“I don’t understand.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then do as I ask. Maybe something will happen; there has to be a reason why he’s delayed consummating your marriage.”
There was one thing she had learnt since living with Matthew; when he wanted obedience, he expected it. He was, and would always be, her master.
“I can’t bear to think of us not together.” She rested her head against his thigh.
He stroked her hair. “Me neither, lass. But he’ll always travel, tis his nature to keep moving. He cannot stay where he is for long, and when he does, you can try to see me, but you must be careful, make good excuses. I’ll not have you treated like my mother was.”
“Then I will go back to him.”
Chapter Eleven
Matthew held Mary’s reins and walked alongside the mare. Perched on top, the sun beating down on her bonnet, Dara rode out of the farmyard. Ezekiel and Lemuel waved goodbye, looking suitably morose at her departure. They would miss her food. Kurt kept Barnaby on a leash, fearing the dog might follow and refuse to return home. She had become overly fond of the dog, feeding him titbits from the kitchen table without Matthew’s knowledge.
Matthew planned to stay with her until they were in sight of the house, then he would leave her to make the last part of the journey alone.
“This feels strange,” she said, swaying from side to side as the horse plodded along.
“Tis for the best, lass.”
“I’m leaving the man I love for one who cares little about me.”
He said nothing to contradict her.
“I thought you a simple farmer when we first met.” She guffawed. “A beast, almost savage. How wrong I was in my judgement.”
“I did act that way at first, perhaps.” He
tightened his grip on the reins. “‘Twas not my intention to scare you, though.”
She laughed. “Far from it. It seems it was exactly what I desired. Still desire. I hope Henry is less inclined to be so. I would prefer he was a simpleton in the bedroom.” She ceased her prattling. It would not do to bring up the subject of bedrooms.
Without warning, Matthew tugged on Mary’s bridle and pulled her off the lane into the shadow of a cluster of trees.
“Matthew, what are you doing?” Had he changed his mind?
He lifted her off the saddle with an ease with which she had become familiar. She weighed nothing in his massive hands.
“Matthew—”
He pressed her against his chest and melted his warm lips onto hers, silencing her. Drawing further into the shade, he pushed her against the smooth bark of a tree, and ruffled up her skirts until they reached her thighs.
“Spread them, lass. I mean to remind you before we part company that whatever awaits you, you’re still mine in here.” He thumped his chest with his other hand.
She swallowed a lump of sorrow. “I’ll come back and visit when I can, I promise.” However, if Henry moved her to another house, perhaps even London, she would lose any chance of seeing Matthew.
“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” He understood her situation too well. “Hush.” He kissed her tenderly, and with his free hand, unbuttoned the flap of his breeches with a twist of his fingers.
She shifted her legs apart and hitched up her skirts. He slotted himself between her thighs, clasped her buttocks, and lifted her bodily onto his cock. She gazed, half-focused, on the leaves above her head. They were already turning gold and amber; the autumn had arrived in spectacular shades of colour. Her summer was nearly over.
He entered her, rising up with a measure of force that she had come to love, and so not to scare Mary with her cry, she bit down on her lower lip. Each thrust was his gift to her. They tempted her to come quickly. But she held the climax at bay until he was ready, which was her gift to him. Although frantic in pace and rough in nature—he had offered her little comfort in the choice of location—the coupling was a perfect farewell.
Pausing to tease her more with his hands, he panted into her ear, “I’ll miss fucking you, lass, and your chicken pie.”