Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Read online

  She stood sipping something she assumed to be a primitive version of rum punch, nodding and smiling at milling acquaintances, all the while tracking her husband’s progress on the dance floor. Once, he looked in her direction, and she thought that now he would come and sweep her into the whirlwind, but he just raised his hand and went back to what he was doing, and Alex was both insulted and hurt.

  Simon swept by her, kissed her, and dragged her out to dance, made her laugh and left her gasping for air by the open doors. William and Esther stood talking to her for some moments, and then Esther chuckled and nudged William, and all three of them watched Simon lead Kate into yet another wild and exuberant dance.

  The fifth time Matthew cut in on Simon to dance with Kate, Alex had had enough. Not once had he asked her to dance, and except for the fleeting kiss when they met on the dance floor, he seemed entirely oblivious to her presence. She retrieved her shawl from Kate’s bedroom and, without a backward glance, set out the long, dark way back home.

  *

  “Where’s your mama?” Matthew collapsed, drenched in sweat, beside his daughter who gave him a very cold look.

  “I don’t know, but mayhap she had enough of seeing you dance attendance on Widow Jones.”

  “I wasn’t dancing attendance on her, but she’s a right good dancer.” His head hurt: too much rum and beer – far too much.

  “So is Mama, and how many times have you danced with her?”

  Matthew mumbled something about not being sure.

  “Well, I am, on account of me sitting here with nothing to do but watch. Not once, Da.” Ruth stood up, shook off his helping hand, and moved over to join a group of young women on the terrace.

  Matthew spent half an hour looking for Alex, and in his belly a little snake of guilt coiled and uncoiled. Eventually, he concluded that she must have left, alone, and the guilt transformed itself into anger that she should be so reckless as to undertake the mile-long walk back to town on her own.

  He rushed up the stairs to their room. It was bolted, and he banged on it until she jerked it open so abruptly he fell into the room.

  “What?” she demanded, hands on her hips. “What do you want?” She was half-dressed, the underskirt in green hanging unlaced about her middle.

  “What do you think you were doing, walking back alone?” he exploded defensively. “You know that road is dangerous after dark!”

  “Oh, and you care?” She wiped at her eyes, smudging the kohl even further.

  “Of course I care,” he spluttered, shamed by the fact that she had been crying.

  “Well, now that you’ve assured yourself I’m safe and sound, you can hurry back to your party, gawk some more at Kate’s tits, and see if I care.” She turned her back on him, the petticoat landed with a sigh on the floor, and she twisted awkwardly to get at the lacing on her stays.

  “I wasn’t gawking,” he said, and by habit he extended his hand to help her, but she slapped it away.

  “Don’t touch me! And no, you’re right, you weren’t gawking. You had your nose stuck between them – more or less. So, why are you still here instead of galloping back to do some more drooling?”

  “Ah, but you’re a bairn at times.”

  “A child? Me?” The slap caught him unawares, the force of it strong enough to bring tears to his eyes. “And what were you thinking, Mr Adult? Or should that be thinking with?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he lied stiffly, touching his flaming cheek.

  “Oh yes, you do!” she yelled. “But just to ensure we’re on the same page, what the hell do you think you’ve been doing all night? Blatantly flirting with Kate Jones, dancing with her, swinging her in the air as if she were a feather, and not once, you arsehole, not once did you ask me to dance.”

  “I was dancing with the hostess!”

  “Yeah, right. You were cutting in on Simon because you’re jealous of him,” she said, and he flushed at her perceptiveness. “And me…well, me you just ignored.” She shimmied out of the stays and went to open the little attic window wide.

  “Nay, Alex, that isn’t fair. I never ignore you.” He twisted inside at the look she gave him.

  “No? And how many times this evening were you at my side? How many glasses of punch did you get me?” It came out very glacial.

  “I got a wee bit carried away by the dancing, but then I came looking for you but you had already left,” he said, hearing how lame that sounded.

  “Ah.” She kicked at her discarded finery, sending it flying across the room, and then the shoes went flying as well, landing with two distinct thumps. Just as violently, she tugged at the wooden pins that held her elaborate hairdo in place, and with a shake of her head her hair came tumbling down, in waves of bronze and brown and silver, laced here and there with strands of purest white.

  “Don’t!” she snapped, when his hand reached out towards that waterfall of hair. “If you do, I’ll bite your fingers off.” He ignored her, grabbing her by the shoulders.

  “You can try,” he challenged, and did the only thing he could think of; he kissed her.

  Sweet Lord, but she could be a vixen! Every inch of the way she fought him, her nails raked his back, her bare feet swung for his shins. She tried to knee him in the crotch, she hissed and spat, her head whipping back and forth to evade his kisses. He slammed her against the wall, cradled her head with his hands and his lips came down on hers. She spluttered and tried to bite, but he persisted, his mouth moving against hers, his hands holding her still.

  He raised his head, gasping for breath, and her blue eyes threw bolts at him, one fist swinging for his head, but this time he was ready for it and deflected it. She scratched him, hard enough to make him curse, and for an instant he came close to hitting her – but he’d never raise his hand against her. Instead, he kissed her again, a forceful vicious kiss. She bit his lip, and he pulled himself free with a hiss.

