A Mother's Sacrifice (21 page)

She did not think about what she did. She just knew instinctively that she must act. That it was meant to be. She turned and hurried downstairs, crossing the flagged floor to remove the bar, undo the bolts and turn the heavy key in its lock. When she swung open the door he was standing there, waiting, and she held out her hands to his.

‘I love you, Quinta.’

‘I love you, too.’

‘I want you to be mine.’

She gave a small tug on his hands and he needed no more invitation than that. He stepped over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind him and wrapped himself around her to kiss her deeply, passionately and lovingly.

Through her chemise she felt the coarseness of his waistcoat. The leather of his boots, chilled by the night air, brushed her shins. His roughened hands roamed her back. And lower, grasping the flesh of her rear, pressing her to him and it was the most wonderful feeling she had ever known.

His mouth moved from hers to her neck and she breathed, ‘I want you to be with me for ever.’

He kissed her hair and murmured, ‘Then I shall.’

She took one of his hands from her rear and turned towards the stairs, drawing him after her. He needed no more encouragement and they were soon in the bedchamber, staring silently at each other. The candle stub spluttered and died and they stood in the darkness. Deftly, Quinta slid her fingers under the buttons of his waistcoat, releasing them one by one and peeling it away from his chest. Suddenly he took over, hastily discarding his boots and trousers himself.

She unlaced her boots, rolled down her stockings and stepped out of her drawers. As she climbed into the bed in her chemise, her anticipation was feverish and when she saw that he had removed all his clothes, she was a little fearful of what was to happen. He walked round the bed through a shaft of moonlight and the sight of his finely muscled body caused an unfamiliar yearning in the very core of her being.

Her desire for him was so strong that, when his naked body slid into the bed beside her, she hardly knew what to do next. He lay on his back and turned his head so his lips brushed her cheek. She felt his growth of beard rasp at her skin and welcomed it. She held her breath, her body alive with anticipation. Then her instincts took over. This was something she did not need to be taught. This was love and her hands moved to caress his body as though it was the most natural thing in the world to her. For to her, at that moment, it was.

 

He inhaled sharply and shivered as she explored every angle and plane of his form. Now that he was so close to her and his skin was touching hers, his desire flared and he wanted to devour and ravish her without a further word. But her tender exploration and her obvious innocence of the depth of passion aroused by her gentle fingers melted his heart. He loved her so much that he hardly dared respond for fear of overwhelming her with his strength, of hurting her in his eagerness to love her. She must be ready for him, to yearn for their physical union as much as he did.

Tentatively, he moved his hand to stroke her breasts, the softness of her flesh contrasting sharply with the firmness of her nipples. He resisted a strong temptation to kiss and toy with them. Her hands stilled their search of his own desire and he heard her breathe in quickly. He moved to her belly, circling the small firm mound with a single finger. He felt her whole body shudder and heard a soft groan from her throat. Her legs became restless as his fingers continued their slow movements over her body.

 

She was aware of being helpless, of lying on her back with her hands grasping at the air, of knowing that this strong and handsome man was using the lightest of touches to reduce her to a writhing passion. She was striving, urging her body to attain an unassailable summit, as yet unknown and far beyond her reach. Her breath came out in noisy bursts, groans of ecstasy and ache in equal measure as she climbed. Do not leave me here alone, Patrick! Help me, my love. Help me . . .

 

When? When? He had not enough experience to know, only that his control was ebbing with each passing second. His love for her consumed him and he wanted to seal that love with a union so magnificent that she would remember it for ever. He loved her too much to let her down in this most intimate of pleasures. Her breathing subsided to shorter snatches at the air; her groans became brief, stifled, whimpering cries. Her back was arched, her knees were raised and he could wait no longer.

The time for gentleness was over and, swiftly, he rolled on top of her, finding her source of ardour quickly and pushing forcibly into her softness. He could not tell whether her brief cry was one of pain or pleasure, only that he might have hurt her, and he stilled himself. As he did he relished the wonder of her tight flesh around his. Then, oh joy of joys, she began a rhythmic movement of her own, of hips, back and forth, rising to meet him, as he increased his thrusting.

