A/N: So this had sat, partially written, for close to three weeks. It began as a response to chelsie-prompts' end-of-March "Rain" prompt. I know many others have already published theirs, but here's mine.
Many thanks to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for beta.
And to all of you, thank you so very much for your support! As ever, all reads, reblogs and reviews are much appreciated. Chelsie on!
xx,
~ejb~
17. Washing
Walking home from church it's uncomfortably humid, the air so still it's stale. Her dress clings in a way that makes her want to squirm … except that would require movement beyond what's necessary.
He trails behind her and they're quiet, the heat making even conversation too much of an effort. Occasionally she reaches back and he reaches forward, their fingertips just touching as if to reassure. I'm still with you.
Elsie looks up as they pass a copse of trees, noting a fat robin, its head tipped back, bright red breast proudly on display.
"She's singing her rain song," Elsie says, breaking the silence. Charles' eyes follow the point of her finger and he acknowledges with a nod and the faintest hint of a smile. A second feathered friend echoes from farther away and thunder rumbles in the distance. They can smell the rain coming … it's not far off now.
They quicken their pace slightly, the heat impeding much exertion, but as they crest the next hill it's clear that the weather has them beaten. The cottage is just around the next bend, but between here and there there's no place to hide, no waiting it out.
Charles glances at his wife, can see she's plotting something. She looks at him, her eyes glinting mischievously, and hikes up her skirt. His mouth drops open, his face aghast as he works out her plan.
"Well," she says, "we're going to get soaked to the bone either way … might as well enjoy ourselves! Take my hand."
He shakes his head but a smile reaches his eyes. Times like this the heart of the Scottish farm girl just can't be tamed; as much as it knocks him off balance, he loves it. He reaches for her hand and they break into a run.
And it's a good thing they do; by the time they've covered half the distance the rain is coming down full force, slanting sideways. Her hair has worked itself free of its tidy chignon and is plastered against her face. She swipes at her eyes with a water-logged sleeve and it does no good at all. She chances a glance at Charles and can't help the laughter that bubbles up. He looks like a drowned rat, she thinks. His hair is matted down flat against his head and water streams off the ends of his jacket sleeves. She tugs at his hand.
"Almost there," she pants. They reach the front door as a loud clap of thunder resonates. He reaches for the knob and his hand slips from the dampness. Her eyes meet his and a frisson of anxiety passes between them. "It's only because it's wet," she murmurs, turning the knob and ushering him inside.
She turns her back to him. "Would you …?" When he doesn't move she glances at him over her shoulder. "Charles, my buttons. Would you help me out of this dress?"
Now he grins. They're inside, out of the storm and he can stop fretting. "Why, Mrs. Carson, you managed to make that sound somewhat risqué," he teases.
Her heart begins to beat faster. He remembers.
"And if I did?" She is coquettish as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath as he opens one button after another, not a hint of paroxysm in his touch. He pushes the dress off her shoulders and exhales puffs of warm air on her damp skin. She feels that now-familiar tightening beginning low in her belly.
She turns in his arms. "Och! This won't do!" She tugs at the soaked sleeves of his jacket until it drops onto the floor next to her dress. His shirt is damp as well and as she removes his tie she notes his eyes on her, his indrawn breath. Suddenly the heat that was oppressive outside is intoxicating as it suffuses through his shirt into her fingertips.
When they're down to their underthings she turns again, bending to pick up their discarded clothing. "We must hang these straightaway or they'll ruin," she says.
He places his hands on her shoulders and turns her toward him once more. "Leave it." His bass rumbles and she feels it as much as she hears it.
"Charles?" She doesn't mean to sound so breathless, but as she looks into his eyes, dark and hooded, the response is automatic.
"Come to bed." It's a half-whisper, and she places her hand in his as she trails behind him up the stairs.
She thrills at watching him this way - leading her, taking charge - because now that they are married, now that they are lovers, she finds he defers to her with great regularity. And it's not that she doesn't love it. Oh, he is so very tender with her! He would never push her beyond what was comfortable. But it was passion, barely restrained, that she saw in his eyes on the night he proposed and then kissed her, awakening in her feelings she had long since put down to youthful fancy.
