Fic: "Nine Years Later," Chapter 6/7
Title: Nine Years Later, Chapter 6 of 7
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, and a bonus couple
Rating: NC-17 for this chapter
Content Advisory: Sex (het). Also religious angst, related to homosexuality.
Word Count: This chapter, about 6350; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 6
In which McCoy gets little relief and Eve and Prescott get rather a lot
Church, Patterson House and then Prescott House
Sunday
Jamie insisted on accompanying McCoy to church, which was somewhat unusual. It also precluded church from being the sanctuary it was intended. He needed time away from Jamie to clear his head, which was impossible when the gentleman in question was only a couple of inches away.
As the pastor spoke, his attention wavered. When Jamie shifted-as he did quite often, not being constitutionally suited to sitting still-he would lose a word or two of the sermon before sharply reminding himself why, in fact, he was at church.
“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it,” quoted the pastor. The theme of the sermon appeared to be a memorial to the recently departed, and McCoy realized with a start that the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo was a mere two days hence.
Odd, it was. He had managed to live an entire year after the battle. Jamie had survived. Even Captain Pike had somehow survived, even if Jamie had had to carry him off the battlefield while injured himself.
Jocelyn hadn’t managed to survive childbirth. The pain in his chest coalesced into a hard knot, and he inhaled as best he could.
Jamie turned to him, a worried look on his face, and McCoy gave a slight shake of his head. Jamie nodded, and returned his attention to the sermon.
God help him, his wife was (to him) barely a year cold in her grave; his daughter needed him, and he was contemplating a sin so grave that he couldn’t name it, not even to himself. It was almost enough to make a man turn Papist, to have the ease of confession.
Afterwards, they walked home, Jamie chattering about the various people who showed up in church yet sinned all week. McCoy listened with half an ear, his hands stuffed unfashionably into his pockets. Upon entering the hallway, Joanna threw herself at him, and he picked up his daughter with a smile. This is what is important, he reminded himself.
Later that afternoon, he sat in the library reading while Jamie did his accounts, and there was a scratch at the door. “Come,” Jamie said, and the butler entered.
“My lord, there is a young woman here who wishes to speak to Miss Colt.”
Jamie frowned. “Did she give her name?”
“A Miss Caitlin Barry, my lord.”
Barry-probably Irish, McCoy thought. The first name agreed. Miss Colt had an upper-class London accent, but she did also have reddish hair. Perhaps a sister?
“Get Miss Colt; bring her here, and put Miss Barry in the parlor,” Jamie instructed. The butler nodded and left, and Miss Colt appeared about five minutes later.
“My lord, is there something wrong?”
Jamie stood. “You have a visitor, Miss Colt. We are aware that we do not know everything about your history, and we thought we’d ask if you want to see the visitor before showing you into the parlor.”
Miss Colt blanched. “No, I do not wish to see anyone.”
“Not even a Miss Caitlin Barry?” he asked.
Miss Colt blanched further, if such a thing were possible. “No. No, I do not wish to-“ She turned, pressed the back of one hand to her mouth. “Please excuse me.”
“Miss Colt. Do you need my help in any way?”
“No,” she said. “I understand if you wish to terminate my employment, but I would ask that you don’t.” She still faced away from the two men.
“Why would we send you away for not wanting to see a visitor?” Jamie asked. “McCoy, can you go see to Miss Barry.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded, and left, closing the door softly behind him. Jamie was much better at eliciting information from women than he was. Entering the parlor, he saw a young, auburn-haired woman standing near the window. She jumped when he closed the door, and turned to him. “Oh!”
“Pardon me for intruding,” he said, knocking as much of the burr out of his voice as possible. “I’m McCoy, Leonard McCoy.”
“Caitlin Barry,” she said, and the accent identified her as definitely Irish. The clothing, however-dark traveling dress and hat-identified her as upper-class, even to McCoy’s relatively untrained eye. “I take your presence to mean that Amelia doesn’t wish to see me?”
“Amy,” McCoy corrected. Miss Barry pressed her lips together. “Ah,” he said. “So Amy Colt is-“
“Amelia Colton,” she said. “Six months ago, she was governess to my youngest sister, Juliana.”
“Why did she leave?”
Miss Barry compressed her lips again. “I’d rather not discuss it. Suffice it to say that she has committed no crime.”
McCoy was well aware that there were many things that one could do that were not crimes yet weren’t particularly high on the morality scale, either. After all, he-well, never mind, that was a crime. Nonetheless. “And yet,” he said, “she doesn’t want to see you. Have you committed a crime?”
“No,” Miss Barry said shortly. They stood, staring at each other in a sort of stalemate until the door opened; McCoy had to scramble out of the way.
Jamie sauntered in, followed by a watery Miss Colt-or Colton. “Well, Miss Barry, Miss Colton has changed her mind.”
Apparently she’d spilled her entire life story to Jamie after McCoy had left.
“Amelia,” Miss Barry said, taking a step forward.
“Cait,” Miss Colton said, also taking a step forward. The tension in the room stretched thickly between the two young women until suddenly they were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying and-were they-kissing?
Before he could determine, Jamie grabbed McCoy by the arm and hauled him out of the parlor, shutting the door behind him. “What are you doing?” McCoy hissed. “They’re-“ He didn’t even know the word for it.
“Kissing?” Jamie said. He had a look on his face that McCoy couldn’t interpret.
“Yes!”
Jamie rolled his eyes, a gesture he’d picked up from McCoy himself, and set off in the direction of the library. McCoy followed him. Once that door was shut behind them, Jamie threw himself in his usual chair. “So what are we doing this evening?” he asked, a blatant change of subject.
“Nothing,” McCoy snapped, pacing. “It’s Sunday. Jamie, my daughter’s governess is in your parlor, kissing another woman.”
“And Joanna is up in her room, safely away from the sight.” Jamie sighed. “Let’s not discuss this any further, McCoy.”
He knew without a doubt it was in his best interest not to say another word on the matter, but something in him-his grandmother would probably say it was the devil-prodded him on. “It’s wrong, Jamie.”
“That’s what the church says,” Jamie agreed, his tone not nearly as polite as his words. “That’s what society says.”
“And you believe they’re mistaken?” McCoy’s eyebrow shot up into his hairline.
“Did I say that?” Jamie said. He was still sprawled in his chair, tapping his fingers against one armrest. “Devil take it, McCoy, I don’t know what I think about the matter, but Miss Colton didn’t look frightened or apologetic for the first time since she’s been here, and she loves Miss Barry. It’s obvious.”
McCoy opened his mouth to refute it, but he realized that he couldn’t-fortunately before he said anything else. He stopped pacing and looked straight at Jamie, who had a strange sort of half-smile on his face. His heart gave an odd thump, and he coughed. “Tomorrow night is the Earl of Macclesfield’s event, is it not?”
“It is,” Jamie said, and looked away.
The devil prodded him on again. “Will you be dancing with Lady Christine there?”
Jamie looked at him, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Perhaps. What does it matter?”
“Well, if you’re courting her, shouldn’t ye be dancin’ wi’ her?” Sod it, his accent was showing.
“I’m not courting her,” Jamie said. “I’m not, to my knowledge, courting any of the lovely young ladies whose mothers are throwing their daughters at me.” He stood. “I believe when I asked you to come to London, I specified that it was to help me keep away the matchmaking mamas. If you’re concerned that I’ll marry and she’ll kick you out, you have no reason to worry. I shall not be marrying this season, or any season.”
McCoy’s mouth was inexplicably dry, and he swallowed. “You need to marry, to produce an heir.”
