A Rip in the Veil (44 page)

Mrs Gordon gave her an amused look. “If you want to, then you have to let him know that, no?”

Alex was taken aback by this very modern approach, and was even more surprised when Mrs Gordon confided that most women, in her considerable experience, were as hot for it as their husbands, and that there was nothing wrong with that.

That evening, Alex carried her replete son over to his cradle and tucked him in, patting the little bum. She sat down at her primitive dressing table and released her hair, taking a very long time to brush it. In the mirror she could see her husband. Naked, he was lying on his side, eyes golden in the candlelight. She remained on the stool and let the shift drop off one shoulder, the soft worn linen sliding down her arm.

“Take it all off.”

She did, and when his eyes met hers in the mirror, there was a command in them that made her insides contract. She walked over to the bed and sat down. Slowly he traced her breasts, her belly. He laid his head between her legs, rubbing his unshaven cheeks hard against the inside of her thighs. He kissed her there, sending shockwaves of tickling electricity through her body, all the way from her curled toes to her heating cheeks.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, which made him laugh.

“I’ve been here all the time.” His fingers were moving in teasing circles that made her breathing pick up, a ragged, demanding sound.

“But not like this.” She dragged a nail up his penis, felt him shudder in response, and when her fingers closed around him he inhaled loudly.

“Nay, not like this. But now I’m back.”

For a flashing instant it hurt, a straining of membranes that had grown unaccustomed to this. He noticed, and held himself still, waiting until she raised her hips towards him before he began to move. It had been too long, and as a consequence it was over far too quickly. Alex laughed and patted him on his bare buttocks.

“Is that all?”

“For now.” He rose on his arms and smiled down at her. “But if you give me a minute or two, I’m sure I’ll have recovered sufficiently to make you squeak.”

“Squeak? I don’t squeak!”

“Aye you do, but I don’t mind. I find it rather sweet.”

“Huh.” Alex pretended to be affronted. He chuckled, bent his head to nuzzle her neck, the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“Do you want me to make you squeak?” he murmured against her skin.

“I don’t squeak.”

But much later she admitted she did – sometimes.

Chapter 37

It was May, and after months of hard work Matthew had decided he and Alex had earned themselves a few days of lassitude with Simon and Joan in Cumnock. Not that Alex was all that impressed, grumbling that Cumnock wasn’t her idea of a holiday get away. But where her mood improved with every day spent in Cumnock, Matthew’s deteriorated. Alex sighed, clearly annoyed by his moping. She’d told him, hadn’t she?

“It’s different to hear you tell it than to see it happening.” He made a face. “They’re all falling over their feet in their haste to welcome the returning majesty to his throne.” He placed an arm around his wife and drew her close enough that he could peek at his son, fast asleep in his carrying shawl.

“That’s not true,” she said, “at most people are relieved, no more.” He grunted, but admitted she was right. Cumnock was not a hotbed of royalist fervour, and now that Luke had ridden south taking most of his vociferous companions with him, the small market town had reverted to being what it had always been; somnolent and more concerned with Kirk and business than with the going on’s in far away London.

“Do you think he’ll be back?” Alex asked, apparently having caught a whiff of his thought.

“Luke? Nay, I think it most unlikely. He has a life to build for himself at the royal court.” He stretched, relieved that his brother was gone out of his life – hopefully for good.

“A few days, no more,” Simon said one evening after supper.

“Aye,” Matthew agreed morosely. Any day now the king would land, returning to take up his crown at the express invitation of the Parliament.

“You must admit it has been skilfully handled.” Simon poured them both a tot of whisky.

“Aye,” Matthew said. “It’s General Monck. It was him, no doubt, that urged Charles to write the Declaration.”

It stuck in his craw to have to recognise that a man he had considered devoted to the Commonwealth cause was the architect of its destruction, all the way from disbanding the Rump Parliament and calling a new election earlier in this the year of our Lord 1660, to this final little masterpiece, the Declaration of Breda, in which Charles Stuart promised to be lenient to all former Parliament supporters.

“Mayhap for the best. A peaceful restoration is to be preferred, is it not?” Simon said.