They step inside their bedroom and she just manages to hold back a giggle as he closes the door. They could not be more all alone, but if she's honest she'll admit there's an undercurrent of romance and quiet devotion in the gesture and that it makes her feel treasured. As if they were the only two alive, and she the only woman his eyes had ever alighted upon.
And then there is the way he looks at her. Still. Again. The room is silent save for the sound of their breathing, the rain pelting the windows and drumming on the roof. And her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she watches him, waiting … waiting.
What happens next is not at all what she's expecting, as he nips into the lavatory and returns with a towel. "Your hair, love," he explains. "You'll be uncomfortable if we leave it." She reaches a hand up and realizes that water is running in rivulets down her neck. His eyes follow the tiny stream that trickles down into the valley between her breasts and she sees it, the way he blinks deliberately, and she grows warm.
They work together to remove her hairpins and he gathers her mane in the towel, carefully wringing it out. He fingers her damp tresses. "Better," he rumbles with a minute nod of his head, placing the towel over the back of a nearby chair. He steps close again and she finds herself once more gazing into his dark eyes, fascinated. She wonders, for an instant, if he thinks her foolish for getting caught up in him this way. And then his lips descend upon hers and she decides she does not care. The force of his kiss surprises her and she mewls into his mouth, the sound not unlike the one she made the very first time their lips touched.
He tips her head back, his lips blessing the column of her throat. His tongue darts out to capture the droplets of water that have pooled in the hollows of her collarbones and her hands wind their way into his hair, fingertips trailing over the nape of his neck, palms flattening against his strong shoulders. His vest is damp and she frowns.
"This needs to come off," she insists, fingering the soggy fabric.
What happens next knocks the breath out of her lungs. He meets her eyes with a look that has but one interpretation. He of guarded heart and finely-honed self-control is placing that tender heart, along with his dignity, in her hands.
"Raise your arms," she says gently, lifting the hem. He complies and bows his head, and she removes the sodden garment, tossing it on top of the towel.
"There," she declares, satisfied. She presses her lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, sucking at the skin, and when she looks up at him again she reads gratitude in his eyes, relief. It astounds her to know that she holds such sway over him, but she offers up silent thanks for the fact that the privilege of safeguarding his heart is hers and hers alone.
Her approval must be precisely what he needs, because now he is lifting the hem of her chemise, tossing it carelessly onto the floor, and this time she does laugh as he lifts her off her feet, depositing her on the bed and swiftly coming to lie beside her. There is a harsh clap of thunder and the flash of lightning that follows casts a brighter light than the noonday sun, but this discharge of energy in the heavens is no match for the arcing of current between the man and his wife.
Hands roam insistently, wordless gasps direct and encourage, and lips trail across heated skin as they give and take, all culminating in a chorus of "I love you … I never thought it could be this way. I love you."
She brings him down upon her after, and if he fears crushing her under his weight he doesn't express it, not this time. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, pressing his lips to impossibly soft skin and whispering his love to her. She groans when his body slips from hers, but he kisses her quiet.
"None of that, now," he murmurs. "I'm not going anywhere." He lies on his side facing her and gathers her against him, pulling the sheet over their cooling skin. She insinuates a leg between both of his and his hand comes to rest on her hip.
She traces the tip of her index finger over his throat and down the center of his chest, and then her palm comes to rest over his heart. "I don't know what came over you today," she says with a grin, "but whatever it was, you'll hear no complaints from me!" And she kisses him soundly, treasuring the moan that escapes from his lips into her mouth.
He raises up on an elbow to look at her and grins. "I find I rather enjoy you … undone," he admits sheepishly. "It felt as if I caught a glimpse of the wild Scottish farmgirl for a moment and I'm not ashamed to say I found it most enticing."
It is then that she remembers why she went to church today. As she snuggles into his side and their eyelids grow heavy, she thanks God for choosing her to love this man, who is more than the butler of Downton Abbey, who is arresting in his tenderness beneath that stern exterior. Who loves her wholeheartedly and trusts her implicitly, and who dreams of her, of the girl she was.
And his heart is hers to cherish.
Please feel free to send me suggestions! What would you like to see in this series? I enjoy a good challenge. xx
