Hey there, lovely Readers. Thanks for coming back. I've been writing this chapter since Nelson Mandela passed away. His death made me think about heroes. It's supremely difficult to make heroes out of white colonialists in a country that suffered greatly under their hands, and I began by trying too hard. [I so envy those authors who can write quickly, consistently and beautifully. I can't tell you how many times I changed the plot of this chapter!]. But heroes are ordinary people. Madibe was a man, not a god. Many of my RL heroes are people you've never heard of, and that doesn't make them any less heroic. The Twilight Saga, for all its supernatural elements, is a domestic romance, and doesn't pretend to rewrite history or change the world, so I won't either. Here is my take on the flawed domestic hero. A little OOC for Carlisle.
Thanks for your beta-ship, Cared Cullen. Any mistakes are mine.
Oh, one more thing: please go to Ficsisters dot com for a new place to find fic and lit related info and reviews. :) Link on my profile.
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Kimberley Diamond Chapter 4
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Carlisle POV
Elizabeth used to tell me that when I am anxious I become as pigheaded as a wild boar. I am almost grateful she is not here to toss her head at me as I pace the front verandah.
The lower the sun sinks, the more anxious I become, although I am convinced no soldier will venture out here after dark. I don't expect the boys to return tonight. Not at this hour.
The last few days have brought about the most extraordinary alteration to the lives of the African branch of the Cullen clan. I am feeling my age. I have endured extraordinary changes before, but none have affected me as profoundly as this. Although... that may not be true. I do recall feeling as discombobulated when my sons were born, for instance.
When I first travelled to South Africa as a young doctor, it was to escape a life I did not want. I was young and foolish. I had not the foresight to understand that inequality and the abuse of power was a condition that could follow me, along with the entire world, anywhere. I have fought so many battles: for my education, against the wishes of my father; for the rights of Irishmen; for my darling wife Elizabeth; and for the right to live privately and raise my sons as I see fit. I believed that retiring to farm in this wild interior was the end of it all. I hoped that my battle with God's earth, this red dirt that conceals its richness, would be my last. An enduring battle, that would occupy me until I became too feeble, and passed it on to my boys.
Building a reputation as a skilled medical doctor thirty years ago in the Cape was easy. There was very little competition, if I am honest. This may have given me airs above my station. Elizabeth consulted me fresh from the ship which carried her and her husband, his parents, and an entourage of servants to these shores from Germany. All of their money and ease of passage did not protect her first husband from illness and death mid-Atlantic. Lizzie was five months pregnant and very unhappy when she saw me first. We fell in love immediately. Emmett was already walking by the time her parents released their hold upon her and gave her up to me entirely. Recent events have me ruminating on every memory, attempting to ascertain whether fate, or God's plan, or the random actions of a foolish man have had more impact. I cannot decide.
We travelled further into the interior to protect ourselves from the gossip and scandal in town, but I am afraid it follows me like a curse. Jasper and Edward were both born in Grahamstown, where I had once again established a respectable practice. We had three beautiful boys and were deeply in love with one another. Lizzie was a triumph within the community. It was through her care and fortitude that so much was done and so many were provided for. At least in this way I can be satisfied with my actions – I brought Lizzie to the place she was most needed. For a while.
She took little Esme under her wing, and nursed her back to health when she broke her leg. When I first treated the fifteen-year-old, she told us that she was running away from a charging rhinoceros, and had scrambled up a tree, only to fall out of it again. She was such a pretty little thing, and so sweetly innocent, I allowed her the tall tale.
Esme's mother was dead, and her father was raising her alone. Perhaps 'raising' is too strong a term, as the most I believe that man did for his sweet daughter is clothe and feed her, occasionally. He aimed to marry her off at the first opportunity, and sadly for Esme, that opportunity came in the form of one Henry Platt. A more unsuitable companion for a bright little girl could hardly be imagined.
Their wedding was delayed due to the injured limb, and every evening when I returned from my office I found my wife and her little friend chatting on the patio while the boys rough and tumbled on the lawn nearby.
Esme's big eyes used to follow me with such yearning, it made me quite uncomfortable, although I grew to love the child. How could I not? Her optimism and ready smiles disarmed us all. She read to the boys, and fussed over them when they came to her with scuffed knees and elbows. She protected them from me when their exuberance drove me to gruffness, and I recall at least two occasions when Emmett ought to have suffered a thrashing and instead received nothing more than a stern warning. My son adored his protector. He cried when she left to marry that brute, Platt.