Jamie shrugged. “I have a cousin George-he’s got two sons already. He’ll do.” He raked a hand though his hair, disturbing the curls. “Shouldn’t you remarry, give Joanna a step-mother?”
“I’m not out of mourning yet,” McCoy said, although it was a mere matter of weeks before he’d spent an entire year with a black armband and black gloves.
“Is that why you haven’t so much as danced with any ladies other than Kit’s Number One?” Jamie asked, his lips twisting.
“Yes!” McCoy said. “Also, had you not noticed, I’m not exactly prime marriage material, unlike the sodding earl of Riverside.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. “Jamie, I-”
Jamie was laughing, albeit bitterly. “Oh, McCoy.” He pushed himself upright. “I’d better check on our intrepid governess and her Cait.” He strode towards the door, stopping when he stood by McCoy’s left side. Two of Jamie’s fingers gently, unobtrusively, stroked the back of McCoy’s ungloved hand. “I am the sodding earl of Riverside,” he said, only a few inches from McCoy’s ear, his breath warm. “That is the problem.”
He left the room before McCoy could unfreeze enough to move. The back of his hand burned for long minutes as he stared at the door.
* * *
Sunday morning Eve begged off of church with a headache, and spent the majority of the day occupying herself with menial tasks. However, when the family had all gone to bed, she couldn’t postpone thinking about Christopher anymore. Whenever she tried, though, her mind whirled, in a fashion she was not accustomed to. He loved her, and she loved him-that she couldn’t be bothered to deny-and she wanted him, ached to be near him with an intensity that was so much greater than it had been nine years ago. But-
Throwing herself off her bed, she paced in front of the window for a moment or two before she admitted that she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She turned to her wardrobe to change, but before she got any further, the door opened, and Chrissy stepped inside. “Evie,” she said. “You’ve been out of sorts all day.”
“Have I?” Eve asked.
“I love you, you know,” Christine said.
“Yes, I know, and I love you as well,” Eve replied, frowning. “Chrissy, what-“
“You are going to marry him, aren’t you?” Her sister’s eyes were very wide and very blue, even in the soft candlelight.
Eve sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. “Yes, probably. I need to-there are still things I need to understand.”
Chrissy nodded. “All right.” She leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. “Go to him.”
“Christine!” Eve stood up quickly, her hands on her hips, and aimed a glare at her sister, but couldn’t find the words to express her disapproval. “Christine,” she repeated, after a moment.
Chrissy smiled as she backed out of the room silently and closed the door behind her with a quiet click.
Well. That had been interesting. She hadn’t been looking for her sister’s approval, but now that she had it . . . She dug through the back of her wardrobe until she found the black crepe dress from when her grandmother, the dowager countess, had passed away, and quickly changed into it, covering her head with the matching bonnet and shawl and putting on soft-soled shoes.
Eve slipped out of the house, avoiding the servants with ease, and navigated the two blocks to Prescott House with no mishap. Although she hadn’t done it in approximately nine years, she’d made this trek more than once, and her precise memory served her well. Her eyes flickered to the windows on the back of the house-mostly dark, except a dim light off to the left-and saw that one of them on the right had been left open an inch or two. If she remembered correctly, that window would let her into the parlor. Perfect.
Also perfect was the wooden crate left beside the shed. She picked it up, set it below the window, tested to see if it would hold her weight, which it did, and stood on it gingerly. Pushing the window up slowly, so as not to cause any noise, she peered in. It was completely dark inside, and she saw no movement, so she reached in, caught the bottom of the windowsill, and poked a toe in between the bricks. She took a deep breath and hauled herself up.
Damnation. She hadn’t done this in years, and had forgotten than it hurt. She set her other toe between two bricks and pushed a little further.
Hands caught her about the shoulders; she jerked her head up and almost hit the window before she realized that whoever was touching her was attempting to aid her, rather than push her back out the window. She couldn’t see well enough to identify the source of the aid, but she let him help her finish crawling through the window.
Once she stood on the floor, she dusted off her dress and looked at her rescuer. His silver hair glinted in the light of the candle he’d brought with him; his clothing identified him as an upper servant. Probably Christopher’s valet, then. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Lady Eve,” the valet said. “However, Lord Prescott has given all of us orders that you are to be admitted at any time, day or night, so next time, please consider coming to the door.”
“I’ll remember that,” Eve said, dragging the remains of her dignity around her. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or not. “I’m sorry; I don’t know your name.”
“Boyce, my lady,” he said. “Shall I take you to Lord Prescott?”
“Yes, please.”
Boyce picked up his candle again and led the way to the opposite end of the house, where Eve had seen the dim light. He scratched at the door, and at Christopher’s “Come,” let himself in with her right behind him. “Lord Prescott, you have a visitor.”
Christopher was sitting in a chair facing away from the window, adjacent to the fireplace, his feet propped up on a stool. When he saw her, he broke into a surprised grin, making him look strangely youthful in the candlelight. He pushed himself up to standing, not without effort, and Eve frowned. She’d forgotten about his injury. How much pain did he suffer?
“Eve,” Christopher said. “Thank you, Boyce.” Eve heard Boyce leave and close the door behind her. “Please, come in.”
She nodded and came forward a couple steps. While standing in her room, she had known exactly what she wanted to say, but now that she was standing in front of him, in his library, unchaperoned, the words dried up in her throat. Swallowing, she tried. “Christopher, I-“ She stopped, unsure of how to proceed.
“Come in,” he repeated gently. “Have a seat. Do you want any refreshment? I can ring for tea.”
“No. No, thank you, Christopher; I am fine.” She edged forward and perched on the edge of the chair that was a twin to his own, facing the window. “How are you?” she asked.
“I am very pleased to see you,” he said, only an edge of warmth to his tone, but enough to make her spine tingle. He retook his seat, somewhat stiffly. “Do you attend the Macclesfield ball tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I believe so,” she said. His matter-of-fact conversation, as if it were entirely logical for her to visit him at half eleven at night, relaxed her somewhat, but she did not forget her primary goal. “Why didn’t you mail the letter?”
His face blanked, but he did not pretend to misunderstand her. Instead he stood again, somewhat less stiffly than before, and walked to the bookshelves, pulling down a large volume and retrieving a folded piece of paper from between the pages. He offered it to her wordlessly, and she opened it to read.
15 August 1811
Dearest Eve,
I am writing to tell you that I have been offered a position in the military-and a promotion-that would mean significant improvement in my financial situation. Due to this, I will be gone for at least another year. I hope you will wait for me, although I cannot guarantee any specific date.
If you decide against waiting, I understand, although I do hope this is not your decision.
As always, my love and I are
Yours,
Chr. Pike
The letter was cold on the surface, but she knew him well enough to know-or at least suspect-the root of the problem. “You did not believe I would wait for you.”
“I didn’t know,” he corrected. “I-“ He spread his hands. “The paralysis of indecision. I do not know whether I was more afraid that you would wait for me, in which case I had certain responsibilities to myself and to you, or that you wouldn’t, and I would have nothing to anticipate upon my homecoming.”
“I did not wait for you,” Eve said, and Christopher looked up, alarmed. “I helped three younger sisters through their come-outs. I planned two weddings. I am the treasurer of the Upper Brook Street arm of the Ladies’ Aid Society, and have been for the last four years. My mother has ceded to me nearly the entire running of the household, and my father has allowed me to run the dower property, which has raised wool profitably for the last five years. I have attended dozens of lectures at the Royal Institution, and I have read more than two hundred books. I have not been languishing on the settee in your absence, Christopher.” She took a deep breath. “But I have never entertained another suitor.”
