Collab Fic!
Title: Guilty Pleasures aka Thalia and Lils just wanted them to shag, dammit!
Authors Thalia and Lils. EBIL overladies, at your service.
Rating: R. The line for Nerdslut Smut forms here. Please don't cut in line.
Disclaimer: Not ours. We had a whole lot of fun playing with them, though.
Thalia's Author Note's: It was inevitable that we would co-write something all t00by and romance-novel-y for the nerdsluts. Irish Zoi has taken over the world my brain. Oh, and this is about as smutty as I'm ever likely to get. Whee.
Lilian's Author Note's: Because bodice-rippers have eaten my muse. All I could think about was heaving bossoms and chiseled chests, and Thalia said one night 'well, let's go at it then. Let's have the nerdsluts doing the campy-romance novel thing'. That, and Thalia's Irish!Zoi is just too delicious to pass up. Behold, this fic was born. :-)
The night was frigid, and the cold bit at her exposed arms as she ran out into the darkness. Her shawl forgotten in the chair by the fire, she felt nothing but the tears running down her cheeks, the blood pumping in her head as she groped blindly in the dark.
‘How dare they?’ kept repeating a voice inside of her, ‘how could they?’
The moon hid behind the winter clouds, its round shape barely visible up in the sky. She did not care. She knew exactly where she was going: to the same place she went whenever she felt overwhelmed. To the same place she had gone when her mother had died not four years ago.
To him.
There was light inside the stables, as she knew there would be. Zephan Delaney would always take extra time to look after the horses in his care, staying up deep into the night just to make sure they were settled in. He would spend hours brushing their manes, singing them Irish lullabies in that strange language of his, and the horses sought him as much as he did them. Ava could not count the number of times she had sought comfort with Zephan, but she did know one thing: he had always been there for her. And now, her heart breaking at the thought of her future, she needed him more than ever before.
Ava Millbrook had known Zephan Delaney since she was a little girl. It had been her mother's charitable impulse, on a journey to Ireland, that had brought him over to Inverleigh House. She had been all of seven years old then, learning to ride a pony, and terrified breathless of the idea.
It had been the sight of an orphaned boy with a shock of unruly strawberry-blond curls whispering to her pony in a strange, mellifluous tongue as he stroked its velvety ears that had finally gotten rid of her fears. She'd walked quietly up to him and asked him his name, he'd told her, and from then on, they were fast friends.
Of course, that was ten years ago, and what they could do then wasn't quite the same as now. He never called her anything but Miss Millbrook when there was anyone else around, and in some ways, Ava wished that things could always have remained as simple as ten years ago.
She was out of breath by the time she felt hay crackling under her dainty slippers, but the sight of him standing here took the rest of it away.
He was tall, or maybe she was just that small: as it was, he stood by Lord Charrington’s horse - it had to be, because she did not recognize it - and his shoulder brushed the stallion’s neck as he moved. He wore the ragged clothes of a stable boy, but he carried himself with such dignity that many people often overlooked his real status. Ava had once asked him about his past, whether he remembered anything from his life before coming to Inverleigh House-he had simply shrugged and shaken his head.
“This is my home now, lass. Let the past rest in peace.”
His voice was one of the things that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. That thick, accented voice, rough after hours spent in the country taming a wild horse, or low and warm as he sung an old ballad by firelight. He had chased many of her demons away with that voice, and it was that comfort she now sought.
She made no sound as she entered the stable, but he knew she was there all the same. Turning his head to watch her, he sent her that secret smile, the one he carefully hid from anyone else but her, and said: “What are you doing here, my lady? It is a cold night to be outside.”
Ava brushed her arms, but the shivers running up and down her spine were not because of the low temperatures. It was grief that seeped into her bones, at the news that had just been delivered to her. She was to be married in a couple of months' time, to a man she barely knew. As if that wasn’t insult enough, not only was she supposed to share her life - and her bed - with a complete stranger, but she was also to leave her home, her family, her friends to go live with her husband-to-be. And that was what had brought her out tonight.
She would have to leave Zephan behind. And that more than anything, was tearing her up inside.
Of course, she knew all of the reasons for it, but none of that was fair, either. It was not fair that she should have to shoulder the burden of a father's gaming habits, made worse after her mother's death, by marrying into money. It was not fair that she knew nothing about Lord Gregory Charrington except for the fact that he was her father's friend (and about her father's age), and that he had houses and estates stretching from Cornwall to Sussex.
Even her parents had been in love when they married.
Her breath hitched as she watched Zephan brush out the mane of the huge chestnut gelding, its saddle and bridle elaborately fashioned. "Just a stable boy," her father had told her back when she was twelve, when he'd seen her kiss Zephan on the cheek, childishly ignorant of what was appropriate behaviour between different classes. But really, he was so much more... and Lord Charrington with all his money and all his houses could never be to her what Zephan was. Not that she had ever voiced any of that.
Zephan finished brushing out the tangles in the gelding's mane and approached her, his green eyes alit with concern as he rested his lean, calloused hands on her shoulders. She shivered slightly at the touch, and more at his soft, accented words.
"What saddens ye, lass? Such bonny eyes should hold laughter, nae tears."
She stared up at him, reaching up a slender, white hand to rest over his larger, browner one. "Do you know whose horse that is?"
He blinked; she had clearly surprised him. He turned his head, eyeing the proud, cocoa-colored stallion and shrugged. “Lord Charrington, aye? He’s the only visitor we have tonight.”
A strange feeling blossomed in her chest, anger and despair and desire all mixed into one. How could he just stand there, watching her with those mint-green eyes, and feel nothing? Couldn’t he hear the thunderous beating of her heart? Didn’t he feel the shiver running up and down her spine, a delicious tremor brought on by his touch?
Pushing away from him, she fought to control her wayward emotions, but they spilled forth against her will, treacherous words echoing her pain: “And are you aware I am to become Lady Charrington in less than three months?”