My sons do not know that I have killed a man, and it has been my fervent wish that they never discover it.
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Esme POV
Carlisle is outside pacing and pacing. He will wear away the soles of his shoes. I long to comfort him.
When we arrived here that wild, wild night, shocked and bruised and terrified, I had no idea it was the home of my dearest hero. I did not recognise the boys, not one of them, and they did not recognise me. If they introduced themselves, I did not hear it. I am rather frightened at myself for allowing these strange men to whisk my charge and I into a wagon and drive us out into the darkest night.
But I did, and now, here we are.
Rosalie, Bella and Alice are in some kind of dispute about the bathroom, but I am going to let them be. I hardly know myself capable of being any kind of chaperone at all. Everyone is a little fraught right now, and my intervention will not help the girls settle down.
Rosalie does not endear herself, I must say. She has been putting on airs and graces, and while Alice ignores the bad side of her, Bella is not quite so accommodating. Perhaps she is a tiny bit jealous? She has no need to be, as Edward, that sweet boy, is utterly consumed by her. Still, by all accounts the girl has not been here long, and is probably as yet unsure of herself.
Carlisle is staring out at the darkening horizon as though he can summon trouble and deal with it all by himself in an instant. Poor man, what he has been through these past years. I ache for him on losing his dear Elizabeth. She was the best wife and mother in the world. I always longed to be her.
I didn't want to marry Henry, not at all; but I remember watching Mrs Cullen, and plotting and planning to be as much like her as I could be. I honestly believed that if I was as good as she was, Henry would stop drinking and take care of me in the same tender way Dr Cullen took care of his family. I was excited at the thought of having babies, and I hoped we would have so many of them we'd have to build a bigger house. I was going to keep that house as clean and comforting as the Cullen home was.
Reality is a cold bath to a young dreamer, as my Rosie has found.
I could do no right by that husband of mine. I never knew when he would turn on me. Every day of our marriage, I would pray that I could discover the way into his heart, and every day I was disappointed. Sometimes he beat me for not doing the very thing he thrashed me for doing the previous week. He was as different to Dr Cullen as I was to a Queen.
I was nine months pregnant when Henry killed my baby. Imagine that – I almost reached my dream, and the bastard snatched it away from me. When Mrs Cullen found me in a mess of blood, saved me indeed, I was sad, because I wanted to die and meet my son in heaven.
Dr Cullen remained in town long enough to fix me, in a partial way, for I never was whole again. Then they moved away, and I never knew where; or why. But I suspected why. We all did.
Henry was found dead in the wilderness not too long after the mess in my kitchen was dealt with. There was so much blood in the room, my father had to lay a new floor down for us. Well, just me, as Mr Platt never returned from his drunken stupor.
They say Dr Cullen was the last person to see him alive. The stupid man drank so much liquor, he must have fainted from it. He lay drowned in a puddle of dirty mud and his own vomit. The Cullens left town, and I was all alone with more debt than finance. My poor father had no choice but to take me back in.
And here I am again, asking a man to take me in. Because as much as I love Rosalie, nothing will induce me to return to that forsaken town. Nothing.
Carlisle Cullen has aged so very well. He is as handsome and heroic as he was to me all those years ago. His compassion is boundless. He was shocked when we arrived, and anxious about the consequences; but he has no intention of turning us out.
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
The rocking of the wagon gently ceases, and the boys jump down quickly, all business. Rosalie doesn't stir. She is not sleeping, her body is too stiff and her eyes are open. She stares blankly forward, and it worries me greatly.
A few minutes pass in relative silence. Then the boys return.
"Over here, Pa. Wait, I'll lift her down." The oldest boy climbs into the back of the wagon and lifts my girl from my arms far more gently than his size and appearance give one the notion for.
I scramble after them to the edge and the tallest of the young men reaches up to lift me down after them. I stumble, so he offers me his arm and escorts me into a low-roofed house surrounded by a wide verandah.
We follow a dimly lit passageway for a while before entering a large kitchen. I am struck both by the familiarity of the room and by the strangeness of the scene before me. Rosalie, sitting on her rescuer's knee, is crowded from my view by large men. An African girl sits serenely to one side in a soft looking armchair, nursing a baby. Another young girl in a nightdress and loosely knotted gown kindly hands me a glass of water, which I sip gratefully from between shaking fingers.
