AN this is what i meant when i said there was more than i expected to grace and jonathon's story ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Grace Emberly was cunning, clever, beautiful, and ruthless. Jonathon could see it in her eyes, had seen it from the first. He knew that many had fallen to the mill of her ambition, and many more were likely to follow. But he, well, Jonathon was willing to do anything to ensure his own survival, and they both knew it.
The only problem was, he was tired of just surviving. Grace had offered him the taste, the shadow of a taste, of thriving, and now he couldn't get it out of his head. Freedom, power, control, he liked the taste of them almost as much as he liked the taste of Grace.
"I need time, Jonathon," she said, hands up, pouring out just one more in a stream of excuses. She was like a child who had wandered too deep into the water and was splashing about in search of the ground.
"Just give into it, Grace," he told her, heart beating faster, hands and mouth thrilling at the very touch of her. He was barely even certain of what he was saying any more, the words spilling unchecked from his lips, muffled and hurried as he kissed her neck. There was the barest trace of flowers on her skin, hinting at some fine soap she had indulged in despite her hard attitude.
Grace pressed her hands against his face, pushing him back just enough to look at her.
"You said you didn't want to take my independence," she said, the words fast to cut off the anger and frustration that ripped up his stomach. "Don't make me do this. Let me choose. Give me a day and I'll—I'll come back."
It was hard for her to get out, her eyes flickering like she had to fight to make the sounds form. He couldn't help but follow the cords in her neck as she swallowed. He wanted to put his tongue against them, search around until he found her pulse.
"I'm tired of your games, Grace," he said. His voice was thicker than he would have liked, could she tell how much he ached to have her? Hopefully not, that was a weakness she would only dig her nails into.
She was still looking into his eyes, though, earnest and unblinking. Her hands were still on his face, her words soft and careful.
"One day, Jonathon. When have I ever broken my word? Please, Jonathon. Just…let me have this night, and then you can have the next."
He studied her, taking in the panic, the worry, the desperation. Grace told entire stories with the single pull of her eyebrows. Her mouth lied with the ease of drawing breath, but her face was always reliably honest. And just now it was telling him that she meant enough of what she said that he might actually be able to believe her.
"And what if you run away or concoct some clever scheme in the meantime?" he asked.
"I'm sure you'll think of something," she said recklessly, almost rolling her eyes. "Burn down the Ale, cut out my tongue for a liar. You could personally stand outside—outside, mind—my room the entire day, if it makes you feel better. But I promise you, I am coming back. Partnerships are built on give and take, after all."
Her words stroked against all the support and cooperation he craved. He wanted her so badly he could barely see, but he wanted her to want him back even more. Jonathon could wear down her walls until she finally admitted the truth staring them in the face, but if they could just skip all that, if she would come willingly…
"One day," he said, stepping back. He had to be careful, this was his game, he could not let her tell there was an actual pain in his throat at the delay. He glanced back at her, lifting his chin to show that he was done with their dance of inconveniences. "Don't test me, Grace. You're not getting that letter if you do."
"Never," she breathed. He looked forward to the day when he could actually trust her.
Grace put her hand on his chest again, the briefest touch. He swallowed as she looked into his face.
"Thank you, Jonathon," she said, then left him alone in the room.
He blinked a few times, listening to her leave, but he didn't know how to make himself turn around. He ran a hand over his mouth. The memory of her still lingered on his lips.
Jonathon did his best not to run out of his skin the next day. He woke up expecting her, he ate waiting for her, he did his rounds and checked the troops and gave orders all while needing her to appear at his side. And that was just the part of him that anticipated her coming that night, of Grace letting him place his hands on her waist and his mouth on hers and then her hands would be in his hair and her lips on his skin—
But then there was the part of him that feared this was all a trick, that she would run or hide or sink a dagger in his ribs once she had his trousers on the floor. Jonathon would follow through on the consequences if she broke her promise, but the thought left a sour taste on the back of his throat. He couldn't remember the last time he had been able to come up with a plan that didn't need a thousand contingencies. She was driving him up a fucking wall.
Jonathon didn't actually know if he was angry or relieved when Grace was finally led into the parlor by the maid. You can't do that, he wanted to snarl at her, you can't just walk in here like it's your damn house. Not when you've made me drag you to the door.
