A Sacred Ritual

Crane examined his reflection closely as he put the finishing touches on his toilette. He had spent the best part of an hour on his clothes and hair, having sent his army coat, breeches and shirt to be specially laundered. He told himself it had nothing to do with vanity.

This was for the Lieutenant.

He had been involved in an intimate relationship with Abbie for almost a year, but he was a man who strongly believed in the sanctity of marriage. For all that the modern world had changed his attitudes in many respects, in this one point he was immovable.

They had planned this day for months now, every detail mapped out with painstaking care. Only now, with barely an hour until the event, did he begin to feel nervous. It was foolish, he told himself. He could not remember feeling any apprehension before his wedding to Katrina. He recalled an effervescent happiness, a sense of optimism and hope.

Now he was a different man, a man tempered by trial and grief. He was older and – he hoped – wiser, but nonetheless he held the same dreams for the future. The difference was that his future lay in the hands of another.

Crane sat at a long table atop the dais. The hall was overcrowded and stuffy and the speeches had gone on far too long, leaving him a touch irritable. When the food finally arrived, it was overcooked and unappetising. He had not consumed anything since breakfast other than canapés and too much champagne. Now he was eager to be elsewhere.

The ceremony itself was everything he had hoped for. He was sure his heart stopped beating when the church organ began to play and Abbie appeared, as beautiful as an angel. She wore a gown made from shimmering white cloth, sewn with beads which occasionally caught the light, dazzling the eye with their radiance. The neckline hung low displaying the merest glimpse of décolletage, the shining fabric clinging to each lovely curve. The sleeves were long and were held in place by small loops over the middle fingers of each hand. A short train followed, giving her the elegant glide of a swan in motion.

Jenny escorted her down the aisle, her dress the colour of cherry blossoms. As they approached the altar, Crane noticed the smile they shared. It was the unspoken communication of sisters, a secret code that could not be broken by separation, marriage or death.

The rest of the day had been a haze of activity, of shaking hands in the hot sun and standing for photographs. As Crane stabbed a piece of fish on his plate, his mind lingered on the perfect few minutes inside the chapel. He was startled out of his reverie by Abbie's warm hand slipping into his.

'Penny for your thoughts, lover?' she whispered.

Her voice was like a draught of some honeyed liquor trickling down his throat. He suddenly felt revived.

'Only of you, pretty wife,' he replied, raising her hand to his lips and tenderly kissing it. 'Might I escape for a spell? I crave a breath of fresh air.'

'Can I come too? It's stifling in here.'

As soon as Crane left the hall behind him, a blast of cool air hit his lungs. He laid his head against the cool tile on the wall, revelling in the temporary silence that surrounded them both.

'Crazy day, huh?'

He opened his eyes and saw a loving smile gracing Abbie's lips. Every pore of him felt alive, and he had a sudden crazed impulse.

'Come with me.' He grabbed her hand and pulled her along the corridor.

'Crane!' Abbie laughed breathlessly. 'What are you doing?'

He opened a door and peered into another room. When satisfied that it was empty, he drew her inside and closed the door. That done, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her hard.

After a few moments, Abbie pulled away and started when she realised that they were standing on the dance floor, decorated with ribbons and balloons in preparation for their guests. Her brain vaguely registered the fact that people would start wandering in from the dining room in a few scant minutes.

Crane's mouth was pressed against the skin of her neck, slowly trailing kisses downwards, his hands clutching her waist.

'We can't…' she mumbled. 'Not here.'

'Yes here!' Crane said gruffly, surprising himself with his vehemence.

'Damn it,' she moaned, reaching beneath his coat to anchor herself to his body. 'That feels too good.'

'Now, Abbie,' he murmured against her lips before kissing her again, his tongue moving deftly inside her mouth. He swallowed her moans, feeling himself infected with a kind of madness. This was not how he imagined their first time together as a married couple. It should have been slow and reverential, a sacred ritual sealing their vows to love and cherish one another all their days.

He imagined himself slowly undressing her, paying homage to every delicious inch of silken skin with mouth and hands. He wanted to slowly drive her mad with longing, to make her burn for him, drawing out her satisfaction until she could bear it no more. He wanted to make the night belong to them.

Instead, he found himself hiking his wife's skirts up like some gawkish youth maddened with lust. He knew he should feel some measure of embarrassment, of denying Abbie what was due to her, but he could not. Her short, exhilarated breaths and groans of pleasure fired his blood. This moment put his plans to shame. It was perfect; it was theirs.

He lifted her onto the edge of a nearby table. His hands made a slow, tortuous journey up her legs, tracing their lines, revelling in the sounds of desperation that came from Abbie's lips. In one fluid motion, he removed her underwear, then quickly unbuttoned the front of his breeches.

'Do you wish me to continue?' he whispered.

'I… I… I…'

'You what, Mrs. Crane?' he teased, pulling her ever closer to his body.

'I do.'