A/N: Thank you so much for your wonderful thoughts.

Some characters belong to S. Meyer, some belong to history, and some belong to me.


Chapter 7 – The Incident at the Farm

My new wife and I arrive at the farm under cover of darkness, with only half a moon and Aro's instincts guiding us. I have allowed him to set our pace instead of riding him hard as I did earlier, for Isabella sits sidesaddle in front of me, with my greatcoat wrapped around us both to shield us from the sheets of wind. There is no longer need for haste despite the less than handful of hours remaining before sunrise. When dawn breaks, we need be in town to deliver Captain Swan the happy news of his new status as my father-in-law.

As I assist my wife off of Aro and set her firmly on the ground, she tilts up her head to examine the red-brick farmhouse of which she shall now preside as mistress. The house rests atop one of the few hills in these parts of Freehold. The woods encroach behind it, while the farmland spread in front is cleared, flat, and rich earth. In daylight, looking down from the house provides a magnificent bird's eye view of the surrounding terrain.

Isabella's expression is frustratingly inscrutable – though lovely in the moonlight.

Jacob suddenly appears in the darkness. His white teeth verily shine from between his wide grin as he reaches out and shakes my hand.

"Congratulations, Edward." Grin still in place, he nods in the lady's direction. "And congratulations to you as well, Mrs. Cullen."

'Tis difficult to control my shock at the new title. I hope the nighttime obscurity has concealed it.

"Thank you…Jacob?" Isabella murmurs quietly.

"Yes, madam. At your service." Jacob reaches for Aro's reins.

"Jacob, I know not why you awaited my arrival. I can settle Aro in the stables."

Turning his attention to Aro, Jacob gingerly pats the horse's mane. "With all that occurs in Massachusetts, I cannot sleep until we receive further word." Then, he begins leading Aro away, but before the darkness swallows them, I hear something murmured faintly. "Besides, you have more important duties this night than stabling the horse."

He chuckles heartily, the cur.

"Come," I say quickly, hoping Isabella did not hear. Taking her hand, I lead us forward and up the hill.

The dewy grass makes a muffled sound as it wilts under our feet. The hidden crickets are much louder. My heart joins in the disjointed chorus, especially as we arrive at the house. We climb the narrow steps leading to the door, and I ponder whether I should carry Isabella over the threshold or allow her to walk through. Too soon, however, the door is open and we have crossed inside, and I have not carried her. The stab of regret is sharp and immediate, and I fear I shall always bear remorse for the missed opportunity.

Nevertheless, Isabella moves forward without so much as a glance back. Through the narrow hallway and into the front room she wanders. The fireplace is lit, glowing bright within the hearth, and radiating enough heat to kindle the moderate space. When Isabella stops, so do I.

"Father?" I call.

No response rings out.

Isabella walks about the room taking in everything from the painting of Mother hanging over the fireplace to the Grandfather clock to the wooden table and chairs to the writing desk and everything besides. Her fingertips join her eyes, running both over every surface she encounters.

"Father?" I say again. Again, I receive the same lack of response. "Where can he be?" I mutter.

"It is the wee hours of the morning, sir. He is likely sleeping. Or, perhaps he is making himself scarce as did your friend by the stables. It is our wedding night, after all," she says dryly as she turns in a circle to observe all she may have missed – which I am beginning to see is not much.

"Would you like something to drink or to eat, madam?"

"No, thank you."

Her droll, overly formal manner combined with her sharp observations fluster me. Perhaps 'tis why my next words hold more mockery than assurance.

"'Tis a decent enough home, I assure you, Isabella. You need not inspect every nook and cranny. It is perhaps not as elegant as the Smythes' home, which you and your father have commandeered in town," I say in a biting tone, "but, I believe there is little you shall lack."

"I thank you for your assurances," she replies. Then, quitting her perusals, she turns to me. "You hold slaves, Mr. Cullen?"

"No, madam, in this household, we do not," I reply, nostrils flaring. "The family which helps us around the farm is paid fair wages and has a home of its own on the land. They are our friends, and they are respected as such. And pray use my first name when addressing me. Neither do I hold with the old, British custom where a wife addresses her husband by his surname."

"Such a modern gentleman you are, Edward," she emphasizes. Turning her back to me, she walks toward the fireplace. "We hold not with slavery either, for your information. Father has always taught me 'tis a barbaric practice. However, if I recall correctly, I do believe he enjoyed Mother addressing him by his surname when she lived. So there is that."

"She is dead then?"

"These past eight years, Mr.-" she begins, catching herself, "Edward. Much like your mother, mine became ill and never recovered - if that part of your story was true."