“Eve,” he said, eyes intense. “Eve.”
“Should I have, Christopher?” It was unfair, she knew; in no way was she unaware of how he felt about her.
“No,” he said. “No.” His voice was firmer the second time. “No, you should not have entertained another suitor.” He closed the distance between them and dropped to one knee beside her chair. “Eve. Number One. My love, may I renew my suit?”
“Yes,” she said, joy bubbling up in her heart. “Yes, of course.” She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips to his.
Even as they kissed, though, and as amazing as it was once again to have his mouth against her own, she could feel him wobbling. A moment later, he sat down, hard and unexpected, and Eve was left leaning into empty air. He looked up at her, gray eyes wide, and her heart jumped into her throat for a moment-was he hurt?-before he started laughing. “Oh, One. Come here.” He held out his arms, and she slid off the chair and into his lap. His arms closed around her and she buried her head in his shoulder, chuckling.
After a moment, though, her mind started cataloguing the differences between Christopher nine years ago and Christopher currently. He was perhaps a little more muscled, now, and of course she’d noticed the gray by his temples; there were more lines on his face, and he was-more serious somehow. Not that he’d ever been particularly light-minded before; he’d taken up his seat in Parliament well before she met him and had always taken his responsibilities to heart. Now, however . . . .
Well, one thing had not changed in the least-he still smelled enticing, and his warm, solid form against her still caused heat to kindle inside her. She inhaled deeply, and just barely resisted the urge to taste his skin; later, she would have the chance, she hoped. “Christopher,” she breathed.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” he said. “I never should have left you, I never should have stayed away that long, I should have sent the letter, I never should have doubted you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have doubted me,” she said. “And now, you should stop apologizing and kiss me.”
“Oh, do you think I should?” Christopher said, grinning even as he cupped her face in his hands and slanted his head. He pulled her in for a long, slow kiss, his lips parting to allow his tongue to drag over the seam of her lips, and she opened them, eager to taste him as she hadn’t for nine years. As her tongue met his, he made a sound in the back of her throat and reached up to remove her shawl and bonnet. Breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her gloves with surprising dexterity and discarded them next to the shawl and bonnet, tracing her fingers with his.
She turned her hand over and returned the motion, finding all the calluses on his hands from riding, fencing, writing, and new ones, apparently from whatever he’d done in the army. She found a scar on the back of his left hand that hadn’t been there before, and kissed it-she’d ask how he got it later, but there were more important things to do at the moment.
He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch of her mouth on his skin, and she touched her tongue lightly to the pad of one finger. As he made a sound she could only describe as a ‘whimper,’ his free hand tangled in her hair, searching for the pins. She sucked the tip of his finger, lightly, and his fingers fumbled in her hair. Looking up at him, her cheeks hollowed out, she saw that his eyes were wide and dark with desire.
“I’d forgotten,” he whispered. “How could I forget this?”
She let his finger slip out of her mouth in order to say, “It has been a long time,” with a raised eyebrow.
“Never again,” he promised, and she chuckled before throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts to the solid wall of his chest.
Eve kissed him again, stroking her tongue just inside his lower lip, and he shuddered. “You remember, don’t you?”
“I remember it all,” she said, tracing a line down the side of his neck, below his ear, and unraveling his cravat with ease. She kissed the exposed skin of his throat and spread his collar wide. His breathing was unsteady under her hands already, and they had so much farther to go.
But perhaps not on the floor of his library. “Christopher,” she said, and stopped. Asking to retire to his chambers was a little beyond her nerve.
Fortunately, he was on the same page. “Shall we go upstairs, my love?” he said, a finger trailing along her jaw.
“Yes,” she said, and stood, one hand on the chair as she resettled her skirts. Christopher stood as well, albeit not as gracefully. “Are you in pain?” she asked.
He thought about lying to her, she could tell, but didn’t. “Yes,” he said. “It’s rare that I am not. I don’t believe it’ll affect us, though.”
“You don’t know?” she couldn’t help but ask.
He smiled. “No.”
“Were you faithful?” she asked in disbelief.
“Since the injury, yes. Prior-no,” he admitted. “But it was infrequent and I always took great care.”
She tilted her head and looked at him. “Well, that’s good. I would not marry a man who would give me the French Pox.”
“Eve!” he said, scandalized.
“You have always appreciated my practicality, Christopher,” she said, and held out a hand.
“I have,” he said, taking her hand and pressing her fingers briefly. “You did answer a question I had not yet asked.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” she said anyway. “Now that we’ve determined that you are not going to give me the French Pox and that we will, of course, be married, what shall we do now?”
Christopher smiled warmly and held out his arm; she took it, and they proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. Once inside, he lit candles beside the bed before asking, “What else do you remember?”
She turned to him, slid his cravat off his neck, and said, “I remember how much you enjoyed helping me undress.” Her tone was a blatant invitation.
“Yes,” he said, and turned her slowly. Eve closed her eyes as she felt him start at the top of the long row of buttons up the back of her gown. His fingers stroked her skin through the thin cloth of her chemise and she shivered. When he finished with the buttons, he pushed the black cloth off her shoulders and she shifted to help it fall to the floor. Pushing it aside with the toe of one shoe, she turned to face him. He smiled again and reached up to remove the rest of her hairpins. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders, straight and thick and dark brown, and he brushed it back from her neck before pulling on the ribbon that tied at the neck of her chemise. She helped him push the delicate fabric down her body, and watched his face as he saw her nude for the first time in nine years.
Eve experienced an uncharacteristic moment of self-consciousness; she was not nineteen anymore and time had wrought changes on her body that might perhaps not be to his liking. However, the wonder, amazement, and arousal writ plainly on her face disabused her of that notion in short order, and she reached out to touch his cheek.
“I love you,” he said, turning his face to place a kiss in the palm of her hand. “You are more beautiful now than you ever have been, and you cannot grow but more beautiful to me.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I would return the compliment, but you are still fully dressed.” She looked at him significantly.
Rather than removing his jacket, he sat on the edge of the bed, his face hardening. “Eve, I have been a soldier for nine years, and I fear that the years have not been as kind to me as they were to you.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly, masking the concern she felt. “Are you still Christopher?”
“I am,” he said, with a puzzled look.
“Then you could have a thousand scars and I would still find you attractive.” She slid her fingers along his chest, under his jacket. “Please. Show me.”
He stood, slowly, and wrestled off his jacket. Next he untied the laces at his cuffs and placket, and flipped his shirt over his head. While he unbuttoned his trousers and skinned them and his linens down his legs, Eve untied her garters and quickly removed them and her stockings and shoes. A minute later he was nude, watching for her reaction hesitantly.
He was, as she’d noted before, broader through the chest than he’d been before; but his body was still lean and muscled, and while she counted five separate bullet scars, it was the one on his right hip that interested her the most. She placed a hand on his left hip and turned him to the side, to see the scar that left a shiny line, curving from the top of his hip around to his buttocks.
“The scars make you look heroic,” she said, “although I wish this one did not cause you pain.” She touched the scar in question.
He gave a short bark of laughter. “I am no hero. I spent most of the battle captured, behind enemy lines, and Kirk-Riverside had to carry me to safety.”
“It does not signify,” she said. “You were there, and you came home alive. You came home to me, alive.” She pulled back the covers on the bed and lay down on the mattress. “I’ve forgotten what comes next,” she said, although she had not in the least. Next he would put his hands on her bare skin. “Remind me?”
