A Love by Any Measure, page 18
They had reached the stoop outside her door. She used her whole body to try and wedge the oaken frame open. The first volley only brought a moan of resistance from the wood. Without turning, but in a voice mixed heavily with desperation and resignation, she begged, “Please leave.”
“Only if you tell me you love him.”
She was done for.
“Love will grow,” Maeve said over her shoulder. “It needs only time. I will love Owen someday, as he loves me now. Besides, who marries for love?”
He winced. It was obvious he had no intention of leaving until his piece — whatever that may be — was said. Maeve turned around slowly, dropping her arms in surrender and pressing her back against the door. She needed to get in, needed to leave him outside. If he saw in, anything she was about to tell him would be all too obvious a lie.
“So you admit you do not love him.”
“How could I deny it? I barely know him.”
August’s head cocked to the side. “Do you know him any less than you know me?”
“No.”
“Not much to build a future on, Miss O’Connor.”
Her cheeks must have burned as she felt the heat tickle her nerves. “What I am building a future on is his good name and mine. A good name, I’ll remind you, that you nearly succeeded in dragging through the mud.”
The words bore no fruit in repelling him. Instead, his form pressed into hers, backing Maeve against the door, leaving no route of escape except inward, against that very door that would not budge.
“And what of our prospects? Can you take no future from that?”
She scoffed, feeling every Judas nerve calling to seek out his lips, his eyes trying to draw her further into his web.
“You are English. What worth are you in Ireland?”
“You are Irish, what worth are you in England?”
August angled his chin and leaned in, seeking her kiss. In a last ditch effort to deny her desire, Maeve tried to pull back from him, but there was nowhere to go. Instead, her head slammed back, and their combined weights finally forced the door to yield. The wood upon wood friction made a terrible cry as Maeve fell inward, landing hard on the floorboards, August’s body landing right atop hers. His head picked up, looking not at her, but across the room with wonder the likes of a child.
Silence.
Except for the steady tick of one previously-owned Comtoise clock, the very one August had cast off at auction only a few weeks before.
“Maeve, my clock?”
“Yes, our clock.”
A Moment Stolen
Wherein so bitter August had found the constant tick of the clock that he had sold it off, now each moment it measured a victory.
Maeve’s arms encircled his neck and pulled him closer as his lips took from hers every portion of warmth they were able to offer.
“How?” he asked breathlessly, flashing his eyes to the clock and back again to her flushed visage. Even with a manager’s salary, the purchase of such an opulent item would be nearly impossible.
“I’m afraid you’ll discover when you go over the books.”
His lips returned to hers but were left unsatisfied. August simply couldn’t kiss her hard or fast enough to be convinced that she understood his rapture.
“August, the door ... ”
It was quite chilly and the air was causing the flat — and Maeve — to lose heat. August nodded, begrudgingly withdrew, and rose to his feet. The heavy door refused to completely close until he used the weight of his whole body to press it into place. When at last he succeeded, he found her spot on the floor empty.
His eyes searched the room. Across the way, Maeve’s silhouette ghosted through the darkness. Soon, a soft glow filled the room, throwing amber highlights about. August smiled coyly as he slipped off his overcoat and let it fall to the floor. Maeve had abandoned her cloak as well.
“I’m drunk,” she said through a half-smirk.
“Me too.”
Her eyes turned devilishly delighted as he reached her, pulling her back to him. She set the lamp on top of the nearby mantle and twisted her fingers through his hair.
“Last time I was drunk I tried to seduce Owen, but he was too good a man to take advantage of me.”
He placed light, wet kisses along her neck just where her hair cascaded behind.
“Good thing I’m an English bastard with no morals.”
Maeve tilted her head back, exposing her throat, and August tasted every inch, using his arms to pull her closer all the while. Her hands reached up to his dress coat and tugged at the sleeves. He was all too happy to oblige her and removed the needless garment, surrendering it to a pile on the floor that was soon joined by his shirt and vest, her blouse, and then her skirt. The sight of the petticoat and camisole he had gifted her underneath sent his spirit soaring.
Their hands acted only as utilities of undressing, but even now as they both stood only in their undergarments, August was surprised when Maeve’s fingers began skirting down his sides, over his hip, and reached around to grab the hem of his drawers, tugging at them.
“Maeve ... ” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Are you certain?”
“I’m standing in front of our clock, August,” she answered as she began to slip the cotton fabric down, revealing his hardened manhood without the further hindrance of cloth. “What I do here is for your pleasure.”
The drawers fell to the floor and Maeve’s hands circled forward, both beginning to stroke the exposed and ready instrument. His eyes rolled back. He had touched her from nearly head to toe, but had recalled the only instance of her soft hand upon him so intimately with longing since it had happened. Still, a bit of his gentlemanly upbringing would not allow her to press forward unwarned.
