Thank you so much for the beautiful comments for the last chapter! I'm answering each as soon as I can! :) Also there was a lot of question about the wedding night...well, this one has a night, but probably not the one you're anticipating. Maybe soon? đ
Huge thank you to my beta ARandomDream for correcting my mistakes â¤ď¸
Let me know what you think!
Chapter 12: From Brawls to Blue Balls
Emma's dinner arrived about twenty minutes after the brawl. Her husband, however, did not. According to the innkeeper, he was carousing in the bar parlor with his cronies, requesting that Her Ladyship not delay her meal on his behalf.
She wasn't the least bit surprised. In her experience, men who had just spent the afternoon trying to beat each other senseless inevitably transformed into bosom buddies, celebrating their newfound camaraderie with copious amounts of alcohol.
She dined alone, refreshed herself, and prepared for bed without bothering with the enticing red and black nightgown. She doubted His Lordship would be in any state to appreciate it. Opting instead for a more modest cream-colored garment and a delicate brocade dressing gown, she settled into a cozy chair by the hearth with Byron'sDon Juanin hand.
It was long past the witching hour when she discerned a trio of clattering footsteps echoing down the hall, accompanied by a tipsy chorus crooning a ribald tune. Curious, she rose and cautiously opened the door.
Hook, propped up by his two companions like a wobbly colossus, pushed himself forward and declared thickly with boozy grandeur; "Behold, the bridegroom cometh," He slung an arm around Emma's shoulder. "Go away," he commanded his friends.
They stumbled off, and he slammed the door with a drunken flourish. "Told you not to wait," he slurred.
"I thought you might need assistance," she said dryly. "I sent Smee to his quarters. He was nodding off on his feet. And I was wide awake, engrossed in my reading."
His coat and once-immaculate shirt were disheveled and his neckcloth had vanished without a trace. His trousers, splattered with sanguine stains, were damp, and his boots bore the scars of a recent tramp through mire and muck.
He released her, his stance wavering, and fixed a bleary gaze on his boots for a long, contemplative moment. Then, a curse slipped from his lips like a breath.
"Why don't you sit down on the bed?" she suggested wryly. "I can help you wriggle out of those boots."
He staggered towards the bed, gripping the bedpost for stability, and gingerly eased himself onto the mattress. "Emma."
She drew closer, kneeling at his feet. "Yes, my lord."
"Yes, my lord," he parroted with a chuckle. "Emma, m'lady. I reckon I'm marooned. Lucky you."
She began wrestling with his left boot. "We will see about my luck. We've only got the one bed, and if you snore like Uncle Bob when you're drunk, I'll be in for a dreadful nightâor what's left of it."
"Snoring," he slurred. "Worried aboutsnoring? Silly swan."
She pried off the boot and moved on to the other one.
"Emma," he mumbled.
"At least you know who I am," she quipped.
The right boot was being stubborn. She didn't dare yank too hard, lest he tumble forward and flatten her. "You'd better lie down," she instructed.
He grinned at her with a dazed look.
"Down," she repeated firmly.
"Down," he echoed, flashing the same vacant grin around the room. "Where's that?"
She stood up, planted her hands on his chest, and gave him a firm shove.
He collapsed backward, causing the mattress to bounce lightly. A chuckle escaped him.
Emma bent down and resumed her struggle with the boot.
"Dainty," he mused, staring at the ceiling. "Dainty Lady Hookstone. Tastes like rain. She is a great pain. In the ti omorfi. Poli omorfi. Very beautifulâŚpainâŚin the arse."
She finally yanked the boot off. "That doesn't rhyme," she remarked, straightening up. "You're no Byron."
A soft snore greeted her remark.
"Behold the bridegroom," she muttered dryly. "Thank heavens it's a spacious bed. My marital dedication does not extend to sleeping on the floor."
She moved over to the washstand. After scrubbing the mud from her hands, she removed her dressing gown and hung it neatly on a chair.
She walked around to the other side of the bed and tugged at the bedclothes, but they didn't budge enough. His upper half was sprawled diagonally, taking up too much space.
Pushing his shoulder, she grumbled, "Move over, you oaf."
Mumbling unintelligibly, he rolled from side to side.
Emma shoved harder. "Move, damn you."
He grunted and rolled a bit more. She persisted pushing until, unconscious all the while, he managed to get his head on the pillow and his feet off the floor. Finally, he curled up in a fetal position facing her side of the bed.