His eyes closed in wonder and he prayed that he would last, for he could no longer control himself. He tried to slow, but to no avail. She would not let him. She urged him on with flexions of her own strong back. He opened his eyes to see her beautiful face, eyes and mouth wide open as her body rose to his in one last push that she held, arched and rigid as she cried out. A second later he was overtaken by a rapture of his own, an exquisite release of passion that was all the sweeter for being with her. He loved her. She returned his love. She would be his wife and bear his children and he worshipped her.

 

Her head and legs fell back on to the bed, sweating in the warm airless chamber. He lay heavily on top of her and she could feel his flesh pulsing inside her. It was the most wonderful feeling and she wanted him to stay there, joined with her, her man, her love, her life. He seemed to have no inclination to move and they lay entwined in silence as they cooled, spent and exhausted. She must have slept, for the next thing she knew there was a hint of dawn light in the sky through the window. He had not shifted. One of her arms was numb and his thick dark hair tickled her cheek. She turned to kiss his head through its springy softness and he stirred, groaned and rolled off her on to his back.

‘My Quinta,’ he murmured sleepily. ‘My woman.’

She smiled adoringly at him. Her arm tingled as its use returned. His Quinta. His woman. How wonderful that sounded! She was his. She was his woman. Truly a woman now. She had grown last night. Yes, she had fallen in love with him, but she was aware of something more, of an awakening she could never have dreamed of. He was her lover and she was his love, too. Soon she would be a wife and then - she caught her breath - perhaps a mother? She would have children, Patrick’s children. Lots of them. She wanted that. She drifted off to sleep again with this vision in her head.

When she woke she was aware of a hairpin scratching at her scalp. She had not unpinned her hair last night, or worn a nightcap over it. She must look a dreadful sight. She turned to look at Patrick and he was smiling at her, resting his chin on his hands. She snuggled closer, drawing a murmur of delight from his throat, and felt his desire for her harden against her flesh. Her eyes widened in surprise and his smile broadened.

‘I am your slave,’ he murmured. ‘You have captivated me with your womanly powers. How shall I ever do any work when we are married?’

‘How indeed?’ She rolled away from him and out of bed. ‘I must light the fire.’ She picked up her corset and added, ‘Look away while I dress.’

‘I shall not. But if you do not make haste I shall insist you come back to bed.’

‘You will go out into the fields and labour, sir,’ she answered good-humouredly as she washed in cold water from the ewer. He did not try and hide his burgeoning need for her and she wondered if he would always want her in the morning as well as at night. She stepped into her drawers and gown, realising she was exceedingly pleased that he wanted her so. She was a little sore and aching from his attentions but she looked forward to more. She sat on the wooden ottoman and pulled on her stockings.

‘You won’t sleep in the cowshed again, will you?’ she asked.

A fire leaped into his eyes that seem to burn right through her and he shook his head slowly.

She pushed her feet into her boots and quickly tightened the laces. ‘Good,’ she said and thought: How will I get through the hours until tonight?

The fire was drawing well when he came downstairs. He came over to the fireplace and kissed her fully on the mouth. Her sooty hands waved helplessly in the air as his mouth lingered on hers and their tongues entwined briefly. She rubbed her reddened cheek with the back of her hand. His chin bristles were worse than last night.

He noticed and said, ‘I’ll shave before tonight. Do you need more wood?’

‘I do. Have a look for eggs while you’re out there. The hens are laying well.’

They were so comfortable in each other’s presence, it was as though they were already wed. Well, she thought, they were as good as. They had their parents’ blessing and they loved each other. She fried eggs, cut bread and poured ale for breakfast while he carried in logs. Then he brought the gun from the cowshed and placed it by the kitchen door.

‘Remember it is loaded so you must keep it pointed in the air. Will you work in the garden today?’

