Out with Lanterns, page 19
CHAPTER 23
Hours later, Silas watched Ophelia’s head fall back against Bess’s shoulder. She and Bess had the look of childhood about them, and he imagined Ophelia’s stomach sore from laughing, fingers sticky from iced buns and jam tarts, feet aching from dancing and wandering along the high street and around the village green. Late afternoon light filtered through the trees turning everything golden and mellow. She made everything golden. He still wasn’t entirely comfortable out in the village with everyone; he still had a feeling of restless worry that Ophelia’s father might appear, like a storybook villain, to ruin the beauty of it all.
“What a day,” Ophelia was saying. “I can’t remember the last time I ate so much or had such fun.”
“It’s true. My cheeks hurt,” sighed Bess.
“I never imagined one day could feel like such a holiday,” said Ophelia. “I thought it not enough time to truly rest or recuperate, but I feel I’ve packed a week’s worth of merry-making into a few hours.”
Silas watched them making a dent in Mrs. Darling’s fruit tarts, Ophelia’s eyes half-closed with pleasure, her lips slippery with jelly. He wanted to look away, could feel his cock stirring at the little noises of enjoyment she made. Finally, rigid with desire, he thrust himself away from the tree where he leaned and gulped down the last of the lemonade from the tin cup Mrs. Darling had produced from her basket. It was sweet and slightly warm and slid down his throat with a lazy, pleasant feeling.
He paced around the bench where Ophelia and Bess lounged to look out at the green, where earlier they had cheered as the village children wove haphazardly around the Maypole, coloured ribbons fluttering gaily as the tiny heads bobbed and wove. Proud mothers had stood in clutches around the edge along with elderly women and a few older men, whom Silas assumed were grandparents. The missing men, away fighting in the trenches, were a conspicuous absence, and Silas had pushed away the nausea that threatened to join the crowd rallying to enjoy the day and celebrate a fruitful sowing season. The village green was hung with bunting, and small tables in front of the vicarage held plates of biscuits and tarts, cakes, and sandwiches. A group of Morris dancers, diminished in numbers by missing members, had made their way around the green, jolly and loud, followed by a group of screeching children who scattered at the appearance of the tall figure of the Green Man.
Ophelia and Silas had stood to one side watching the children laughing and pushing each other as the tall figure moved in their direction. Its face had been covered with leaves and bracken, its body draped in a long forest-green cloak. Despite the shrieking giggles of the children, it moved slowly along the green and out of sight with no one the wiser as to its identity. People had fallen out of their clusters and begun chatting or sampling the wares. Ophelia and Silas had joined Hannah and Bess in wandering among the children’s games, the few boys playing a game of cricket just off the green, and the village ladies gathered, heads together, catching up on news. Mrs. Darling had found a seat among friends, the easy rhythm of the conversation proof of long acquaintance.
“You okay?” Ophelia had asked quietly, the edge of her little finger brushing his momentarily.
“Hmm?”
“Wondered if the children reminded you of your family, of Sam when he was little,” she said.
“Oh, aye, I suppose. It’s hard for me to think of them. I’m afraid I’ve let them down.”
“I’m sorry, Silas. Have you spoken with your mother lately?” Her face was concerned. “Surely she didn’t tell you that?”
They had wandered, rounding the corner of the green, a little distance from the crowd, and he rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Not about this, only letters with some news, how I was recovering, where I’d been sent after the hospital. I don’t . . . I don’t know what to say, how to ask her forgiveness for how I’ve involved all of them in this. I don’t know how I can see them without alerting your father, and that will only make things worse.”
He could feel anxiety and shame tightening his chest, the memories of the war gathering like a cloud at the back of his head. He began to wish he hadn’t come to the fete. Was this going to be his life forever? Every event haunted by ghosts of men who no longer drew breath while he did, the shame of his failure malingering over it all? The dreams and starting at noises were becoming less intense, but the guilt still appeared, sudden and vicious. He took a long slow breath to center himself.