So intent was her focus on his face that she caught the quick flash of pain, smothered so fast she would have missed it otherwise. As it was, she saw the tightening of his eyes and when he spoke, she knew it was not what he really wanted to say: “It is a fine match your father has arranged for you, lass. You should be happy.”
Frustration surged within her. Why couldn’t he just say it? She knew it, he knew it, they both knew it: why did he insist in hiding behind polite words and distant remarks? Why now, when there was no one around to see how he truly was? She needed a friend, damn it, not a lackey.
Whoever Lord Charrington was, whatever reputation he had, she did not love him. But she loved Zephan, she knew that much. She could feel it in the way her heart still fluttered after his touch, in the softening of her voice when she spoke of him.
But she was a lady, and he was a stable boy, and such relationships were frowned upon all over the world. She knew there was no way for them to marry, but dear God, they were to part ways forever in three months, and all he could do was stand there and congratulate her on her betrothal?
"You don't truly think that," she said softly, almost accusingly. But what was the use? No one had exactly asked her about her opinions on this match, and here they were. All Lord Charrington had to do was look at her with a bit of a leer and remark to her father that she'd grown up to be quite a pretty girl, and it was settled. Her hands clenched, nails digging into palms.
"It dinnae matter what I think," he whispered, sighing quietly, turning his face back towards the horse.
"It matters to ME," she retorted, stalking up to him and reaching up, turning his face with her fingers so that they were eye to eye. The emotion that he'd kept hidden so well from his words was apparent in his eyes, and it brought the tears that she'd kept at bay to the surface. Two drops slid down her cheeks. "I don't love him. He doesn't love me. I'm nothing more than a passably pretty brood mare, a trophy wife."
His hands, which had come to rest upon her waist, convulsed in anger at that. His voice dropped a few octaves and his eyes came to life like stars in the night: “You are many things, lass, but passable has never been one of them.”
Taken back by the force of his words, she said nothing, and just held on to his face. Slowly, almost as if completely unawares that he was doing it, he drew her closer, the swish-swish of her skirts like whispers in the wind. “I don’t think you could ever be a trophy wife, either.”
Ava held her breath. Ever mindful of propriety, he had always kept his distance, always touched but never lingered-but now, the weight of his hands on her waist was spreading warm fire all over her skin, and he was close enough that she could see speckles of gold in his irises.
“Zephan,” she whispered, whether asking him to continue or begging him to stop she did not know. His name seemed to break some age-old barrier, release some caged beast, because he took her in his arms, closed that last inch of air between them and kissed her.
Now, Ava had never been kissed like this before. Her mother had given her goodnight kisses when she was little, and her father had once kissed her cheek at her debutante ball.
But Zephan-he wasn’t just kissing her, he was claiming her. His lips were molten fire, stealing breath and thought and will from her, and she lost herself in his kiss, threw caution to the wind and answered with passion of her own.
A sound escaped her, one of desire and awe, as his tongue gently asked for entrance. She opened up to him, like a flower under the sun, and he ravaged her thoroughly, like a starving man who has stumbled upon a delicious feast.
She was small enough that he had to bend down to reach her, so when he softly pushed her back against the stable wall, she wasn’t surprised. She found the leverage she needed and lifted herself against him, feeling every inch of him pressed against her like a burning sun.
There had been dreams, Ava mused, sweaty nights and frustrating dawns as her innocent mind tried to put into words what her body desired. But she hadn’t know, she hadn’t known at all that one could be consumed like this, that one could melt into the arms of another and never again emerge whole.
He whispered her name over and over again, against the soft skin of her eyelids and the supple slope of her cheek. Lost amidst the Gaelic endearments, her name sounded exotic and tempting, like a forbidden fruit he had been denied until now.
"We shouldna be doin' this," he murmured against her neck, holding her close enough to feel her body vibrate under his touch. "Ava... a ghrá mo chroí..." She raised up on tiptoe, her arms around his neck, fingers tracing through his hair, brushing against his nape.
"What does that mean?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes lustrous as she kissed whatever skin she could reach.
"Love of my heart," his voice was muffled against her hair, but she understood him perfectly, and the endearment sent her heart soaring. Quite suddenly, she knew that she'd never be Lady Charrington.
"Yes, yours," she said softly, caressing his face. "Always." Propriety be damned.
"Ye canna say things like that," he suddenly said sternly, and for a moment, she quailed under his heated gaze. "You're to be married to another man."
But the moment of fear left as quickly as it had come, and in that moment, Ava made her decision. Cupping his face with gentle hands, her eyes were soft and loving as they gazed into his. "I'll never be any but yours," she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. "I've loved you since you made me unafraid."
Anything else she might have said was swallowed by his mouth as he crushed his lips to hers. This wasn't proper-- this was quite past the point of scandalous, even-- but she didn't think of consequences as her fingers found the bottom hem of his shirt and yanked it out of his breeches, shivering as she felt warm flesh under her fingertips. He growled, mouth trailing towards her neck and nipping lightly. Almost subconsciously, she pressed closer to his body, her skin flaring and tingling at their proximity.
As if mirroring her motions, his hands moved down, trailing her skirts up and up until her naked leg brushed against his thigh. She should feel-exposed, vulnerable, afraid-instead, the feel of the chilling night air on her naked skin fueled the flames of her passion even further.
With an instinct she did not know she possessed, she found herself dragging her leg up his body, an intimate dance she had never practiced before but found deeply addictive nonetheless.
He paused, ragged breaths puffing against her ear, and she froze as well. Had she done something wrong? A blush so intense she was certain he could feel it burning colored her cheeks, and she hid her face in his neck.