"It was, and I am sorry, Isabella," I breathe rather awkwardly, apologizing for more than her mother's death. Nevertheless, she acknowledges my remorse neither by words nor by actions. Instead, she keeps her back to me.

"I suppose it was a rather difficult event for a ten-year-old girl, but seeing as Mother had little choice in the matter, I try not to hold it against her. Besides, Father has done his best to play the role of both parents, while still faithfully serving the Crown." Her petite shoulders rise and fall. "And now, I repay all his work and sacrifice on my behalf in this manner."

Swallowing thickly, I step toward her. Lifting my hands to her shoulders, I squeeze them gently. She is soft like a spindle of wool. When I turn her toward me, her face is flushed by her proximity to the fire. When I lift her gaze to mine, she takes me in through dark eyes which still hold the fire's flames.

"All will be well, Isabella. He loves you. I have observed so even in the few instances I have seen you both together."

"Oh, I do not doubt his love for me. Despite what you may think of him, my father is a good man, Edward. He is a just man. The question is, how do I justify my marriage to you? I cannot, and so I must allow him to believe I have betrayed him. I simply wonder if love can withstand such betrayal."

With no answer for her, I draw in a deep breath and release it slowly.

She snorts, grinning wryly. "I have found that when you have no answer for me, you simply do not reply. I suppose 'tis better than a lie," she shrugs.

I hold her gaze. "We must leave before sunrise. You should get some rest."

OOOOOOOOOO

My bedchamber is not the Master's chamber - Father holds that honor. It is neither large nor ornate. The wood-paneling assures it heavy darkness, which must be dispelled with plenty of candles, of which none are currently lit. The two generous windows on opposite sides would also assist in providing light were they not covered in drab curtains meant to keep such out. There is a dresser, on top of which rests a basin and a pitcher meant for morning and evening washing, and a small mirror for shaving purposes. There is a narrow clothing closet. There is a writing desk and a small table with only one chair. There is a fireplace, which as the one in the front room, has also been lit. It now roars, so as we enter, the room is not completely in the dark nor the cold.

Lastly, there is my bed.

'Tis a small one, set against the wall opposite the fireplace almost as an afterthought. The thick bed curtains on the side opposite the wall hang from one of the wooden beams on the ceiling. One bed curtain is open and carelessly pushed behind the wooden bedpost. Through it, I spy the disheveled counterpane and the thankfully empty chamber pot haphazardly pushed under the bed. The other bed curtain is thankfully still closed.

Here again, my new wife allows her eyes to wander. I take a seat on the lone chair and begin to remove my boots and stockings.

"'Tis a dark room, I know. Or rather, I see it through your eyes now." A rather shaky chuckle escapes me. "Of course, you may make any changes you desire here."

She nods slowly.

Clearing my throat, I stand again. "Very well. I shall let you get some rest; though, meager it must be. It has been a long evening for you, and I imagine you must be exhausted. Unfortunately, I will have to wake you in a couple of hours so we may go meet with your father. Until then, make yourself as comfortable as possible."

I am babbling like a fool.

"Good night, then." I turn to leave.

"Where do you go, Edward?"

"I shall take the guest room for now," I reply without facing her.

She is silent, which makes the roar of the fireplace all the louder. After a few seconds, I resume my stride.

"Edward," she whispers.

With a breath, I turn toward her.

"Do you recall…what you said just a few short hours ago, about being honest with one another, at least in terms of those matters regarding our union?"

"Yes, Isabella," I say softly. "I recall."

Her piercing eyes hold mine, locking me in place. "Then I shall tell you this," she murmurs. "Your father is correct. Before I see my father, you must ensure this marriage cannot be annulled, for otherwise…" her chest rises and falls heavily, "otherwise, I cannot promise you I will not ask him to annul it."

I squeeze shut my eyes before rushing over to her. Again, as in the cellar earlier, 'tis one of the few times she appears truly innocent, like a deer lost in the wild. My chest constricts.

"Have I made you so unhappy already?"

She shakes her head. "I am not unhappy so much as I am unsure of what I have done, unsure of the future, and I crave the safety and familiarity of my father and my home."

I feel the deep frown marring my forehead. "This is your home now, Isabella, and the familiar is not always better, my love. I understand uncertainty can be...frightening, but-"

She throws up her hands and growls. "I am not frightened! I simply want an end to the indecisiveness churning within me!"

"And you want me to take it away this way, by taking away your choices?"

She places her palms flat on her stomach. "I am unused to the sensation, and 'tis making me sicker than anything else. Even sicker than you and your obvious disapproval of me."

