The Borrowed Bride

“That’s enough for tonight.”

She fell asleep against his shoulder, curled into a ball. He surrounded her with his arms and held her in a tight embrace.

Chapter Four

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” He tickled her bottom.

“No. Go away.” She burrowed her head into the pillow. “It’s too early.”

He whipped the covers off her. She twisted away, but not quick enough. The palm of his hand landed on her behind with a fearsome crack. She scampered out of the bed, nearly missing the second smack. From there, he harried her, crisscrossing her upper thighs and fleshy bottom with flicks and slaps. She danced on her tiptoes, scurrying about in a futile attempt to avoid Matthew’s determined wake-up call.

“Ouch,” she squealed as the stings amassed into a continuous burn. She gathered up her discarded clothes and hurriedly dressed.

Matthew ceased harrying her. He watched her, his arms folded across his chest, his legs astride. He said nothing. Words were not necessary with hands like his.

It was the beginning of a long day. Her stiff muscles had never stopped aching from her time with Maggie, and that was three days ago. What was she doing, letting an illiterate farmer treat her so? She could be back at Willowby Hall with a steaming bath and a pot of coffee. She might dine on pheasant and beef for dinner and breakfast would be at ten o’clock, not five in the morning. As for her list of chores, she had only to bark her orders at Willowby’s servants. They were her callused hands, her beleaguered back and tender calves.

She gobbled down her porridge, slurped on the brackish tea—the water supply fluctuated—and ate an apple on the way to the barn.

Betsy, her favourite cow and the easiest to milk, greeted her with a deep moo. She breathed through her mouth. The smell was still something she struggled to ignore.

Once she’d relieved Betsy of her discomfort, she cautiously approached Marigold. The brown cow kicked.

“Now, now,” she said softly. “It’s me. Dara. Just let me perch here.” She positioned the milking stool and pail. “That’s a good girl.”

She squeezed the udders and a jet of warm milk shot out into the bucket. Left, right, left, right. She had the rhythm and technique mastered. Three days of milking morning and evening and she was proud to tell Matthew that she no longer wanted to throw up.

The routine of the day was fixed around his tasks. How he had coped before her arrival was a mystery. Between the two of them, they had plenty to keep them occupied. For all his grand talk, the opportunities to fulfil her other duties was limited to a brisk spell in the evening after supper. While she might prefer the comfort of the bed, Matthew was happy to have her against the beam. She undressed, bent, and was told to hold on tight to the oak column. Her fingernails were already ruined, so digging them into the grain made no difference.

He pounded her. That was one word that came to mind. There were others. Pummel. Rammed, almost, like one of those medieval battering rams that broke down doors. He liked the rear approach, unlike their first time when he faced her. As he had said, he wasn’t a lovemaking kind of man.

While she might be a lady at Willowby Hall, in the home of Matthew she was turning into something far more wanton and unbecoming of her status. She refused to think of the words her mother would use to describe her. She liked to think of herself as his ‘lass’ or ‘girl,’ although she was neither of these things. She was a fully formed woman and perfectly capable of walking out the door, saddling up Mary, and riding home.

A week after she had arrived, she was still with him, and she was not planning on going anywhere.

The yearning to stay was stronger than ever. Her need for that thing that he kept out of sight was growing, not diminishing. She wanted that thing to do all kind of wickedness. Every time he nudged it deeper into her bottom hole, depositing his virile seed inside her, she pleaded with him to go further. He had not heard those pleas because she kept them in her head and never spoke them. She was ashamed by the humiliation from which he derived his pleasure. Ashamed not of the deed itself, but that she craved for him to do it.

Lord Coleman was a fool. He could have had her like this, if he wanted, and she might have even overlooked the age difference and come to find some place in her heart for him if he had bothered to try. Instead, it was Matthew, a plain farmer, who had won her.

* * *

One of the hens died in the night.

“The new ‘un frightened her to death,” joked Matthew. “She was old.” He plucked the feathers before the fireplace and then arranged the carcass on a rotisserie, which he turned from time to time between puffs on his pipe.

She’d been with him over a week. It felt like a lifetime. Life with Matthew had become so swiftly and easily routine and comfortable. The busy days, the constant chores, which for now had not been too taxing, kept her distracted from her worries about Lord Coleman and her future with him. She suspected Matthew was being kind to her and that she was expected to do more than milk the cows and keep the house clean. Maggie had taught her the basics. Time would tell if she would be capable of learning anything more arduous and challenging. She needed to bake more than bread at some point.

He sucked on the pipe and a stream of smoke rose above his head. “What would you be doing if you were not here with me, Dara?”

She paused in her sewing—buttons on his shirt—and thought about what little time she had spent at Willowby Hall. It was easier to recall her life at her parents’.

“Embroider.” She pricked her finger and winced. He chuckled. “Tapestry, not buttons and shirts. Go for walks in the wilderness of the park and visit the temples, grand follies that Father had built. Capability Brown, you’ve heard of him?”

Matthew shook his head.

“He turned our garden into a huge park with deer and an artificial lake. Papa invites anyone and everyone to tour around in their carriages. Lord Coleman... he doesn’t have much of a garden. And I read.”

She missed reading.