‘There are caterpillars on my young winter greens. I must squash them all if I am to have any left for market.’

‘I’ll collect my tools and be off then.’ He kissed her again.

‘Come back at noon for your dinner.’

He smiled his broad handsome smile and waved as he left. She went back to her work, mixing flour and balm for bread, setting rabbit and vegetables to stew over the fire and humming softly to herself. The dough was rising under a damp cloth in the hearth. She had washed the pots and carried fresh water from the stream before she donned her sacking apron and went outside to tend her garden. With the extra land she would have roots to sell in the market as well as greens in winter, and she allowed her mind to dream of duckling and fish from the pond.

Her morning’s labour was marred only by the sight of Farmer Bilton on his black hunter on the track. It was mid-morning and she was carrying a pile of weeds to the compost heap. There was no reason for him to ride this way except to spy on her and Patrick. The corners of her mouth turned down in distaste.Would he approach her again with his pawing hands and evil intentions? She hurriedly finished her work and went back to the cottage, comforted by the knowledge that Patrick was close by and he would be here in a trice if she fired the gun.

She opened the kitchen door and lifted it to test its weight and practise the hold that Patrick had taught her. It was unwieldy in her hands and the barrel swung around. She heaved it upright again and was about to put it down when she saw the deer. A young one on its own had broken cover from the trees, crossed the stream and was heading for the fresh shoots of her crops. An occasional rabbit or two was bad enough, but a deer could strip her stalks bare within an hour.

Without thinking she ran towards it with the heavy rifle wavering. She could have yelled. It might have heard her and been scared off. Why did she not think? Why did she not control herself? In her panic she squeezed the trigger. A burst of sound split the quiet morning. She recoiled from the blast. The noise deafened her for a moment and heat from the discharge burned the skin on her hands and face, stung her eyes and made her cough. The deer started, twisted and then stumbled to the ground. Lord in heaven, what had she done?

She dropped the heavy gun and ran towards the animal. Distressed, it made valiant efforts to stagger to its feet and run, squealing and squirming in pain. She was close enough to see its frightened eyes and quivering mouth as it stumbled, dragging its hindquarters and struggling towards the stream and the cover of the trees.

She was gaining on it and was close enough to see the tear in its haunch where she had wounded the poor creature. It reached the edge of the wood and collapsed, wild-eyed and panting, its velvety mouth revealing a pink lolling tongue. She knew it was a fatal wound; that the animal would lie there, suffering, until its life ebbed away.

What should she do? This was no rabbit with a tiny skull that was easily fractured by a heavy stone. It tried again to raise its hindquarters and scramble deeper into Five-acre Wood.Tears of distress sprang to Quinta’s eyes. She looked up to see Patrick running towards her. He paused only to pick up his rifle on the way.

‘I didn’t mean to shoot it, only to frighten it from my garden! I didn’t even know I’d pulled the trigger. It - it went off in my hand.’

‘Dear Lord, this is my doing. I should not have left the gun with you.’

‘It’s suffering, Patrick. We have to kill it. I can’t bear to see it in so much pain.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He ran towards the cowshed and returned with a fresh charge for the rifle. They splashed across the stream to where the creature had fallen. She watched him reload and shoot the deer in its head. It twitched and then lay quite still with its glassy brown eyes wide open.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Quinta said. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I am to blame for leaving the gun with you before you were ready to use it. I should have given you more lessons first. If you are to be a farmer’s wife, you will need to be a better shot than that.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘And you will be a farmer’s wife soon, won’t you?’

She managed a nervous smile. In spite of living at Top Field for all her life, she still had much to learn. ‘Thank goodness I shot it on our land. I think that makes it ours.’

‘Is this part of the wood your land?’

‘No. This belongs to the Squire.’

‘You shot it here?’

‘No! It was in my garden! It fled here.’

‘Then we’d better get it back to where you shot it. We don’t want to be accused of poaching the Squire’s deer.’