Ophelia stopped and turned sharply to him, brows drawn together in a frown. “Do you mean to say that you haven’t spoken to her about any of this?” She waved vaguely, indicating, Silas thought, that her father had betrayed the Larkes and their tenancy.
He shook his head. “I did write that I was healing well, would be better eventually, and that I would visit when I could, but nothing more.”
“Silas! Don’t be so daft!”
He blinked.
“Men so often seem to think they know how other people feel or what is good for them. My father thought he understood me without ever having to actually speak to me and find out. And though I’m sure you think you have better reasons, you are doing the same thing.” He watched her fists ball at her sides, ruffling the fine lawn of her dress. “Don’t assume you know how your mother feels. Do her the courtesy of letting her tell you, for heaven’s sake. Let the women in your life tell you how they feel, and stop making choices about what you think they are capable of knowing.”
He felt her irritation like a slap; it brought him up short. Had he assumed he knew? He stood looking at her silently for a moment, her cheeks bright with anger, shoulders stiff while she waited for him to speak. He felt muddled again; protection had gotten tangled up with assumption, and he hadn’t even noticed it happening. The truth was, his guilt about Blackwood’s betrayal had made him feel small, and he hadn’t wanted to admit that to himself or his mother. Or Ophelia, if he was honest. It felt more difficult to rebuild his ways of thinking than to rebuild his leg.
“I did assume, Fee, and I didn’t even notice I was doing so.”
“Don’t you think she would want to know everything about your circumstance? She loves you a great deal and surely wouldn’t hold the choice you made against you . . . it was impossible and forced upon you. But she’ll not get to tell you that if you don’t give her the chance.”
She reached out to take his hand, threading her fingers in his. “I know it’s hard to change the way you’ve always thought. I don’t mean to be harsh . . . I’m still reminding myself of so many things every day.”
He looked down at their hands, then instinctively glanced around to make sure no one was watching them. He hated having to do it, but he didn’t want to be naïve about Blackwood, and he was the one who had been banging on about reputations, after all. Satisfied that the fete carried on without them, Silas caught their clasped hands to his chest and pulled Ophelia in for a kiss. He slid his free hand around her waist and nipped at her lips. He drank in her noise of surprise and met her open mouth with his own, tasting lemonade and sugar on her tongue. As quickly as it had begun, he ended it, afraid to let his body run away with him.
“My word, Silas Larke, you do go to a girl’s head.” Ophelia laughed unsteadily. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stepped back from him.
“And, you to mine, Miss Blackwood.” He grinned.
They wound their way around the green and back to the stalls and chatter, but Silas kept thinking about his mother and whether he had been missing something all this time. Perhaps she was no more in need of protection than Ophelia, perhaps what she needed was to know she could count on her son to help her make a plan, to be honest about his situation. He wondered if he had lost too much time wading through his own guilt. But he thought of what Ophelia had said about his mother’s love and knew that she was right—Lettie Larke would want to help, but not rescue. His heart lifted like a bird taking flight in his chest; maybe he could trust himself to find a new way of being. Maybe he could do more than just react to situations.
The afternoon had crawled by, and everyone had eaten their weight in treats, visited, and spent a good deal of time lolling around on benches or under trees, lazy with sunshine and sugar. Silas and Ophelia stood in the shade of the tree, and Hannah, stretched out on the picnic quilt, grinned sleepily up at Silas.
“How’re you finding the day, Silas?”
“Ah, lovely, thanks, Hannah. I’ve eaten well and had my ear talked off by Mr. Graves who’s thinking of ordering an Albion binder this year. How about you?”
“Just the same. Have even gotten in a nap,” Hannah mumbled.
“Thought I might begin the walk home, actually,” Silas said, looking at Ophelia. “Care to join me?”
Ophelia nodded and Hannah waved them off, saying that she would join the others when they were ready to return to the farm.