"I almost didn't think you would come," he said coolly. He looked up at her from his chair. She was imperious in her tidy fur coat, every bit the queen he had framed her.
"Business at the Ale, as usual," she told him. Grace was trying to act calm, bored, even, but her words were a little too clipped. "But I'm here now. Besides, I'd rather go to you than have you come to me."
She was nervous. She stared at him in defiance, daring him to bite back. Her mouth was enticingly pink in the candlelight. Pink and pursed in anxiety.
Fear was well and good for getting people to do what he wanted, but he didn't want it tainting his marriage bed.
"You were insistent I come," Grace told him impatiently. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Not likely," he said, standing up. Her eyes flicked over him in appraisal. Jonathon suddenly wondered what she saw when she looked at him, if she could see the truth hiding against his wrists or the cut of his vest or around the edges of his boots. He could see it in her, clear enough. She was nervous and angry that she was nervous and deeply resentful that he had outplayed her.
The thought had been more satisfying, once.
"You needn't look so worried, Grace."
"'Worry' isn't what I'd call it."
"Then what?"
Jonathon thought she might actually answer for a moment, eyes darting to the side as she worked her jaw. Then she looked back at him, mouth hardening.
"Let's just go," she snapped, roughly taking off her coat. She tossed it over a chair, then stared at him expectantly. He bit back a smile and headed to the stairs.
Jonathon couldn't help but feel self-conscious when he showed her into the bedroom. It was crisp and empty of most all personal effects, the way it had probably been for every governor before him. It had outlasted all the rest, watching dispassionately as one man stepped on the throat of another.
He focused on the wine waiting for them on the desk. Safer thoughts, he needed safer thoughts, planned out thoughts, not insecure thoughts.
"Would you like a glass?" he asked.
"Don't tell me it's a wedding present," Grace said, rolling her eyes.
"Just…something to make you more at ease," he said. Grace looked back at him, then blinked like she hadn't quite seen him before. She nodded and glanced away.
Grace sipped at her wine, surveying the room. Jonathon took a careful step closer. He could have kissed her hair, if he wanted. He barely brushed a hand against her arm, making her turn.
Grace's mouth was soft when he kissed her. She didn't kiss back, but she didn't fight him and that was something, so he kissed her deeper. But then she was jerking away, huffing out a breath. A hand jumped to her mouth like his touch made her sick.
"Don't tell me this is going to become a habit," he said, embarrassment sparking into something akin to anger. "Grace, I—"
"Just—shut up," she hissed, hand snapping up to stop him. "Just—I'll be fine, just let me breathe for one fucking minute."
"And how am I—"
"Jonathon," she said, and he couldn't speak over his shock at how broken her voice was. Her shoulders were taut, though whether they were pulled up to attack or defend, he couldn't quite tell. She looked at him and he was suddenly confronted by the naked fear on her face. It wasn't the squalling fear of a person facing violence, but the quiet, shaking fear of a person with something to lose.
"I just…I'm afraid. This frightens me and I hate that it does but I can't stop it, so just…let me be afraid."
Did she think he was going to hurt her? Anger at himself flashed up from his toes—of course she did, he had lost his temper and said things he regretted, but she had to know that it meant nothing. She was too important to lay a finger on, to actually harm in any real way.
"Grace, I never meant—this isn't mean tot be a punishment," he stammered. He shouldn't have been so blunt, so coarse, she understood him but clearly some things had been lost in the sending. "No harm will come to you."
To his relief, she actually laughed. "It's not that," she said, shaking her head. Her smile turned sour as she continued. "I told you. I'm afraid that being Mrs. Chesterfield will leave me lame. No power, no freedom, just…bed warming."
"You have to know I'd never want that," he said shaking his head. She looked at him uncertainly, like she wanted him to continue against her better judgement. "I don't want a woman that sits quietly by. I value you because you're brave and clever. I'd never try to strip you of that."
He wanted a partner, equal in all things, sharing his table and his triumphs and his bed. Jonathon would give Grace anything, she just had to agree. She just had to ask.
"This is about making us stronger, not cutting you down," he continued, touching her elbow. "If we hold nothing in reserve from one another, think of all that could be made."