His smile said that he saw through her ruse, but he joined her in the bed, lying on his left side, facing her. “You don’t remember this?” he asked, stroking her shoulder. “Or this?” His hand closed over her breast, kneading gently.
She gasped. “Maybe-somewhat.”
“Perhaps this will spark your memory, then.” He rolled her onto her back; she went gladly, and panted shallowly as he carefully placed a knee between hers and lowered his mouth to her collarbone.
“Christopher,” she said, her voice breaking. She threaded her fingers through his hair, dragged her nails lightly down his neck and shoulders-that, she remembered as well, and he still quaked-and hooked her heel around the back of his thigh. “Oh, Christopher.”
“Number One,” he whispered against her skin, as he ran a thumb over her nipple before sealing his mouth on it.
Oh, she remembered that, but not the intensity of his mouth pulling at her flesh. She cried out, and felt him smile even as he kept up the suction. After a few moments it became too much, and she pulled him up for a kiss. He returned it enthusiastically before returning his attention to her body, to her other breast, which was already peaked in anticipation. His tongue rasped against the peak, and she strained against the mattress.
When the sensations threatened to overwhelm her this time, she hauled him up to eye level, and then pressed him onto his back. He rolled easily, although he kept her pulled against him, so she ended up straddling him, his erection pressed to her most sensitive spot. She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Eve? Are you all right?” he asked, his low, sensuous tone at odds with the concern in his words.
“I’m fine,” she said, looking down at him. “More than fine, actually.” He’d never-well, they’d never-she’d never felt that particular part of him against that particular part of her, but she was certainly aware of the mechanics and had definitely intended to reach this point that night. “How are you?” she asked, and shifted her weight slightly.
He moaned, and she did it again, more deliberately this time. “If you keep that up,” he said, his voice rough, “I shall be more than fine rather sooner than I’d planned.”
“What did you have planned?” The sensation of him throbbing beneath her was affecting her more than she’d initially thought.
“I thought-perhaps-I’d taste you.” He gasped, and she echoed the sound. He’d only put his mouth-down there-on her once before, the night before he’d left, and it had fueled more than one fantasy of hers over the years. When she was willing to think about him, that was. “And then-you could-touch me?”
“Oh, no,” she said, and sat up, her hands tracing long strokes over the flat of his chest down to his abdomen. “Not tonight.” She thought perhaps she saw the glint of silver in his chest hair, and inexplicably, it aroused her more.
“No?” he said, disappointment on his face.
“No,” she said, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I thought perhaps we’d try what you would describe to me while you touched me, nine years ago.”
“Evie,” he said. His eyes were wide. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. We are getting married, right?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Then, if you have no more objections. . . .” She wriggled again, and his hands went to her hips, to still her.
“No more objections,” he said, and rolled her back beneath him, with a slight wince she chose to ignore this time. He kissed her, tongues tangling, and then kissed a trail down her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, down to the hair covering her feminine mound, and quickly over the insides of her thighs before parting her with his fingers and tracing a circle with his tongue.
“Oh!” She arched her back, moaning. It was hotter, wetter, and significantly better than she remembered, even in her most explicit fantasies. Christopher explored her thoroughly with his mouth, sliding his tongue even down to her entrance before sucking at just the right spot to send flares through her body. She felt herself begin the familiar climb as he slid a finger, carefully, inside her, as he never had before. The new sensation surprised her with how much she enjoyed it, and she canted her hips against his mouth and hand as he pressed inside her and sucked harder until she saw stars behind her eyelids and cried out his name.
He moved up the bed to hold her as she shook with passion, stroking her hair for long moments as she relearned how to breathe. When she recalled herself, she realized that he was murmuring in her ear, how much he loved her, how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her. She smiled, and turned her head to capture his lips. “I love you too,” she said a minute later.
The smile on his face when she said that was so surprised and delighted that she said it again. “I love you.” He bundled her into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “As lovely as this is,” she said against his neck, “I don’t believe we’re finished.”
“No,” he breathed. “No, we are not.” He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shudder and clench. Releasing her onto her back, he swept a hand down her body until it was between her legs, and used his fingers to spread the moisture he found there. She splayed her knees encouragingly, and he groaned.
“Is this going to work?” she asked, remembering his injury.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’d very much like to try.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Please.”
He groaned again, and covered her body with his, fitting his hips between her thighs, and pressing himself to her again. “This may hurt,” he warned.
“I know,” she said. “I am not entirely ignorant. Please, Christopher.”
He closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and slid inside her, just barely. She felt the stretch and a sigh fell out of her. “Tell me if it’s too much?”
“Yes,” she said, and lifted her ankles up behind his knees.
He slid in an inch further, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax tense muscles. “It’ll hurt less next time,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I trust you.”
He closed his eyes, buried his face in her shoulder, and thrust in, slowly, another inch or so. “Lift your legs further?” he suggested, and she did. Some of the pressure lessened, and he eased in slightly further. “I love you,” he said, and pushed in the rest of the way.
Oh. That hurt. A bit. Not a lot. She squirmed, and he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I love you,” she said. “There is no need to be sorry. I am yours now.”
Christopher lowered himself to his forearms, and cupped her head with his hands. “Yes, you are,” he said, voice gravelly, and took her mouth, kissing her witless.
Slowly, so very slowly, he withdrew, and she gasped. He searched her face, and apparently got the answer he wanted, because he pressed inside her once again, still slowly, and then pulled out again. He kept the slow, steady rhythm until she said “Christopher” on a broken sob. It seemed to be enough for him, because he sped up, thrusting into her, sweat slicking his brow. It had long since ceased hurting, or perhaps the pain had become just one more sensation in her oversensitized body, and she twisted her head from side to side, searching for a completion she was not sure she could achieve.
“Christopher,” she said, again. “Oh, Christopher.”
“Eve,” he said, and used one hand to adjust her hips, changing the angle. He renewed his thrusts, and the new angle aligned their bodies such that--oh--Eve felt herself rising, and rising, and hurling off the cliff for the second time that night.
Dimly, through the haze, she felt him bury himself inside her one final time and achieve his completion, her name on his lips as he fell.
Long moments later, she raised her head. “Did that hurt you?”
He sighed, and kissed her shoulder before answering. “Yes, but not enough to halt my performance.”
“I am sorry,” she said, and unwound her legs.
He withdrew, eliciting a gasp from her, and collapsed by her right side. “It is of no consequence. I should do my strengthening exercises more regularly, it seems.” Sitting up briefly, he pulled the bedcovers over them.
She leaned over and kissed him on the nose. “We have time to practice.”
“That we do, my love.” He turned her to face away from him and pulled her against his body, and she curved to fit. “Are you in pain?” he asked, running a hand lightly over her hip.
Eve shook her head. “I am perhaps a little sore, but no true pain.”
He buried his face in the back of her neck. “I wish it did not have to be so.”
“No matter,” she said, and yawned.
He kissed her shoulder blade and shifted the bedsheet under his arm.
“I always was yours,” she said, a sleepy admission, a few minutes later.
“And I yours,” he replied. “Sleep, my love. I’ll wake you and escort you home well before dawn.”
“Thank you,” she said, even as sleep sucked her down its dark well. He chuckled, and tightened his arm around her.
Chapter 7 | Master Post
Summary: Pike/One Regency AU.
Pairing: Pike/One, Kirk/McCoy, Spock/Uhura, and a bonus couple
Rating: NC-17 for this chapter
Content Advisory: Sex (het). Also religious angst, related to homosexuality.
Word Count: This chapter, about 6350; 23,657 total.
Notes: Please go here for the full header.