"Isabella…" I exhale heavily, then carefully reach for her hand. Weaving together our fingers, I guide her to the disheveled bed. Then, I take a seat and seat her beside me. After raking my free hand through my hair, I take both of her hands.

"I do not disapprove of you. I am simply…nervous," I admit.

"Nervous why of a sudden? You were ready enough in the cellar; though, perhaps in the almost complete darkness of the cellar, and then outside in the night, 'twas easy enough for you to forget what you were truly doing. In the cellar, the feel of my body made it easier for you to forget my loyalties and to imagine…to imagine I was someone else. Now, in the relative light provided by the candles and fireplaces, you see more clearly. You see you have married your enemy."

"Do not say that. I have not married my enemy. I have married a beautiful young woman-"

"-whom you barely know-"

"You are transferring your fears onto me, Isabella. You see me as the enemy, yours and your father's. But as your loyalty must now belong to me, so shall mine to you."

"How can that be?" She shakes her head. "How shall you reconcile loyalty to me as a wife with loyalty to your cause? You cannot even hold a conversation with your fellow patriots while I am in the room."

"Yet, you ask me to bed you, with all these doubts in your mind?"

"As I said, you were ready enough before."

"I would not have taken you in the cellar."

She is silent, dropping her gaze to the wrinkled bed covers. She is…she is…by God, Isabella is not frightened, she is terrified. But I will not point it out to her. Instead, I place my thumb under her chin and guide her eyes back to mine. Slowly, I lean in and press my lips to hers. They are as soft and malleable as before, and I hunger for them no less than I did in the cellar or at the altar.

My wife.

She responds just as she has every time, and as I slide my hand around her neck, our kiss deepens, our breaths pronounced and heavy, mixing between the both of us. Soon, I push her back against the bed and lay my body over her soft body. She pushes her hands into my hair and grips it between her fingers.

My passionate wife.

I pull away from her addictive mouth, gasping for air as does she.

"Do you miss New York?"

Her brow furrows deeply, obviously bewildered by my question.

"I…yes, I suppose I do."

"You miss your friends there?" I further inquire.

"Y-yes, I miss my friends. I have known them all my life."

I rest my weight on my elbow and circle her lips with my finger, waiting.

"Jessica, you have met," she finally says.

I chuckle. "Yes, I recall Miss Van Statten. A most…interesting creature."

"You mock her," she frowns further. "Jessica may not be the…wittiest person, but she is sweet and kind."

"How can that be? She is Tory."

Her eyes flash, and she instantly shoves me off of her. I comply with a loud chuckle, sitting on the bed beside her.

"I am teasing you, Isabella."

Nevertheless, she glares at me. With a snort, I lay beside her now, propping myself up with an elbow. Then, I begin to untie my cravat.

"Tell me about the rest of your friends," I ask, smiling.

Her wide-eyed gaze falls to my neck. Nevertheless, she continues. "For what? So that you may vilify them as well for being Tories? We have our beliefs too, Edward." She sighs and relaxes her head against the goose-feathered pillow. A few loose curls splay across it. Her eyes pan back to mine, and I note how lovely and curved are her eyelashes. "We are not mindless creatures blindly following the Crown, as your patriot-disseminated and seditious pamphlets like to suggest. We are true people, who believe Parliament looks after our interests as fairly as it looks after its subjects in England."

"Which is not very fairly at all," I say, immediately regretting it and covering her mouth before she can counter. "Isabella, I apologize, but only because I do not want to speak of our political beliefs. I asked you about your friends." Slowly, I pull my hand away, ready to slap it back on if she plans to retort. Sure enough, her lips are pressed together tightly, but she manages to hold back her sharp words.

After a few seconds, she seems calm enough to reply evenly.

"I have another friend, Alice. I believe…I believe you might like her if you ever meet her."

"Oh? And why do you assume that?" I unbutton my waistcoat now and throw it to the side of the bed.

She purses her soft lips, but her lovely chest heaves up and down, and 'tis all I can do to keep myself from wrapping both hands around her breasts as is now my right and privilege.

"Well…for the past couple of years, she has become more and more convinced that there is some truth in what you Patriots speak. Though her father tells her to keep her treasonous thoughts to herself, which she is intelligent enough to do."

I am sorely tempted to point out the hypocrisy within that revelation, but my purpose here this night is not political. Well, not entirely. Therefore, I simply nod.

"She does sound like an interesting woman," I say instead as I pull my shirt out from my breeches.

Isabella breathes in and out through narrowed lips. "I…I have met Mrs. Gage, Mrs. Margaret Gage, you know."

