Seventeen:
Still Waters Run Deep
Portia pulled Ruth along the corridor and said, "I'm hungry, mom – Mrs. Whatley will have supper ready and laid for us." She opened a set of French doors and tugged Ruth inside. "This is where we eat, mom."
Ruth stopped in her tracks and swallowed hard as she felt many eyes on her. "Uh… hello," she said less than confidently. "I'm Janet – Janet Pearce – and this is my daughter… Harry's and my daughter… Portia. I didn't mean to just burst in like that, but –"
An elderly lady bustled in with another bottle of wine, and she looked up and smiled. "M'lady, Miss Portia, welcome – sit down, wherever you'll be comfortable, and I'll get your plates."
"Thank you, Mrs. Whatley!" Portia cried, dropping Ruth's hand and abandoning her for an open seat right next to the Queen. "Hello," she chirped. "I'm Portia Williams, but my dad says it'll be Pearce soon. What's your name, ma'am?"
Ruth waited for the floor to open up and swallow her whole; this was the worst situation she could possibly fathom to imagine… and it was happening. She couldn't get her hands to stop trembling, and then she felt Harry behind her. "My love, sit down and have a glass of wine," he whispered. "You look pale as a ghost."
"Your daughter –"
"Is fine," he said firmly, grasping Ruth's hand and leading her to the table. He bowed and gestured for Ruth to curtsey, then they took their seats. "Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness, I'm pleased to see you again," Harry said, interrupting Portia and the Queen's conversation. "I see you've met our Portia."
Portia's eyes were wide and she said, "Miss Elizabeth, ma'am, you're the Queen?"
"I am," the Queen confirmed. "You didn't know that?"
Portia shook her head and said, "I'm from America, ma'am."
David came into the room and called out, "Alison, get me a bloody bottle of the best burgundy in the cellar. We must toast the happy couple!"
"That's not necessary," Ruth protested.
"On the contrary!" David exclaimed. "Mrs. Whatley's gone to get the food, I expect?"
Ruth shrank back in her chair and let the conversation and merrymaking swirl around her. She ate quietly, watching Harry interact with everyone, envying him his brash charm. At one point, after she'd finished eating, Portia came over and sat on Harry's lap as he told a story of his youth on the grounds of the estate – something to do with a badger and a weasel and a horse – and Ruth found herself pining for the ability to just settle into a place as easily as they did.
She got up and mumbled a hasty, "Excuse me." She made it out into the hallway without knowing which way to turn to look for the loo. She took a left and began looking into rooms. She opened the door at the far end of the hall and stepped into a wonderland of enormous portraits. She looked around at them, her eyes falling on one of a Regency gentleman in uniform who looked just like her Harry, but for a mop of dark hair rather than Harry's near-ginger hair. The ladies were prim and proper, the gentlemen dark and forboding.
On the wall, right beside the door, were two smaller portraits – one of what could only be David, Fiona, Harry and Ben. Harry's hair was wild and red, poking out every which way, and Ben's was much darker, but his eyes were blue rather than Harry's hazel. When everyone commented on Portia's resemblance to Fiona, they weren't joking. Not in the slightest. And Harry favored her strongly, as well.
The other portrait was of a young Harry, a blonde woman – Jane, she guessed -, and two small children she could easily recognize as Catherine and Graham.
Ruth felt sad for him; he looked so distinguished and pleased in that painting, and they appeared to be a content little family. How appearances were deceiving…
And then she thought about having to sit for a portrait like that, to be immortalized on the walls of the room with Harry's ancestors, and she felt less than worthy of the dubious honor. Was that how Harry felt in the face of all of this, as well? Was that why he had tried so hard to keep it a secret for so many years?
"The loo is the other way from the dining room," Harry said quietly from the doorway. "Ruth… love, why are you crying?"
"Because I don't belong here," Ruth whispered, swiping angrily at her eyes, trying to brush away her tears. "I'm not good enough to be on your family wall, Harry. I'm not like… that one over there," she said, gesturing at a 15th century portrait of a beautiful woman adorned in jewels and finery. "Or that one," she said, pointing at an 18th century portrait of a woman with a stunning wig and dress that rivaled that of any French princess of the time. "Or even your mum," she added, pointing again. "I'm not good enough for you, Harry Pearce. I never was."