Chapter 6
In which McCoy gets little relief and Eve and Prescott get rather a lot
Church, Patterson House and then Prescott House
Sunday
Jamie insisted on accompanying McCoy to church, which was somewhat unusual. It also precluded church from being the sanctuary it was intended. He needed time away from Jamie to clear his head, which was impossible when the gentleman in question was only a couple of inches away.
As the pastor spoke, his attention wavered. When Jamie shifted-as he did quite often, not being constitutionally suited to sitting still-he would lose a word or two of the sermon before sharply reminding himself why, in fact, he was at church.
“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it,” quoted the pastor. The theme of the sermon appeared to be a memorial to the recently departed, and McCoy realized with a start that the anniversary of the battle of Waterloo was a mere two days hence.
Odd, it was. He had managed to live an entire year after the battle. Jamie had survived. Even Captain Pike had somehow survived, even if Jamie had had to carry him off the battlefield while injured himself.
Jocelyn hadn’t managed to survive childbirth. The pain in his chest coalesced into a hard knot, and he inhaled as best he could.
Jamie turned to him, a worried look on his face, and McCoy gave a slight shake of his head. Jamie nodded, and returned his attention to the sermon.
God help him, his wife was (to him) barely a year cold in her grave; his daughter needed him, and he was contemplating a sin so grave that he couldn’t name it, not even to himself. It was almost enough to make a man turn Papist, to have the ease of confession.
Afterwards, they walked home, Jamie chattering about the various people who showed up in church yet sinned all week. McCoy listened with half an ear, his hands stuffed unfashionably into his pockets. Upon entering the hallway, Joanna threw herself at him, and he picked up his daughter with a smile. This is what is important, he reminded himself.
Later that afternoon, he sat in the library reading while Jamie did his accounts, and there was a scratch at the door. “Come,” Jamie said, and the butler entered.
“My lord, there is a young woman here who wishes to speak to Miss Colt.”
Jamie frowned. “Did she give her name?”
“A Miss Caitlin Barry, my lord.”
Barry-probably Irish, McCoy thought. The first name agreed. Miss Colt had an upper-class London accent, but she did also have reddish hair. Perhaps a sister?
“Get Miss Colt; bring her here, and put Miss Barry in the parlor,” Jamie instructed. The butler nodded and left, and Miss Colt appeared about five minutes later.
“My lord, is there something wrong?”
Jamie stood. “You have a visitor, Miss Colt. We are aware that we do not know everything about your history, and we thought we’d ask if you want to see the visitor before showing you into the parlor.”
Miss Colt blanched. “No, I do not wish to see anyone.”
“Not even a Miss Caitlin Barry?” he asked.
Miss Colt blanched further, if such a thing were possible. “No. No, I do not wish to-“ She turned, pressed the back of one hand to her mouth. “Please excuse me.”
“Miss Colt. Do you need my help in any way?”
“No,” she said. “I understand if you wish to terminate my employment, but I would ask that you don’t.” She still faced away from the two men.
“Why would we send you away for not wanting to see a visitor?” Jamie asked. “McCoy, can you go see to Miss Barry.” It wasn’t a question.
He nodded, and left, closing the door softly behind him. Jamie was much better at eliciting information from women than he was. Entering the parlor, he saw a young, auburn-haired woman standing near the window. She jumped when he closed the door, and turned to him. “Oh!”
“Pardon me for intruding,” he said, knocking as much of the burr out of his voice as possible. “I’m McCoy, Leonard McCoy.”
“Caitlin Barry,” she said, and the accent identified her as definitely Irish. The clothing, however-dark traveling dress and hat-identified her as upper-class, even to McCoy’s relatively untrained eye. “I take your presence to mean that Amelia doesn’t wish to see me?”
“Amy,” McCoy corrected. Miss Barry pressed her lips together. “Ah,” he said. “So Amy Colt is-“
“Amelia Colton,” she said. “Six months ago, she was governess to my youngest sister, Juliana.”
“Why did she leave?”
Miss Barry compressed her lips again. “I’d rather not discuss it. Suffice it to say that she has committed no crime.”
McCoy was well aware that there were many things that one could do that were not crimes yet weren’t particularly high on the morality scale, either. After all, he-well, never mind, that was a crime. Nonetheless. “And yet,” he said, “she doesn’t want to see you. Have you committed a crime?”
“No,” Miss Barry said shortly. They stood, staring at each other in a sort of stalemate until the door opened; McCoy had to scramble out of the way.
Jamie sauntered in, followed by a watery Miss Colt-or Colton. “Well, Miss Barry, Miss Colton has changed her mind.”
Apparently she’d spilled her entire life story to Jamie after McCoy had left.
“Amelia,” Miss Barry said, taking a step forward.
“Cait,” Miss Colton said, also taking a step forward. The tension in the room stretched thickly between the two young women until suddenly they were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying and-were they-kissing?
Before he could determine, Jamie grabbed McCoy by the arm and hauled him out of the parlor, shutting the door behind him. “What are you doing?” McCoy hissed. “They’re-“ He didn’t even know the word for it.
“Kissing?” Jamie said. He had a look on his face that McCoy couldn’t interpret.
“Yes!”
Jamie rolled his eyes, a gesture he’d picked up from McCoy himself, and set off in the direction of the library. McCoy followed him. Once that door was shut behind them, Jamie threw himself in his usual chair. “So what are we doing this evening?” he asked, a blatant change of subject.
“Nothing,” McCoy snapped, pacing. “It’s Sunday. Jamie, my daughter’s governess is in your parlor, kissing another woman.”
“And Joanna is up in her room, safely away from the sight.” Jamie sighed. “Let’s not discuss this any further, McCoy.”
He knew without a doubt it was in his best interest not to say another word on the matter, but something in him-his grandmother would probably say it was the devil-prodded him on. “It’s wrong, Jamie.”
“That’s what the church says,” Jamie agreed, his tone not nearly as polite as his words. “That’s what society says.”
“And you believe they’re mistaken?” McCoy’s eyebrow shot up into his hairline.
“Did I say that?” Jamie said. He was still sprawled in his chair, tapping his fingers against one armrest. “Devil take it, McCoy, I don’t know what I think about the matter, but Miss Colton didn’t look frightened or apologetic for the first time since she’s been here, and she loves Miss Barry. It’s obvious.”
McCoy opened his mouth to refute it, but he realized that he couldn’t-fortunately before he said anything else. He stopped pacing and looked straight at Jamie, who had a strange sort of half-smile on his face. His heart gave an odd thump, and he coughed. “Tomorrow night is the Earl of Macclesfield’s event, is it not?”
“It is,” Jamie said, and looked away.
The devil prodded him on again. “Will you be dancing with Lady Christine there?”
Jamie looked at him, brow furrowed. “I don’t know. Perhaps. What does it matter?”
“Well, if you’re courting her, shouldn’t ye be dancin’ wi’ her?” Sod it, his accent was showing.
“I’m not courting her,” Jamie said. “I’m not, to my knowledge, courting any of the lovely young ladies whose mothers are throwing their daughters at me.” He stood. “I believe when I asked you to come to London, I specified that it was to help me keep away the matchmaking mamas. If you’re concerned that I’ll marry and she’ll kick you out, you have no reason to worry. I shall not be marrying this season, or any season.”
McCoy’s mouth was inexplicably dry, and he swallowed. “You need to marry, to produce an heir.”
Jamie shrugged. “I have a cousin George-he’s got two sons already. He’ll do.” He raked a hand though his hair, disturbing the curls. “Shouldn’t you remarry, give Joanna a step-mother?”