Climbing in beside him, she angrily yanked the blankets up. "Pain in the arse, am I?" she muttered. "I should have just shoved you onto the floor."
She turned to gaze at him. Tangled black locks spilled over his brow, which in slumber appeared as innocent as a cherub's. His right hand clutched a corner of the pillow, and he emitted a soft, steady snore.
Emma closed her eyes.
Though they weren't in physical contact, she felt his presence keenlyâhis weight on the mattress, the lingering scents of smoke and spirits mixed with his own, and the comforting warmth his body radiated.
Yet, alongside these sensations, she harbored an irrational frustration and, if she were honest with herself, a twinge of hurt.
She had anticipated Hook enjoying a few glasses with his friends. She had expected him to arrive somewhat tipsy. It wouldn't have bothered her. After all, many a groom had stumbled into the bridal bed in such a state. Emma had even entertained the thought that his slightly blurred senses might have made him more forgiving of her lack of experience.
In all honesty, she would have preferred him to be as close to comatose as feasible. Initiating a virgin into the mysteries of lovemaking was hardly a graceful affair, and Ingrid had warned her that it was often the most thick-skulled brutes who panicked over a mere trickle of maidenly blood. Ingrid had also imparted coping strategies for such scenariosâand everything else.
Aware that her entire future with Hook could hinge on this night's events, Emma had readied herself as any astute general would prepare for a decisive battle. She was well-informed and resolutely committed to giving her utmost. She had resolved to be cheerful, willing, responsive, and attentive.
But this? This was beyond her expectations.
He was no schoolboy. He knew his liquor limits, understood precisely how much it would take to render him insensible.
And yet, he hadn't stopped. On their wedding night.
Logic dictated there must be some typically cockamamie masculine rationale for his actions, and eventually, she would decipher itâa reason that had nothing to do with intentionally hurting her or making her feel unappealing amidst the current gloom.
But it had been an interminable day, and now she realized she had spent most of it fraught with a mix of anticipation and anxiety over what, as it turned out, wasn't going to happen.
Exhausted and unable to sleep, she faced another endless stretch tomorrow, racing at the same frenzied pace, in the same turbulent emotional state. She wanted to cry. More than that, she wanted to yell and slap him, pull his hair, and make him feel as wounded and incensed as she did.
She opened her eyes and sat up, scanning the room for something suitable to wallop him with, something that wouldn't leave a lasting mark. Perhaps the water pitcher, she mused, eyeing it on the washstand.
Then she noticed the faint glow from the lamp she had left on the bedside table. She moved to the edge of the bed and snuffed it out.
Sitting there in the darkness, she listened to the birds chirping in the pre-dawn light outside the window.
He grumbled and shifted restlessly.
"Emma," his voice was thick with sleep.
"Well, at least you know I'm not a ghost," she muttered. "That's something, I suppose." With a resigned sigh, she lay back down. As she pulled the blankets up, she felt the mattress shift and dip. There was more unintelligible grumbling, then his arm draped over her middle and his leg over hers.
He was above the covers; she was beneath.
His limbs were heavy, but his warmth was comforting.
Feeling slightly reassured, she drifted off to sleep within moments.
Killian's first conscious sensations were of a petite, cushiony backside nestled against his groin and a delightfully plump breast under his hand. In the brief moment it took him to mentally connect these agreeable parts with their owner, a flood of other memories rushed in, and his sleepy amorous mood was washed away by a wave of self-disgust.
He had engaged in a brawl in an inn yard like a common lout while his wife looked on. He had imbibed enough rum to float a merchant ship, and instead of sensibly passing out in the bar parlor, he had allowed his uncouth companions to drag him up to the bridal chamber. As if it weren't bad enough for his new bride to witness him filthy and drenched in sweat, he had also presented himself in all his drunken, sodden disarray. And not content to collapse on the floor, well out of her way, he had sprawled his rum-soaked, smoke-scented frame onto the bed, leaving his delicate lady wife to wrestle off his boots.
His face burned.
He rolled away and fixed his gaze on the ceiling.
Well, at least he hadn't defiled her. He'd imbibed far more than his usual share to ensure that. It was a miracle he'd managed to ascend the stairs.
He could have gladly dispensed with that miracle. There were several other things he could have done without, like recollecting anything at all. He wished the remainder of him were as immobilized as his left arm.
Satan's blacksmith seemed to be pounding his head like an anvil again. Lucifer's head chef appeared to be concocting a vile potion in his mouth. And at some juncture during Killian's meager hours of slumber, it appeared the Devil had dispatched a herd of rampaging rhinoceroses to trample over his body.
