up in a household with books and I was encouraged to read and ask questions. I know a little bit about these things. One coupling doesn't mean a child.”
“Ah, but lass,” he said, running a finger down her arm so that she shuddered. “What makes ye think that either of us wad be satisfied with just once?”
At that she could say nothing. She opened her mouth to chide him for such arrogance and then shut it again, because he knew more of this business than she did, and it was a point she could not argue.
“Will ye stay?” he said again, calm now, so calm that she could barely contain her anger. Could not contain it. She leaned forward and cuffed him, hard, once and again, until he caught the offending hand and then flipped her over onto her back, held her there with the whole long length of himself.
Against her mouth he said, “Will ye stay or shall I take ye back to Iona?”
“For God's sake—”
“Ye'll no draw the Almighty intae this, ye wee heathen. Bide or gang?”
It took all her power, but she quieted herself, pulled in deep, even breaths, and made herself go calm.
And he waited, studying her as she studied him: the dark eyes under heavy brows, the shadow of his beard, the shock of dark straight hair shorn short, so different from the men of her family. Her father and grandfather and brother went to great length to keep themselves clean shaven; they wove their long hair into plaits.
Simon Ballentyne wore the hair on his head short, for ease, he told her, and cleanliness, as did the Roman soldiers of old. More than that, he was proud of his beard. She had noticed that early on.
Lily said, “There are two things you must know. First, even if I do have a child, my mother and father might not approve this match—and without their approval I will not marry. The second thing is a condition.”