“I’m not out of mourning yet,” McCoy said, although it was a mere matter of weeks before he’d spent an entire year with a black armband and black gloves.
“Is that why you haven’t so much as danced with any ladies other than Kit’s Number One?” Jamie asked, his lips twisting.
“Yes!” McCoy said. “Also, had you not noticed, I’m not exactly prime marriage material, unlike the sodding earl of Riverside.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he winced. “Jamie, I-”
Jamie was laughing, albeit bitterly. “Oh, McCoy.” He pushed himself upright. “I’d better check on our intrepid governess and her Cait.” He strode towards the door, stopping when he stood by McCoy’s left side. Two of Jamie’s fingers gently, unobtrusively, stroked the back of McCoy’s ungloved hand. “I am the sodding earl of Riverside,” he said, only a few inches from McCoy’s ear, his breath warm. “That is the problem.”
He left the room before McCoy could unfreeze enough to move. The back of his hand burned for long minutes as he stared at the door.
* * *
Sunday morning Eve begged off of church with a headache, and spent the majority of the day occupying herself with menial tasks. However, when the family had all gone to bed, she couldn’t postpone thinking about Christopher anymore. Whenever she tried, though, her mind whirled, in a fashion she was not accustomed to. He loved her, and she loved him-that she couldn’t be bothered to deny-and she wanted him, ached to be near him with an intensity that was so much greater than it had been nine years ago. But-
Throwing herself off her bed, she paced in front of the window for a moment or two before she admitted that she knew exactly what she wanted to do. She turned to her wardrobe to change, but before she got any further, the door opened, and Chrissy stepped inside. “Evie,” she said. “You’ve been out of sorts all day.”
“Have I?” Eve asked.
“I love you, you know,” Christine said.
“Yes, I know, and I love you as well,” Eve replied, frowning. “Chrissy, what-“
“You are going to marry him, aren’t you?” Her sister’s eyes were very wide and very blue, even in the soft candlelight.
Eve sighed and sat on the edge of her bed. “Yes, probably. I need to-there are still things I need to understand.”
Chrissy nodded. “All right.” She leaned over and kissed Eve on the forehead. “Go to him.”
“Christine!” Eve stood up quickly, her hands on her hips, and aimed a glare at her sister, but couldn’t find the words to express her disapproval. “Christine,” she repeated, after a moment.
Chrissy smiled as she backed out of the room silently and closed the door behind her with a quiet click.
Well. That had been interesting. She hadn’t been looking for her sister’s approval, but now that she had it . . . She dug through the back of her wardrobe until she found the black crepe dress from when her grandmother, the dowager countess, had passed away, and quickly changed into it, covering her head with the matching bonnet and shawl and putting on soft-soled shoes.
Eve slipped out of the house, avoiding the servants with ease, and navigated the two blocks to Prescott House with no mishap. Although she hadn’t done it in approximately nine years, she’d made this trek more than once, and her precise memory served her well. Her eyes flickered to the windows on the back of the house-mostly dark, except a dim light off to the left-and saw that one of them on the right had been left open an inch or two. If she remembered correctly, that window would let her into the parlor. Perfect.
Also perfect was the wooden crate left beside the shed. She picked it up, set it below the window, tested to see if it would hold her weight, which it did, and stood on it gingerly. Pushing the window up slowly, so as not to cause any noise, she peered in. It was completely dark inside, and she saw no movement, so she reached in, caught the bottom of the windowsill, and poked a toe in between the bricks. She took a deep breath and hauled herself up.
Damnation. She hadn’t done this in years, and had forgotten than it hurt. She set her other toe between two bricks and pushed a little further.
Hands caught her about the shoulders; she jerked her head up and almost hit the window before she realized that whoever was touching her was attempting to aid her, rather than push her back out the window. She couldn’t see well enough to identify the source of the aid, but she let him help her finish crawling through the window.
Once she stood on the floor, she dusted off her dress and looked at her rescuer. His silver hair glinted in the light of the candle he’d brought with him; his clothing identified him as an upper servant. Probably Christopher’s valet, then. “Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Lady Eve,” the valet said. “However, Lord Prescott has given all of us orders that you are to be admitted at any time, day or night, so next time, please consider coming to the door.”
“I’ll remember that,” Eve said, dragging the remains of her dignity around her. She couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or not. “I’m sorry; I don’t know your name.”
“Boyce, my lady,” he said. “Shall I take you to Lord Prescott?”
“Yes, please.”
Boyce picked up his candle again and led the way to the opposite end of the house, where Eve had seen the dim light. He scratched at the door, and at Christopher’s “Come,” let himself in with her right behind him. “Lord Prescott, you have a visitor.”
Christopher was sitting in a chair facing away from the window, adjacent to the fireplace, his feet propped up on a stool. When he saw her, he broke into a surprised grin, making him look strangely youthful in the candlelight. He pushed himself up to standing, not without effort, and Eve frowned. She’d forgotten about his injury. How much pain did he suffer?
“Eve,” Christopher said. “Thank you, Boyce.” Eve heard Boyce leave and close the door behind her. “Please, come in.”
She nodded and came forward a couple steps. While standing in her room, she had known exactly what she wanted to say, but now that she was standing in front of him, in his library, unchaperoned, the words dried up in her throat. Swallowing, she tried. “Christopher, I-“ She stopped, unsure of how to proceed.
“Come in,” he repeated gently. “Have a seat. Do you want any refreshment? I can ring for tea.”
“No. No, thank you, Christopher; I am fine.” She edged forward and perched on the edge of the chair that was a twin to his own, facing the window. “How are you?” she asked.
“I am very pleased to see you,” he said, only an edge of warmth to his tone, but enough to make her spine tingle. He retook his seat, somewhat stiffly. “Do you attend the Macclesfield ball tomorrow night?”
“Yes, I believe so,” she said. His matter-of-fact conversation, as if it were entirely logical for her to visit him at half eleven at night, relaxed her somewhat, but she did not forget her primary goal. “Why didn’t you mail the letter?”
His face blanked, but he did not pretend to misunderstand her. Instead he stood again, somewhat less stiffly than before, and walked to the bookshelves, pulling down a large volume and retrieving a folded piece of paper from between the pages. He offered it to her wordlessly, and she opened it to read.
15 August 1811
Dearest Eve,
I am writing to tell you that I have been offered a position in the military-and a promotion-that would mean significant improvement in my financial situation. Due to this, I will be gone for at least another year. I hope you will wait for me, although I cannot guarantee any specific date.
If you decide against waiting, I understand, although I do hope this is not your decision.
As always, my love and I are
Yours,
Chr. Pike
The letter was cold on the surface, but she knew him well enough to know-or at least suspect-the root of the problem. “You did not believe I would wait for you.”
“I didn’t know,” he corrected. “I-“ He spread his hands. “The paralysis of indecision. I do not know whether I was more afraid that you would wait for me, in which case I had certain responsibilities to myself and to you, or that you wouldn’t, and I would have nothing to anticipate upon my homecoming.”
“I did not wait for you,” Eve said, and Christopher looked up, alarmed. “I helped three younger sisters through their come-outs. I planned two weddings. I am the treasurer of the Upper Brook Street arm of the Ladies’ Aid Society, and have been for the last four years. My mother has ceded to me nearly the entire running of the household, and my father has allowed me to run the dower property, which has raised wool profitably for the last five years. I have attended dozens of lectures at the Royal Institution, and I have read more than two hundred books. I have not been languishing on the settee in your absence, Christopher.” She took a deep breath. “But I have never entertained another suitor.”
