Rampant

It was a curious notion, and she laughed softly. The sound of it lifted in the atmosphere and wrapped itself around her, lilting in the sea breeze. The dreams she’d had, the sensual images she’d seen, and that strange vision the night before, felt l

ike a gift. Were they? Taking a deep breath, she reveled in the way she felt, sexually empowered. God knows, she had fantasies aplenty, but something about being here was enabling her to act on them.

Turning to face the sea, she rested up against the railing and looked over at the marina where the boats bobbed. The wind lifted and as it passed through the masts and tied-up mainsails it created a low and eerie sound, almost as if it were a lonely voice calling out amongst the boats. And yet all of a sudden Zoë didn’t feel alone. She stared along the jetty, where the boats bobbed and gulls swooped low over the harbor. A curious feeling stole over her, and it ran alongside the contentment she had been nurturing, making her feel excited, edgy, and keenly aware of her surroundings.

Can you see him yet?

The question whispered around her mind, as if the breeze was carrying a misplaced sound. She took a quick, deep breath, snatching for the metal railing that ran along the marina to steady herself. Surely Annabel wasn’t with her? She was too far away from the house, wasn’t she? The wind whipped up around her, a sudden gust. The clouds moved faster across the sky. Her vision shifted and blurred, and she blinked, her fingers gripping onto the cold metal railing ever tighter. She shook her head, disbelieving. Annabel was here; she sensed her as if she were standing alongside her. She was with her even now, away from the house at the end of Shore Lane.

I want you to see him.

There it was again. Zoë swayed, her stomach tensing. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop staring down at the marina.

Look harder. He is standing over there and he is looking this way.

Zoë felt excited, but a little afraid, too, and she wanted to turn away and close her eyes, but she couldn’t, because she was compelled to watch, and as she did her perception of what was around her shifted dramatically.

The modern purpose-built marina that was usually crowded with swish boats was no longer there. Instead she saw a small clutch of simple boats pulled up onto a bank of pebbles and shale, and a crowd of people standing at the shore’s edge as the boats were unloaded. And while Annabel’s words whispered around her mind, Zoë could see exactly what Annabel wanted her to see; she could see it all….

He’s tall, the man I desire, the tallest of the Carbrey fishermen. I can see him standing there amongst them, a good head above the other men while they work together bringing the mornin’ catch ashore. They are laughing and jolly, for ’tis a good time of year for the herring. The lines are full and hopping, and they will fill their purses and their bellies.

Many of the villagers are gathered at the shore’s edge, the fishermen’s wives and their bairns. Ewan is there as well, his hat pulled low over his brow as he watches the men work. I notice how the buckles on his shoes gleam, as do the buttons on his frock coat. I wonder how I would feel if it was me who had polished them for him, as his wife. It cannot be, because of my beginnins’ in this world. Instead, he has a servant to do such tasks, and I warm his bed only when he wants me to.

In his hand he holds a purse heavy with coins. He is ready to buy the best of the catch, to preserve and sell on. The wives watch eagerly, anticipating a good codling supper and some of Ewan’s pennies for their purse.

I shouldn’t go down there, there’s no excuse, but I cannot help myself. I like to look at this one fisherman when he’s celebrating the catch. I could watch from my window at the cottage, but I want to be close enough to see his smile and the sweat on his brow. So I am here, even though I know trouble could come of it. Ewan warns me often enough that I will be undone by my rebellious streak. I am contrary. It is the way I am, and I cannot help it.

I walk down the slippery stone steps, and then try to approach quietly, but the shale shifts under my shoes. Some of the children gathered by their mother’s skirts turn to look at me. Ewan finishes counting out coins, taking the best of the herring for hanging and salting. He orders a young lad to carry his crate off, and then looks over. I nod his way, and he considers me for a moment before lifting his hat in my direction. In the pit of my belly, I cannot help savoring our secrets. I know what he’s thinking—go home, Annabel—but I cannot help myself.

