A Rip in the Veil (21 page)

“Take it off,” he said, indicating the ring on her third finger. She looked at him and then back at her ring. What did he mean, take it off? “You’re mine now,” he said into her hair. “So take it off.” Matthew rolled off her and held out his hand.

She sat up. His? Who did he think he was? She frowned at him, but the look in his eyes and the vulnerable curve to his mouth made her relent. He’s old-fashioned, she reminded herself – very, very old-fashioned. He was still holding his hand out, eyes hanging off her. Talk about reverse commitment; by placing John’s ring in his palm, she was telling him she was his. It made her feel hollow somehow, her heartbeat echoing inside the cavity of her chest. It would mean accepting that she would never see them again, not John, not Magnus, and not her baby.

Matthew’s eyes locked into hers, and for a long moment she held her breath. Finally, Alex nodded, expelling the air in a rush. She had to tug a bit to get the ring off, and she held it in her closed fist in a silent farewell before she dropped it into his waiting palm.

“He gave you that as well.” He touched the golden bracelet round her wrist. She took it off, dropping the chain links into his hand. He smiled, a soft sheen in his eyes when he pulled her down to kiss her.

“Mine, aye?”

She shivered in the evening breeze and huddled closer to him. “Yours,” she said, and found to her surprise that she meant it.

He drew her close, he whispered her name, kissed her ear, her nose, the corner of her mouth. His hands were warm on her skin, his fingers touched and teased, and Alex wrapped her arms around him and took him inside. She gasped; he froze. He nuzzled her neck, she shivered and locked her legs around his hips. He took his time, and now it was Alex that laughed, her head thrown back.

He snickered at her gait when they walked up to the top, a self-satisfied note to his voice when he told her she was walking as if he was still between her legs. She huffed and brought her thighs together, feeling them sticky and sore. Despite all her washing, she reeked of sex, of him, and her lips were swollen and tender. He stopped her beneath one of the crags.

“You’ll be my wife then,” he said, not quite a question, nor yet a statement.

“Yes,” she swallowed. “I suppose I will.”

He raised her hand to his mouth, uncurling her fingers to kiss her palm and then fisting her hand closed.

“It’s you and I now.”

“You and I,” she echoed. And in her mind she turned her head to look at Isaac, John and Magnus for one last time

Chapter 16

They’d fallen asleep naked and sticky, with shawl, plaid and blankets wrapped around them, and woke to sudden shyness, fumbling with buttons and lacings. Matthew snuck Alex a look, and her ears turned a delicate pink.

“What?” She turned her back on him while fastening her bra thing. He ran a finger down her spine, smiling at the way she shivered under his touch. “What?” she repeated, twisting to see his face.

“We could stay for a few days,” he said, his mouth quirking at the responding flash in her eyes. “We could do with some days of rest.”

“We could,” she smiled. She grew serious. “Would it be safe?”

“Oh, aye; it may even be wise to keep low to the ground for some time.” They’d seen far too many soldiers the last few days, riding in groups of six – no doubt still searching for yon fugitive, after all they were not that far from Lanark. Up here they were relatively safe, difficult to come upon by surprise.

*

He just couldn’t get enough of her; three days on and he ran his hands up and down her body, marvelling at the curve of her hip, how her thigh flowed to meet her knee, how well her round breasts fit into his cupped hands. The smoothness of her, the taste of her skin, the sounds she made when he took her – all of it was wondrous.

He sniffed her, making her laugh when his breath and beard tickled her, he just had to stroke her again, nibble her nape, kiss her ear. And somewhere halfway through, they fell asleep, his leg thrown across hers.

He woke a bit later, only to find her studying him, eyes travelling over every inch of his naked body. It made him uncomfortable, too aware of the scars that decorated him, and he attempted to sit up only to have her push him down. She shifted closer, and his skin seemed to rise from him as she smoothed her fingers down his arms, his chest and legs. Soft lips on his neck, teeth that bit gently on his nipples, a wet mouth that trailed further down, and his breath was loud and ragged, his head filled with pulsating reds.

When her mouth closed round him, Matthew moaned, arching towards her, a small part of his mind wondering where she had learnt to do something so…oh Lord, so…For a brief moment he was insanely jealous of John, for surely she had done with John what she was now doing with him, but then the sensation that filled him swept everything else aside, and he sank his hands into her hair to hold her where she was, with her mouth and her tongue making love to him as no one had ever done before.