“Eve,” he said, eyes intense. “Eve.”
“Should I have, Christopher?” It was unfair, she knew; in no way was she unaware of how he felt about her.
“No,” he said. “No.” His voice was firmer the second time. “No, you should not have entertained another suitor.” He closed the distance between them and dropped to one knee beside her chair. “Eve. Number One. My love, may I renew my suit?”
“Yes,” she said, joy bubbling up in her heart. “Yes, of course.” She leaned forward, placed her hands on his shoulders, and set her lips to his.
Even as they kissed, though, and as amazing as it was once again to have his mouth against her own, she could feel him wobbling. A moment later, he sat down, hard and unexpected, and Eve was left leaning into empty air. He looked up at her, gray eyes wide, and her heart jumped into her throat for a moment-was he hurt?-before he started laughing. “Oh, One. Come here.” He held out his arms, and she slid off the chair and into his lap. His arms closed around her and she buried her head in his shoulder, chuckling.
After a moment, though, her mind started cataloguing the differences between Christopher nine years ago and Christopher currently. He was perhaps a little more muscled, now, and of course she’d noticed the gray by his temples; there were more lines on his face, and he was-more serious somehow. Not that he’d ever been particularly light-minded before; he’d taken up his seat in Parliament well before she met him and had always taken his responsibilities to heart. Now, however . . . .
Well, one thing had not changed in the least-he still smelled enticing, and his warm, solid form against her still caused heat to kindle inside her. She inhaled deeply, and just barely resisted the urge to taste his skin; later, she would have the chance, she hoped. “Christopher,” she breathed.
“I’m sorry, Eve,” he said. “I never should have left you, I never should have stayed away that long, I should have sent the letter, I never should have doubted you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have doubted me,” she said. “And now, you should stop apologizing and kiss me.”
“Oh, do you think I should?” Christopher said, grinning even as he cupped her face in his hands and slanted his head. He pulled her in for a long, slow kiss, his lips parting to allow his tongue to drag over the seam of her lips, and she opened them, eager to taste him as she hadn’t for nine years. As her tongue met his, he made a sound in the back of her throat and reached up to remove her shawl and bonnet. Breaking the kiss, he unbuttoned her gloves with surprising dexterity and discarded them next to the shawl and bonnet, tracing her fingers with his.
She turned her hand over and returned the motion, finding all the calluses on his hands from riding, fencing, writing, and new ones, apparently from whatever he’d done in the army. She found a scar on the back of his left hand that hadn’t been there before, and kissed it-she’d ask how he got it later, but there were more important things to do at the moment.
He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch of her mouth on his skin, and she touched her tongue lightly to the pad of one finger. As he made a sound she could only describe as a ‘whimper,’ his free hand tangled in her hair, searching for the pins. She sucked the tip of his finger, lightly, and his fingers fumbled in her hair. Looking up at him, her cheeks hollowed out, she saw that his eyes were wide and dark with desire.
“I’d forgotten,” he whispered. “How could I forget this?”
She let his finger slip out of her mouth in order to say, “It has been a long time,” with a raised eyebrow.
“Never again,” he promised, and she chuckled before throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her breasts to the solid wall of his chest.
Eve kissed him again, stroking her tongue just inside his lower lip, and he shuddered. “You remember, don’t you?”
“I remember it all,” she said, tracing a line down the side of his neck, below his ear, and unraveling his cravat with ease. She kissed the exposed skin of his throat and spread his collar wide. His breathing was unsteady under her hands already, and they had so much farther to go.
But perhaps not on the floor of his library. “Christopher,” she said, and stopped. Asking to retire to his chambers was a little beyond her nerve.
Fortunately, he was on the same page. “Shall we go upstairs, my love?” he said, a finger trailing along her jaw.
“Yes,” she said, and stood, one hand on the chair as she resettled her skirts. Christopher stood as well, albeit not as gracefully. “Are you in pain?” she asked.
He thought about lying to her, she could tell, but didn’t. “Yes,” he said. “It’s rare that I am not. I don’t believe it’ll affect us, though.”
“You don’t know?” she couldn’t help but ask.
He smiled. “No.”
“Were you faithful?” she asked in disbelief.
“Since the injury, yes. Prior-no,” he admitted. “But it was infrequent and I always took great care.”
She tilted her head and looked at him. “Well, that’s good. I would not marry a man who would give me the French Pox.”
“Eve!” he said, scandalized.
“You have always appreciated my practicality, Christopher,” she said, and held out a hand.
“I have,” he said, taking her hand and pressing her fingers briefly. “You did answer a question I had not yet asked.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” she said anyway. “Now that we’ve determined that you are not going to give me the French Pox and that we will, of course, be married, what shall we do now?”
Christopher smiled warmly and held out his arm; she took it, and they proceeded upstairs to his bedroom. Once inside, he lit candles beside the bed before asking, “What else do you remember?”
She turned to him, slid his cravat off his neck, and said, “I remember how much you enjoyed helping me undress.” Her tone was a blatant invitation.
“Yes,” he said, and turned her slowly. Eve closed her eyes as she felt him start at the top of the long row of buttons up the back of her gown. His fingers stroked her skin through the thin cloth of her chemise and she shivered. When he finished with the buttons, he pushed the black cloth off her shoulders and she shifted to help it fall to the floor. Pushing it aside with the toe of one shoe, she turned to face him. He smiled again and reached up to remove the rest of her hairpins. Her hair tumbled past her shoulders, straight and thick and dark brown, and he brushed it back from her neck before pulling on the ribbon that tied at the neck of her chemise. She helped him push the delicate fabric down her body, and watched his face as he saw her nude for the first time in nine years.
Eve experienced an uncharacteristic moment of self-consciousness; she was not nineteen anymore and time had wrought changes on her body that might perhaps not be to his liking. However, the wonder, amazement, and arousal writ plainly on her face disabused her of that notion in short order, and she reached out to touch his cheek.
“I love you,” he said, turning his face to place a kiss in the palm of her hand. “You are more beautiful now than you ever have been, and you cannot grow but more beautiful to me.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I would return the compliment, but you are still fully dressed.” She looked at him significantly.
Rather than removing his jacket, he sat on the edge of the bed, his face hardening. “Eve, I have been a soldier for nine years, and I fear that the years have not been as kind to me as they were to you.”
“Nonsense,” she said briskly, masking the concern she felt. “Are you still Christopher?”
“I am,” he said, with a puzzled look.
“Then you could have a thousand scars and I would still find you attractive.” She slid her fingers along his chest, under his jacket. “Please. Show me.”
He stood, slowly, and wrestled off his jacket. Next he untied the laces at his cuffs and placket, and flipped his shirt over his head. While he unbuttoned his trousers and skinned them and his linens down his legs, Eve untied her garters and quickly removed them and her stockings and shoes. A minute later he was nude, watching for her reaction hesitantly.
He was, as she’d noted before, broader through the chest than he’d been before; but his body was still lean and muscled, and while she counted five separate bullet scars, it was the one on his right hip that interested her the most. She placed a hand on his left hip and turned him to the side, to see the scar that left a shiny line, curving from the top of his hip around to his buttocks.
“The scars make you look heroic,” she said, “although I wish this one did not cause you pain.” She touched the scar in question.
He gave a short bark of laughter. “I am no hero. I spent most of the battle captured, behind enemy lines, and Kirk-Riverside had to carry me to safety.”
“It does not signify,” she said. “You were there, and you came home alive. You came home to me, alive.” She pulled back the covers on the bed and lay down on the mattress. “I’ve forgotten what comes next,” she said, although she had not in the least. Next he would put his hands on her bare skin. “Remind me?”
