Once again, special thanks to Cls2011, miscreant rose and Silvestria for their amazing support with this story. Big hugs! And to all of you who are reviewing and following these Mary and Blake escapades, I thank you so very much! It's been rather amazing how much traffic this story and Strangers have picked up since Episode 7 and 8 of S4 aired. :) I value every reader who takes the time to spend time with any of my stories, be they Mary and Matthew or Mary and Charles oriented, and it means so much when you drop a message or a review.
As everything I write has a tendency to do, this chapter simply got away from me. It doesn't seem to matter if it's Stranger's verse or canonic variation, when I put these two together, they just take over. I simply have to follow their lead. So what began as a response to a smut petition has turned into—well, you decide and let me know. Hugs to everyone, and have a lovely tomorrow!
The shock of her mouth pressing upon his own was maddening in all the right ways, the added sensation of bare skin upon bare skin nearly burning him alive. He felt her shiver, sensing goose bumps under his palms as they dotted her flesh. Her fingers then moved to his scalp in a gesture that touched regions left dormant for years.
He was drowning in this woman.
This woman whom he had considered aloof and snobbish until just hours ago. This woman he had doubted possessed even a dram of warmth in her veins yet was now over-heating every crevice of his body. She was maddening, this Mary Crawley, a creature of layers and contradictions who had managed to capture his mind and attention before he even realized he was in danger of entrapment.
Raw physical need was driving him, steering his hands up and down her back, cupping her soft areas, her beauty drugging his reason. Mouths were still engaged, tongues wrapped around each other, both understanding that words were dangerous under such circumstances as these. His arms encircled her, daring her to leave him, begging for something he knew was best left for later.
Something best left for later. He groaned internally as that knowledge crawled stubbornly into his consciousness.
His body hardened against her, craving access, crying harshly for more. But his mind tugged at him relentlessly, warning him away from a precipice on which they stood dangerously close to the edge.
Had she not just admitted to him that she was not certain, that she may not be ready for such actions as in which they were now engaging? She was lonely, had weathered an unbearable tragedy, and was entrusting him with her vulnerability, a gift he was now unwrapping much too quickly. A widow—he held a widow and young mother trembling in his arms, one he should cherish and protect rather than lead down a road of indulgence for his own gratification.
But, oh…how he wanted her.
His arms reluctantly found her shoulders, pushing her gently from him, the loss of her warmth acting as a splash of cold water on over-charged senses. She stood trembling, lips red and swollen from his kiss, hair mussed about wantonly by his fingers.
She was a vision. And he ached all over.
"Is something wrong?" she breathed, the huskiness in her tone making this all the more difficult. His body shook slightly as it battled his conscience, and he forced his gaze to remain fixed on her face.
"Yes," he admitted, the rough edge to his tone stroking pulsing regions. "This is wrong."
She froze in confusion.
He stooped to pick up her robe, careful to keep his eyes from devouring what he selfishly wanted to claim. Her brow creased quickly, heat rushing to her cheeks as he wrapped the silken garment around her.
"Not the act, in itself," he amended quickly, noting her embarrassment. "Just the timing of it. You're not ready, which means we should stop and think this through. Being together like this is not something I want either of us to regret as soon as it's over."
She tied her covering around her waist with shaky hands, watching in a mixture of mortification and appreciation as he turned from her to fetch his own dressing gown, keeping his back turned until it was secured to his frame.
He moved back to her, standing nearly as close as he had before, haltingly stroking her hair. He was uncertain if his touch would still be welcome after putting an end to intimate proceedings with such abruptness. She leaned into him slightly, closing her eyes, touching her forehead to his.
It apparently was. He sighed in relief.
"You're right," she finally voiced, stroking the lapels of his robe, unable to yet meet his eyes.
"Would I sound like a complete cad if I told you how badly I wished that I weren't?"
She looked at him fully then, sharing a grin laden with more than they yet knew, the understanding that this dance on the ledge had been mutual releasing pent-up strain between them.
"If that would make you a cad, I hesitate to even consider what my actions over the past few minutes would make me."
He leaned in close, touching his lips to the tip of her nose as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"They define you a strong, vibrant, and passionate woman, Mary," he answered, his chest constricting at the weight of his words. "One who is ready to take charge of her life and live it."
She dropped her eyes to the floor, hiding pooling moisture that would give her away.
"And one that has taken me very much by surprise, I must admit."
His statement beckoned her attention, its truth a mutual one.
"Are you trying to be witty, Mr. Blake?" she teased, making him smile in earnest as he shook his head slightly.
"I thought your expectations for me were rather low in that department, Lady Mary," he grinned, noting how she bit her bottom lip before gazing directly at him.