“We shouldna be doin' this,” he repeated, and yet made no move whatsoever to pull away. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her mind from the lustful haze that prevented her from thinking straight
Feeling faint tremors running through his body, knowing he was teetering on the edge of control, made pure, feminine pride run through her. That she could have such an effect on him was exhilarating… but, as the evidence now pressing against her lower stomach was attesting, if he was just as happy to be there as she was, why did he stop?
And then she knew. She knew because he wasn’t doing anything: he was just standing there, reigning himself in, giving her one last chance to say ‘no’. One last opening, in case she had changed her mind. “Silly Zephan,” she said, caressing his hair and feeling it break free of its ponytail, “don’t you know I’ve been wanting this for a long, long time?”
He was the one burying his face on her shoulder now, a sound half-grunt half-growl leaving his lips. “Not as long as I,” was the last thing she caught before he captured her mouth in another searing kiss.
Releasing one of his hands from her waist, he moved it up, brushing the underside of her breasts. Even through the layers of clothing still between them, Ava shuddered, emitting a small moan of delight.
“Do that again”, she told him, and he complied, his other hand also coming up. Butterfly touches, bare brushes of his fingers against the thick dress she wore, and still she arched against him, seeking more. Through half-lidded eyes, Ava looked at Zephan’s face and there was such a look on his eyes it brought another moan from her lips.
Possessive, intense, burning-for her, all for her.
Somehow, she managed to work her fingers through the openings of his shirt between the buttons, caressing his skin and feeling his heartbeat underneath her fingertips before she pulled them loose and worked open the top button. This was shameless--wanton-- and yet, all she felt was anticipation. Unconsciously, she traced the tip of her tongue over her kiss-swollen lips.
And then she barely had time to undo another button before he'd tugged loose the bow at the back of her dress, fabric crumpling around her arms and shoulders. She shivered as the night air hit her skin, and pressed herself closer to him, curling her body into his like a puzzle piece... but he held her at arm's length, his eyes darkening as he surveyed her in the dim light of the stable.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph... you're so lovely," he murmured, his fingertips light and wondering on the bare slope of her shoulders, thumb brushing over her collarbone. She felt herself flushing at his comment, heat rising from her chest into her face.
"I'm glad you think so," she said a bit awkwardly. "I want to be... for you."
"Ye dinnae need to want, love," he murmured, moving her hair aside to press his lips to the soft skin of her shoulder. "Ye already are."
The tenderness of his touch, the rough scrape of his shirt against her skin... it enflamed something within her, something that had lain dormant until tonight, and she blindly sought out the rest of the buttons on his shirt with her hands.
They fell open with bare flicks of her fingers, almost as anxious as she was to expose his chest. She had seen him shirtless before-England or no England, it got sweltering hot during the summer months, and most stable boys would divest of their shirts as the day crawled by.
She had admired the hard planes of his back, the slope of his shoulder blades and the glorious fall of his hair. Untamed and unkempt, it would slip free of its bindings and caress his back, and on those days, she would dream of him again.
But for all of its beauty, all of her sightings had been from far away- cloistered away at the family’s gazebo under the watchful eye of her chaperone, she had wistfully looked for him among the stable folk, heart skipping a beat when she saw the fall of coppery-blonde hair.
Now, she realized with a sigh of delight, she could stare at if at her heart’s content. Up close and personal, even, and by the God’s how had she ever survived without this before? Her blue eyes darkened and she didn’t even realize she was staring until he whispered: “A man would die to have ye look at him like that.”
Ava blushed, but didn’t look away. No, she had been dreaming of this moment for a long, long time.
His fingers cupped her cheeks, tracing down the same paths as her earlier tears, thumb brushing across her full lower lip. She turned her face into his touch and kissed his palm, and he uttered an oath under his breath even as he suddenly hooked his arm under her knees and swept her up against his chest, her hand pressed to his heart. With a few quick strides, they were in his room-- small but snug, and he'd kicked the door shut behind both of them before setting her back down.
Reverently, he pressed his lips to her skin as it was exposed by shifting fabric and questing fingers, falling to his knees and taking the filmy dress that she wore with him. She should have felt ashamed, embarrassed... but there was none of that. She'd been his, in a way, since they were young.
His... the idea of belonging to him sent a slight shiver through her, racing down her spine all the way to her toes, and she sank to her knees as well, pressing her lips to his again.
“Please,” she uttered against his lips, although what she was asking for she did not know. She had no clear idea of what the act of lovemaking was supposed to be like. She had heard things, whispered secrets in the dark when her chaperone thought she was not listening. Even her mother, once, when she had been spying on the oh-so beautiful ladies that came to visit.
“Och, lass”, he said, his hands coming to cup her breasts and tweak her nipples with playful touches, “dinnae rush me. I wish to enjoy this as long as I can.” She arched against him, her body recognizing the ancient dance of love even if her mind did not. Following her cues, he bent down slightly, taking one aching peak into his mouth.
Ava stifled a cry of surprise at the sudden caress, eyes opening wide as heat erupted within her in response. He murmured Irish words against her skin, and even if she could not understand the language, she understood the feeling behind them.
And then it was a scramble of fingers and mouths and heated breath on skin, because they couldn't get close enough, and she was sure that she'd torn his breeches in her clumsy, frantic attempts to move it completely out of the way. When he finally, finally laid her down on the narrow cot, she reached for him, tracing his skin curiously with her fingertips, feeling muscles quivering under her touch, the heat and pulse of blood. His hair fell over his shoulder, sliding against her collarbone, and the simple brush of it was so sensual that it left her breathless. And when she skimmed her fingers over his thigh, his jaw clenched.
"Am I... am I hurting you?" she asked, worried.
"Nay," his voice was rough and strained. "You're perfect."
"That's not so," she blushed at the compliment, strangely bashful at his words despite her lack of embarrassment over this intimacy.
"Ye are... to me," he murmured, before grasping her wrist in his hand to guide her.
