AN I think my favorite thing about this story is balancing the dynamic between Jonathan and Grace. We all know Grace is as clever as they come, but Jonathan has a delicious level of cunning that should not be dismissed. And I feel like he is easily one of the most observant people in the show, which goes along nicely with her tactical mind. Their skills compliment each other in such fantastic ways, oh my gosh.
Jonathan may have occasionally been a fool, but he would never let himself be called stupid. He minded Fort James, drilled the soldiers, continued to polish the place into perfect working order. Any time he saw Grace in the street, she was perfectly civil. Granted, she had a smugness that drove him crazy, a taunting 'I won because all you had in mind was your cock' that tested his self-control. He would have loved to point out that she hadn't had any criticisms at the time, either, but he was starting to realize that it wasn't the petty blows that would win this war.
He let her be. He didn't want to seem desperate and he didn't want to risk another attempt on his life, so he let her mind her own business. Really, every day he went without seeing her or touching her was just another victory, because he didn't need her.
And then he received a letter, placed delicately at his elbow by the maid during breakfast. He looked it over once, then twice, then cursed.
He needed her.
A nearby governor had neatly invited himself to visiting Fort James under the pretense of greeting his new colleague. He and his friends (because of course the arrogant prick only traveled with a party of bootlickers) wouldn't stay for long, possibly only for dinner, because they didn't want to put Jonathan out. Jonathan couldn't tell if it was because they thought Fort James was such a shithole or because they really thought him stupid enough to think a week-long journey warranted only a single meal of safety and comfort. Either way, they would be coming and Jonathan knew he would never be able to make it through without Grace.
Only, now Grace had become accustomed to her taste of freedom and rebuffed every approach he made. She didn't want to come by their house for lunch, ignored him in the Ale, refused to let him broach the subject of business in the street.
So Jonathan did the one thing that would get her attention—he forbade every liquor vendor in Fort James from selling to her. He had been nervous that she wouldn't notice in time, after a few days had passed and she went about her business as usual, but soon enough he saw her running all over the fort, trying to beg, threaten, and cajole someone into supplying her.
"Upset there, love?" he asked, after watching her storm away from one of the vendors in the street. She turned to glare at him, clearly aware of what he had done.
"What exactly do I need to fix for my liquor license?" she snarled.
It wasn't that Jonathan enjoyed causing Grace problems, but he certainly enjoyed besting her at her own game.
"Oh, Grace," he said, unable to keep from taunting her just a little. "A decent woman like yourself supplying rough, untrustworthy men with spirits. Who knows what sort of unwholesome things could arise when you get their blood up?"
She rolled her eyes. They both knew she would cut out a man's tongue if he tried to so much as steal a kiss from her.
"You're doing this for jealousy?" she asked. "Afraid some idiot beaver trapper will take a grab at me?"
"Oh, no, I know you can defend yourself," he said lightly. "But it wouldn't be Christian of me to expose you to any such situation. Not as your new husband."
He almost ruined everything by breaking into a smile at her barely contained indignation. She bit the inside of her cheeks, bursting to yell at him.
"Take a walk with me," he said, taking her arm. She walked quietly at his side, and for a moment they were the perfect picture of husband and wife. Jonathan let her simmer in silence for a moment, trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the visiting governor.
"Your interest in the Alehouse confuses me, Grace," he told her. "You spend all this time making it as good as it can be, and yet you fail to use your greatest asset."
"You, I'm assuming."
"Exactly."
"Maybe I would, if every favor from you didn't have to be bartered and bought," she shot back. "Bleeding me dry doesn't exactly engender trust."
"And what hardship have you endured at my hands, Grace?" he asked, casting her a look. She returned it, completely unimpressed.
"Keeping me from stocking the Alehouse comes to mind."
"Because you wouldn't listen otherwise," he sighed, shaking his head. "I tried to get your attention all sorts of other ways, but you couldn't find the time of day."
"For a man that promised not to bother me after I joined you, you're certainly doing your best to become a nuisance."
"This isn't a personal matter." Not that he didn't have plans for it to become one. "It's all business."
"'Business' suggests there's something for me to profit from," she said doubtfully.
"It's like you said, Grace—this partnership can only be successful if there's give and take."
