Rival Desires (Properly Spanked Legacy 1)

He laid her back on the inn’s lumpy bed and caressed her all over, and made love to her slowly and thoroughly, until she shook in his arms. There were no nightmares that night, not that he expected there to be.

As she’d told him, she wasn’t that old Ophelia anymore.

*

Ophelia woke to the sounds of the inn and snuggled closer to her husband. “Are we in Wales?” she asked, still half asleep.

“Nearly.” He stroked her cheek until she came awake. “We’ll cross into the country this morning, if you’ll rise and have some breakfast.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. She was so excited for her adventure to continue; she had only the vaguest idea of Wales, but she knew it wasn’t England, and that they spoke another language which her husband also spoke and understood. She knew they were going to stay in a rustic cottage with just a few servants, something she’d never done in her life.

Soon they were on their way. She’d put on a light linen gown of medium blue, along with a plain straw bonnet. She left her gloves off entirely, even though there was an autumn chill in the air. As they passed into Wales, the roads grew a bit narrower, and a bit more rutted. Now and again she was tossed against her husband’s side, but she didn’t mind that in the least.

He moved his long leg against hers to anchor her, which made her laugh, but also made her remember the way he’d pressed against her the night before, thrusting within her until they felt like the same person with the same beating heart. She didn’t say such things to him, not yet. Someday she would. Her courage came in small steps that would add up to a lifetime of togetherness, if she didn’t lose her nerve.

“Tell me about your family in Wales,” she said. “I would like to know their names before I greet them.”

She quickly realized this was folly, as his aunts, uncles, and cousins seemed to run into the dozens. Half the names were close to English names, but half the names were Welsh and unfamiliar. He pronounced those names with an accent, with unfamiliar deep vowels and guttural consonants. When they stopped to change the horses for the last time, he spoke Welsh to the coaching inn’s staff, all of whom seemed to know him well.

This impressed her mightily, and intimidated her a bit also, for she didn’t speak any Welsh at all, and when she asked him to teach her a few words on the last leg of their journey, her tongue tripped over the foreign syllables.

“You’ll learn it in time,” he promised. “I’ll teach you a little bit every day, and you can practice during the times we visit Lisburne Manor, where my mother grew up.” A smile teased the corners of his lips. “I’ve brought something else along to fill our adventurous afternoons, but it’s a surprise.”

“What?” She took his hand. “I don’t like surprises, Wescott. Please tell me.”

“No, my little crosspatch. You’ll wait and get your surprise in due time.”

A short while later, they passed onto the Lisburne holdings, and Wescott pointed out the low, ancient keep in the distance. “It’s not much by looks,” he said, “but it’s been standing a long while. Most of the families around here have lived on their land for centuries.”

In between the cleared fields and farmland, thick forests grew wild. The leaves had already turned, so an explosion of autumn colors rippled in the light breeze. “Can we stop and walk about for a moment?” she asked. “I want to be outside. It looks so pretty.”

“No, love, we won’t stop yet. It’s pretty where we’re going, and we’re almost there. My parents chose this particular meadow to build a cottage because my mother had loved it so much as a child. They had to pay the miller a pretty penny for the property.”

“So the cottage is not as ancient as your family’s keep?”

“The cottage is much, much younger, but very charming. Just like you.”

Within a few moments, the carriage turned onto a smaller road lined with trees. After a time, the trees became a hedge, and then a crumbling stone wall that appeared to be as ancient as the old keep. She leaned close to the window, taking it all in. Another turn in the road, which was more of a path at this point, and they entered a picturesque clearing. The sun was setting, but it was still light enough to see a neat, whitewashed, thatched-roof cottage in the distance, surrounded by another low stone wall.

“It’s like a fairy house,” she said. “How sweet and squat it is compared to Wescott Abbey. Not that I dislike the Abbey,” she added quickly.

“The Abbey is old and grand. This is a sweet cottage, as you said. My parents always called it their escape. I spent many sunny afternoons in my childhood roaming this meadow with my brother and sisters.”