"Don't sell yourself short," he said softly, pulling her into his arms. "You are a far better human being than I am or ever have been, Ruth Evershed. You are far too good for me. You always have been." He pointed at the 18th century woman on the wall and said, "That's Catherine Bly-Stokesley. She boffed half of the French court, then moved on to Russia. Needless to say, she married into the Romanovs and all of her children were less than legitimate." He pointed to the 15th century woman and said, "And that, my love, is Amelia Jane Bly. There are still stories floating around about her time at Court. She married into the family and wore trousers in private to spite my however-many-greats grandfather because she thought she should have been born a boy instead. Thankfully, he was very pleased to be shagging a girl who wanted to be a boy, and their union was… incredibly fruitful. They had nineteen children, and seventeen lived into adulthood."
"And that's got aught to do with me," she pointed out quietly.
"You and I… we're special. We're really rather normal, aren't we, for all the pitfalls and such?" he said gently. "My mum was a Laird's daughter, and my father fell in love with her at first sight. She wasn't sure she wanted to be an Englishman's wife, but she accepted his suit anyway. My grandfather grudgingly approved of her until the heirs rolled in, then he was very pleased. I was the first Pearce to hold down a real job, to have a real family, torn apart and now pieced back together. In many ways, I'm a man who isn't suited to this family, nor the title I'll be inheriting. But I have you, and you make me want to be a better man, so I may pass this, all of it, down to Portia and her children."
"I'm not like you," she said. "I can't just… be comfortable in a room like that. I tried. I did, but it's like… like they know and are judging me for my faults. I'm not posh, Harry."
"You are my Ruth," he whispered. "And anyone that thinks to push us apart will have a rude awakening. I will not allow you to be treated as anything less than my lady wife; you will be Countess of Bly at my side or it won't happen at all."
"I'm not going anywhere," she promised softly. "I just feel… less than adequate."
"No one in this room felt adequate in their role," Harry said, gesturing at all of the portraits. "No one ever does." He kissed her neck, his arms wrapped around her torso, holding her fast against his belly. "I am sorry you've been ill at ease in my father's home, my love. I didn't mean for that to happen."
"The bloody Queen is in your father's dining room and you didn't even blink," she pointed out.
"Of course not," Harry replied. "She used to be a frequent guest when I was a child. She would pat me on the head and give me a sweetie and send me on my way to play with Charles."
"You see?" she said. "That's what I don't understand – I don't understand how you can be so blasé about your relationships with people like that. What am I to you, then?"
"You are my everything," he said, voice low and firm. "The Queen was my employer; she was a friend of the family and my godmother, for god's sake. You, however, are the only woman I've ever actually loved, and I cannot allow you to hurt yourself to prove a point. Elizabeth was worried about you because you just jumped up from the table after not contributing anything to the conversation. I was worried about you from the time you walked into the house with Portia. You are everything to me, Ruth. I love you." He kissed her neck, then her shoulder for emphasis. "I want you to be happy."
"Well… I'll be happy if you show me where the loo is," she said.
"Of course," Harry murmured. "My pleasure." He released her and closed the door behind them as they walked back down the corridor. He flipped the switch and opened the bathroom door. "I'll be right here when you're done."
"What, you're just going to… hover?"
"So you don't get lost coming back to the dining room," he teased gently.
She went in and used the toilet; while she was washing her hands, Ruth took a good hard look at herself in the mirror. She was much older than she'd been, and battle-hardened. There was a permanent little v-shaped mark between her brows and lines around her mouth. She wasn't the glamorous, beautiful woman that Harry should have on his arm…
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, than another. Harry didn't care what she looked like; he loved her just the way she was. He married her just the way she was. He brought her to meet his father just the way she was.
Harry was waiting when she stepped out of the bathroom. "Better?" he asked.
Ruth paused, hesitated, then nodded. "Yes," she murmured.
He led her back into the dining room on his arm, and quickly apologized for their absence.
"Oh, it's to be expected early on when you're expecting," the Queen said cheerfully. "I do hope you feel better quickly, Janet, dear."
"I'm – but I –" Ruth stammered.
Harry rushed in for the rescue. "Aunt Elizabeth, I'm afraid you've got the wrong end of the stick – Janet and I cannot have more children," he interjected smoothly. "Portia is it for us, I'm sad to say, unless we adopt a child."
"I just have a bit of a headache," Ruth explained away. "I work in PR and I had a particularly not-really-so-very fun morning at work before we got on the train, and no amount of paracetamol is going to help."
"Maybe you should have an early night," David suggested mildly. "I'll make certain that Portia gets to bed in a timely manner if Henry wants to join you."
"No, I think I'll be all right, once I know where our room is," Ruth said quietly.
"I'll show you, mom," Portia volunteered, hopping up from her seat. "I'd like to go to bed now, too. I've got some books in my room, so no one has to worry about me."