“Maeve, the first time for a woman ... There can be pain. It may hurt ... And, I don’t ... Oh, Maeve, yes ... Are you certain that ... Ungh, May ... ”
The anticipation August had felt since first they struck their deal in the stable was coming to a head. Maeve’s hands had grown so strong from working dough in the bakery — a consequence he had never considered when giving her the position, but one he was surely benefiting from now. Her fingers united in their grip and worked the embrace of her hands up and down his shaft. His release would not be long in coming, and he wasn’t sure what her reaction would be. Even now, his mind raced to know how she had figured out how to do what she was so masterfully doing.
As though his eyes had put into words this very query, she looked up at his ever-contorting features. “Brocc talks.”
He nodded, understanding that the girl’s reputation must have been well earned. Maeve loosed her left hand as her right journeyed lower, cupping the sac beneath and nearly undoing his control.
With breaths heated and fast, he growled, “Maeve ... Please, you’re going to make me ... Oh, my ... May... I’m .... Imma ... ”
With the force of a raging river, he arrived. As her hand took the evidence of his climax, she didn’t seem the least bit surprised, only somewhat intrigued and entertained.
“Did I make such a mess?” she laughed, as she wiped her hand across her cotton camisole.
August smirked down at her. She was not disturbed at all, and that fact relieved his tension. This, paired with the physical relaxation that was now cascading over his body, and August drew face to face with her yet again, before leading her towards the floor.
Maeve’s joviality gave way to a renewed hue of lust. She bit her bottom lip as. August’s hands rose first to her arms and clasped for a moment the tender, soft flesh. Then he moved his attentions around front and began unlacing the camisole’s ribbons. Maeve said nothing, using only her eyes and the twitching of her mouth to make him aware of her acceptance. The lacing undone, August pulled back the camisole and took in the miraculous sight of her naked breasts.
Slowly, tenderly, he palmed one, then the other, making light circular motions over the hardening peaks. Maeve gasped as her back arched. August felt more than impulse; he felt it vital to his mortal existence to draw her to him. His hands abandoned their labors and wrapped around her back in an effort to close the remaining distance. Her soft form slammed into his as their lips found each other’s in the new proximity. Be it instinct or good fortune, Maeve crumbled in his arms, and soon he found himself covering her body with his own.
Tick, tock, tick, tock ...
His tongue explored the taste of her chin, her ear, her lips. Again, the strength of an otherwise so gentle set of hands laid claim to his hips, pulling him down on her. He had already resurfaced from his release, sensing an opportunity for another so close. Only one piece of clothing remained between them, and one irrevocable decision to be made.
But the decision had been made, and the consequences be damned. It had been made long ago on a late summer’s day, when a pretty Irish lass had found a confused and lost English boy, running away from the crushing reality of his own immovable fate. It had been affirmed when that boy returned to her shores, a man, to run away once again, and certified the moment she committed herself to five seconds at his side despite obligations that would have her do otherwise.
August pulled back and stroked her cheek slowly, his eyes falling to her swollen lips. He would afford her this last opportunity to decline, he thought. After that, he wasn’t sure he would retain enough control to be able to stop. She answered with a kiss so pure he knew she shared his desire. Pulling himself back, August sat back on the balls of his feet and bent down to slip his hands under the hem of her petticoat.
Achingly slowly, he pulled the garment down the length of her strong, slender legs and past her ankles, the fabric catching on her smallest toe as he pulled it away. Completely undressed before him, August saw her whole body trembling under his stare. If she felt an anxiety at their compromised state, there was no indication of it. Rather, she seemed to quiver in anticipation. For a few moments, he relished the angelic vision before him. Her pale ivory skin glowed under the lamp light that fell down over them both. He could see the glisten of sweat upon her chest and brow, and the glint of wetness below that taunted him.
Maeve held her arms out and curled her hands, gesturing him to come. He lowered over her again and felt himself align perfectly with her entrance. He distracted her from the initial entry with a heart-stopping kiss as he pushed himself in halfway. The instinctual reluctance began to ease as her body recognized the natural consummation of the lover and his mate. August pulled back, and then again pushed forward, still locked in a kiss that had become more important than the need for transient elements like air. This was the air, the water, the fire.
As he sank completely into her, Maeve gave a yelp. His concerned gaze shot to her face, evaluating her expression. She smiled after a few moments’ pause and raised her hips in invitation. Their bodies flowed like water, slipping over each other, under, through, around ... together. As his rhythm established itself, Maeve’s gestures and reactions mirrored his, complementing his sex. Their kisses were hard and deep, leaving both dizzy. August became so enraptured with the feeling of multiple sensations that he didn’t notice when their bodies exchanged positions. Maeve straddled him, allowing him deeper access and freeing his hands to explore the swell of her breasts, to feel the flex and release of her muscles as he pulled her body back and forth over him, to place his hands on her hips and lead her in a meter that pulled every essence of pleasure forth from the farthest reaches of their bodies and souls.
August worked her sense of push and pull at a quickening pace, her overflowing wetness making his efforts easily rewarded. A gentle moan brought his attention from the apex of their joining to her face. Had he hurt her? Another moan, this one deeper and louder, soon followed and was accompanied by a tightening of her walls around him.
He realized that she was beginning to break her zenith. It excited him beyond measure. August doubled the pace by insistence of his grip upon the curvature of her hips. The increase in the friction matriculated in the impending release of his own climax. He became vaguely conscious that Maeve was saying something ... actual words, and focused only long enough to learn that she was in fact invoking his name.