  All of him thudded, all of him quivered. This was his woman, and he was her man, and let her never forget that, goddamn it! When she still fought him, he grabbed at the neckline of her chemise and ripped it apart, shoved her back against the wall and with his hands on her uncovered skin kissed her again, invading her, demanding her. She kissed him back. Ferociously, she kissed him, her fisted hands drumming at his shoulders, his chest. One hand in her hair, she was up on her toes. One arm round her waist, and she was impossibly close, her arms tight round his neck, her body plastered to his. With a grunt, he heaved her up and threw her onto the bed.

  “Open your legs,” he panted, pinning her down with his body.

  “In your dreams,” she spat, clamping her legs together. She was heaving with arousal, her pale skin shifting to red on her throat and chest. Her breasts spilled out of the torn chemise, her eyes were wide and dark, and her tongue slid out to wet her lips.

  “Open yourself to me,” he repeated thickly, sitting on her to keep her still as he stripped off his coat and shirt.

  “Fuck off,” she told him, and hit him hard enough to make him gasp.

  “Oh, I intend to fuck alright,” he growled back.

  She gave a low howl, she struggled like a fiend, and he couldn’t remember when he last had been this aroused, his balls aching and his cock springing through his undone lacings. She tried to shove him off, she pushed against his hold, at the same time grinding her hips against his. Her breath was hot against his skin, and at the last moment he reared back, hearing her teeth snap together where his ear had just been.

  He wedged his thigh in between hers, his knees spread her apart, opened her for him. He raised himself on one arm, yanked at his breeches, and his cock rose free and unencumbered. Her fist struck him in the face, but he barely registered it, his blood a loud rushing in his brain, in his member. He gripped at her waist, she heaved, her legs coming up round his hips. Almost there, his cock nudging at her cleft. She bucked, he pushed, and there, finally.

  She exclaimed, a soft “oh” that was a white flag of surrender, al
l of her softening below him, around him. Too late, he hammered home, her surrender came too late, and he drove into her, he plunged deeper and deeper, and every stroke reverberated up his spine to pop like a soap bubble in his head. He had drunk too much, sweat made both of them slick, and still he didn’t finish, pushing harder in an attempt to find that elusive release.

  He pulled out, dragged her onto the floor, and took her from behind, rearing over her. A male taking his mate, and she met his thrusts with a series of urgent sounds. He twisted his hands into her hair, gentle and rough at the same time, and with a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan, he finally came, pressing his balls as close to her as he could.

  The room was suddenly very quiet, the only sound their heavy breathing, and Matthew sank down to rest his thudding head on the floor.

  “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,” her voice floated up from where she lay on her front with him half on top.

  Right now, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to sleep. With a grunt, he pushed himself off the floor and stood swaying for some moments before helping her up.

  “Bed,” he said.

  “Bed.” She nodded.

  *

  He woke to a clanging hangover and vague but very pleasant memories of last night. When he opened his eyes, she was lying on her side looking at him, her eyes the blue of cornflowers in a sea of barley.

  “How many years have we been married?” she asked in a tone that made him look at her warily.

  He licked at his cracked lips as he counted in his head. “Twenty-eight come September.”

  She nodded, studying her wedding ring. “Not once during all those years have I ever looked at another man – not like that.”

  He groaned. He had hoped he had managed to put this particular discussion to bed last night.

  “Kate was different—”

  “I know it was different. At times, I even manage to dredge up a modicum of gratitude, because if it hadn’t been for her, you might not have been alive. But that doesn’t mean I like it, and it definitely doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten that you broke your vows to me with her – with bloody Kate Jones.” He shifted under the weight of her eyes. She fell silent, and the ring went round and round her finger. “So, tell me, what am I supposed to feel when you go green with jealousy at hearing she is walking out with Simon? How am I to take it when you spend an evening fawning over her when I am there as well?”

  He regarded her for a long time. “How can you even think…?” He shook his head in exasperation and began again. “Goddamn it, woman, you know I love you, only you, don’t you?”

  “I do? Let’s say I’m not sure about that – at least not right now.”

  “Ah, Alex! You’re just twisting the knife a wee bit deeper.”

  “And you don’t think I deserve to? What would you have done if it had been me dancing with someone else – and a former lover to boot – all night long?”

  He looked at her for a long time, his hand coming up to smooth at her hair, her face. His thumb rubbed at the dark smudges round her eyes, thinking they made her look very vulnerable.

  “I think I might have killed him – or you.” He smiled to show her he wasn’t entirely serious.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she said, and he could hear in her voice just how much he had hurt her.

  He closed his eyes for an instant. “I would have made you pay,” he whispered. “I would have been angry and hurt, and I’d not have wanted you to touch me – or mayhap I’d have wanted you to, but I wouldn’t have let you.”

  She flipped over on her back. “Exactly.”

  He propped himself up on his elbow, wound a long curl round one of his fingers. “Forgive me, my heart.”

  She hitched her shoulders.

  “Please, Alex. Forgive me, aye?”