It was slightly painful at first, to be sure. She'd heard that it would be so... had expected it-- welcomed it from him. She had expected it to be pleasant, perhaps a bit awkward, but she hadn't expected that his movements would ignite nerves that had never been touched, send waves of heat all over her body. And when he buried his face in her neck, Gaelic endearments muffled against her sweaty skin, she felt her muscles clench around him, a shock of pleasure exploding in light and colour behind her eyelids.
She collapsed bonelessly on his chest afterwards, her fingertips tracing random patterns over his flesh.
They were silent for a while, the whinnies and snorts of the horses the only sound around them. Ava could hear Zephan’s heart, beating thunderously under her cheek where she rested upon his skin. Languidly, she looked up at him, even that tiny motion seeming to drain her of energy. She never knew one could feel so good…
He was looking at her with the strangest look in his eyes. Half-rapture, half-fear, half something she couldn’t quite name. A small frown clouded her features, and she tried to rise up, but he was faster and kept her tight against his body with a single press of his hands. “What are you thinking?” she ended up asking him, speaking in whispers even though there was no one around to hear them.
He said something in Gaelic, a word she did not know but one that held the same meaning in several languages. “I’m thinking I will die a happy man.” Blinking slowly, she tried to make sense of his words. Die? No one was going to die! Specially not him, and specially not now that she had finally understood what it truly meant to love him.
“What are you talking about?” There was an edge of fear to her voice, a sudden panic as rules and social status began to weight down on them.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, a sad smile lingering on his lips: “What do ye think your future husband will say when there is no blood on your wedding night, then? They know how ye feel about me, lass, and how I feel about you. They will come for me, lass, and ye know the fate of those who have wronged the gentry.”
Her frown turned deeper, and uncaring of state of undress, she rose against him to stare straight into his eyes. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
Zephan seemed taken back by her question, as if it was something he had never doubted at all. Flustered, he stumbled for words: “Ye must marry Lord Charrington, Ava-lass. Ye have been betrothed, and commitments like those are not easily broken.” Not noticing the effect he was having on her, he continued, his voice deepening as he contemplated a future without her: “He will no doubt demand a duel with the man who spoiled you, and your family will be only too happy to point me as the culprit. If I don’t fight him, he’ll kill me. If I do, and I win, I’ll have murdered a noble man and be hanged for it."
A deep breath, a soul-searing gaze, and he finished: “I will be dead either way, my love.”
"No, you'll NOT," she retorted, the words out of her mouth before she quite knew what she was saying... and when she realized, she didn't retract them. Why not? She gazed down at him with an expression that was almost stern. "I'll not let them."
"Sure and ye might not want to," he cupped her face in his hands. "But I'll die happily because in life, I had your love."
"And you'll have it yet," she said fiercely. A deep breath, which worked wonders to calm the butterflies that arose in her stomach at what she was going to say. "I'll never be Lady Charrington."
His face was so shocked that she would have laughed if she were in any mood for humour. "And if you thought that this was just the once..."
He swallowed, and Ava found herself distracted by the slight bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Was this how everyone felt after making love, this incredible attraction for every little nuance of your lover’s body?
Zephan shook his head, trying to reason with her: “Ye dinnae mean that, love. I am naught but a stable lad, I cannot offer ye riches and comforts. And this,” he gestured between them, encompassing their nudity, the press of their bodies, the discarded clothing, “this canna go on.”
She leaned towards him, forcing their eyes to lock onto each other. She wanted him to be staring deep into her soul when she said this, because truly, it was a confession of sorts. It was something she had been wanting to tell him for a long time, something she had whispered into her pillow at nights. Something she had never thought she would tell him at all.
“Listen to me, Zephan, and listen well: I will never be Lady Charrington.”
He opened his mouth to retort, to convince her perhaps, but she pressed her index finger against his lips, silencing him. “Now, Ava Delaney sounds much better, don’t you think?”
His face was suffused with shock then, and she laughed lightly, lovingly, even as her cheeks pinked. "I've been nothing at all proper about all of this," she whispered. "So I might as well continue with the lack of propriety now. It's not a lady's task to ask a man this sort of question, to be sure."
"Ye would leave everything behind like that for me?" he asked, gazing up at her in wonder. "For us? I canna give you the sort of life you deserve, lass."
"But you can give me something more than that-- your love," she went on bravely, sincerely. A part of her wasn't sure how to say it, was a little nervous... but she swallowed down the fear and cleared her throat. "I'll make do about everything else."
And then he understood, and even as a disbelieving smile started to cross his face, he enveloped her in a tight, possessive embrace. "It is a wonder that ye are, Ava," he whispered huskily against her shoulder. "And it'll take all my life to tell ye how much I love you."
"I'll not miss a moment of it," she nuzzled her face against his chest. "It was always meant to be you."
And so they spent the night murmuring love words to each other, making plans about their life to come. They knew her family would look for her - an unwed, betrothed daughter was a highly valued prize, after all - but Zephan was not worried: Lord Charrington was not well cared for in this part of the country, and people would not rush to his aid. Ava was fairly confident her father would not spend much time or money pursuing them: buried as he was under gambling bills, he would spare a dime for his runaway daughter.
They decided to flee England, escaping the clutches of their past, and make their way into Scotland. There, on the very first village they came upon, they were wedded by a jolly old pastor. Since there was no chapel to speak of - such a small town Gretna Green was - the ceremony was performed in the blacksmith’s shop. They promised themselves to each other among iron and steel, the fire of the forge burning high behind them, but they did not care.
They never did return Lord Charrington’s horse, taken from the stables that fateful morning as they emerged from the stables. Years later, their son would learn to ride on that very same horse, and their daughter would plead to hear the story of their love, on that special night so long ago.
It was a few months before Ava could enter a stable, though, without blushing crimson.
**
The End!