CHAPTER 24
“Ready to go?” Silas smiled at Ophelia and offered her his arm. Her stomach pitched like she stood on the deck of a ship and warm waves of desire licked up her insides. Silas had slung his jacket over his arm and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing a V of tanned skin. His linen shirt and trousers were slightly wilted from the heat, and his hair curled deliciously forward over his forehead. She took his arm, and he swung her gently onto the road back to the farm. They were quiet as they walked, their footsteps on the tarmac the only sound aside from the zigzagging song of a skylark high over the fields and the pipping of chiffchaffs in the hedgerow. Arm in arm, they wove along the road, stepping onto the verge when the odd cart passed by. Ophelia felt heavy and warm next to Silas, her breathing slow and easy, the steadiness of his step and the heft of his body next to hers a lovely anchor that she allowed to pull her steadily home to the farm.
Within the hour they were standing in the doorway of the barn, having made their way there by some silent agreement. Ophelia turned to look at Silas, their shoulders barely brushing together. She had to feed the horses their evening grain and water them, but she wanted to linger just a bit longer in this moment with Silas. The delight of being alone with him made her a little giddy, her stomach fluttering like when she’d had too much wine or the moment just before one jumped into the sea. It was hard to concentrate when he looked at her so keenly, his green eyes gone smoky and intense, his mouth drawn into a line somehow both firm and sensuous. Her bravery faltered, and she dropped her eyes to their hands, Silas’s long fingers firm and warm around hers. He lifted her hand, bringing it to his lips, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to each knuckle. Ophelia sucked in a breath and her stomach lurched, a delightful drop followed by a sizzling awareness of the wet warmth of his mouth on her skin. She watched him watching her over the back of her hand, his lips moving incrementally toward her wrist, placing soft kisses as he went. Reaching the fine knobs of her wrist bones, his tongue flickered around each, sending an arc of electricity flying up her arm to explode in her chest. She felt a shiver raise the fine hairs on her arms, tightening her nipples to hard points. He held her hand in his, her arm extended, his tongue worrying at the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. She felt herself sagging, her body turned liquid heat, pools of it settling in her belly and between her legs. Silas drew her gently toward him, a slow smile etching tempting curves in the corners of his mouth. Ophelia let herself move toward him, feel the heat of him slowly surround her, his scent of grass and leather and linen flooding her senses.
“I’d not even hoped to have you alone, Fee,” he breathed, their lips almost touching, his breath skimming across her cheek to ruffle her hair. He pulled back, eyes bright. “But I do, I mean we are, and . . .” Two bright spots rose along his cheekbones. “Would you come to my room?” he blurted. “I so badly want to kiss you again.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
Concern etched a tiny divot between his eyebrows. “Have I misread the situation? Oh Christ, Fee, I’m sorry,” he groaned.
God, no. “No!” she blurted, trying to forestall his embarrassment. “Not at all, I just need to tend to the horses, their evening grain. Would you . . . would you wait for me?”
Relief flooded Silas’s face. “Until the stars dimmed,” he said. “May I give you a hand?”
She nodded. “You could fill their water buckets while I do their grain.”
She watched as Silas strode out into the yard, a bucket in each hand. The sun had turned from the high, bright yellow of midday to the hazy, honeyed light of late afternoon, and it lay heavy and hot on Ophelia’s face, a corollary to the heat she felt watching Silas’s shoulders ripple as he worked the ancient water pump. Back in the barn, he hung the horses’ buckets on their hooks and laughed at Delilah’s pinned ears when Ophelia placed the low pan of grain on the floor of the mare’s stall. Latching the stall door, Ophelia went to wipe her hands down her the fronts of her pants, remembering just in time that she wore a dress.
“Damn, just need to find a rag,” she muttered aloud.
“I’ve one in my room, and a pitcher of water,” came Silas’s voice from down the hall.
“Oh,” Ophelia said under her breath.