"And what's your give?" she asked, looking away.
"You've remained at the Alehouse," he said, starting to be amazed at how little good she saw in her situation. He was trying to give her all the power and prestige she craved, why did she have to fight him at every turn? "The business is yours, your time is yours, everything." He stopped and turned her so they were face to face. "Your life is yours to live. I just expect to be in it."
She studied him for a moment, then looked out to the sea. He knew that he had won when she sighed and looked back at him.
"Of course," she said. "But it's hard when you attack the things I hold dear."
Jonathan sighed through his nose. She could keep going in circles for forever, couldn't she? He set his shoulders and let go of her.
"Let's start fresh," he suggested. "Let's work together, Grace, as you once suggested."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "No more tricks?"
"None."
"And you won't impede the working of my business anymore?"
"If you back me as you said you would. I promise it'll be worth your while."
Grace's jaw ticked, like she was literally chewing his words over.
"The liquor vendors will give me all I need tomorrow?"
"First light," he promised.
"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "What is it you have in mind?"
Grace didn't like his plan. Practically anything that made her look like any other woman was a personal affront to her, he knew. But she knew as well as he that if they had any hope of tricking these well-to-do lords into leaving them alone, they had to appear as unthreatening as possible. Quiet, doting wives were not threatening. Tavern-owning women in breeches were supremely threatening.
As much as Grace hated having to dress up, it wasn't hard to see how beautiful it made her. She wore a dress made of green and cream fabric, her waist corseted into perfection, her hair bound in a comely knot on her head. She stood still and regal, waiting for their guests like she hadn't ever known anything else. Jonathan, meanwhile, felt out of place in his new clothes. He had been glad to focus on convincing Grace to help him, because then he wouldn't have to think about what a fool he was making of himself. He may have horded all the power he could when it was offered, but that didn't change the fact that he was the son of a butcher looking to impress the lords of the land.
"Is everything ready?" he asked Grace.
"Yes, the cook just told me the first course was ready."
"They'll be here any minute," he said, trying to reassure himself. He fought not to walk back to the window and check. He could climb through the forsaken forest at night without a worry, but a set of pretentious nobles put his teeth on edge. If he took one wrong turn, he would be pissing away all of the power and connections and favors these men had to offer.
"I know," Grace said.
"They'll be expecting a fine bred prat like Johnson to be waiting for them, not fucking us."
Just the thought of Johnson made him want to spit. Johnson had curled his lip in a delicate, arrogant way from the moment he had first heard Jonathan talk, and it hadn't gotten better from there. It had been a struggle for Jonathan not to rip it off his face every time they met.
He glanced down when he felt a hand on his arm. Grace had stepped closer, a reassuring look on her face.
"Jonathan, calm down. You're no nobleman, there's no point in pretending to be."
He opened his mouth to protest (she wasn't exactly helping), but she shook her head, silencing him. "You've gotten this far without it, we'll be fine. Just be polite, stick to business, and don't look like you want to put their heads on a pike if they annoy you."
Jonathan pressed his lips together. She did the same, raising an eyebrow.
"Every time you talk about Johnson, you're ready to rip off his arms. The man's dead and you still look like you want to piss on his grave."
Jonathan fidgeted with his cuffs and muttered out a curse. It wasn't just Johnson that put him on edge. He could still hear Benton sneering at him as the man was hauled away in his nightshirt. You'll never be more than a stray dog. Jonathan had brushed away the insult at first, but now it clung on like every other poisonous thing Benton had to offer.
Grace put her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her again. When he tried to look away, she turned his face back with a finger.
"It's as you said. Changed habits bring changed temperaments. They may seem big and impressive now, but so will you, once the role has time to fit."
He blinked. He hadn't expected her to relay his own words with such confidence.
"You believe that?"
"Of course."
"And what about you?" he asked. "If they judge me, they'll come after you."
Grace gave a tiny smile and smoothed the shoulders of his suit. "What could they possibly criticize me for? I'm the wife of the governor."
He took hold of her hand, already bolstered by her words. "That's right. And I'll prove your faith in me."
She smiled at him again. Jonathan would have kissed her senseless, if she wouldn't have yelled at him for mussing her dress.