  “Hmm,” she said, but he could see it in her eyes, that she wanted to forgive him, needed to forgive him as much as he needed her to forgive. Just in case, he decided the situation called for a long tender session in bed, and by the time he was done, she was clinging to him, repeating his name in his ear.

  They lay close together afterwards, legs still entangled, and he could swear she was purring. He looked down his nose at her. Not a house cat, his wife, more of a catamount. A catamount that raised brilliant blue eyes to his.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “Mmm.” He yawned. “Sleep?” he suggested after throwing a look out of the window. She didn’t reply. She was already fast asleep.

  Chapter 15

  It was pure chance that Matthew and Alex were almost down by the port when the shouts went up. From everywhere, people came running, making for the wharves.

  “A slaver?” Alex asked, watching Mr Farrell set off, coat flying.

  In response, Matthew sniffed the air. She did the same, and her shoulders dropped. Not a slaver, because those boats carried an unmistakeable stench with them, as if all the misery of their unwilling cargo left an olfactory and indelible imprint behind.

  “But it has crossed the ocean,” Matthew said, studying masts and rigging.

  Alex was unimpressed. Anyone could see that, thank you very much.

  “There might be a letter for us,” she said, before remembering that they had no one left on the other side of the Atlantic to send them a letter.

  “We’ll pass by the harbourmaster later,” Matthew promised, squinting at the sun. He was suffering the consequences of too much alcohol in combination with a very intense night and morning, but Alex felt not one whit of compassion for him. Not today.

  There was a letter. In actuality, there were two: one in an unknown hand, and the other with the distinctive lettering of Luke Graham, Matthew’s brother.

  “From Luke?” There was no love lost between Matthew and his younger brother, in Alex’s opinion for very good reasons.

  “Apparently.” Matthew frowned, took her hand in his, and, without a further word, hurried them back to the privacy of their room.

  She hung over his shoulder to read the first letter, a short little thing informing Matthew that Alexander Peden had died January last, in bed. There was a colourful description of how his body had been disinterred by the dragoons to be submitted to the iniquity of hanging after death, but, due to the loud rumblings in the countryside surrounding Cumnock, the powers that be had decided not to follow through.

  Matthew sat in silence after finishing the letter, staring towards the east, towards the place she knew he still called home. Sandy Peden had been his friend, his spiritual mentor, and a preacher who attracted a large following during those turbulent years when Covenanters were hunted like animals through Ayrshire. He had also been the person who had convinced Matthew to leave Scotland, prophesising years of terrible unrest for all those that remained behind. And now he was dead – in his bed, as he had also prophesised.

  “So he was right after all,” Alex said.

  “Hmm?” Matthew gave her a dazed look.

  “He said, didn’t he? How he would die in bed, and how we would bury more than the one child.” She looked away, her head full of Jacob and their little Rachel, buried nineteen years ago back home, in Scotland. “I wish he’d been wrong, even if I don’t begrudge him a peaceful death.

  “And the other?” she said when Matthew made no move to break the heavy seal.

  He weighed it in his hand and lobbed it over to her. “You read it.”

  Alex slipped a finger under the wax, making it crack when she forced the papers apart.

  “Dated in December of 1685,” she informed him.

  Brother, it began, the strong handwriting stark against the heavy paper…

  It must of course seem to you the ultimate irony that I, the brother you love not at all, be reduced to turning to you in this my hour of greatest need. Had there been any other alternative, rest assured I would not, but I am rendered incapable of taking action on my own, and can but hope that the many years that have transpired since we last met have served to temper the
bitterness between us – at least enough for you to peruse my letter before discarding it.

  “He’s asking you for a favour?”

  “Aye, it would seem so.” Impatiently, Matthew waved his hand at her, and she cleared her throat and read on.

  I write to you on behalf of my son, my impetuous Charlie, of an age, I believe, with your Daniel. To a man experienced in the joys and pitfalls of fatherhood, there is no need to explain what young men are like when they hover between manhood proper and the childish fancies that still at times inhabit their heads, is there? I can but remind you of Jacob and his devilishly daring but oh so foolish decision to take ship on his own for Europe. (I trust he is hale and hearty, for all that we have not heard from him for nigh on a year, and do remind him he has a home here whenever he needs it.)

  “Oh,” Alex said, her eyes misting over, “we never told him Jacob is dead.”

  “Why should we?” Matthew said.

  “Because Jacob cared for him?”

  Matthew threw her a dark look, making her sigh. He still had problems accepting that his son had developed such fondness for Luke during his years in London. Alex went back to the letter.

  Enough of procrastinations. I assume that even in your lost corner of the world, you hear of events here in England, and surely you are appraised of the fact that we now have a new king, James the Second, and may his reign be long and bountiful. Equally, I suppose you may have heard of Monmouth’s failed rebellion this summer past – a rash and rebellious act against an anointed king.

  I first met Monmouth, plain James as he was then, when he was but ten or so, during the last years of his royal father’s exile in the Netherlands. A beautiful and headstrong boy, spoiled and with a dramatic flair that he surely inherited from his mother, for his royal father was a man markedly without airs or pretensions.