Authors Thalia and Lils. EBIL overladies, at your service.
Rating: R. The line for Nerdslut Smut forms here. Please don't cut in line.
Disclaimer: Not ours. We had a whole lot of fun playing with them, though.
Thalia's Author Note's: It was inevitable that we would co-write something all t00by and romance-novel-y for the nerdsluts. Irish Zoi has taken over the world my brain. Oh, and this is about as smutty as I'm ever likely to get. Whee.
Lilian's Author Note's: Because bodice-rippers have eaten my muse. All I could think about was heaving bossoms and chiseled chests, and Thalia said one night 'well, let's go at it then. Let's have the nerdsluts doing the campy-romance novel thing'. That, and Thalia's Irish!Zoi is just too delicious to pass up. Behold, this fic was born. :-)
The night was frigid, and the cold bit at her exposed arms as she ran out into the darkness. Her shawl forgotten in the chair by the fire, she felt nothing but the tears running down her cheeks, the blood pumping in her head as she groped blindly in the dark.
‘How dare they?’ kept repeating a voice inside of her, ‘how could they?’
The moon hid behind the winter clouds, its round shape barely visible up in the sky. She did not care. She knew exactly where she was going: to the same place she went whenever she felt overwhelmed. To the same place she had gone when her mother had died not four years ago.
To him.
There was light inside the stables, as she knew there would be. Zephan Delaney would always take extra time to look after the horses in his care, staying up deep into the night just to make sure they were settled in. He would spend hours brushing their manes, singing them Irish lullabies in that strange language of his, and the horses sought him as much as he did them. Ava could not count the number of times she had sought comfort with Zephan, but she did know one thing: he had always been there for her. And now, her heart breaking at the thought of her future, she needed him more than ever before.
Ava Millbrook had known Zephan Delaney since she was a little girl. It had been her mother's charitable impulse, on a journey to Ireland, that had brought him over to Inverleigh House. She had been all of seven years old then, learning to ride a pony, and terrified breathless of the idea.
It had been the sight of an orphaned boy with a shock of unruly strawberry-blond curls whispering to her pony in a strange, mellifluous tongue as he stroked its velvety ears that had finally gotten rid of her fears. She'd walked quietly up to him and asked him his name, he'd told her, and from then on, they were fast friends.
Of course, that was ten years ago, and what they could do then wasn't quite the same as now. He never called her anything but Miss Millbrook when there was anyone else around, and in some ways, Ava wished that things could always have remained as simple as ten years ago.
She was out of breath by the time she felt hay crackling under her dainty slippers, but the sight of him standing here took the rest of it away.
He was tall, or maybe she was just that small: as it was, he stood by Lord Charrington’s horse - it had to be, because she did not recognize it - and his shoulder brushed the stallion’s neck as he moved. He wore the ragged clothes of a stable boy, but he carried himself with such dignity that many people often overlooked his real status. Ava had once asked him about his past, whether he remembered anything from his life before coming to Inverleigh House-he had simply shrugged and shaken his head.
“This is my home now, lass. Let the past rest in peace.”
His voice was one of the things that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. That thick, accented voice, rough after hours spent in the country taming a wild horse, or low and warm as he sung an old ballad by firelight. He had chased many of her demons away with that voice, and it was that comfort she now sought.
She made no sound as she entered the stable, but he knew she was there all the same. Turning his head to watch her, he sent her that secret smile, the one he carefully hid from anyone else but her, and said: “What are you doing here, my lady? It is a cold night to be outside.”
Ava brushed her arms, but the shivers running up and down her spine were not because of the low temperatures. It was grief that seeped into her bones, at the news that had just been delivered to her. She was to be married in a couple of months' time, to a man she barely knew. As if that wasn’t insult enough, not only was she supposed to share her life - and her bed - with a complete stranger, but she was also to leave her home, her family, her friends to go live with her husband-to-be. And that was what had brought her out tonight.
She would have to leave Zephan behind. And that more than anything, was tearing her up inside.
Of course, she knew all of the reasons for it, but none of that was fair, either. It was not fair that she should have to shoulder the burden of a father's gaming habits, made worse after her mother's death, by marrying into money. It was not fair that she knew nothing about Lord Gregory Charrington except for the fact that he was her father's friend (and about her father's age), and that he had houses and estates stretching from Cornwall to Sussex.
Even her parents had been in love when they married.
Her breath hitched as she watched Zephan brush out the mane of the huge chestnut gelding, its saddle and bridle elaborately fashioned. "Just a stable boy," her father had told her back when she was twelve, when he'd seen her kiss Zephan on the cheek, childishly ignorant of what was appropriate behaviour between different classes. But really, he was so much more... and Lord Charrington with all his money and all his houses could never be to her what Zephan was. Not that she had ever voiced any of that.
Zephan finished brushing out the tangles in the gelding's mane and approached her, his green eyes alit with concern as he rested his lean, calloused hands on her shoulders. She shivered slightly at the touch, and more at his soft, accented words.
"What saddens ye, lass? Such bonny eyes should hold laughter, nae tears."
She stared up at him, reaching up a slender, white hand to rest over his larger, browner one. "Do you know whose horse that is?"
He blinked; she had clearly surprised him. He turned his head, eyeing the proud, cocoa-colored stallion and shrugged. “Lord Charrington, aye? He’s the only visitor we have tonight.”
A strange feeling blossomed in her chest, anger and despair and desire all mixed into one. How could he just stand there, watching her with those mint-green eyes, and feel nothing? Couldn’t he hear the thunderous beating of her heart? Didn’t he feel the shiver running up and down her spine, a delicious tremor brought on by his touch?
Pushing away from him, she fought to control her wayward emotions, but they spilled forth against her will, treacherous words echoing her pain: “And are you aware I am to become Lady Charrington in less than three months?”