Their guests were quick to arrive after that. There were three of them; the lord and governor, Sutherby, a young tradesman named Scholes, and a gruff, elderly magistrate named Woodhull. They were an odd mix, with Sutherby full of pompous affectation, Woodhull stern politeness, and Scholes delivering a load of charm that was absolutely wasted on Jonathan. He wondered what use the other two were to Sutherby, since he had decided to drag them along.
Jonathan couldn't tell why the men were there for the first hour. They ate his food, made small talk he didn't care about, and cast their eyes over every button and candlestick and bit of manners they could. Jonathan wanted to cut to the chase and ask what the hell these men wanted, but Grace's words kept him in check. So he tried to smile and look interested when the men spoke and laugh at boring jokes and fend off the little barbs of the privileged. He also resisted the urge to take out Scholes' eye with a fork every time he gazed at Grace's chest.
"Tell me, though, Chesterfield," Sutherby said, making a show of toying with his cutlery. "I'd heard you were quite close with Lord Benton while he was here, his right hand, even. Then, of course, you arrested him."
"Lord Benton was a man weak to power," Jonathan said.
All eyes snapped to him. Grace had suspected these men were here to see if they held any Continental ideas, considering how Jonathan had not just bit the noble hand that fed him, but eaten it whole.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling a little. The least of their worries was whether Jonathan would defect to the fucking Americans. They had to watch their backs in case he ate them as well.
"He abused the power granted to him by the Hudson's Bay Company, abused his men, endangered this fort, and dishonored the great name of our king. I could not sit by and let such vicious actions stand."
"My husband didn't relish his role in any of it," Grace told them. He liked how ready her liar's tongue worked for him. "But he was duty bound to see order and respect restored to the name of Fort James."
"I have seen for myself the way power corrupts," Woodhull said, a surprisingly convenient voice of reason. "It can turn even the best men into mad dogs."
"And, well, we've all heard whispers of how it made Lord Benton turn," Scholes muttered.
"I wish they were only whispers," Grace added. Her expression was the very picture of somber regret.
"Yes, well. One could argue that such dogged strength is needed out here in the wilderness, as it were," Sutherby said. Jonathan tried not to roll his eyes, because clearly such strength was not coming from Sutherby himself. "The Hudson's Bay Company can hardly afford sloppy leadership when everything else seems to be going to the dogs."
"And that is a strength I intend to deliver," Jonathan said.
Sutherby watched him over his wine glass, weighing the odds. Jonathan could see how he looked to the man: young, aggressive, smart enough to depose Benton, but also seemingly loyal to the crown. Whatever favors Sutherby would call on him later could be a liability. At the same time, Jonathan would make sure any task he was assigned would be completed, no matter the obstacle. He had seen this all before in the army, when self-serving officers had studied men for promotion had picked not the most able, but the most usable.
Jonathan reached under the table and put a hand on Grace's knee. She didn't react, eyes still on Sutherby, but after a moment she put her hand over his.
"I suppose this is a time that tries us all yet rewards the best," Sutherby said. So they were usable, then.
Fucking idiot.
"Oh, absolutely," Scholes agreed, looking like he wanted to take Grace in his mouth and eat her. "Rewards always find those that know what to do with their head."
Grace gave him a smile that was all ice before she turned to Sutherby. "But what are people, other than the company they keep?" she asked.
He tittered and called her a dear and drank some more wine, but it was clear he liked her response. He gave a sloppy toast to good company, then started talking about the independent traders in Montreal. Not that they were good, mind, of course it was causing plenty of trouble for the HBC, but…it was interesting, how successful they had become.
Jonathan smiled and let the conversation go where it would.
It took a life time, but their guests finally left. Grace wasted no time turning right around and going upstairs to change. She had made a point in putting on the dress here and she was making a point to take it off here.
"Did you see that?" he asked, following her. "Those idiots actually believed us."
"They believed because we gave them wine and unearned compliments."
"They believed because men of power trust power," he corrected her. She looked back at him at the doorway, mouth open to argue, but then she turned back around. He smirked in triumph at her reluctant agreement.
"Where's that bell?" she said, glancing around the room. "I want to get out of this thing and go home before it starts snowing again."