She puts her arm around my shoulders and draws me towards a wooden chair on the other side of the large table. "Come and sit down, before you fall," she says. She has an angelic voice, and sounds very English.
There is a series of decorative plates attached to the wall opposite where I sit depicting the seasons. I recognise them. They are as familiar to me as my own worn hands. A tingling feeling at the nape of my neck spreads slowly throughout my head, and a feeling of intense nausea almost overwhelms me.
"Make some tea please Bella, strong and sweet. This young lady is in shock," says a velvety voice from my past, and I begin to fall from consciousness.
"Dr Cullen..." I manage, and remember nothing else until I wake between the cool sheets of a wide bed.
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Carlisle POV
For all my agonising over the passage of time, the sun has dropped below the horizon like a stone. My sons are unlikely to return this evening, whether they have been arrested or merely delayed in their negotiations to sell the claims. And whether the soldiers make an appearance here tonight or not, I cannot see them, and will have to rely on the dogs to alert me.
Esme smiles softly from her seat in the front parlour, near the window.
"Have faith, Dr Cullen. Your boys will be back tomorrow with all the news. We needn't fret 'til then."
"Dear, I wish you would stop calling me doctor. I haven't been one for a long time. Were you watching me?"
She chuckles and flushes slightly. All these years, and I still make little Esme Platt blush.
She ignores my question. "I can't get my tongue around Mr Cullen. It feels wrong."
"Carlisle, then. I think you've earned the right to call me by my first name. You look as though you've lived through a lot since we parted ways."
Her head drops to the needlework in her lap, but not before I note the shame in her eyes. Curse me for being such a boor.
"You look as young as you did then, I must say. Time has been kinder to you," she says quietly.
I perch on the arm of her chair and lift her hand so that she must look at me.
"Forgive me, Dear. You are quite as beautiful as you always have been. I only meant that you look wise beyond your years."
She flushes a darker shade of red and her eyes widen. I pat her hand reassuringly, then raise it to my lips to kiss. Her skin is a little dry, but she smells lovely. Like spring water and sunshine, with a hint of vanilla and cream.
Bella interrupts our moment of peace with a flurry of apron at the door to the parlour.
"Will you come and eat? Supper's on the table."
Esme pulls her hand from mine, but not before squeezing my fingers with hers.
Places have been set at the table for all four boys, but only Bella and Rose sit at the table with us.
"Alice has gone to lie down with the baby," explains her sister, throwing an uncomfortable look at Rose.
It seems natural to me that the girls should struggle to get along, as the boys' freedom is at stake for rescuing Esme and Rose, perhaps their lives, too. Bella and Alice are young and fiercely protective of those they love. Rosalie is even younger, and still rather full of her own importance to the world. I have raised sons enough to recognise the stage she is living through. She must have been very frightened by what happened to her. I expect her ill humour will pass.
The girl stares sullenly at her plate while I thank the Lord for food and family, and ask for His guidance and protection. When I give the signal to begin she continues to sit still.
"You must eat, Darling. Bella makes a lovely stew. What do you put in it, Dear? Is that basil I can taste?" Esme fusses, but she would be better off not drawing any attention to the girl.
"Mr Emmett's food is better," she mutters.
Bella drops her fork with a resounding 'thunk'. "Well Mr Emmett is not here to make his famous stew, is he Miss Hale? And why is that? Oh, because he is trying to talk his way out of being arrested for saving you. And if he has managed by some miracle to do that, then he is helping my husband to make a little money out of his diamond claim that would have been worth thousands, had his hand not been forced in selling it quickly. No doubt he is sorry not to be here cooking for you."
I reach my hand across the table and take hold of Bella's wrist firmly. "That's enough, my girl. Look at Rosalie. What do you see?"
My daughter turns her furious eyes on the miserable soul slumped in her chair, hands pressed to her cheeks as though she could force the haunted expression away from her own visage. Tears roll unchecked into her quivering lips. Bella's ire softens immediately.
"Oh Sweetheart, I'm sorry," she coos. "I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." She pulls her hand away from mine and reaches out her arms to the girl. "That's it, there, there; hush now."