“Merciful Father!” he exclaimed, and he didn’t care that he was taking His name in vain – or was he? Alex laughed against his skin, her tongue flicked out to lick his balls, his cock, and there was that mouth again, and with a strangled sound he came, and he came and he came and he came. When she released him, Matthew was a boneless heap of sated happiness, incapable of moving as much as a finger.

“Sweetest Lord,” he croaked.

“Sweetest Alex would be more correct,” she said, curling up against his chest.

“Aye.” He raised his head an inch or so to peer down at her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said and settled herself for an afternoon nap in his arms.

He was almost asleep, registering with half an ear the sounds of insects and birds that surrounded them, when a far more regular, manmade noise startled him wide awake. In an instant, Matthew was up on his feet, knife in hand, while he signalled for Alex to be quiet. He sat in absolute stillness, listening to the huffing sounds of someone making his way up the steep hillside.

“A soldier?” Alex whispered in his ear.

Matthew shook his head. Soldiers rarely went about alone, and whoever it was that was coming their way was limping badly.

“Fucking hell,” someone swore, and Alex clapped a hand to her mouth.

“Get dressed,” Matthew said, jerking his head in the direction of a stand of shrubs. She grabbed at her clothes and darted off, leaving Matthew to glower at a very surprised Sanderson.

“What are you doing here?” Matthew said, waving his knife to show Sanderson he should sit.

“Taking a hike,” Sanderson said. “You know, beautiful weather and all that. What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I’m trying to get away from those jerks that want to hang me!”

“Hang you?” Alex appeared so abruptly Sanderson nearly fell over backwards.

“Oh, you,” he muttered. His eyes travelled over Matthew’s naked body, back to Alex and her messy hair. “Interrupting something, was I?”

“No,” Matthew said, “we were done – for now.”

Matthew retreated a few paces to dress, keeping a vigilant eye on them. Alex stiffened under Sanderson’s cold, scrutinising stare.

“Bitch,” Sanderson said, making Matthew frown. “This whole mess is your damn fault.”

“My fault? How can it be my fault?”

Sanderson fisted his hands and Alex shoved her shoulders forward, legs sinking into a crouch. Sanderson sneered.

“Karate Kid, hey?”

“Black belt. Want me to show you?”

“No,” Sanderson said, dropping his eyes.

My power woman, Matthew grinned, tightened his belt, and re-joined them.

“So, why do they want to hang you?” Alex asked.

Sanderson shrugged. “Apparently, I’m a royalist, kind of ironic given where I come from, huh? And even worse, I’m a fugitive royalist called Matthew Graham, and so…”

“But you’re not,” Alex said.

Matthew’s hand closed over hers, squeezing down in warning. He didn’t want her saying too much, not to this man who was eyeing both of them, but in particular Alex, with dislike.

“Unfortunately, I can’t prove that, can I? And somehow I suspect that telling them I was born in 1959 will just change the mode of death – from hanging to the stake.” Sanderson paled when he said that, and for an instant he shared a look with Alex who’d gone just as white.

“The stake?” she echoed.

“We don’t burn witches,” Matthew told them, striving to sound matter-of-fact. “We hang them.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” Alex said. “And anyway, I’m not a witch.”

“Me neither.” Sanderson’s eyes walked up and down Alex, pausing at her chest and her mouth. Matthew leaned forward and raised a brow in warning. To his satisfaction, Sanderson averted his eyes.

“Your mother is Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez,” Sanderson said.

Alex flinched, cast a glance at Matthew. “Yes, my mother’s name is Mercedes, but if you knew, how come you didn’t tell me last time we met?”

“It sort of slipped my mind, my attention being otherwise occupied.” Sanderson shifted his leg, groaning with the effort. He loosened one of the makeshift bandages and Alex reared back at the resulting stench. Matthew studied what little he could see of the leg; gangrene, he’d hazard.

“Does it hurt?” Alex asked.

“Do you care?” Sanderson said.

“No, not really,” Alex said with a shrug.

“How did you make it up here?” Matthew asked with frank admiration.

“There’s nothing quite as motivating as a waiting gibbet,” Sanderson said, flicking at something that moved up his dirty breeches.

“Nay, it tends to concentrate your mind, like.”

Matthew was intrigued by how tense Alex became at the mention of her mother, and with the pretext of getting more wood he stood and distanced himself the better to see her reactions.