"Grace, you needn't be in such a rush," he said, still buoyed up by wine and victory. "We've plenty of time, yet."
"And in that time, it's definitely going to snow." She gave him a look that tried so hard to be forbidding, but he caught the smile in the edges of her voice. "Unless you wish to conjure up a carriage for me so I don't have to walk all the way back to the Ale in the cold."
"You never give up, do you," he muttered.
Grace ignored him in favor of cursing and trying to undo her dress herself. She glared at him over her shoulder and said, "Would you please get the servant girl to come help me?"
"I've hands enough," he said, stepping closer. He barely touched her laces before she swatted his hands away.
"I don't trust you not to have other plans."
"Of course I do," he smirked. She didn't look amused. Jonathan sighed and turned her around. "Grace, we are so much farther along than either of us could have dreamed being alone. We deserve to celebrate."
She gave him an unimpressed look. "All you ever want is sex."
His breath caught in his throat for a second. That wasn't what he had meant. Of course his body ached to be with hers, of course he wanted to lie with her again, but the heart of his want wasn't just about him. Jonathan wanted Grace to want it, too, and he'd actually begun to think she had.
Maybe he was stupid, after all.
He pulled his hands from her elbows.
"I want to make you happy here," he told her. "I want this to be a place that you choose to sleep."
"And how will that change or improve things? We worked just fine today, regardless of where I sleep."
"Other than I had to chase you down to even inform you of the dinner."
"Right. That reminds me. You need to give back my bloody liquor, or you'll have a mob on your hands, Christian worries or no." She stabbed a finger into his chest, a playful enough action that made him smile.
That was the maddening thing about Grace—just when it thought it was useless, she would never thaw, they would never work, she went and did something that made him hope. She stayed after she said she would leave, she let him come breathtakingly close, she played along with his games.
He took her hand. "You'll get it tomorrow, as promised. I just needed your attention."
"Most people usually say my name."
"Grace."
"Mm?"
He leaned in closer. "Grace."
She hesitated, then pulled away. Grace closed her eyes in a slow blink like she was a little dazed, then sat in the nearby chair.
"I'm not doing anything tonight," she told him, but it sounded an awful lot like she was telling herself. "Get the bloody maid so I can go."
"And why do you so insist to change?"
"If you'd like to put this on and find out, be my guest."
He studied her for a moment. Grace always had the right words at her disposal, knew how to twist facts and lie and manufacture a truth that anyone could believe. But her body, that she had less control over. It was always the smallest eye blink or flick of the fingers or the barest hesitation before she turned around. They made a map Jonathan knew how to read perfectly, and it was his map to hope.
He knelt in front of her. Grace's eyebrows instantly pulled in suspicion.
"What're you doing?"
He leaned in, chin by her knee. "I liked hearing you say you were my wife."
"Yes, well, it's been a fact for a while now."
"But I liked hearing you say it. I liked hearing you call me your husband."
He reached out and pressed a hand against her calf. Her retort was cut off in favor of a gasp, a little flinch running up her body. She stared at him in surprise, lips pressing hard together.
"Jonathan, I have to go."
"You sat down," he told her, savoring the way her voice already quivered.
Grace stared at him, expression more calculating. He moved his hand beneath the bundle of fabric to her actual leg, warm and smooth beneath its stocking.
"Tonight we charmed the lords of this land," he said, hand moving higher and higher. Grace took hold of the arm rests, clearly making an effort not to clench them in her hands. "They don't see us as a threat. Then we sell the furs, turn more profits, cut down the lawless misery that's carving these shores apart. Then, who knows. We'll be the ones everyone looks to for guidance, for permission."
A flush was rising in her cheeks. She stared him down as he took hold of her hips, trying so hard to tell him that she didn't care a wit. He kissed her knee, then higher up on her thigh, and then even higher.
Just as always, Grace's body told the story her words did not. Her pulse raged beneath his hands and she became wetter with each second. And, of course, when he tried to pull away, she grabbed hold of his hair.
Jonathan allowed himself a moment of triumph, and then he made her moan.
She scowled at him when he finished, but that was because she had lost and they both knew it. He pulled himself up to her level and tried to kiss her, but Grace leaned away.
"I'm not letting you kiss me like that."