So intent was her focus on his face that she caught the quick flash of pain, smothered so fast she would have missed it otherwise. As it was, she saw the tightening of his eyes and when he spoke, she knew it was not what he really wanted to say: “It is a fine match your father has arranged for you, lass. You should be happy.”
Frustration surged within her. Why couldn’t he just say it? She knew it, he knew it, they both knew it: why did he insist in hiding behind polite words and distant remarks? Why now, when there was no one around to see how he truly was? She needed a friend, damn it, not a lackey.
Whoever Lord Charrington was, whatever reputation he had, she did not love him. But she loved Zephan, she knew that much. She could feel it in the way her heart still fluttered after his touch, in the softening of her voice when she spoke of him.
But she was a lady, and he was a stable boy, and such relationships were frowned upon all over the world. She knew there was no way for them to marry, but dear God, they were to part ways forever in three months, and all he could do was stand there and congratulate her on her betrothal?
"You don't truly think that," she said softly, almost accusingly. But what was the use? No one had exactly asked her about her opinions on this match, and here they were. All Lord Charrington had to do was look at her with a bit of a leer and remark to her father that she'd grown up to be quite a pretty girl, and it was settled. Her hands clenched, nails digging into palms.
"It dinnae matter what I think," he whispered, sighing quietly, turning his face back towards the horse.
"It matters to ME," she retorted, stalking up to him and reaching up, turning his face with her fingers so that they were eye to eye. The emotion that he'd kept hidden so well from his words was apparent in his eyes, and it brought the tears that she'd kept at bay to the surface. Two drops slid down her cheeks. "I don't love him. He doesn't love me. I'm nothing more than a passably pretty brood mare, a trophy wife."
His hands, which had come to rest upon her waist, convulsed in anger at that. His voice dropped a few octaves and his eyes came to life like stars in the night: “You are many things, lass, but passable has never been one of them.”
Taken back by the force of his words, she said nothing, and just held on to his face. Slowly, almost as if completely unawares that he was doing it, he drew her closer, the swish-swish of her skirts like whispers in the wind. “I don’t think you could ever be a trophy wife, either.”
Ava held her breath. Ever mindful of propriety, he had always kept his distance, always touched but never lingered-but now, the weight of his hands on her waist was spreading warm fire all over her skin, and he was close enough that she could see speckles of gold in his irises.
“Zephan,” she whispered, whether asking him to continue or begging him to stop she did not know. His name seemed to break some age-old barrier, release some caged beast, because he took her in his arms, closed that last inch of air between them and kissed her.
Now, Ava had never been kissed like this before. Her mother had given her goodnight kisses when she was little, and her father had once kissed her cheek at her debutante ball.
But Zephan-he wasn’t just kissing her, he was claiming her. His lips were molten fire, stealing breath and thought and will from her, and she lost herself in his kiss, threw caution to the wind and answered with passion of her own.
A sound escaped her, one of desire and awe, as his tongue gently asked for entrance. She opened up to him, like a flower under the sun, and he ravaged her thoroughly, like a starving man who has stumbled upon a delicious feast.
She was small enough that he had to bend down to reach her, so when he softly pushed her back against the stable wall, she wasn’t surprised. She found the leverage she needed and lifted herself against him, feeling every inch of him pressed against her like a burning sun.
There had been dreams, Ava mused, sweaty nights and frustrating dawns as her innocent mind tried to put into words what her body desired. But she hadn’t know, she hadn’t known at all that one could be consumed like this, that one could melt into the arms of another and never again emerge whole.
He whispered her name over and over again, against the soft skin of her eyelids and the supple slope of her cheek. Lost amidst the Gaelic endearments, her name sounded exotic and tempting, like a forbidden fruit he had been denied until now.
"We shouldna be doin' this," he murmured against her neck, holding her close enough to feel her body vibrate under his touch. "Ava... a ghrá mo chroí..." She raised up on tiptoe, her arms around his neck, fingers tracing through his hair, brushing against his nape.
"What does that mean?" she asked breathlessly, her eyes lustrous as she kissed whatever skin she could reach.
"Love of my heart," his voice was muffled against her hair, but she understood him perfectly, and the endearment sent her heart soaring. Quite suddenly, she knew that she'd never be Lady Charrington.
"Yes, yours," she said softly, caressing his face. "Always." Propriety be damned.
"Ye canna say things like that," he suddenly said sternly, and for a moment, she quailed under his heated gaze. "You're to be married to another man."
But the moment of fear left as quickly as it had come, and in that moment, Ava made her decision. Cupping his face with gentle hands, her eyes were soft and loving as they gazed into his. "I'll never be any but yours," she whispered, her breath warm against his lips. "I've loved you since you made me unafraid."
Anything else she might have said was swallowed by his mouth as he crushed his lips to hers. This wasn't proper-- this was quite past the point of scandalous, even-- but she didn't think of consequences as her fingers found the bottom hem of his shirt and yanked it out of his breeches, shivering as she felt warm flesh under her fingertips. He growled, mouth trailing towards her neck and nipping lightly. Almost subconsciously, she pressed closer to his body, her skin flaring and tingling at their proximity.
As if mirroring her motions, his hands moved down, trailing her skirts up and up until her naked leg brushed against his thigh. She should feel-exposed, vulnerable, afraid-instead, the feel of the chilling night air on her naked skin fueled the flames of her passion even further.
With an instinct she did not know she possessed, she found herself dragging her leg up his body, an intimate dance she had never practiced before but found deeply addictive nonetheless.
He paused, ragged breaths puffing against her ear, and she froze as well. Had she done something wrong? A blush so intense she was certain he could feel it burning colored her cheeks, and she hid her face in his neck.