Beside him, the source of his woes stirred.
Gingerly, he hoisted himself up, wincing as a thousand malevolent needles pricked his left arm and tingled painfully through his hand.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, every bone, muscle, and organ protesting vehemently, and staggered toward the washstand.
A rustle from the bed indicated movement. Then a sleep-laden feminine voice piped up, "Need any help, Hook?"
Whatever semblance of a conscience Killian harbored had long been sunk into a fatal decline and expired around his tenth birthday. At the sound of his wife's offer to assist, it rose like Lazarus from the grave. It gripped his heart with its gnarled fingers and let out a shriek that could have shattered the window, the water jug, and the small washstand mirror into which Killian was peering.
Yes,he sighed inwardly. He wanted help. He wanted help being born over again and coming out right this time.
"I daresay you've got a devil of a head," she remarked after a long pause. "Cecilia should be up by now. I'll send her down to mix up a cure for you. And shall we order a light breakfast?"
As she spoke, there was more movement. He sensed her leaving the bed. When she reached for her dressing gown from a nearby chair, he turned his gaze to the window. Hazy sunlight filtered through, dappling the sill and floor. It must be past six o'clock. Monday. Twelfth of June. The day after his wedding.
It was also his birthday, he recalled with a grim jolt of surprise. His thirty-fifth trip around the sun, and he'd awakened in the same sorry state he'd greeted the last twenty birthdays withâand likely the next twenty, too, he thought morosely.
"There is no cure," he muttered.
She had begun to move towards the door. Pausing, she turned back. "Care to place a wager on that?"
"You're just looking for an excuse to poison me," he grumbled, sloshing water clumsily into the basin.
"If you're brave enough to try, I guarantee near-total recovery by the time we depart," she countered. "And if you're not feeling significantly better by then, you may choose any forfeit you wish. But if you do recover, you'll show gratitude by stopping at Stonehenge and allowing me to exploreâwithout a single sarcastic comment or complaint about delays."
His gaze inadvertently lingered on her, capturing the sight of her tousled blond locks cascading over her shoulders, the faint blush of sleep adorning her cheeks like a delicate wash of pearly pink on creamy porcelain. Despite the disarray of her appearanceâuntidy hair, unwashed face, and a slender frame worn down by exhaustionâshe had never seemed more delicate or captivatingly beautiful.
Here we are Beauty and the Beast with a vengeance, Killian mused wryly as he faced his reflection in the mirror.
"If I'm not improved," he quipped, "I might just use your lap as a cushion all the way to Devon."
Her laughter trailed behind her as she exited the room.
At half-past seven in the morning, two miles beyond Amesbury, Killian found himself leaning against a monolithic stone on a rise overlooking the Salisbury Plain. Below sprawled an undulating blanket of green, punctuated sporadically by rectangular patches of bright yellow rape fields. Scattered houses dotted the landscape, and here and there, lonely herds of sheep or cattle grazed as if scattered by a clumsy giant hand. Clusters of trees were thrown against the horizon or nestled in the cleavage of gentle slopes.
Killian winced at his own choice of imageryâblankets, cleavage, and clumsy hands. He regretted swallowing the mugful of Emma's potent concoction. Just as he had begun to feel some relief, the persistent itch had returned.
It had been weeks, perhaps months, since he'd been with a woman...
If he didn't find relief soon, he'd be inclined to rearrange a few faces. Pummeling Rufio had done zilch for his predicament. Drinking himself into a stupor had only numbed the itch temporarily. Killian mused that he could seek out a well-proportioned harlot between here and Devon, but he had an unsettling hunch it would be as futile as the brawling and boozing.
It was his slender, woefully delicate wife he desired, a yearning that had seized him the moment they met.
The place was serene. He could hear the swish of her carriage dress as she moved. The tantalizing rustle was drawing nearer. He kept his gaze fixed on the panorama ahead until she paused a few feet away.
"I understand that one of those trilithons took a tumble not long ago," she remarked.
"Seventeen ninety-seven," he replied. "A chum at Eton regaled me with the tale. He claimed the stone keeled over in fear on the day I was born. So, I investigated. He erred. I was a ripe two years old by then."
"Ah, did you straighten out the facts with a thump on his head?" she quipped, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "Could it have been Rufio, I wonder?"
Despite their brisk morning jaunt, she seemed weary. Too pallid. Dark circles under her eyes. His doing.