Rosalie cries noisily on Bella's shoulder for some minutes. Esme smiles at me, and I smile wryly back. I'm certain these are the first tears the girl has shed since her ordeal, and they are a relief to witness. Thank God Emmett is not here to see them. The lad would have a heart attack.
Eventually Bella and Esme tease Rose into calming down enough to eat. I watch the three of them relax, and find I enjoy listening to the feminine conversation. Rose is fascinated by Bella's life in England, a place she has been brought up to revere with little hope of ever seeing. Esme wins Bella over with talk of Edward as a baby. She makes us all laugh with her descriptions of endearing family chaos; especially her depiction of me as the gruff would-be disciplinarian, foiled by my wife and children at every turn.
I did think of Esme as a child, then. Watching her now, with her bright eyes and rather wicked smile, I still see the child in her – that essence of optimism against all odds, the easily given love, the kindness bestowed even where it is not deserved – all these characteristics remain. But a woman sits beside me, wise and humble, careworn and softened, and radiantly beautiful.
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Esme POV
I fall asleep listening to the sudden rain on the roof, and wake with a start when all is still again.
The door opens quietly, and Carlisle pops his head around it.
"Are you alright Esme? You called for me."
"Did I?"
He laughs. "Yes, you did. Can I come in?"
"Of course." I shuffle sideways on the bed to make space for him to sit, which he does with his usual grace.
"Do you need anything, or was it a bad dream?" He absent-mindedly picks up my hand, running his fingers softly over my knuckles.
"I think it must have been a dream, but I've forgotten it already. It's strange, sleeping on my own. I've been too used to Rose."
"Yes, I suppose so. There's no need for you to share a bed while the boys are away though. Esme, do you mind me asking -" He clears his throat uncomfortably. "What was Hale thinking, sending Rosalie away with a monster, unmarried, and only you to protect her honour?"
Anger stiffens my spine. "Well you may ask, Carlisle. Why does any man throw away the women they profess to love? To save their own skin, that's why."
He pulls away from me at the heat in my tone, but he still holds my hand.
"I am sorry you lump us all in together, Esme. I suppose I deserve that."
"Why did you leave, Carlisle? Henry's body was barely cold when they told me you'd left. Not even Elizabeth came to say goodbye."
"I'll explain, Esme. But you answer me first. Why are you here, now?"
I swallow the lump growing in my throat. This conversation is overdue, after all.
"If I tell you, do you promise, no matter what I say, not to throw me out onto the street? Or being that there are no streets here, out into the wild?"
There is very little light to see by, but I can tell Carlisle is shocked.
He leans very close to me and takes hold of my chin so I am forced to face him. His breath washes over my face. He smells clean and masculine, of cloves and heat and authority.
"I have no right – no right, Esme, to pass judgement over you. There is nothing you can have done that is worse than the crimes I have committed. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
The 's' still lingers on my lips when he leans in further to press his gentle mouth to mine.
For a second, the world slips away from me.
His lips mould themselves to my lips, pressing and releasing in a way that captures the attention of every single, minute part of me.
"Esmerelda," he whispers as he draws away. It sounds like a prayer.
My eyes open slowly.
"Oh." The exclamation sighs through my mouth into the open air between us.
I think he is smiling at me.
"Tell me."
I am disarmed entirely, and the words stumble out of their own accord.
"Mr Hale kept me as his mistress, for many years. He did it as a favour to my father. He kept me in a little flat in town, and Mrs Hale never knew. He always told me that if she ever found out, she'd throw him and Rosalie out with nothing. You know, she never loved her daughter. You remember? What a strange woman she is."
Carlisle nods, but remains quiet. I wish I could read his mind.
"He employed me to be Rosalie's companion when she turned ten, and everybody thought he did it to be kind to me, because what ten year old girl requires a paid companion? But he grew careless over the years, and some people began to suspect the truth. He played cards with the officers, and Captain King discovered our secret. He blackmailed Mr Hale, and when he said he couldn't give him money because it all belonged to his wife, and she would find him out, King demanded he give him Rosalie instead. He did it Carlisle, without another thought!
"Rosalie was told she was to marry King, that he loved her and would provide for her as soon as he was promoted, or some such nonsense. Then, when King received his orders, he decided Rosalie would go with him. Of course, I had to go too, and I was meant to keep him happy until he actually married her, but honestly Carlisle, I don't believe he ever intended to go through with the wedding at all. I tried to persuade Rose to run away with me, but where could we go? Although anything would have been better than what almost happened, anything at all. Death would have been kinder!"