Grace let out a slow breath, thinking over his words. She shook her head and turned away. He opened his mouth to say something, to lay out another argument to convince her before she changed her mind. Then he noticed that she was undoing her clothes, throwing herself off this cliff before she could over think herself into a mistake.
She looked back at him and Jonathon swallowed hard. That was the look that could undo any man, nervous and yet willing, innocent and yet ready for the filthiest things.
Grace stepped closer, hesitated, and then kissed him. It was just the barest touch, a test to see if she had done it right. He let out a slow breath that hitched part way through. He wanted to grab her and hoist her up onto the desk, hands up her shirt as her legs wrapped around his middle, but he didn't want to risk making her balk.
Grace kissed him again, this time hard enough to break his resolve. He pulled her closer, hands pressing into her back like he might lose her if let any space between them. His whole body thrummed with the thrill of it, her hands caught on his chest, one reaching up to hold his neck. He could feel every part of her that was against him, her breasts and stomach and thighs, so close and yet not close enough.
She let him open her mouth, slide his tongue against hers. He could taste the wine she had drunk, turned all the sweeter by her lips. Grace pulled back the slightest bit in surprise, but then seemed to reconsider before leaning into the kiss again. He moved on to her neck, each open-mouthed kiss making her breath catch.
She gasped a little when he pulled her blouse free and pressed his hands against the skin of her sides. It was a tiny, girlish thing, and yet it nearly sucked the air out of his lungs. He moved farther up, following her spine with his fingertips. The tension bled out of Grace, her body leaning against him, promising he could do anything.
Jonathon walked them back to the bed, turning her so she sat down. He tried to kiss her as he pulled off her boots, but she was also struggling with his vest and his shirt. Grace froze for a half a moment, and Jonathon looked up in surprise. She was staring at him, eyes trailing over every inch of his exposed skin. He wished he could keep that moment of absolute stillness when she looked at his body and he could see that she wanted it.
Jonathon tossed her boots away and pushed her flat on the bed. He ran his hand from her collarbone to her hip, tracing his thumb along the edge of her breeches. He pulled them off, making Grace tense at the cold air. Jonathon smothered a smile as he leaned down, his mouth caressing her hipbone. She let him take off her shirt, and then the stupor fell away and Grace became the fearsome creature he had always known her to be. She toed off his boots and her legs were around his waist and she was kissing him and kissing him and kissing him.
He was dizzy from her touch, drunk from the wine on her lips and each moan she let loose. It was better than he had ever hoped for, because it was real, she had chosen him, she wanted him, she was his, his, his.
Stay with me, Grace.
He hadn't meant to say it, but once it was out, he couldn't stop. The words were a mumbled blur between them, teased out by the flush on her skin and her hands holding him closer and the dreadful certainty that he might just die if this was all a trick. But that was the danger of having precious things. Losing them, even for a moment, would cut a hole in Jonathon's chest that he doubted he could ever fill again.
And, of course, as though Grace could hear his thoughts, she pulled away. She slipped his arm from around her waist and eased away, because they had had sex and she had fulfilled her part of the bargain and it was all just a trade in her eyes, anyway. Jonathon felt the knife tip of loss cut into him, sliding in ever so neatly above his heart.
He sat up and pulled her back, kissed her spine and asked her to stay. Grace hesitated, placing a hand on his hair. He couldn't help but lean into her touch, fuck, he was so pathetic, so needy, but he couldn't help it, his head was muddled and he was afraid to let her go.
"I—I have to go," she said, voice thick as she kept grabbing for her clothes.
Jonathon turned her around and kissed her hard, the last plea she would ever steal from his lips. Grace kissed back for half a second, but then she eased away, barely dressed, holding onto her boots like they might offer her protection.
Jonathon blinked when he saw the naked fear in her face. It wasn't the fear of earlier, of losing something or becoming less, but rather the fear of wanting more. And she saw that he saw, and that made her flee from the room entirely.
Jonathon sat back on the bed. She had left a stocking behind, pale and confusingly feminine in his room. He picked it up and looked back at the closed door. He almost laughed. As confusing as this all was, he was certain he had won ground in this war with his new wife.
