Ack.
She was waiting for him, just like she was every night when he stumbled back to his silent and deserted house. Sometimes she waited for him in the library, a small fire lit in the fireplace casting the only light in the room. Other nights, like this one, she met him at the front door, the house behind her dark and desolate.
Tonight it was probably best that she opened the door before he had even managed to stagger up the steps from the front drive. Getting the door open was probably beyond his motor skills by that point.
He was worse than he was most nights, she knew that right away. Even in the dim moonlight she could tell that he had apparently fallen down in the muddy streets several times. When he finally lifted his head from concentrating on navigating the steps, she saw the wet lines that tears had streaked down his face.
She didn’t say anything. He never wanted words. Cold, dead words did nothing. After all, Port Royal was small enough that she already knew enough: the governor’s daughter, the hurricane, his resignation and disappearance, and then his reappearance just a month ago. Or more correctly, the reappearance of a filthy, tattered, bitter shell of the man he had once been. He must have had something or some information of great value to Lord Beckett, because he was almost immediately bestowed with the rank of Admiral. But she had realized early on in their first night that no amount of fine wool broadcloth or gold braid could conceal the strange, desperate, feral look in his green eyes.
Tonight that look was particularly clear. Some in Port Royal whispered that he had gone mad after the hurricane, and for once she actually considered it. She helped him into the front hall, closing the door behind. He leaned heavily on her, though she was much smaller than he, and she started trying to remove his mud-covered uniform. She slid his frock coat, heavy with gold buttons and mud, off his shoulders and her small fingers began working the buttons on his waistcoat.
As she was trying to get him out of his sodden clothing, he was already bent on what he always wanted, and she never denied. His hands, large and clumsy with liquor, were moving over her body. He pushed aside her neckerchief and his mouth found the tops of her breasts where they were exposed by the neckline of her gown.
“All dead…all dead…” His voice rumbled repeatedly against her flesh. She tried to catch his eye, tried to understand what he was talking about, but his lips and teeth and tongue kept moving over her skin, and he refused to look up at her. He didn’t normally speak; something must have happened to push him even farther: more alcohol, more desperation, more urgency…more need.
Her fingers picked at the pins that held his wig in place. She tossed it aside and ran her fingers through his own dark hair, trying to sooth his desperate trembling.
The minute he had a chance, he had her pressed back against the wooden door, his knee between her legs. In the dim light of the front hall he couldn’t make out any specifics of her; he never could. Only dark hair and large dark eyes, full breasts and round hips. But what she really looked like didn’t matter; all that mattered was that she wasn’t her.
She managed to slide away a bit and drew him toward the second floor.
He stumbled repeatedly on the stairs and tried several times to corner her in the dark against a wall. Her skirts swiped the dust of disuse off hall tables, the impact of two bodies colliding with the wall causing moldering paintings to rattle. There were no servants to disturb; he had never bothered to rehire a staff after he had returned. She knew he seemed particularly desperate tonight, but she needed to at least get him as far as his bed.
When they were finally in his bedchamber he wasted no time pressing her down on the bed, hands desperately grabbing and pushing at layers of skirts. He was shoving her knees apart, his erection pressing against her thigh. Her fingers found the buttons on his breeches, ghosting over him and making his hips buck against her hands before plucking them open.
Flesh met flesh and he was inside of her. His thrusts came hard, as they always did. She rocked her hips to meet him, giving him as much access as she could. His hands wrapped around her upper arms, pulling her toward him while also clinging as if she were his only lifeline.
His thrusting became erratic, the alcohol coursing through his veins pushing him quickly toward completion. He never bothered with her pleasure, and she never expected him to. It was only about his frantic attempts to find a few moments of oblivion.
“Elizabeth!”
Always the same name on his lips as he threw his head back and came inside of her. Tonight, she wondered if his Elizabeth was among the dead.
He collapsed into her arms, the tears coming silently again. She felt the wetness against her chest as she stroked his back in slow circles. He didn’t look at her, and she simply stared up at the ceiling, arms around the broken man, waiting for his heart to stop racing.
He finally stilled, and she waited until his breathing had become slow and even before she slid off the bed. She smoothed the skirts of her plain grey gown and straightened her neckerchief as best she could, pushing stray locks of hair back into her simple coil. On silent feet, she collected his scattered clothing from the front hall, brushing the drying mud from his frock coat and collecting the pins from his wig. Everything would be awaiting him when he woke in the morning, neatly folded and arranged on a chair beside his bed.