“We shouldna be doin' this,” he repeated, and yet made no move whatsoever to pull away. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her mind from the lustful haze that prevented her from thinking straight
Feeling faint tremors running through his body, knowing he was teetering on the edge of control, made pure, feminine pride run through her. That she could have such an effect on him was exhilarating… but, as the evidence now pressing against her lower stomach was attesting, if he was just as happy to be there as she was, why did he stop?
And then she knew. She knew because he wasn’t doing anything: he was just standing there, reigning himself in, giving her one last chance to say ‘no’. One last opening, in case she had changed her mind. “Silly Zephan,” she said, caressing his hair and feeling it break free of its ponytail, “don’t you know I’ve been wanting this for a long, long time?”
He was the one burying his face on her shoulder now, a sound half-grunt half-growl leaving his lips. “Not as long as I,” was the last thing she caught before he captured her mouth in another searing kiss.
Releasing one of his hands from her waist, he moved it up, brushing the underside of her breasts. Even through the layers of clothing still between them, Ava shuddered, emitting a small moan of delight.
“Do that again”, she told him, and he complied, his other hand also coming up. Butterfly touches, bare brushes of his fingers against the thick dress she wore, and still she arched against him, seeking more. Through half-lidded eyes, Ava looked at Zephan’s face and there was such a look on his eyes it brought another moan from her lips.
Possessive, intense, burning-for her, all for her.
Somehow, she managed to work her fingers through the openings of his shirt between the buttons, caressing his skin and feeling his heartbeat underneath her fingertips before she pulled them loose and worked open the top button. This was shameless--wanton-- and yet, all she felt was anticipation. Unconsciously, she traced the tip of her tongue over her kiss-swollen lips.
And then she barely had time to undo another button before he'd tugged loose the bow at the back of her dress, fabric crumpling around her arms and shoulders. She shivered as the night air hit her skin, and pressed herself closer to him, curling her body into his like a puzzle piece... but he held her at arm's length, his eyes darkening as he surveyed her in the dim light of the stable.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph... you're so lovely," he murmured, his fingertips light and wondering on the bare slope of her shoulders, thumb brushing over her collarbone. She felt herself flushing at his comment, heat rising from her chest into her face.
"I'm glad you think so," she said a bit awkwardly. "I want to be... for you."
"Ye dinnae need to want, love," he murmured, moving her hair aside to press his lips to the soft skin of her shoulder. "Ye already are."
The tenderness of his touch, the rough scrape of his shirt against her skin... it enflamed something within her, something that had lain dormant until tonight, and she blindly sought out the rest of the buttons on his shirt with her hands.
They fell open with bare flicks of her fingers, almost as anxious as she was to expose his chest. She had seen him shirtless before-England or no England, it got sweltering hot during the summer months, and most stable boys would divest of their shirts as the day crawled by.
She had admired the hard planes of his back, the slope of his shoulder blades and the glorious fall of his hair. Untamed and unkempt, it would slip free of its bindings and caress his back, and on those days, she would dream of him again.
But for all of its beauty, all of her sightings had been from far away- cloistered away at the family’s gazebo under the watchful eye of her chaperone, she had wistfully looked for him among the stable folk, heart skipping a beat when she saw the fall of coppery-blonde hair.
Now, she realized with a sigh of delight, she could stare at if at her heart’s content. Up close and personal, even, and by the God’s how had she ever survived without this before? Her blue eyes darkened and she didn’t even realize she was staring until he whispered: “A man would die to have ye look at him like that.”
Ava blushed, but didn’t look away. No, she had been dreaming of this moment for a long, long time.
His fingers cupped her cheeks, tracing down the same paths as her earlier tears, thumb brushing across her full lower lip. She turned her face into his touch and kissed his palm, and he uttered an oath under his breath even as he suddenly hooked his arm under her knees and swept her up against his chest, her hand pressed to his heart. With a few quick strides, they were in his room-- small but snug, and he'd kicked the door shut behind both of them before setting her back down.
Reverently, he pressed his lips to her skin as it was exposed by shifting fabric and questing fingers, falling to his knees and taking the filmy dress that she wore with him. She should have felt ashamed, embarrassed... but there was none of that. She'd been his, in a way, since they were young.
His... the idea of belonging to him sent a slight shiver through her, racing down her spine all the way to her toes, and she sank to her knees as well, pressing her lips to his again.
“Please,” she uttered against his lips, although what she was asking for she did not know. She had no clear idea of what the act of lovemaking was supposed to be like. She had heard things, whispered secrets in the dark when her chaperone thought she was not listening. Even her mother, once, when she had been spying on the oh-so beautiful ladies that came to visit.
“Och, lass”, he said, his hands coming to cup her breasts and tweak her nipples with playful touches, “dinnae rush me. I wish to enjoy this as long as I can.” She arched against him, her body recognizing the ancient dance of love even if her mind did not. Following her cues, he bent down slightly, taking one aching peak into his mouth.
Ava stifled a cry of surprise at the sudden caress, eyes opening wide as heat erupted within her in response. He murmured Irish words against her skin, and even if she could not understand the language, she understood the feeling behind them.
And then it was a scramble of fingers and mouths and heated breath on skin, because they couldn't get close enough, and she was sure that she'd torn his breeches in her clumsy, frantic attempts to move it completely out of the way. When he finally, finally laid her down on the narrow cot, she reached for him, tracing his skin curiously with her fingertips, feeling muscles quivering under her touch, the heat and pulse of blood. His hair fell over his shoulder, sliding against her collarbone, and the simple brush of it was so sensual that it left her breathless. And when she skimmed her fingers over his thigh, his jaw clenched.
"Am I... am I hurting you?" she asked, worried.
"Nay," his voice was rough and strained. "You're perfect."
"That's not so," she blushed at the compliment, strangely bashful at his words despite her lack of embarrassment over this intimacy.
"Ye are... to me," he murmured, before grasping her wrist in his hand to guide her.