Jonathon went ahead and ordered the reward posters taken down the next day. He was a man of principle, after all. And he didn't really need them anymore.
Whatever confidence, whatever complacency Jonathon had burned away by the next week. Grace had stayed well away from him and the governor's house, minding her business and her girls and letting everyone in the damn fort see her except for him. He was such a fool. His father had said it from the first—Jonathon was a man bred in a butcher's shop and yet he still allowed himself to feel. If that wasn't a moral failing, he didn't know what was.
Grace probably knew that. All of the people important to Jonathon had the uncanny knack of seeing straight through him.
Finally, Jonathon gave up waiting for her to come to him and went to the Ale.
"Jonathon," Grace said, eyes wide like she had forgotten he existed.
"Back," he growled at her, already stalking past the bar. He waited for half a moment, glaring at her shape through the partial wall of ale barrels. Grace stepped into the back room and primly pulled the curtain closed.
"Well?" she asked. "What're you here for?"
He hated how the sound of her voice eased over his skin. He wanted her like he wanted every other advantage he laid his eyes on, but he wished to hell that she didn't make him weaker in the process. If he just had her more, if he didn't constantly fear that one day she would be gone, then maybe he would be fine.
If he believed that, he would be even stupider than he already was. But he'd certainly sleep better.
"You've been awfully absent from the governor's house over the last week, Grace."
Her look of quiet incredulity made his stomach twist. She didn't even have to speak to make him sound pathetic. "You're here because you're lonely?"
"I'm here because you haven't been honoring your commitments as my wife. Did I somehow leave you unsatisfied?"
That upset her. She cursed and glanced at the people half-seen in the main room, then steered Jonathon away from the door. He would have smiled at the petty triumph if he weren't so irritated.
"Keep your voice down, people can hear you."
"I wouldn't have to speak in the open if you came to the privacy of our home," he told her. It was almost funny to see how very much she cared about her reputation. Jonathon had all the reputation he needed, even had some extra for her.
"I have my own obligations," she told him, expression becoming less tolerant by the second. "I will not set them aside so you can feel waited on."
"This isn't—" Jonathon rolled his eyes and took hold of her shoulders. She lifted her chin, mouth pressing into an angry line. He paused, then relaxed his grip.
"This isn't about me, Grace. It's about us."
Why did she never believe him when he said that? He had only ever told her the truth, and this fact was a true as it could ever get. They would topple the New World, if only she stopped fighting him.
He leaned closer, made his voice softer. "Tell me you didn't enjoy our time together, that you wouldn't like it again. This is only the beginning, as I've always said. With you at the governor's house, just imagine the things we could achieve, the plans—"
"Move into the governor's house? I would have thought the week of my not being there would have made it clear enough."
She pulled away, breaking the spell.
"I told you, I'm not your pet. Whatever fantasy you've concocted can go straight in the latrine without my say so."
He tried to not scowl at her. She was acting awfully high and mighty for a woman that had let him inside her again and again.
"I have tried to be reasonable—"
"Reasonable! By threatening and forcing me to do what you want at each turn? That's not what I'd call reasonable. You kept your part of our deal, and for that I'm thankful, for the sake of all Fort James. But do not think I'm indebted to you for it."
He grabbed her by the shoulders again, jerking her back onto the table. Why did it always come back to a fight with her? Why did she always have to make him feel an idiot for listening to what she said? She had been the one to suggest the partnership, to agree to the marriage, to encourage him to start acting for himself. Why was every path she laid down always changing?
Grace clenched her teeth, daring him to do more. Her mouth was painfully pink against her pale skin. The thought made him angry because he wasn't there to kiss her but he also wasn't allowed to kiss her and when his temper went all caution followed after.
"If you're so bent on putting your business duties first," he told her, "then I will remove it from your care. As governor and your husband, I claim ownership of the Alehouse. If it continues to distract you, I'll let whatever groveling pissant I choose be responsible for its services."
"The Ale is the property of my father," she snarled at him. "I run it in his stead. You cannot—"
"Can't I, Grace?" He was so tired of her telling him what he could and couldn't do. He was the governor, now, he could do any damn thing he wanted. "Either you start respecting your responsibilities or I burn this place to the ground with all the legal might I have."