The only noise she made was the small click of the front door shutting behind her.
Tonight it was probably best that she opened the door before he had even managed to stagger up the steps from the front drive. Getting the door open was probably beyond his motor skills by that point.
He was worse than he was most nights, she knew that right away. Even in the dim moonlight she could tell that he had apparently fallen down in the muddy streets several times. When he finally lifted his head from concentrating on navigating the steps, she saw the wet lines that tears had streaked down his face.
She didn’t say anything. He never wanted words. Cold, dead words did nothing. After all, Port Royal was small enough that she already knew enough: the governor’s daughter, the hurricane, his resignation and disappearance, and then his reappearance just a month ago. Or more correctly, the reappearance of a filthy, tattered, bitter shell of the man he had once been. He must have had something or some information of great value to Lord Beckett, because he was almost immediately bestowed with the rank of Admiral. But she had realized early on in their first night that no amount of fine wool broadcloth or gold braid could conceal the strange, desperate, feral look in his green eyes.
Tonight that look was particularly clear. Some in Port Royal whispered that he had gone mad after the hurricane, and for once she actually considered it. She helped him into the front hall, closing the door behind. He leaned heavily on her, though she was much smaller than he, and she started trying to remove his mud-covered uniform. She slid his frock coat, heavy with gold buttons and mud, off his shoulders and her small fingers began working the buttons on his waistcoat.
As she was trying to get him out of his sodden clothing, he was already bent on what he always wanted, and she never denied. His hands, large and clumsy with liquor, were moving over her body. He pushed aside her neckerchief and his mouth found the tops of her breasts where they were exposed by the neckline of her gown.
“All dead…all dead…” His voice rumbled repeatedly against her flesh. She tried to catch his eye, tried to understand what he was talking about, but his lips and teeth and tongue kept moving over her skin, and he refused to look up at her. He didn’t normally speak; something must have happened to push him even farther: more alcohol, more desperation, more urgency…more need.
Her fingers picked at the pins that held his wig in place. She tossed it aside and ran her fingers through his own dark hair, trying to sooth his desperate trembling.
The minute he had a chance, he had her pressed back against the wooden door, his knee between her legs. In the dim light of the front hall he couldn’t make out any specifics of her; he never could. Only dark hair and large dark eyes, full breasts and round hips. But what she really looked like didn’t matter; all that mattered was that she wasn’t her.
She managed to slide away a bit and drew him toward the second floor.
He stumbled repeatedly on the stairs and tried several times to corner her in the dark against a wall. Her skirts swiped the dust of disuse off hall tables, the impact of two bodies colliding with the wall causing moldering paintings to rattle. There were no servants to disturb; he had never bothered to rehire a staff after he had returned. She knew he seemed particularly desperate tonight, but she needed to at least get him as far as his bed.
When they were finally in his bedchamber he wasted no time pressing her down on the bed, hands desperately grabbing and pushing at layers of skirts. He was shoving her knees apart, his erection pressing against her thigh. Her fingers found the buttons on his breeches, ghosting over him and making his hips buck against her hands before plucking them open.
Flesh met flesh and he was inside of her. His thrusts came hard, as they always did. She rocked her hips to meet him, giving him as much access as she could. His hands wrapped around her upper arms, pulling her toward him while also clinging as if she were his only lifeline.
His thrusting became erratic, the alcohol coursing through his veins pushing him quickly toward completion. He never bothered with her pleasure, and she never expected him to. It was only about his frantic attempts to find a few moments of oblivion.
“Elizabeth!”
Always the same name on his lips as he threw his head back and came inside of her. Tonight, she wondered if his Elizabeth was among the dead.
He collapsed into her arms, the tears coming silently again. She felt the wetness against her chest as she stroked his back in slow circles. He didn’t look at her, and she simply stared up at the ceiling, arms around the broken man, waiting for his heart to stop racing.
He finally stilled, and she waited until his breathing had become slow and even before she slid off the bed. She smoothed the skirts of her plain grey gown and straightened her neckerchief as best she could, pushing stray locks of hair back into her simple coil. On silent feet, she collected his scattered clothing from the front hall, brushing the drying mud from his frock coat and collecting the pins from his wig. Everything would be awaiting him when he woke in the morning, neatly folded and arranged on a chair beside his bed.
The only noise she made was the small click of the front door shutting behind her.