Carlisle grips my hands hard. "No, Esme. Don't say such a thing. Never wish for death, my dear. There is always hope where there is life. People have lived through much worse, and survived to experience joy again. You would not wish Rosalie dead, would you?"
I can't help the sniff that threatens to build into a sob. "No."
"Well then. Look at you. Strong and healthy, kind and beautiful and wise. You have endured so much of the worst men have to offer, and yet here you are, making an old man feel young again."
My tears turn to laughter. "You are not an old man, Carlisle Cullen. I never saw such vigour in a man. Did you say that so I would flatter you?"
"I hope you weren't flattering me, young woman." He laughs, and lunges towards me, capturing me by the armpits and lifting me into the air. "I'll show you vigour," he says, and sets about tickling me until I shriek.
"Hush! We don't want the children coming in here," he says conspiratorially, but his fingers don't stop.
"Carlisle! Carlisle, stop! I'm not twelve years old, you know!"
He does stop in the face of this declaration. "No, you're not. You are quite the grown woman."
His hands settle at my waist, but I can feel his eyes on my whole body. I am suddenly aware that I am only covered by my thin slip. I feel heat flood to the surface of my body.
He pulls his hands back and shifts reluctantly away.
"I'm sorry Esme. That was disrespectful of me. You have just related all the ways in which men have taken advantage of you, and here I am, doing the same. I apologise."
I would like to tell him that he is bitterly disappointing me by his withdrawal, but it sounds unladylike. I hang my head instead.
"I made you a promise, and I like to believe that whatever else my sins have been, I always fulfil my promises."
I look up at him again. "What do you mean?"
"The reason we left Grahamstown so suddenly. The reason we never said goodbye."
Abruptly, my feelings change. I don't want to hear his reasons. What if I can't bear them? Will I be able to forgive him? I can find no voice to stop him, however. My whole self trembles with anticipation. My chest rumbles aloud in my fear, and in the midst of all of these emotions, I find I am not overwhelmed enough to escape embarrassment. Carlisle kindly ignores my stupid body.
"The thing is, Esme." He clears his throat; pauses; scratches the back of his neck; coughs again. "The thing is, I killed your husband."
"Sorry; what?"
He sighs and looks to the heavens. Or the ceiling. Perhaps he is asking Elizabeth for guidance.
"I knew all his drinking spots. I knew where he went when he hurt you. I often followed him after a call out to tend to you, and God help me Esme, I pleaded with him and reasoned with him and threatened him every time. I beat him on several occasions, but he drank enough to numb himself from the pain and the humiliation of losing. Nothing worked. I probably made it worse for you. The guilt was tearing me to pieces.
"When I found you on your kitchen floor, midway through delivering your stillborn child all alone, bruised by his hand, I lost my reason."
"What did you do?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
"I found a bottle of whiskey and added surgical spirits to it. Then I followed Henry out to his watering spot, and persuaded him to come with me into the wilderness. I forced him to drink in-between graphic descriptions of what he had done to you. He didn't take much persuasion. Then I left him there to drown in his own filth."
"Goodness. You really did murder him, didn't you? I thought – we all thought perhaps you had a hand in his death somehow. But you really did kill him?"
"I am repentant Esme, if that is the answer you are looking for."
"Are you? Are you truly?"
"Yes, I am. I was wrong. I have been wrong many times in my life, but taking a man's life that way was the worst. I hurt my wife and children in doing so; and, it seems, I hurt you also, in a way that hadn't occurred to me until now. If I had stayed my hand, and forcibly removed you from his home, you would have been protected from everything that subsequently happened to you."
I have to think about this. Carlisle seems to understand my need, remaining quietly beside me. But my thoughts are scrambled, and every time I follow the path of one thought, I am distracted by another.
I decide to focus on my feelings, as my reason cannot function.
Above all else, I think I feel let down. Disappointed. Sad.
Doctor Cullen was my hero. In my imagination, he has taken on the role of perfect man. When other men let me down, as they frequently do, I have always comforted myself with the thought that there is one man in the world I can put all my faith in. One man who loves his wife, cares for his children, provides for his family, acts with honour and courtesy, and applies his knowledge and skill to do good in the world.