His smile said that he saw through her ruse, but he joined her in the bed, lying on his left side, facing her. “You don’t remember this?” he asked, stroking her shoulder. “Or this?” His hand closed over her breast, kneading gently.
She gasped. “Maybe-somewhat.”
“Perhaps this will spark your memory, then.” He rolled her onto her back; she went gladly, and panted shallowly as he carefully placed a knee between hers and lowered his mouth to her collarbone.
“Christopher,” she said, her voice breaking. She threaded her fingers through his hair, dragged her nails lightly down his neck and shoulders-that, she remembered as well, and he still quaked-and hooked her heel around the back of his thigh. “Oh, Christopher.”
“Number One,” he whispered against her skin, as he ran a thumb over her nipple before sealing his mouth on it.
Oh, she remembered that, but not the intensity of his mouth pulling at her flesh. She cried out, and felt him smile even as he kept up the suction. After a few moments it became too much, and she pulled him up for a kiss. He returned it enthusiastically before returning his attention to her body, to her other breast, which was already peaked in anticipation. His tongue rasped against the peak, and she strained against the mattress.
When the sensations threatened to overwhelm her this time, she hauled him up to eye level, and then pressed him onto his back. He rolled easily, although he kept her pulled against him, so she ended up straddling him, his erection pressed to her most sensitive spot. She closed her eyes and shuddered.
“Eve? Are you all right?” he asked, his low, sensuous tone at odds with the concern in his words.
“I’m fine,” she said, looking down at him. “More than fine, actually.” He’d never-well, they’d never-she’d never felt that particular part of him against that particular part of her, but she was certainly aware of the mechanics and had definitely intended to reach this point that night. “How are you?” she asked, and shifted her weight slightly.
He moaned, and she did it again, more deliberately this time. “If you keep that up,” he said, his voice rough, “I shall be more than fine rather sooner than I’d planned.”
“What did you have planned?” The sensation of him throbbing beneath her was affecting her more than she’d initially thought.
“I thought-perhaps-I’d taste you.” He gasped, and she echoed the sound. He’d only put his mouth-down there-on her once before, the night before he’d left, and it had fueled more than one fantasy of hers over the years. When she was willing to think about him, that was. “And then-you could-touch me?”
“Oh, no,” she said, and sat up, her hands tracing long strokes over the flat of his chest down to his abdomen. “Not tonight.” She thought perhaps she saw the glint of silver in his chest hair, and inexplicably, it aroused her more.
“No?” he said, disappointment on his face.
“No,” she said, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “I thought perhaps we’d try what you would describe to me while you touched me, nine years ago.”
“Evie,” he said. His eyes were wide. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. We are getting married, right?”
He nodded vigorously.
“Then, if you have no more objections. . . .” She wriggled again, and his hands went to her hips, to still her.
“No more objections,” he said, and rolled her back beneath him, with a slight wince she chose to ignore this time. He kissed her, tongues tangling, and then kissed a trail down her neck, between her breasts, over her navel, down to the hair covering her feminine mound, and quickly over the insides of her thighs before parting her with his fingers and tracing a circle with his tongue.
“Oh!” She arched her back, moaning. It was hotter, wetter, and significantly better than she remembered, even in her most explicit fantasies. Christopher explored her thoroughly with his mouth, sliding his tongue even down to her entrance before sucking at just the right spot to send flares through her body. She felt herself begin the familiar climb as he slid a finger, carefully, inside her, as he never had before. The new sensation surprised her with how much she enjoyed it, and she canted her hips against his mouth and hand as he pressed inside her and sucked harder until she saw stars behind her eyelids and cried out his name.
He moved up the bed to hold her as she shook with passion, stroking her hair for long moments as she relearned how to breathe. When she recalled herself, she realized that he was murmuring in her ear, how much he loved her, how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her. She smiled, and turned her head to capture his lips. “I love you too,” she said a minute later.
The smile on his face when she said that was so surprised and delighted that she said it again. “I love you.” He bundled her into his arms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “As lovely as this is,” she said against his neck, “I don’t believe we’re finished.”
“No,” he breathed. “No, we are not.” He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes made her shudder and clench. Releasing her onto her back, he swept a hand down her body until it was between her legs, and used his fingers to spread the moisture he found there. She splayed her knees encouragingly, and he groaned.
“Is this going to work?” she asked, remembering his injury.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but I’d very much like to try.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Please.”
He groaned again, and covered her body with his, fitting his hips between her thighs, and pressing himself to her again. “This may hurt,” he warned.
“I know,” she said. “I am not entirely ignorant. Please, Christopher.”
He closed his eyes, a pained look on his face, and slid inside her, just barely. She felt the stretch and a sigh fell out of her. “Tell me if it’s too much?”
“Yes,” she said, and lifted her ankles up behind his knees.
He slid in an inch further, and she took a deep breath, trying to relax tense muscles. “It’ll hurt less next time,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I trust you.”
He closed his eyes, buried his face in her shoulder, and thrust in, slowly, another inch or so. “Lift your legs further?” he suggested, and she did. Some of the pressure lessened, and he eased in slightly further. “I love you,” he said, and pushed in the rest of the way.
Oh. That hurt. A bit. Not a lot. She squirmed, and he looked at her. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I love you,” she said. “There is no need to be sorry. I am yours now.”
Christopher lowered himself to his forearms, and cupped her head with his hands. “Yes, you are,” he said, voice gravelly, and took her mouth, kissing her witless.
Slowly, so very slowly, he withdrew, and she gasped. He searched her face, and apparently got the answer he wanted, because he pressed inside her once again, still slowly, and then pulled out again. He kept the slow, steady rhythm until she said “Christopher” on a broken sob. It seemed to be enough for him, because he sped up, thrusting into her, sweat slicking his brow. It had long since ceased hurting, or perhaps the pain had become just one more sensation in her oversensitized body, and she twisted her head from side to side, searching for a completion she was not sure she could achieve.
“Christopher,” she said, again. “Oh, Christopher.”
“Eve,” he said, and used one hand to adjust her hips, changing the angle. He renewed his thrusts, and the new angle aligned their bodies such that--oh--Eve felt herself rising, and rising, and hurling off the cliff for the second time that night.
Dimly, through the haze, she felt him bury himself inside her one final time and achieve his completion, her name on his lips as he fell.
Long moments later, she raised her head. “Did that hurt you?”
He sighed, and kissed her shoulder before answering. “Yes, but not enough to halt my performance.”
“I am sorry,” she said, and unwound her legs.
He withdrew, eliciting a gasp from her, and collapsed by her right side. “It is of no consequence. I should do my strengthening exercises more regularly, it seems.” Sitting up briefly, he pulled the bedcovers over them.
She leaned over and kissed him on the nose. “We have time to practice.”
“That we do, my love.” He turned her to face away from him and pulled her against his body, and she curved to fit. “Are you in pain?” he asked, running a hand lightly over her hip.
Eve shook her head. “I am perhaps a little sore, but no true pain.”
He buried his face in the back of her neck. “I wish it did not have to be so.”
“No matter,” she said, and yawned.
He kissed her shoulder blade and shifted the bedsheet under his arm.
“I always was yours,” she said, a sleepy admission, a few minutes later.
“And I yours,” he replied. “Sleep, my love. I’ll wake you and escort you home well before dawn.”
“Thank you,” she said, even as sleep sucked her down its dark well. He chuckled, and tightened his arm around her.
Chapter 7 | Master Post