"Good night," Ruth said quietly, leaving the room with Portia. They walked up the grand staircase and veered to the left. Portia flipped a switch and opened a door. "Is this my room?" Ruth asked softly.
"Do you really have a headache?" Portia asked.
"Touche," Ruth sighed. "Do you want to put your pajamas on and come snuggle with me a while?"
"Yes, please," Portia agreed. "Miss Elizabeth is nice, mom."
Ruth shook her head and murmured, "Sweetheart, I can't think about that right now. Go get ready for bed and I'll be right here when you're ready." Portia took off like a flash.
Ruth looked around the room; a huge oak 4-poster sat in the center of the room. The walls were white, covered in what looked to be hand-tatted lace that had yellowed with age. The floor was white tile, covered with a white eyelet rug beneath the bed. The linens were stark white, and the furniture was all in the same shades of oak. It was terribly prissy, that room… but quite traditional.
Ruth shed her clothes and changed into a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants. She'd just finished unpacking her clothes into the wardrobe and dressers when she came across a bottle of perfume in the wardrobe; it was Vaniglia del Madagascar, and she wondered how long it had been there. That particular perfume went for almost a hundred quid – someone should be missing it by now.
Portia bounced in with a thick volume in her hands and said, "Mom, I just want to cuddle up and read for a while. Can we?"
"Of course, love," Ruth murmured, pulling back the covers and helping Portia up onto the bed.
Harry woke her when he came to bed. "I already took Portia to her room," he said softly. "Go back to sleep, love."
"I'm sorry I behaved like a childish prat," she mumbled, barely awake. "Your godmum must be furious with me."
He gave her a kiss and whispered, "No… she's really not. Go back to sleep, love."
She stifled a yawn, then proceeded to do just what he said.
It was still dark when Harry woke up. He wasn't quite certain what had awakened him, but then he heard the soft sound of Ruth murmuring in the en suite. She must be on the phone; the bed was still warm where she'd been. He stretched and rolled from his side to his back, listening to his joints clicking as he did.
Ruth came back very quietly, trying to sneak back into the bed without a sound. She'd almost made it under the covers when Harry said, "Hi."
She jumped a mile and exclaimed, "Oh my god, don't do that, Harry!"
"Playing spook again, are we?" he teased, voice thick with forgotten sleep. "Sneaking around and –"
"Catherine rang," Ruth said quietly. "They were in a car accident. Everyone is okay, but Gracie's got a broken arm."
Harry sat bolt upright. "Do we need to make arrangements and –"
"No, they're fine," Ruth assured him. "And I've got Joe to go round and check on them for me. Cate's really shaken up, Harry, but she didn't want to call you because she was afraid you'd blame her for the accident."
"What happened?"
"They were in the middle of the intersection and someone ran the light."
"Why would I blame her for that?"
"You have a tendency to jump to all the wrong conclusions in record time," Ruth said, snuggling up to him. "They're fine, Harry. Even Gracie is okay."
He exhaled weakly and closed his eyes. "I certainly hope so," he muttered. "Are you?"
"I'm worried, but it will be okay," she said dismissively. "I'm fine."
"You're not –"
She kissed him gently and whispered, "Harry, I'm fine."
"I know this has all been a bit of a shock for you –"
"No, Harry, it's… it's me, not you, not your family and friends," she said very quietly. "It's just me being… overly cautious again."
"You're worried that someone will come out of the woodwork?" he asked.
She nodded and sighed. "We're already entirely too prominent in the public eye, thanks to that stupid jackoff Iain. I'm scared that someone will put two and two together and –"
Harry kissed her gently. "If push comes to shove, we do warrant a protective detail," he said softly. "It's our call, however. It's a standing offer from Five."
She exhaled and closed her eyes, leaning into him. He held her, running his hand gently up and down her back. "I just… I've spent so much time worrying and now –"
"Now you can't stop," he murmured. "I know."
He just held her, listening to the sounds of her breathing, hoping that she would fall asleep again. The constant strain of time differences and such was beginning to wear on her; he could see it around the edges in the way she dealt – or didn't deal – with people. He was surprised, but tried not to show it, when a few minutes later, she let her hands wander. He didn't react outwardly when her cool fingers made their way under his shirt, tracing the web of scars that littered his side and belly, but he felt gooseflesh rise in the wake of her touch, and blood flooded his groin.
"Harry," she whispered after kissing the divot of his collarbone, "I want – well… I want to…"
She hadn't initiated sex ever in the history of their relationship; he could see how flustered she was even in the dim light. "Tell me," Harry whispered. "Tell me what you want, Ruth."