Here is Carlisle. The real man, not the man of my dreams. He is as handsome as ever. He has fulfilled every responsibility towards his family, remained faithful to his wife until she died, provided jobs and homes to all manner of people. By all accounts, every worker on this farm has come here seeking refuge, and Carlisle turns no one away. He adopted Riley because he was too young to be without parents.
"Why did you do it, Carlisle?" I ask, sure his response will tell me all I need to know.
"Because I was enraged, dear girl. I acted on the fuel of anger and violence. I could not bear to let the man go unpunished, and instead of remaining within the law, I took it upon myself to play God. Elizabeth said it was because I saw myself as a small boy in you, and it was the child in me that I allowed to take over. That child wanted revenge, and he took it. She may be right."
"Elizabeth always was right about everything."
"Yes, she was." I can hear the smile in his response.
"Did she forgive you?"
"Immediately. I didn't deserve it, and she held no romantic ideas about my actions. She saw them for what they were – very, very wrong. But she was a practical woman, and she loved me. She never held anything against me."
My hand reaches out to grasp his before I notice.
"You are a good man, Carlisle. You did something very bad, but you don't deny it. In essence, you are a good man."
He leans closer to me and strokes the hair away from my cheek. His fingertips leave my blood singing in their wake.
"But I cannot escape the notice that you have suffered painfully for my wrong. I dearly wish for the chance to change things for you. I can't change your past, Esme; but I should very much like to change your future. Will you allow me to?"
"Change it how, Carlisle?"
"Well, for example, if I were to marry you, you would never need to be concerned about being provided for."
He shifts closer to me again. His hands encircle my waist.
"I see," I say, but I find it difficult to focus on anything.
"And if I were to marry you very soon, I would be available to worship your body as God intended it to be."
His head bends towards my neck. His breath is hot on my skin, and his lips burn intensely.
"Oh," I say.
"There are no others for me to forsake. There would only ever be you to honour and cherish. And I would honour and cherish you, Esme. I will."
He looks into my eyes, urging me to believe him.
"Do you forgive me, Esmerelda?"
"You always keep your promises?"
"Always, dear girl. Always."
"Then I do, Carlisle."
"And you'll marry me?"
I feel a ball of excitement in my belly, so big and so hot I want to burst. But I take the time I need to consider his proposal.
"Would Elizabeth approve?"
"Lizzie loved you, Esme. Before she died, she made me promise to at least try to marry again. It's been some time, and I meant to bring myself a girl from England, but that didn't work. Perhaps I was meant to wait for you. Yes, Elizabeth would approve. But know this: if you turn me down, it will be no more than I deserve, and I will look after you anyway. Please, don't feel forced into another marriage you would not choose for yourself. I promise to take care of you forever, whether you become my wife or not."
Well goodness me, I would be a fool to turn down such a proposal, wouldn't I?
"Then I choose you, Carlisle. Yes, I will marry you, and I'll make you very happy." I nod my head decisively.
"Good," he says. "Then I can do this."
He lifts me up and swings himself into my spot on the bed, settling me across his lap. I am very surprised, not least at his strength. He holds me by the nape of my neck, and gently pulls my head back until he has full access to my mouth. My lips open to voice an exclamation, and in an instant his mouth covers mine, his tongue slips into me and I enter another realm of existence.
I have never been kissed like this before.
The next minutes of my life are so exquisite, they make up for all of the bad times that have gone before.
We emerge from a kiss a thousand years long and I understand the fairy tales. I know why a kiss dislodged the poisoned apple from Snow White's throat; and why the thorns around Sleeping Beauty's castle withered in the face of her Prince. Good gracious me, I haven't been alive until this very moment.
And Carlisle does not stop at my lips. He kisses along my jaw to my ear, and lowers his mouth to my neck. I shudder with the sensation, which reaches all the way to my toes. He sucks and nips and kisses his way to my collar bones. My chest begins to heave beneath his mouth, and I worry that he will think me ill. The rumbling noise sounds again, how mortifying! I try to wriggle from his grasp, but he holds me still and soothes me.
"Hush, my girl. Let me show you what it is to be worshipped. You can do no wrong, Dear. I won't compromise you. You will find me a generous lover; all my pleasure is derived from yours. You deserve to be worshipped. Please allow me."