Drawing herself up to her full height, and careful to keep her hands away from her clean dress, she followed him to his room and stood, as calmly as she could, in the doorway. He bent over the washstand, pouring water from the pitcher into the low bowl. In his hand was a worn washcloth. Ophelia wondered if he had used it to wash that morning, imagined the fabric moving across his sharp cheekbones, catching in the morning’s stubble that would have shadowed his jaw. Had he wiped down his neck, over his chest, even under his arms? Like a bomb, the idea of the same cloth skating over Silas’s body and then hers obliterated all thought, replacing it with hot need. It was all she could do to remain on her feet when Silas reached for her hands. He wiped each of her palms clean, lingering on the webbed spot between each finger, the touch so sensual Ophelia felt as though his hand was between her legs. Her breathing came short and harsh until he put them both out of their misery and crushed her to him, his mouth covering hers.
His lips were firm, nipping and sucking at her own hungrily, and she responded in kind, eager and greedy. Silas ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, kissing her and whispering her name as he went. She welcomed his explorations, the warm swipe of his tongue against hers, the smooth nip of his teeth at her bottom lip. Opening for him, she licked at his tongue, exploring, the soft slide of it against her own sending a spiral of liquid heat to her core. She could taste him, minty and warm with a hint of ale from the picnic, and the familiarity of it, the intimacy of tasting each other made her tremble. Silas pulled back, searching her face.
“Is this okay, Fee?”
She nodded her head firmly and looped her arms around his neck, bringing him down to her once more. She pressed her lips to his, his mouth a still point in the storm of desire that was ricocheting around her body. Silas stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers, then ran a finger under her chin to lift her eyes to his. The rasp of his fingers against the smooth skin made her shiver, which broke the spell long enough for her to speak.
“I . . . I haven’t changed my mind about marriage, Silas,” she said quickly and as firmly as she could. “I want you to know that before we continue. I want this, want you, but I don’t want marriage to be the price of it.”
He was still save for the fingers that stroked the back of her neck and tangled in the loose hair there. His eyes were steady on hers when he assented.
“Okay, then we continue,” Ophelia said, her voice a little thready. “And we must be careful, Silas, I do not wish to be with child. Will you help with that?”
“Yes, you have my word. Uh . . . we were given condoms while in France, and I did save one, but it needs time to prepare. Would you like to wait until I can do that?”
“I’d . . . I’d prefer not to wait,” she said, colouring. “Could you not . . . not spill inside me?” Ophelia asked, refusing to give in to the embarrassment of the moment. “Hannah says that’s a reasonably reliable way to avoid pregnancy. She’s my best source of information at the moment,” she added, a little shyly.
“I imagine we’re both grateful for the knowledge if it means not waiting.” The corner of his lips lifted in a smile, but his eyes were intent on her, hungry.
Her blood was rushing in her ears, loud and chaotic, and Ophelia wanted so much to be kissing Silas again that his words took a moment to sink in. She stilled. He had heard her. Their feelings about marriage weren’t totally aligned, but he respected her autonomy, her choice. She felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with his hands on her, his parted lips so close to hers.
He leaned forward. “We can change our minds at any point, Fee. Either of us, for any reason,” he said gently, his eyes serious on hers. “We’ll figure this out together. Agreed?”
“Yes,” she said, dreamily, rubbing her chin against his fingers. “I know we can. I want you, Silas . . . I want to do this with you.”
CHAPTER 25
Iwant you. The words rang like a bell, echoing through every part of him. Ophelia wanted him. Even after his clumsy attempts to offer something she didn’t need, she still wanted him. She believed in the man he could become, just as he believed in the woman she was becoming. He tried not to think about his maimed leg, about how she deserved someone perfect and whole, untouched by war. But his heart and body were greedy, and so instead of putting distance between them, he ran his fingers down her spine, feeling the ridges of her corset laces through the thin fabric, each tiny button holding the dress tight around her body, smooth under his fingertips.