She looked up at him, her eyes a beacon in the darkness. "You," Ruth murmured. "I want you." The confidence returned in her declaration.
"You can have me any time you wish," he teased gently.
"Now," she said. "I want you now."
"Then all you need do is tell me," Harry said very softly.
"I have," she countered. "And you haven't reacted –"
"I want you to show me what you want," he murmured. "Tell me what you want me to do – I could be content to lie back like this and allow you to ravage me…"
"I don't ravage," she protested.
The very idea of his Ruth being possessive, forthright, and leaving a physical mark on him for all to see made him feel weak; if he hadn't been at attention before, he was now, and hard as a rock. "I wish you did," he confessed softly. "I wish you were comfortable enough to do exactly what you want, Ruth. My Ruth, I've thought about…"
She cut him off with a deep, lingering kiss. The feeling of tongue against tongue, teeth gently coming together as the snog ended, made him groan softly as his skin tingled. He wanted her to touch him; it didn't matter where. He wanted to feel skin against skin, pleasure and passion and all the things that made them them… but he would never force her. If she wanted to step away, he would let her. Above all else, even his, her, their pleasure, he wanted his Ruth to be happy.
"I don't ravage," she murmured against the shell of his ear, "because I can't stand the idea of being the one to leave another mark on you."
Her breath was hot, her lips warm and tender as she spoke, and Harry groaned softly. "Ruth, I…"
Her fingers stroked his belly and she snuggled closer to him. "But I'd love you to do it to me," she confessed softly. "Can I tell you something without you laughing at me?"
"Of course," he mumbled, closing his eyes and willing his body to slow the hell down.
"The first time we met, that stupid bloody interview when you asked me all those lousy questions that didn't make any sense at all, I wondered what it would be like to haul you into the ladies by your tie and shag you senseless," she murmured. "That's… that's why I was stammering like a fool. Not because I was nervous; I was about to faint because I was so close to doing it. You're very, very… irresistible when you get wound up and going."
"I would have been more than willing to adjourn to the ladies," Harry said, his voice catching. "I couldn't tell if you were scared of me or what."
"Or what," Ruth confirmed. She licked her lips and breathed, "I was a little scared of all the shouting when I first started, but then I realized that's just how you were. And then I wondered if you would shout my name when you wanked off… and it was a very dangerous, slippery slope from there."
"Did you think of me when you…"
"When I came?" she said. "Of course. But by the time Juliet Shaw came by, I'd given up hope that you'd ever see me as a sexual being. Especially the way you looked at her – like you wanted to tear her to bits and fuck what was left."
"The tearing to bits part was right," he huffed. "That woman…"
"Let's… not think about her," Ruth murmured. "Point being, by the time we actually got around to having sex, I'd given up hope that it would happen. So when it did, I was just happy for what I got."
"You never told me…"
"Why would I?" Ruth asked very quietly. "Being in love with someone makes you vulnerable. Wanting them so much makes you vulnerable. I couldn't let you see it, Harry, because then we'd both be prone; especially if it was only one-sided."
"It was never one-sided," Harry growled, rolling over and settling between her thighs, letting her cradle him. It didn't matter that they were both still fully clothed; what mattered was the touch, the intimacy, the intent. "I hired you because I wanted to… to… fuck you. I didn't expect to fall in love with you or conceive a child with you. I was being selfish within the boundaries of what the department needed. Whilst, of course, thinking of what stellar blowjobs you might give during particularly boring meetings at Whitehall."
She laughed, then, a strangely high-pitched, nervous laugh. "God, we're a pair," she whispered. "If I hadn't left, would we have got married and raised Portia together?"
"If you hadn't left, I would have wrapped you up in bubble wrap and never let you out of my sight," he muttered. "As it is, I might still just do that."
She smiled and kissed him, igniting a firestorm of passion between them. He was particularly proud of the noise she made when she gave in to the pleasure and let go; somewhere between utter bliss and the highest, softest gasping cry… music to his ears as he strained at the bit. She was so soft, warm, inviting… he lost himself in the sensations of Ruth, giving in to a possessive desperation he didn't want to feel. He knew he'd left marks, bruises and love bites and stubble burn, but she didn't seem to mind.
"No, don't," she whispered when he moved to pull out. "Just hold me, Harry. Like you did at Havensworth."
He had no issues with that, and as such, pulled her flush against him, stroking her back, wishing things had been different for them. Wishing that he'd had the courage to come to her and whisper that he wanted her. Wishing that he hadn't let her walk away after the Cotterdam fallout. Wishing that eleven years hadn't passed. Wishing that he could stop crying.
END PART SEVENTEEN