"My expectations for you seem to be rising by the moment," she quipped, watching him shift uncomfortably.
"As have mine for you," he returned, noting the blush that crept up her neck as her eyes sparked in his direction.
"Well, it is a night of discovery," she stated, her pulse running away with her as he gathered her hand within his.
"Good discoveries," he repeated with a smile, brushing the tops of her fingers with lips she needed to touch. "For me, at least."
Long fingers moved to stroke his cheek, her touch somehow even more hypnotic now than it had been before.
"For me, as well."
They stood once again in silence, speaking through soft touches, reluctant to let go of something they could not yet define.
"This is not like me," she began, needing him to understand. "To be like this with a man, I mean. I haven't been with anyone since…"
Her statement stumbled upon exiting her mouth, her eyes blinking rapidly as she sought her composure.
"Since my husband died."
He drew back slightly, humbled by the personal nature of the words with which she had entrusted him.
"You are a woman, Mary," he assured her, tilting her chin in his direction to meet his eyes. "I don't think any less of you because of what has transpired between us. Quite the opposite, in fact. And I hope you think no less of me."
Rich eyes stared back at him, the edges of her mouth softening towards him.
"Hardly, Charles."
The manner in which she spoke his name made his mouth suddenly dry.
"He was a lucky man, you know."
Her body stilled, the implications of what had just been offered charging the room with something new.
"Your husband, I mean."
"Matthew," she clarified, noting how odd it felt to speak his name when she stood barely clad in the arms of another.
"Matthew," he replied, the sincerity in his eyes nudging her to tell him more. "What was he like?"
He noted the slight tremble in her chin, the flutter of her eyelashes as she sought the right words.
"He was the best person I have ever known."
He smiled down at her gently.
"I'm glad to hear that."
They moved to sit on the bed, close yet separate as they shared something quite different that what was originally intended.
"The two of you enjoyed a happy marriage, I take it?"
Somehow his words did not sting, drawing chords of peace throughout her body in a most unexpected setting.
"Yes. Very happy."
He nodded in acknowledgement, daring to lay his hand on top of hers.
"This year cannot have been easy for you."
Her exhale was audible.
"It's been hell, to be honest," she voiced quietly, her eyes focusing elsewhere. "There were weeks when I couldn't feel anything, and what emotions did surface hurt so badly I just shoved them down again."
Her shoulders slumped slightly, and he instinctively moved closer.
"Quite honestly, there were days when I actually wondered if I would ever be able to love my own child."
He squeezed her hand in assurance as her gazed refocused on him.
"I know just how horrid that sounds. There are so many moments with him I wish I could reclaim."
"You're doing a splendid job now, it would seem," he asserted, feeling her lean slightly against his shoulder.
"But I can never recover what was lost, can I?"
Her words singed old wounds of his own.
"No. No one has that sort of power."
Eyes he could get lost in sought his own for something she could not yet identify.
"Learning to live again is not an easy task, Charles."
The relief that he had not pushed her into his bed washed through him as a balm, the knowledge of how much he would have despised himself for taking advantage leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The manner in which she was baring herself now to him was far more intimate and meaningful than anything physical that would have transpired at so early an acquaintance.
"But you're doing it admirably, Mary. Day by day."
"Day by day," she echoed softly, needing to believe him, touching his arm again for reinforcement. "Thank you."
"For what?" he inquired, feeling grossly undeserving of any show of gratitude.
"For stopping me."
Her whisper slid down his spine, his every sense and emotion now at her beck and call. He could only manage a nod in response.
"I really must be getting back to my room, you know, before the servants begin to stir."
"I know," he returned, following her leisured pace to the door. "If there was already speculation about what we were up to earlier tonight, imagine what would be stirred up if you were found to be out of your room at this hour."
"We would be quite the scandal," she returned with a sleepy flash in her eyes.
"We would, indeed," he responded, handing her a lopsided grin that tugged on hopes she had all but forgotten.
They again were immobile, staring at each other as they had so many times during this night's whirlwind passage to morning.
"Goodnight, Charles," she breathed, turning to him once more as her frame slid through the newly opened door.
"Goodnight, Mary," he answered, catching the final smile she tossed him with the eagerness of child on Christmas Morning.
How long he lay awake after she left, he never knew, refusing to gaze at the clock as it somehow seemed to cheapen what had transpired since dinner's completion. The night's events replayed in his mind, and he savored memories of stubbornness and laughter, of mud and wet skin, of cooking and tasting, of touch and revelation. The irony of this attraction struck him in force as he realized that his emotions had bound themselves to a woman not yet entirely free of her husband.
But she was getting closer with each day that passed. And he would be ready when she was.