“You think? I personally think there should be no king, restored or otherwise,” Matthew said.

“The alternative would have been war, and that would have been worse all round.”

“Aye,” Matthew agreed, but with no real enthusiasm.

“It won’t really change things, will it?” Alex asked.

“Not up here. The king will have plenty to occupy him in the southern parts of his kingdom,” Simon said, “and for all that his grandsire was Scots, I doubt Charles Stuart has any particular fondness for this our corner of the earth. Dour, damp and dirty, he found it, and far too full of Covenanters for his liking.”

“Aye it will,” Matthew disagreed. “It all changes. We’re back to a world where one man’s word counts for more than the rest’s, a world where blood and birth carry more weight than ability and commitment.” He smiled crookedly. “But other than that you’re right; nothing will change.” He got to his feet and left the room.

*

“Longing for home?” Alex teased next morning. Matthew grunted and went back to inspecting girths and harnesses. Only once he had repeatedly tested the pannier basket did he allow Alex to place Mark in it, muttering to Gavin that he’d flay him if he didn’t ensure the wean rode safely all the way back home. Gavin gave him a surly nod, looking rather disgruntled after having been torn from a much needed sleep.

They were at the crossroads with the Lanark road when Alex asked Matthew to stop.

“What’s the matter?” Matthew held in Samson.

“I’m not sure, I just feel strange.” She dropped off the horse and went to sit in the shade of the huge crossroads oak. “Maybe it’s the heat.”

It was hot, unseasonably so, and she tugged with irritation at her woollen bodice. She was feeling nauseous, and her head was banded by pain, making red swirls dance before her eyes.

“I think I need to sit here a while,” she said and undid her hat, flapping it to create a cooling breeze. Matthew studied her with some concern and went over to talk to Gavin.

“I told him to ride on,” he said once he returned to sit beside her.

“Mmm.” All of her was itching, sweat was breaking out in the most unusual places, and she licked her lips, surprised to find them so dry. She sniffed; there was a strange stench to the air, an acrid top note that reminded her of seaweed rotting under a baking sun.

“You’re looking very pale,” Matthew helped her to sit back against the trunk.

“I feel pale – and thirsty.”

He retrieved a stone flask of cider from one of the saddlebags, and they sat in silence, sharing it.

“Better?”

“A bit,” she lied. Her eyelids weighed a ton. A nap, a short little nap, and then she’d feel much better. She barely registered when Matthew eased her down on the ground, his coat rolled into a makeshift pillow under her head.

When she woke a few minutes later she was alone. A swift scanning of her surroundings indicated Matthew had led Samson off to graze along the verge, and if she squinted she could make out the general shape of her husband, a few yards further in among the bushes. She needed to pee, and with an effort she levered herself onto her feet, standing like a swaying beanpole before she regained her balance.

God, it was hot! The previously clear sky was now a threatening purplish grey, the heavy clouds lit from within by distant lightning. The crossroads; something was happening to it, shimmering bands of bright greens and blues overlaying the scenery behind. She frowned, overcome by a disturbing sense of recognition.

The strands of blue and green danced round her feet, a crack opened in the road, pouring bright, white light. Alarm bells clanged in her head, huge red alerts screeched at her to run, flee, but her eyes were stuck in that funnel of light, and she took a staggering step towards it.

She peered into the bottomless drop, and there were cars, and motorbikes and a bright red phone box, and in her ears noise pounded; honking horns, screeching brakes and snatches of music from various radio channels. Home. She blinked at the familiar faces that swam before her; John, Magnus in his garden, Isaac. One more step and she’d be there, with them, and a hot wave of longing rushed through her. Home – the word bubbled through her blood.

A whispering filled her head, a soft enticing murmur telling her it was time, time to leave all this behind and return to where she belonged. Yes, of course; go home, go home. Below her the road began to churn, and there was a tugging sensation round her feet, her calves, an insistent force pushing her towards that yawning chasm.

Her foot struck a rock, and the flare of pain tore through the whispered promises of home, a life in modern comfort. Home? No! That wasn’t home, not anymore!

