This has been going around in my head for weeks, and so I had to get it off my chest. Please forgive any grammatical flubs you might find in here, as it hasn't been beta'd. I love these two characters with every fibre of my being, so I really hope I've done them justice. Enjoy.
Shelagh was nervous. Of course, she knew she had every reason to be. As a midwife, she was well acquainted with the mechanics of making love; of what could come of it; how it possessed and drove people to do things which she could never understand. However, she knew nothing of the passion that drove two people to commit such an act. It was all so bewildering to her.
She'd chosen a plain silk nightdress, which wasn't too revealing. A scooped neck, and a lace edge which ended just above the knee, which was daringly short for her. She knew she would never become accustomed to flaunting her assets – this was not in her nature. She was desperate however to please her new husband, yet she knew not what he would want. The desires of men were a mystery to her. When she was a nun and a midwife, men existed as little more than an avenue for her work – they did not provide pleasure, but company. She knew, despite everything she had seen throughout her career as a midwife, that genuinely good men did exist. Her new husband was testament to that.
She smoothed her hands nervously over the silk which covered her stomach, over the gentle flair of her hips, and wrung her hands as anxiety engulfed her body. Carefully, and not without scrutiny, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her golden brown hair fell around her face and collarbone in soft waves. She was still very unused to having her hair down. It got in the way, she thought to herself. She could never understand how some women spent hours upon hours grooming and styling their hair for the sake of vanity. Vanity, she decided, was something which was far beyond her as a woman.
She was acutely aware, however, that her husband delighted in the feel of her hair. She shuddered involuntarily as she remembered the sensation of his calloused fingers as they made contact with the soft curve of her cheek, tenderly brushing loose tendrils of hair from her eyes that her veil had knocked askew.
This had been the first time he had touched her since their wedding. Of course, he had touched her before, in a time which seemed an age ago to her. There was something new in his eyes which she had never seen before – or perhaps had denied herself from acknowledging in the past. She closed her eyes at the memory, his dilated pupils dark with desire, his lips parted. Patrick's penetrating gaze made her feel as though she were stripped naked before him, as bare as God had made her. And, Lord in heaven, how it made her tremble.
She gingerly dabbed some Yardley's rose behind her ears. The scent, as ever, reminded her of her mother; how she would snuggle into the crook of her neck as a young girl, and breathe in her flowery scent. She'd cherish the warmth radiating from her body, and the rise and fall of her chest as she softly sang Gaelic lullabies in her ear. Shelagh felt a pang at the recollection; the pain still as strong as the day she lost her. It had been a painful, terrible passing for her; the slow, terrible plight of cancer, which she now knew all too well, slowly consumed her body until she could sing her lullabies no more.
But she had Patrick now. Of course, nobody could replace a mother's love; her profession had taught her that. Patrick provided a different kind of love, one which both amazed and startled her.
She had known him for years, in a professional capacity. She'd spent countless hours by his side as a colleague and as a friend, assisting him in endless births – and sometimes, deaths. She had seen the beginning and end of life itself with him, but she was totally unprepared for knowing him in the way in which only man and wife could ever know each other. So unused to showing any hint of sexuality, she had kept her body well hidden beneath a habit and wimple for ten years for her God. Seeing herself as a woman with sexual wants and desires, seemed almost seemed insane to her. She laughed out loud at the thought of it, and yet, she could not deny that those feelings were there.
She felt herself colouring and swallowed thickly, trying to regain some sense of composure. So many years of chastity had meant that she had trained her body to not react to such thoughts, on the extremely rare occasion her mind did wander. When her body had reacted to Patrick's kiss on her hand, she had felt so ashamed, forcing herself to tear her hand away, consumed by the mortal fear that she would moan out loud at the pleasure cascading through her body. She'd muttered something to him about God under shallow, ragged breaths, with her back turned and eyes averted, fighting to regain control over her body which was threatening to overwhelm her. Patrick had hung his head, devastated that he had caused her offence, and she was utterly wretched.
She was startled out of her thoughts by a soft knock on the door, and a "Darling? Are you all right? You're taking quite a long time."
Shelagh blushed again and quickly covered herself in her robe, lest he should see her before she had summoned up the courage to bear herself to him. "Yes," she called back, "I'm ready."
Patrick opened their bedroom door and peeped around it, smiling nervously. He slipped inside quickly, snapping the door shut. He raised his head to meet her brilliant blue eyes, and she met his gaze, curling her arms protectively around herself. She suddenly felt very exposed, standing there in her nightclothes.
He carefully walked up to her, opening his arms for her. She fell into his arms, resting her head on his chest. He curled his arms protectively about her waist, and planted a kiss atop her hair. He too, was visibly nervous.
"I can feel your heart beating," she whispered into his pyjama-covered chest.
He chuckled softly, his chest vibrating as Shelagh snuggled ever closer. "I should hope so, my love."
Shelagh raised her head to look at her, and he smiled again; that precious, lopsided smile that made Shelagh's stomach flip. "I'm sorry, my love. I'm afraid I'm not used to... seeing you like this. It really has left me at a loss for words." He said foolishly, letting his fingers tangle nervously in her hair.
Shelagh smiled to herself, relieved that he was feeling exactly how she felt. "There is no need, you know. There's still time yet."
"I know," she muttered, grabbing fistfuls of his pyjama shirt, moving him impossibly closer. "But, I am your wife now. And I do want you to be my husband, in all that it entails. Very much indeed". She said this so quietly that he barely heard it.
"Oh, Shelagh..." he whispered, his voice gravelly, his breathing becoming laboured. "You have no idea how much I have wanted to hear those words".
Shelagh forced herself to concentrate on his eyes, but was distracted by his hands which were beginning to caress her hips, feeling her curves through the fabric. She gasped as his hand slipped up to skim over her stomach, his hand splayed over the softness there. Their eyes locked, and she was done for.
"Please, Shelagh, my darling," Patrick whispered desperately in her ear. "I think I might die if I don't kiss you now," his eyes briefly left hers to skim over her lips, bringing his hand up to feel them tentatively under his fingertips.
Boldly, she took his hand from her lips and kissed his fingertips, one by one. He gasped from deep in his throat as she delicately caressed them with her wonderfully soft lips, then continuing to run them over the knuckles of his right hand.
Giving her assent with her eyes – as ever, words were never needed between them – he slowly bent until his lips were inches away from her own, so close he could feel her ragged warm breath on his lips. He couldn't help but bite back a soft groan as he closed the distance, pressing his lips to hers.
Shelagh sighed with relief as his warm, soft mouth met her own, and for a few moments, they did not move their lips. They simply stood in each other's arms, embracing this new intimacy for the first time, . Patrick moved his hand to her elbow, pulling her ever closer, his other hand moving to the back of her head, cradling it softly. It was Shelagh who moved her lips first, shyly, but eager to explore this act of kissing to its fullest.
This was the first real, genuine kiss of her life, and she did not know anything else, except how much she wanted to be kissed by his lips every day for the rest of her life.