It was slightly painful at first, to be sure. She'd heard that it would be so... had expected it-- welcomed it from him. She had expected it to be pleasant, perhaps a bit awkward, but she hadn't expected that his movements would ignite nerves that had never been touched, send waves of heat all over her body. And when he buried his face in her neck, Gaelic endearments muffled against her sweaty skin, she felt her muscles clench around him, a shock of pleasure exploding in light and colour behind her eyelids.
She collapsed bonelessly on his chest afterwards, her fingertips tracing random patterns over his flesh.
They were silent for a while, the whinnies and snorts of the horses the only sound around them. Ava could hear Zephan’s heart, beating thunderously under her cheek where she rested upon his skin. Languidly, she looked up at him, even that tiny motion seeming to drain her of energy. She never knew one could feel so good…
He was looking at her with the strangest look in his eyes. Half-rapture, half-fear, half something she couldn’t quite name. A small frown clouded her features, and she tried to rise up, but he was faster and kept her tight against his body with a single press of his hands. “What are you thinking?” she ended up asking him, speaking in whispers even though there was no one around to hear them.
He said something in Gaelic, a word she did not know but one that held the same meaning in several languages. “I’m thinking I will die a happy man.” Blinking slowly, she tried to make sense of his words. Die? No one was going to die! Specially not him, and specially not now that she had finally understood what it truly meant to love him.
“What are you talking about?” There was an edge of fear to her voice, a sudden panic as rules and social status began to weight down on them.
He brushed a strand of hair away from her face, a sad smile lingering on his lips: “What do ye think your future husband will say when there is no blood on your wedding night, then? They know how ye feel about me, lass, and how I feel about you. They will come for me, lass, and ye know the fate of those who have wronged the gentry.”
Her frown turned deeper, and uncaring of state of undress, she rose against him to stare straight into his eyes. “What do you think is going to happen now?”
Zephan seemed taken back by her question, as if it was something he had never doubted at all. Flustered, he stumbled for words: “Ye must marry Lord Charrington, Ava-lass. Ye have been betrothed, and commitments like those are not easily broken.” Not noticing the effect he was having on her, he continued, his voice deepening as he contemplated a future without her: “He will no doubt demand a duel with the man who spoiled you, and your family will be only too happy to point me as the culprit. If I don’t fight him, he’ll kill me. If I do, and I win, I’ll have murdered a noble man and be hanged for it."
A deep breath, a soul-searing gaze, and he finished: “I will be dead either way, my love.”
"No, you'll NOT," she retorted, the words out of her mouth before she quite knew what she was saying... and when she realized, she didn't retract them. Why not? She gazed down at him with an expression that was almost stern. "I'll not let them."
"Sure and ye might not want to," he cupped her face in his hands. "But I'll die happily because in life, I had your love."
"And you'll have it yet," she said fiercely. A deep breath, which worked wonders to calm the butterflies that arose in her stomach at what she was going to say. "I'll never be Lady Charrington."
His face was so shocked that she would have laughed if she were in any mood for humour. "And if you thought that this was just the once..."
He swallowed, and Ava found herself distracted by the slight bobbing of his Adam’s apple. Was this how everyone felt after making love, this incredible attraction for every little nuance of your lover’s body?
Zephan shook his head, trying to reason with her: “Ye dinnae mean that, love. I am naught but a stable lad, I cannot offer ye riches and comforts. And this,” he gestured between them, encompassing their nudity, the press of their bodies, the discarded clothing, “this canna go on.”
She leaned towards him, forcing their eyes to lock onto each other. She wanted him to be staring deep into her soul when she said this, because truly, it was a confession of sorts. It was something she had been wanting to tell him for a long time, something she had whispered into her pillow at nights. Something she had never thought she would tell him at all.
“Listen to me, Zephan, and listen well: I will never be Lady Charrington.”
He opened his mouth to retort, to convince her perhaps, but she pressed her index finger against his lips, silencing him. “Now, Ava Delaney sounds much better, don’t you think?”
His face was suffused with shock then, and she laughed lightly, lovingly, even as her cheeks pinked. "I've been nothing at all proper about all of this," she whispered. "So I might as well continue with the lack of propriety now. It's not a lady's task to ask a man this sort of question, to be sure."
"Ye would leave everything behind like that for me?" he asked, gazing up at her in wonder. "For us? I canna give you the sort of life you deserve, lass."
"But you can give me something more than that-- your love," she went on bravely, sincerely. A part of her wasn't sure how to say it, was a little nervous... but she swallowed down the fear and cleared her throat. "I'll make do about everything else."
And then he understood, and even as a disbelieving smile started to cross his face, he enveloped her in a tight, possessive embrace. "It is a wonder that ye are, Ava," he whispered huskily against her shoulder. "And it'll take all my life to tell ye how much I love you."
"I'll not miss a moment of it," she nuzzled her face against his chest. "It was always meant to be you."
And so they spent the night murmuring love words to each other, making plans about their life to come. They knew her family would look for her - an unwed, betrothed daughter was a highly valued prize, after all - but Zephan was not worried: Lord Charrington was not well cared for in this part of the country, and people would not rush to his aid. Ava was fairly confident her father would not spend much time or money pursuing them: buried as he was under gambling bills, he would spare a dime for his runaway daughter.
They decided to flee England, escaping the clutches of their past, and make their way into Scotland. There, on the very first village they came upon, they were wedded by a jolly old pastor. Since there was no chapel to speak of - such a small town Gretna Green was - the ceremony was performed in the blacksmith’s shop. They promised themselves to each other among iron and steel, the fire of the forge burning high behind them, but they did not care.
They never did return Lord Charrington’s horse, taken from the stables that fateful morning as they emerged from the stables. Years later, their son would learn to ride on that very same horse, and their daughter would plead to hear the story of their love, on that special night so long ago.
It was a few months before Ava could enter a stable, though, without blushing crimson.
**
The End!