"It was another lad," he retorted briskly. "And don't you go thinking I brawl with every twit who tests his paltry wit on me."
"You don't brawl," she teased. "You're a scientific fighter, a strategic savant. You predicted Rufio's moves before he conceived them."
With a graceful stride, she approached a toppled stone. "I pondered how you'd manage it, with only one arm," she mused, dropping her umbrella on the stone and assuming a boxing stance, one fist closer to her body. "How could you parry and strike simultaneously? But you had a different plan," she dodged an imaginary blow, stepping back. "You evaded and enticed, drawing him in, sapping his strength."
"Not too tough," he quipped, masking his astonishment. "He wasn't at his sharpest, not nearly as swift as his sober self."
"I'm sober," she declared, hopping onto the stone. "Now, let's see if I'm swift enough."
She sported an enormous leghorn hat, adorned with sprouting flowers and satin ribbons tied in a colossal bow under her left ear. Her carriage dress was a cacophony of fashion, with flounces, lace, and exaggerated sleeves that made her upper arms resemble balloons. Satin straps buckled each sleeve above the elbow, while cords lacing the lower sleeves ended in tassels that swung from her forearms.
He couldn't recall a sight more ludicrous than this whimsical display of femininity, poised on a stone in a mock boxing stance.
Approaching her, he couldn't help but smirk. "Come down, Emma. You look like a walking caricature."
Her fist jabbed out. His head instinctively jerked back, narrowly evading it by a hair's breadth.
He chuckled, though a sudden jolt caught his attention. Squinting at her, he saw mischief sparkling in her green eyes beneath a feigned look of concern. "Did I hurt you, Hook?" she asked with patently false concern.
"Hurt me?" he echoed incredulously. "Do you actually believe you can hurt me withthat?"
Seizing her hand, he pulled her closer. She stumbled, reaching out to steady herself on his shoulder.
Their faces were inches apart now.
Without hesitation, he closed the gap and kissed her passionately, releasing her hand to encircle her waist with his arm.
The morning sun beat down warmly, yet she tasted like a summer storm, raindrops on parched earth. The thunder he heard was his own desire, his blood thrumming in his veins, his heart racing in syncopated beats.
He deepened the kiss, greedily savoring the warmth of her mouth, instantly intoxicated by her response. Her tongue teased his in a dizzying dance, leaving him breathless. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer. Her firm breasts pressed against his chest, sending waves of heat down to pulse in his core. His hand slid down to cup her small, perfectly rounded derrière.
Mine, he thought possessively. She was light and slender, curves molded to perfectionâŚand she washis. His wife, ravishing him with her innocent yet eager mouth, clinging to him as if she shared his relentless, pounding need.
His lips still tingling from her kiss, he swept her down from her stony pedestal and nearly onto the hard ground, but a raucous cry from above jolted him back to reality.
Breaking away from her mouth, he glanced up.
A carrion crow audaciously perched on one of the smaller bluestones, offering a profile that seemed to regard Killian with mocking avian amusement, an insect dangling from its beak.
Insect, Rufio had called him last night. One of the old Eton epithets â alongside "earwig," "black buzzard," and a host of other endearments.
His cheeks ablaze, he turned from his wife. "Come along," he muttered, his tone laced with bitter resolve. "We can't loiter here all day."
Emma heard the bitterness in his voice and sensed the flush under his skin. For a fleeting moment, she worried she might have offended or repulsed him. However, halfway down the slope, he slowed his pace to let her catch up. When she took his hand â the crippled one â and squeezed it gently, he glanced at her and remarked, "I detest crows. Noisy, filthy creatures."
She figured that was as close to an explanation or apology as he could manage. Glancing back at the ancient temple, she mused, "I think it's because you're a high-strung thoroughbred. The crow was just part of the ambiance for me. I found it all quite romantic."
He chuckled shortly. "You mean 'gothic,' I suppose."
"No, I don't," she said playfully. "There I was, in the arms of a brooding, mysterious hero, amidst the ancient enigma of Stonehenge. Even Byron himself couldn't have conjured a more romantic tableau. I'm sure you think romance would wither in your presence," she added, casting him a sidelong glance. "If you ever found a romantic bone, you'd probably snap it in half. But fear not, I wouldn't dream of revealing your tender side to anyone else."
"I'm no romantic," he replied tersely. "And I'm certainly not high-strung. As for thoroughbredsâwell, you know half of me is Greek."