Then Irvine Maginty lifts his head and I forget Ewan for several long moments, because Irvine looks straight at me, and he stares that hungry, silent stare that I have seen him give me before, the one that makes lust gather into a rolling, rollicking storm inside of me, for I want to take this man and make him my own.

Irvine Maginty. Who would have thought that he would make me want him so? He fascinates me; I cannot deny it. He came here to Carbrey the previous autumn to make Hettie Shaw his bride. Hettie first met him when she visited her cousins along the coast. I hated her for marryin’ him, and yet if she had not, he would not be here now.

With thick, red-brown hair, and eyes the color of chestnuts, he is a fine man. His skin is sun-kissed from his time out in the boat. He’s strapping and healthy, and the sight of his strong arms makes me hanker for a taste of him. I want to be locked in his embrace, to wrap myself around him and to welcome his length inside me.

I could easily have him, and I do not want to resist. I want him, and I will have him.

Clutched in my hand is a pendant I crafted. It holds a lock of his hair that I snipped from his handsome head the evening before, while he was slumbering over a tankard of ale at the inn. With it I have cast my spell, and the pendant will act as my charm, drawing his attention to whatever it is I wish. When he stares at me across the crowd, I press my hand to my bosom. When I see that his gaze is drawn there and his lips part I’m quickly afire, delighted because my spell is clearly working on him. With effort I hold back the smile that rises inside me and move my hand lower, so that it presses on the front of my dress, over the spot where my womb simmers and my cunny is hot and needy for the thrust of his rod there.

He drops the heavy basket he holds. I cannot withhold a happy sigh. The man at his side punches Irvine’s shoulder, laughs a hollow laugh. Irvine looks confused, and then bends to pick up the basket and the scattered fish. That’s when I glance away, and I notice that Ewan’s eyes are on me. He has not noticed the enchantment I am unfolding. In fact there is a look in his eye that makes me smile his way. Around him, the women huddle together and whisper, wondering why I have come. A dog howls, and the children are restless. Reverend Slater is there amongst them, too, and he peers at me with his beady eyes.

I want to laugh aloud. The air crackles, and it’s as if a storm has landed upon us. Perhaps it has. My blood quickens at the thought. When I look his way, a wee lad gurns and weeps into his mother’s skirt. The mother sends an angry glance in my direction. Still, I cannot stop. Is it the idle, lonely hours that drive me to do such things, to quicken my blood?

“What is it you want here, Annabel?” It is old Molly Shaw, Hettie’s mother.

“To see the catch.” The catch would be out on the marketplace later, but I didn’t care about that. “I fancied some herring for my supper.” Try as I might, I couldn’t help looking Irvine’s way when I said that. The other men have his attention now.

Hettie mumbles something under her breath and I see her scowl. I notice then that she has her hand on her belly. I see why, for she is with child. I try to study her, to learn more, but now Ewan is on his way up the pebbled beach, pushing through the crowd, directing the young lad carrying his boxes ahead of him.

I tuck my charm away in the pocket of my skirt, lest he senses it. I notice that Hettie lowers her head as if in shame as Ewan passes. He looks her way briefly, but I am his quarry.

He puts his hand under my arm, pausing. “I’ll exchange two of my haul, if you would supply me with another pot of your delicious honey, Miss McGraw.” Under his breath he says more, garnering my interest. “I have an ache that I am sure you can soothe.” His handsome mouth lifts at the corner, and anticipation floods my private places.

The crowd of women and the old minister behind him watch on. “Now that seems like a fair trade,” says I, for their benefit, and allow him to lead me off. It is hard, but I do not glance back at Irvine, lest Ewan notices.

We follow the young lad to the storage room at the back of Ewan’s shop and our paces quicken as we close on it. Inside the storeroom, Ewan tosses the lad a coin, and when the lad scuttles off Ewan locks the door from the storeroom into the main shop. We are alone in the narrow room piled high with provisions, wooden boxes, and sacks of flour.

He takes off his hat, paces back and forth in front of me. “The way you flaunt yourself,” he shakes his head, “it makes me want to possess you, out there, for them all to see.”