He let out a huff of disbelief and kissed her neck instead. Her breathing was unwieldy as he kissed her ear, and then her jaw, but Grace wasn't fooled when he tried for her mouth again.
"I told you no," she said, turning the other direction.
Jonathan rolled his eyes and walked to the water pitcher across the room. He rinsed his mouth, listening to her stand and adjust her dress.
He turned around to find her still glaring at him. Jonathan knew she wanted him to school himself into something contrite, maybe, or nonchalant, but she looked even more tempting now that she was a little bit rumpled. And she was still there.
"Don't tell me you're still so eager to get out of that dress," he said.
She lifted her chin. Her pupils had blown wide, making her eyes dark and dangerous.
"Oh, I am," she told him, and then she kissed him hard enough to make him stagger.
It felt like mere moments before he had her out of her clothes. Grace didn't hesitate or falter this time, pushing him onto the bed with an absolutely filthy look. Jonathan kissed her, tongue gaining access to her mouth. His whole body was thrumming, filled to the brim with the success of the night and the glory of running his hands over Grace's body. Everything was going so right, fitting into place like he had always known it should.
Grace straddled him, making him groan. Her kisses were like a bonfire after a long winter night: burning, dangerous if he came too close, and everything he had dreamed of while he wandered in the dark. Jonathan could have almost let every time be like this, just laying back as Grace had her way with him.
She took his face in her hands, letting him kiss her neck as she whispered every gilded truth he wanted to hear. He had done well, he was promised victory in this and all things, she was proud of his success, she wanted him, she wanted him, she wanted him.
He wanted her. He had her, he was inside her, but a part of Jonathan couldn't believe that the woman under his hands was Grace. Grace who had fought him, Grace who had schemed with him, Grace who had driven him to distraction, she was there because she wanted to be, because she liked to be, because he needed her to be. His fingertips dug into her hips and her hands were braced on the wall by his head and he didn't know what to do with so much pleasure so he cursed and he cursed and he cursed until they were done.
He kissed her when it was over. Grace's hair had come loose, he wasn't sure when, but it tickled his face as his teeth caught her lip.
"Tell me you're not still afraid," he murmured. He hadn't meant to say them, hadn't really thought about them and all they carried that night, but he couldn't help but be struck by how different she was to the last time they had had sex. Then, she had been anxious on the verge of tears, and now...
He didn't want to think she looked like she belonged, because the moment he became complacent was the moment he lost everything.
Grace looked at him for a long moment. He could see her thinking, considering, weighing her options. Her expression was startlingly open, broken down by the same pleasure and triumph he was running high on.
"I'm not," she said, and the simplicity of the word made him believe her. She traced his hairline, touch light as a snowflake.
"Does this mean you'll stay?" he asked.
"For the night," she said.
Jonathan pulled her closer in case this was just another lie.
Jonathan didn't quite know what bliss was, but he suspected he was very, very close. The thin light through the curtains was just enough to settle on Grace's hair, the curve of her cheek. She was beautiful as always, but softened now, less likely to gut a man and sell him his own liver.
She didn't say anything when she first woke up, simply looked at him, and for a moment they were caught just staring, taking the other in. Then she shivered and moved closer against his side. Jonathan suppressed a smile. Grace was always quick to seek out the strongest source of heat in a room, but the fact that she took shelter against him still caused a flicker of pride.
Jonathan kissed the corner of her mouth and she didn't protest. Progress indeed.
"I don't want to get out of bed," she mumbled.
"This is why I kept insisting you stay," he told her.
Grace rolled her eyes, the moment broken. "I'm talking about the cold, you arrogant prick."
"That's no way to speak to your husband."
"You're making me regret being so nice last night," she warned him. Like he hadn't had to barter for every inch of ground he'd gained. He'd had to make her climax before she would admit that she was enjoying herself.
"Ah, don't be like that," Jonathan said, then gave her another kiss. Grace, of course, gave in with a grumble. But she didn't actually stop him, because this was always so much better than arguing.
Grace eased herself more upright on the bed. Jonathan shifted so that he was on top of her but kissing up, like he was looking up into the heavens. Jonathan had been right, he had always known it. Their minds worked alike, their methods were compatible, and even their bodies fit together like they were made for each other. Surely, this was how it was supposed to be.