Grace looked away, then looked back and nodded. Her mouth was still pursed in anger. They looked hard now, but he knew how soft her lips could be. He also knew they hid the sharpest of fangs.
"I long for the day," he murmured, "when we no longer to go war like this."
Jonathon stepped back. She didn't make any attempt to respond, so he walked to the door. He hesitated, then glanced back at her.
"Don't stay away long, Grace. I mean it."
He left the Ale, buzzing with the hope that she might actually listen and the discontent that she hadn't decided to cooperate on her own.
Jonathon had told Grace not to stay away, but he hadn't actually expected her to come the next night. He looked up in surprise when she appeared in the doorway to his bedroom, casual like she had always walked these halls.
"Why are you here?" he asked. He couldn't help the flicker of suspicion rising in his stomach. Grace didn't go anywhere without fifteen plans in place.
"I supposed…you could saw I saw reason." Grace looked down and huffed out a breath, like admitting that she was wrong was a physical hurt. "I don't want to be at war with you, either."
"Then you see what changes have to be made," he said, pressing the advantage. He stood, putting them on eyelevel. "Focus more on us, on the furs we still have to sell. Our plans needn't be crouched in the dark any longer."
"I just have to move in?" she asked.
He considered her. "It would be easier, yes. And…more comfortable."
"Comfortable," she repeated. Her mouth twisted ever so slightly. "I was plenty comfortable at the Ale."
"More pleasurable, then," he said, biting back a smile. "Don't tell me sharing a bed was so terrible."
"We were barely on the bed, from what I remember."
That wasn't a denial.
"And whose fault is that?" he asked.
She looked down, pride bending a little more. Jonathon left the first thrills of triumph go through him.
"It wasn't…unpleasurable," she admitted.
"If you were around more often, we'd be able to repeat it." They were so close, now, close enough that she could kiss him if she just looked up. And then she did, her mouth just barely not touching his.
"Sit down," she told him.
He took her with him, already kissing her. Grace was only too willing to sit in his lap, hands trailing through his hair. If she had been filled with a lovely uncertainty before, she was nothing but eager burning, now. She rolled her hips into his, tempting minx, letting out a tiny sound that he could drink up all day.
Jonathon clenched her shirt in his hands, trying to make this last, trying not to hurry her. She kissed down his throat, tongue just barely tracing his Adam's apple.
"It could always be like this, Grace," he told her, adjusting her so that their bodies fit just so. "Just think how good we could be."
She shushed him, still kissing his neck, still rocking her hips in a way that would completely undo him if she didn't stop. His cock was already aching for her, there was no way she couldn't feel it.
He ran his hands over her thighs, toying with the idea of taking off her breeches and letting her mount him right there. Grace's hands were still in his hair and her teeth skated across his throat, leaving burning marks on his skin.
Grace yanked his head back, banging it against the back of the chair.
"Don't you ever threaten me or my business again," she snarled. "I may be your wife, but I am first and foremost your partner, and I will not be treated as less."
"Grace—" he began, but she jerked his head again. He tightened his hold on her hips, panic punching through his shock, demanding he get her away, that he stop this, that he wrest back control. And then he finally registered the memory of her teeth on his skin.
"That's right," she said, soft and sweet and delighted at the power he had so foolishly given her. "I could have killed you just now, and you'd have never been the wiser. Threaten me again, and I swear I'll rip out your throat with my fucking teeth."
Jonathon sat still a long moment, heart raging against his ribs, nothing a confused jumble of lust and betrayal and fear. He still wanted to take her clothes off and run his tongue over every bit of her body, but now it was paired with the very real fear that she might cut off his head if he did it wrong.
She might have cut off his head anyway, if she knew how much he liked the feeling.
He nodded at her, and she climbed off his lap.
"Not above violence now, are we, Grace?" he asked. He couldn't look away from her, strangely expecting to see a serpent's tongue when she spoke.
"I'm never above getting what I want," she said, almost playful in the declaration. Then she hardened, her eyes darkening like the mountains at dusk. "Don't threaten me again, Jonathon."
She backed to the door, keeping his gaze, then swept into the hall. Jonathon closed his eyes and slumped in the chair. He should have expected nothing less.