She shrieked; Matthew, she screamed, but there were no sounds, her tongue an uncooperative piece of swollen leather in a mouth so dry it felt like she’d been eating sand. Her heart thundered, and she tried to retreat, but she was stuck in this quagmire of colours, the whole road was spinning around her, drawing her towards the pulsing light at the centre of the crossroads.

“No!” With a superhuman effort she tore herself free, landing on her front. She clawed her hands into the dirt of the road, desperately anchoring herself to the here and now. She was dragged backwards, her fingertips and nails torn to shreds over the grit and gravel of the roadbed, and her legs…Jesus! They were being twisted off her.

“Matthew,” she croaked. He must have heard her, because here he came, flying towards her with his breeches still undone. His hands closed around her arms and he pulled. It hurt so much Alex couldn’t cry out – she couldn’t even breathe. Oh God; she was going to die, stretched until she snapped like an elastic band between this time and that.

*

Matthew threw himself backwards, Alex an unconscious deadweight in his arms. It was like trying to reel in a trout the size of a horse, with Alex the unfortunate hook caught in between. He inhaled; scorching pitch seemed to clog his lungs, and he gagged on the stench of brimstone that permeated the air. He slipped, landed on his backside, and now they were both hurtling towards that hole of dazzling light. A heel struck stone, the other found purchase against a clump of grass, and Matthew roared with effort.

Inch by pathetic inch, he dragged them away from the precipice. His shoulders were on fire, he could no longer feel his arms, his hands. He gritted his teeth, he prayed, calling for God to help him. No reply, and Matthew did battle all on his own, refusing to relinquish his wife to the hungry maw that was snapping at her feet.

Air whistled in and out of his nose, sweat dripped off his brows, his thighs were beginning to cramp, and still he held on. A weak scrabble, and her feet were no longer dangling in the void. A heave, and there was a yard between her toes and the drop.

“You’ll not have her,” he said through his clenched teeth. “Never will I let her go.”

As if in reply, a sudden wind sprang up. Rain filled the air and the previously so hot day cooled. The chasm slammed shut with a distinctive, grinding sound. After a few half-hearted rumbles, the cloud cover drifted away, leaving in its wake cool, fresh air.

He didn’t dare to let go of her, not yet, not here, so close to where recently it had all been swirling colours and bright light. He pulled them both into the shade of the oak, and once there he unclamped his hands from her arms. Alex lolled like a broken ragdoll, and there was an everlasting moment when he thought she was dead, but then she moaned.

*

“Alex?”

She turned her face towards the sound of his voice. She was one huge bruise and when she struggled to sit, her mouth filled with the taste of blood.

“Alex, are you alright?”

She wound her arms hard around his neck, glad to feel his arms around her, to hear his heartbeat under her ear. He stroked her head and she slumped against him.

“Is it gone?”

“Aye,” he whispered into her hair. “Aye, Alex, it’s gone.”

She coughed a couple of times, licked at her dirt encrusted lips and sat up.

“Did you see anything?”

He nodded, eyes huge in his ashen face. “Cars, aye? Just as you’ve described them. And there was so much noise…” He hugged her hard, not noticing when she winced, and buried his face in her hair. “I thought I’d lose you.”

“So did I,” she said and began to cry.

“Can you stand?” he asked after a while. She tried, but her legs… She raised her skirts and gasped; bruises covered her calves, her thighs, and one of her knees had swollen as if sprained. Her fingers looked as if she’d stuck them into a shredder, and where Matthew had grabbed her there were two perfect imprints of his hands.

He groaned at the sight of her, ran light hands over her mangled limbs in a futile attempt to soothe and heal. She gave him a weak smile, assured him it wasn’t too bad. Besides, he was looking rather worn as well, his lower legs and arms almost as bruised as hers. He looked down himself in surprise, studied her bedraggled clothes, her dirty face, and looked over to where Samson was still grazing.

“We fell off the horse,” he said, “the girth gave, your skirts caught in the stirrup and dragged us along.” That sounded plausible enough, Alex decided, taking a careful step towards the horse.

“It was just like her paintings,” Alex said once they were back on Samson. “You know, like the one we destroyed.”

“A portal – that’s what Olivares called it.”