Grace ran a hand up his back, fingers spread out to explore first one shoulder blade then the other. He kissed down her neck, mouth open, tongue tracing her pulse. Her hand wandered higher, then it passed over his scar.
A lightning bolt of panic smashed into him and for a second he couldn't think, he was just raw instinct, this was bad this was wrong he had to stop her she knew fuck she knew she knew she knew she fucking knew.
Grace stared at him, trying very hard to appear calm. She swallowed, the tiniest, most strangely alluring movement. A lock of red hair had fallen into her face.
"Jonathan," she said, voice very low. He could feel the vibration of it in his hand. He didn't remember grabbing her shoulder. Or her wrist. "Jonathan, calm down. What just happened?"
He shook his head. He didn't know. All he knew was that she had touched his scar, which was fine, it wasn't like she had hurt him, he had barely felt it. Except she knew why he had it, she knew about his father, which would have been fucking fine except she was Grace and animal instinct told him that she would take that knowledge and sink her fangs into his flesh.
"Jonathan." She tried to pull her wrist free, but Jonathan tightened his grip. It hurt to be this physically tense, but he could not uncoil the spring in each of his muscles.
Grace worked her jaw, then let out a breath. Her nipples had hardened in the cold.
"If you're going to get out of bed," she began, "go. Otherwise, lay back down. The air is freezing."
He stared at her, not quite understanding. She was talking like this...was fine. Was it fine? Jonathan couldn't tell anymore. He had learned to protect any weakness with tooth and claw, but he had already given her this. Surely, it didn't count. Surely, if she was going to do something, she would have done it.
He let go of Grace. He couldn't look her in the face. The red marks from his hands were frightfully clear on the white of her skin.
"You...know what that was, right?" he asked. He didn't quite know what he was saying, he had barely known he had any words left. Fear often skinned him of reason and left only reflex.
Something darkened in Grace's face. He refused to name it, in case it turned out to be something like pity.
"Your father..." she began, but thought better of finishing.
"I—I didn't think—no one's ever known what they were before," he stammered. The tension dripped away, leaving him exhausted and yet still painfully alert.
"May I see it?"
He looked at Grace. She still had that careful calm, practiced and precise in the face of danger. Because, of course he was dangerous. His father could rear nothing less. Dangerous and wounded, like an animal Jonathan had once seen displayed in a cage.
And yet, Grace was still there. Not just there in that moment, but there with him. She had seen what he could do, had likely guessed at the rest, and still she had married him. Still she had helped him. Still she had joined him in bed.
He turned, just enough for her to see.
She might have gasped, he wasn't certain. He had never known what the scars looked like, though his sisters had bravely told him it wasn't that bad after everything had healed. Jonathan didn't quite remember the moment his father had marked him. He remembered everything around it, of course, the panic, the anger, the fear, the sick regret that he had been caught. But the moment the iron had touched his skin was gone, burned out of his mind by the heat of the metal.
He bit his cheek when she touched the scar again. It was only a feather touch, there and then gone, but it still happened. Then Grace was turning him back around, touch just as light as before. Her expression was still open, but his mind was too jagged to read it. He barely registered when she touched the scar across his collarbone.
"Come, lay back down," she whispered to him, hand almost caressing his jaw.
Jonathan hesitated. It couldn't be that easy. This had to be a trick. He had to be exposing himself if he leaned into her touch like he wanted.
She gave him a tiny smile, like she was waiting to take all of his burdens, if only for this moment.
"You must be tired. Here, sleep. We have time enough." When he didn't immediately respond, she softened her voice. "It's alright, Jonathan, we have time."
She guided him with her fingertips until he was close enough for Grace to wrap her arms around. She ran a thumb up and down his spine, stroking all of the remaining tension and anxiety from his blood. Her breath was soft against his ear, her body warm and undemanding. This was not Grace, fearsome and vengeful, the hoarder of secrets and enacter of terrible schemes, but Grace, the creature he had barely let himself fathom even in his most desperate dreams.
He slid his arms around her and pressed his face against her neck.
AN knock knock hear that it's called everyone's got damage and i'm going to milk this cash cow for all it's worth.