"The Greek half is blue-blooded too," she teased. "Mr. Hopper informed me your mother's lineage boasts ancient Thessalonian nobility. Apparently, that fact eased his qualms about our union."
He muttered a string of words she couldn't comprehend, though she guessed they were curses in his mother's tongue.
"He intends to marry Ingrid," she said soothingly. "That's what fueled his overprotectiveness toward me. But there are fringe benefits to their bond. He's taken David under his wing, which means you won't be bothered with my brother's financial woes anymore."
Hook brooded in silence until they were back inside the carriage. Then, with a sigh, he leaned back and shut his eyes. "Romantic. High-strung. And you find it comforting that your grandmother's beau plans to rein in your featherbrained brother. I swear, Emma, you're as mad as every other memberâand prospective memberâof your entire loony family."
"Are you going to sleep?" she inquired.
"I might, if you could manage to hold your tongue for three minutes," he retorted.
"I'm tired, too," she admitted. "Would you mind if I lean on your arm? I can't sleep sitting bolt upright."
"First, lose that ridiculous bonnet," he muttered.
She complied, setting it aside and resting her head on his arm. After a moment, he shifted slightly and tucked her head against his chest. That was more comfortable.
That was enough reassurance for Emma right now. Later, she'd ponder what had unsettled him during their embraceâand why he'd tensed up so when she mentioned his mother's lineage. For the moment, she was content to savor what felt remarkably like conjugal affection.
They dozed through most of the journey, rousing only as they reached the Devon border. Despite the delayed start, they arrived in Exeter by late afternoon. They crossed the River Teign shortly thereafter, then meandered down toward Bovey Tracey. A few winding miles west, Emma caught her first glimpse of the peculiar rock formations along Dartmoor.
"Haytor Rocks," he announced, pointing out his window at an immense stone outcropping at the top of a hill. She clambered onto his lap for a better look.
He chuckled. "No need to fret about missing it. There's plenty more where that came from. Hundreds of the blighters, sprouting up everywhere you turn. Tors and cairns and barrows and bogs. You hitched your wagon to me only to find yourself smack dab in the 'remote outpost of civilization' you so carefully aimed to avoid. Welcome, Lady Hookstone, to the untamed wilds of Dartmoor."
"I think it's beautiful," she said softly.
Like you, she almost added. In the amber glow of the setting sun, the rugged terrain was dark and fiercely beautiful, much like him.
"I'll have to win another wager," she declared into the contemplative silence, "so you'll take me to those rocks."
"Where you'll promptly catch a lung fever," he retorted. "It's cold, blustery, and drenched, with the climate swinging from brisk autumn to biting winter and back again a dozen times an hour."
"I never fall ill," she said. "I'm not some high-strung thoroughbredâunlike certain individuals who shall remain nameless."
"You'd better get off my lap," he said. "We'll be at Ashbourne soon, and the staff will be out in full ceremonial splendor. I shall make a wretched sight as it is. You've crumpled and creased me beyond redemption. You squirm and fidget more in your sleep than when you're awake. I scarcely shut my eyes the entire journey to Exeter."
"Then you must have been snoring with your eyes open," she teased as she settled back beside him.
"I donotsnore."
"On my life, I heard you," she countered, "and directly into my ear at least twice." She found his deep, masculine rumble strangely endearing.
He scowled at her.
Ignoring his expression, Emma turned her attention back to the passing landscape. "Why is your estate named Ashbourne?" she inquired. "Does it commemorate a grand battle, akin to Blenheim?"
"The Joneses originally hailed from further north," he explained. "One of them fell for the charms of both the Dartmoor property and the daughter of Sir William Ashbourne, a notable figure in these parts. My ancestor secured both the daughter and the estate, with the stipulation to preserve the peculiar name. Hence, 'Ashbourne' has been tacked onto our family name ever since."
She'd perused his name on countless nuptial papers. "Killian Francis Ashbourne Jones," she murmured, grinning. "I always thought you carried so many names to match the sheer volume of your ego."
His frame tensed. She glanced up. His jaw was clenched, his lips forming a stern line.
She pondered which nerve she'd inadvertently touched.
Before she could puzzle it out, Hook seized her forgotten bonnet and plopped it on her head backwards. She hastily righted the hat and tied the ribbons. Then, she endeavored to make the dress she'd worn since dawn look halfway presentable, because the carriage was now pulling into a grand gateway, and Hook's thinly veiled agitation hinted that the road beyond led to his estate.