“So; why this interest in Mercedes?” Matthew said, his curiosity further tweaked by how Alex scowled at him.

“Unfinished business,” Sanderson replied. Matthew fed a few branches and twigs into the fire. Sanderson gave Alex a malicious smile before going on, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “My partner, Hector Olivares, has been looking for her for ages – in various different times.”

Matthew felt the hairs on his arms sprout.

“Hector Olivares?” Alex frowned. “What does he want with her?”

“As I said; unfinished business. A permanent weariness, a wish to end this protracted agony called endless life.”

“What?” Alex croaked.

Sanderson ignored her, turned to face Matthew. “Now Mercedes, well she’s a real witch, the type one should burn – at least according to Hector.” He smirked at the look on Alex’s face. “She’s cursed him, and unless Hector destroys her, he will never die.”

“Cursed him?” Matthew repeated, staring at Alex.

“Bullshit, you’re talking absolute crap.” She spat at Sanderson’s feet. “Hector Olivares is a kidnapper and so are you. It was you, wasn’t it, the two of you were in on what happened to me in Italy. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“And so what if we were? That was three years ago, get over it,” he sneered, but cringed when Matthew loomed over him.

“Get over it? You held her against her will!”

Sanderson licked his lips, tried to back away from him. “What were we to do? Hector had to be creative to snare the witch, and what better bait than her daughter?” Sanderson leaned back from Alex’s angry face and raised his makeshift crutch in warning.

“My mother is no witch!”

“You think? So you never noticed anything strange about her?”

“Of course not.” She’d gone a very bright red, and Matthew wasn’t sure it was solely due to anger. For an instant she met his eyes, hastily looked away, and Matthew’s gut clenched. Dear God, this man was telling some sort of truth.

“Alex?” he said. “Is it true?”

“True? Is what true?”

“Is this man telling the truth about your mother?”

“Oh for God’s sake!” She threw her arms up in the air. “How can you —”

“Yes I am,” Sanderson interrupted. “I’m telling you, man; her mother is a dangerous witch, and whenever Hector gets too close she just disappears, dropping into a new time and place. Generally she yanks him with her, poor bastard.”

“You’re so full of shit!” Alex exclaimed, voice breaking with anger. “Don’t listen to him.” She turned to face Matthew. “He’s lying.”

“No I’m not! Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez is a witch, you hear? A real, badass witch!”

Matthew backed away from the fire, and in his head he recited the Lord’s Prayer over and over again. If the mother was a time travelling witch, what was the daughter? Definitely a time traveller… He snuck a look at Alex’s white face, and then he turned and ran, wanting to put as much distance between her and him as he could – at least for now.

“Matthew!” Alex was on her feet. “Matthew!” She glared down at Sanderson, lifted her foot and kicked Sanderson’s swollen leg – hard. “Son of a bitch,” she said, ignoring his writhing pain. “Get out. Unless you want me to kill you right here and now.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Are you sure?” she said with quiet menace. “After all, why not make you pay for Italy?”

Sanderson tried to shift away. “It wasn’t my idea, it was Hector’s, and —”

“I don’t care,” she cut him off. “I just want you to leave. Now. Can you imagine how much I can make that leg hurt? For how long?” She kicked him again, and Sanderson yelped. “Go.” She pointed down the hill, and Sanderson got to his feet and limped away.

*

Afternoon was shading into dusk by the time Matthew came back. For some time he’d stood watching her as she paced back and forth, and even at the distance of several yards he could see she was crying, one hand wiping at her face. When she saw him she flew at him.

“If you ever do that again, I swear I’ll take off and you’ll never see me again. I had no idea where you were, or if you’d hurt yourself, or if you were ever coming back, and it’s not fair, you hear? You know it frightens me, you know how alone I feel here, you…you…bastard!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he snapped, cutting through her explosion.

“Tell you what?”

“That your mother is a witch.”

“She is?” her voice squeaked into a high octave. “And how would you know, seeing as I myself have no idea at all? I’ve lived with her for twenty odd years, and guess what? I’ve never seen her spell someone, or walk backwards around the church at midnight, or milk the neighbour’s cat, or have sex with Satan, or do any of those things a witch is supposed to do. Instead, I’ve had a mother who’s cared for me, who loved my father so much it sometimes hurt to watch. So, Mr Knowall, tell me; how do you know she’s a witch?”