Each word his says is accompanied by a caress. He is not shy about where he puts his hands. They travel the length of my body, smoothing over my bottom and thigh with as much confidence as my back and shoulder. Only the effect is different. I melt.
Sensing my acquiescence, his mouth returns to my chest. He slides the strap of my slip from one shoulder, following its progress with his mouth. My bare breast is exposed, and he cups it gently with his large, rough hand. My skin there is pale, my nipple very pink against the brown flesh of his fingers.
"You are so beautiful, Esme," he says with such reverence I can't help but believe him. His fingers stroke me in the same reverent way as his voice.
Then he does the most extraordinary thing.
He lowers his head to my breast and takes the hard tip and the flesh that surrounds it into his mouth. He suckles me gently. The sensation pulls tight through my body, all the way to the place between my legs. I gaze down at him, bewildered by the beauty I see. His eyes are closed as if in ecstasy. His lovely mouth surrounds me; his chin is stubbled with bronze and grey; his fine nose points nobly downwards, a sun spot resting beside it; the lashes of his eyes are thicker and longer than I expected, and if I could reach him, I would kiss his eyelids where they flutter.
The sensation of his tongue flicking my tip back and forth sends a flood of pleasure down below. His free hand reaches for my other breast and strokes me through the flimsy material still covering it. I can hardly bear the sensation. A groan emerges from me such as I've never heard before.
Centuries float by on a wave of the most intense pleasure I have ever experienced.
Then his hand slips from my breast to my thigh. He eases upwards again, gently pressing my legs apart. I don't resist. Finally his fingers find my soaked centre, and I still myself at the sensation, while he moans around my breast as though he is in heaven.
He finds my entrance with his thumb and circles it, making me ache deep inside. I am acclimatising to the sensation when he thrusts his thumb into me, and then I cry out so loud, I surprise myself. He moves in and out of me, sucking all the while, pressing the fingers of his thumb-hand into the needy place at the juncture of my slit, and holding me tight with the other arm.
I feel as though I am hovering over a precipice. I rock my body into his hands and mouth, balancing precariously for a lifetime or more. Then I feel his teeth graze my nipple and I explode, crying and pulsing. My breast pops out of his mouth, which he presses hard to mine, swallowing the noises I can't stop.
Eventually I begin to calm, though little shudders continue to rock me at indeterminate intervals.
Carlisle smiles at me, delight shining from him even in the dark.
"There's my girl. Did you like that, Darling? Do you feel good?"
I gasp. "Carlisle! I – I've never – you have robbed me of speech! I've never – what about you?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing about me, Dear. It's all about you. Every day, as often as you like, it's all for you. Besides, I can't take my clothes off until we are properly married. It wouldn't be right."
"It wouldn't be right." I echo him dazedly. Then awareness strikes, and I struggle to sit up and look at him. "Was this right? What you just did, that was right in the eyes of the church?"
He soothes me again, stroking my hair until I settle back against him.
"Yes, it was right. Where is it written, 'thou shalt not pleasure a maiden'? Hmm?"
I shake my head. "I'm not a maiden, Carlisle. You cannot imagine me to be an innocent. Not at my age, and not with my experience."
"Alright, perhaps you are not a maiden or an innocent. But tell me this, Esme: have you ever experienced that sensation before? Has any other man taken the time to make you feel cherished? Worshipped?"
"No, never."
"Then I rest my case."
How confusing. Were we arguing? How could I possibly argue with a man who made me feel so very special?
"You had better rest now, Dearest. We can't predict what the morning will bring. We'll have to make some decisions about Rosalie now."
"Rosalie? Why?"
"Why? Well, if you are going to be my wife, what are we going to do about her?"
I sit up in shock. "You won't send her back, will you? I won't leave her, Carlisle. It's both of us or neither. Your choice."
He shakes his head. "Do you know me at all, Esme? Of course I want you both. Rosalie will be my daughter if she'll have me, and you will be my wife. Besides, I imagine there is more than one way for Rose to become my daughter."
"Really? How?"
He laughs. "Are you blind?"
And then it strikes me: "Emmett."
~~Kimberley Diamond~~
Thank you so much for your reviews. I apologise to those I haven't responded to, but I truly, madly and deeply appreciate all of the messages you leave me. Tell me who your heroes are. Be safe, and look out for one another.
G&G