One of my eyebrows lift. "The British General's wife. Have you?" Quickly sitting, I begin to remove Isabella's shoes, keeping my eyes on her as I do.

Her eyes grow wide, and she nods. "They are friends of my father's. We have dined with them. They have children close to my age. I would have never imagined Mrs. Gage…" she trails off, her eyes locked on mine. "She was very maternal with me, and...I liked her. She must love Doctor Warren very much to betray husband and country."

"She perhaps betrays husband but not country," I clarify, throwing Isabella's shoes to the side to join my waistcoat. "She is New Jersey-born, not far from these parts as a matter of fact."

"And country apparently trumps marriage in these situations."

With a groan of frustration, I turn over on top of her and slide my hands through her hair, cradling her head, and acting as if I shall crush it between my hands - which I admit I am tempted to do.

"For the love of God, does this mind never quit?" I demand.

Her doe eyes sear into mine, her words not quite as harmless. "I am afraid there is only one way it shall be quieted this night."

I snort and shake my head at her suggestiveness, and since my hands are already 'round her head, I begin removing her hairpins, allowing them to fall on the pillow. When I am done, she shakes out her long hair, and I crush my mouth to hers.

"Isabella…" I breathe against her mouth, "I crave you more than anything right now."

"Then take me." Her words and her body tremble as she wraps her arms and legs around me. Her sweet breaths fan my face and mouth.

"I desire you more than I desire news from Massachusetts."

At this, the imp I have married throws back her head and laughs, and 'tis...'tis an awe-inspiring sight.

"I am beginning to see what a compliment that is from you, Edward, and I am honored."

"And so, you see?" I say, smiling down at her, pushing her hair off her beautiful face. "We begin to learn of one another. You lost your mother young, as did I. But whereas I am a man brought up by another man, you were a motherless young girl, who craved a mother in spite of your father trying his best. You have made friends with varied backgrounds and personalities in New York, whom you miss. But I hope you shall make friends here which will make you feel more at home. And about me, I hope you have learned that although I may be a Patriot, I am a man still, and having you, specifically, in my bed is heaven."

"Edward…"

Her eyes become half-lidded and then close completely as I lean in, but 'tis her forehead which my lips meet. Then, carefully flipping her on her side, I wrap myself behind her.

She freezes and stiffens.

"If I am still maiden when the sun rises, I warn you: you run the risk of being run through."

Chuckling softly, I push her hair away from her ear and whisper, "I shall take my chances."

What I keep to myself is that my wife must have at least some modicum of trust in me before I take such a thing from her.

"You are truly insane," she whispers.

"Perhaps," I allow. "We shall hopefully have many years together in which you may determine such. Now, go to sleep, wife."

She does not reply for a few moments, and when she does, 'tis hesitantly. "Good night…husband."

I brush my lips over her exposed nape, which has the unexpected and wonderful effect of causing her back to arch. Her rump presses into my now quickly growing member, and I almost give in to my need for her right then and there.

But no. My cock has waited one and twenty years for the heat of a woman. It can wait a short while longer – I think.

Besides, having her in my bed…in my arms…is very good, indeed.

OOOOOOOOOO

I wake to a meager hint of light creeping in through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth has waned, but I burn nonetheless. No, dawn has not broken, but with the heretofore unknown and magnificent warmth of having a body…Isabella's body, my wife's body, wrapped within mine, I have overslept. My cock has awoken swollen and ready as well, cocooned as it has been by a plump rump. But still, it must wait, especially as we must now have to make haste yet again.

Nevertheless, I take a few moments to savor the feel of greeting the day with my wife in my arms and imagine years…nay, decades of awakening to such decadence. At the same time, I feel more at peace with my decision to wait to truly bed her. I tighten my hold on her, our hands entwined over her stomach. She makes a soft sound somewhere between a sigh and a breath, and I smile into her hair. When a set of horse's hooves pound the earth and approach, I imagine 'tis Jasper arriving with news. But then, another set of hooves joins the first and another. And another. And another. And then…

Hurtling out of bed, I grab my musket before sliding the curtain back just enough to spy Captain Swan as he jumps off his horse, with half a dozen men on horseback coming to a halt behind him. James rides at the front of these.

"Hell and damnation," I hiss.

As Swan stalks toward the house, my father and Jacob are already running out to meet him, their own muskets in hand. When Captain Swan points his pistol at my father and Jacob, both men come to a halting stop.

"WHERE IS MY DAUGHTER?" he howls.


A/N: Thoughts?

I don't have a history lesson for this chapter. :(

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