“August!” she called feverishly.
“Maeve!” he growled, his stomach clenching. August called out to her in Irish through the wave of pleasure breaking from every corner of his being. “Mo shearc, mo Maeve. You’re so beautiful. “
Her hands leaned forward and steadied her body on his chest as her noises manifested as screams of his name. Maeve’s body shuddered and collapsed just as August felt himself release into her. Her hair stuck to his sweat-gleaming front as her head found relief on his shoulder, their bodies still maintaining connection. He kissed her forehead before falling silent. When she shivered, he feared for her comfort. Gingerly, August maneuvered the sated creature into his arms and carried her to her bed. Once she was situated under her blankets, Maeve reached up without speaking, inviting August into her embrace.
Eventually, she rolled off and lay at his side. August turned on his side, too, their eyes locking and each smiling through post-coital bliss. Maeve began to drift off to sleep, her eyes still flickering open every few minutes to look at his. Though weary, August forced himself to remain awake, frightened that Puck would find them in their slumber and enchant their hearts away from each other.
August slid his hand down to take hers in turn and felt his fingertips graze over the ring — the sole piece of foreign attire left on her body. He recalled the words of the man whom had made binding his contract by way of this ring just a short time ago, said through a drunken stupor. Yet, even this near stranger could look at August in a moment and see that he was incomplete. August needed his complement, his other half.
No, more than half. He had been empty before — a mere container for the flesh and bone of which his parents’ tragic coupling had resulted. Maeve made him whole. This ring upon her finger threatened to take her away, however. He would be left again without purpose or pride. He would be a fallow field.
“May?” he whispered softly.
Her eyelids, heavy with the effects of whiskey and weariness, flickered open, the wetness of her eyes twinkling under the lamp light. She smiled in the way that only a satisfied woman could.
“August?” Her eyes closed again.
“Don’t marry him.”
She propped herself up on one elbow and looked aghast. “What do you mean? Everyone is expecting ... If you think I can ... ”
He stopped her words with a kiss planted firmly on her soft lips, threading his fingers through her hair and pulling her to him. Maeve rolled over on her back and he followed, feeling the stirring of desire take hold again. Maeve’s body reawakened too, her legs wrapping around him and pulling herself to meet his interests.
“Don’t marry him,” August said as he slipped into her once again. “You can’t marry him.”
He thrust harder and harder, building them both again to a rapid climax.
“Don’t you see, May?”
She began to twitch and quiver on the edge of release. He sped up, willing her body to echo his desire reaching fruition.
Maeve pulsed beneath him, her heart pounding. He had lost his grasp on reason, his caution in giving everything he could to her, though the danger of their act was well known to them both.
“See what?” she gasped.
“I love you,” he cried as he felt himself give over to her once more. “Lord help me, May, I love you too much to let you go.”
Misnomer
Boston, MA,
September 1872
The girl’s eyes sparkled across the cobble-stoned street as she leaned over the side of the bench precariously. She sought permission from her watcher, who quickly nodded approval. She snatched up one golden-orange fallen leaf forcefully and stuffed it into pockets already overflowing with a collection of autumnal foliage. A gust of cool air shot through their clothing, making all out on the street in the evening shiver. The woman wondered how the child remained unaffected; only a loose ebony curl or two danced behind her before falling limply back against her shoulder.
“Gettin’ late, Maeve.”
“Aye.”
“She’ll be catching her death o’ cold if you don’t get her in.”
Tara’s accent was so much more pronounced, Maeve thought, than her own. While Maeve had attempted — though perhaps not as successfully as hoped — to craft her speech with less Irish flavor, Killarney still echoed in her words. Tara, however, was hopeless, not trying to sound either British or American, choosing instead to let her pride be paraded in every twill and tweet.
“She’s a hardy one,” Maeve argued. “Reminds me of my ma that way. She could stand naked and wet to the wind on Christmas morning and think herself overdressed for comfort. And if I told her a bit of anything contrary, she’d have me tongue-lashed from tip to tail.”
Tara finished stuffing some parsnips into her bag and taking a few onions back from Maeve’s in exchange. An old woman, she was Maeve’s neighbor and friend, but never hesitated in saying an iron word or two when she thought it proper.
“This is no place for you, and not for her either.” She motioned to the child, who had now taken to skipping pebbles across the walk before scurrying to fetch them back.
Maeve sighed fully. Attempting to come across as completely sincere, she somewhat failed at the words. “This is as close to home as she’s ever felt. She barely remembers the old house anymore. Every so often, I think she’s going to ask me something about it, but she quiets, like she’s trying to figure out if it was a dream. Then she goes about her business again.”
A silence fell for several minutes as they both focused intently on the way the child fingered the pebbles about in her hand.
Finally, Tara spoke. “She’d do well in school. A real keen eye, that one. And studious. Look at the way she flips those over and over so she doesn’t miss a single detail. Very determined little sprite, she is. She looks at the stones likes she could pound them into something useful.”
