Chapter Eleven

Elizabeth:

This is what David wanted.

This was moving on. It was for the best.

Her mantra pushed her through the motions of the day, even as exhaustion weighed on her. She repeated those words as she sat through the Christmas service. The Stearnes invited her to sit next to them.

“I can’t believe she walked into this holy place, bold as brass,” a voice whispered from behind.

Elizabeth kept her chin up and refused to confront the speaker. Village gossip never bothered her before, and she refused to let it bother her now.

“Jonas said he saw her conjure a devil,” another voice said.

“Jonas spends too much time drinking gin for me to believe a word he says.”

A sigh of relief escaped her. Good. The rag and bone man’s testimony seemed a drunken delusion.

She sat ramrod straight with her hat in her lap, keeping the proper distance between herself and Gilbert. She ignored the curious glances from the rest of the congregation or the lift in Gilbert’s chin, almost like boasting.

This is what David wanted. She was moving on with her life.

She murmured polite greetings after the service, nodded and curtseyed, and accepted the glad tidings that she officially ended her mourning. The lodge was too much for one woman to take on, they said. Would she sell? Would she remarry? They gave Gilbert a knowing nod because they knew she would move on, and he was a reliable, predictable choice. It was what her late husband wanted.

Never mind that she wanted Reven. She found him endlessly fascinating. His strange, dark plum face became animated as he explained the inner workings of his machines, how good design led to efficiency, and form could find accord with function. Essentially, his technology was art, both pleasing to the eye and essential for life. She admired how passionate he grew as he discussed his creations, much as David did when he created. Moon Man or not, his soul spoke to hers.

Her regard for Reven held no relevance. He didn’t want her. He made his position clear and he would be gone tomorrow. She need not spare him another thought.

Mustering all her will, she forced herself to move through the day, nodding and making the appropriate noises. By the afternoon, she sat in the Stearnes’ parlor.

The Stearne cottage was a plaster and timber structure with two rooms downstairs and, presumably, two rooms upstairs. The front room served as a cramped parlor, packed with too many chairs. Her knees practically touched Gilbert’s as they sat on either side of a round card table. Despite the low ceilings, the Franklin stove in the corner and the whitewashed walls gave the room an inviting feel.

A portrait of a man dressed in the fashion two centuries prior loomed over the room. She studied the thin lips, pressed together, and the hard, dark eyes. The varnish had yellowed and cracked with age, giving the man a dour, judgmental appearance.

“John Stearne, the family patriarch,” Gilbert said, dismissing the portrait.

“He looks very serious.” Humorless, even. She shivered.

“Are you well? You don’t seem yourself today,” he said.

Elizabeth straightened the fringe on her shawl and ignored his question as Felicity entered the room, burdened with a tea-laden tray. The woman set it down on the table with a discontent sigh.

“May I assist you with the meal?” Elizabeth asked.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble your ladyship,” Felicity said, tone curt.

“I’m not a lady, and it’s no trouble.” She’d rather peel potatoes than sit through Gilbert’s clumsy courtship attempts or worse: his small talk. At least he kept his distance across the small room.

“I wouldn’t expect you to know your way about a kitchen. You might burn yourself, and then you wouldn’t be able to hold a paintbrush.” The sentiment appeared to be considerate, but the tone was impolite.

Elizabeth really had enough of people assuming she was useless in a household. David’s family had money, but her family had a much humbler standard of living. Fortune came and went, based on her father’s commissions. One month they might have had a maid and cook; the next they were destitute. The uncertain environment made sure she knew her way around a kitchen and could manage a household properly.

“I have a gift for you,” Elizabeth said brightly, ignoring Felicity’s barbs. “A small token as thanks for opening your home today.”

“It’s a pleasure to have you,” Gilbert said, leaning over to place a hand on her knee.

She shifted away, reaching for her reticule, and neatly dodged his touch. Opening the bag, she produced two jars of preserves. “Strawberry preserves, made from the sweetest berries of the summer.”

Felicity’s eyes gleamed. “Mrs. Baldry’s preserves are famous. Thank you.”

“I made this batch.” She wasn’t helpless, after all, and it was a splendid batch, even if she did say so herself.

“Oh. I see. I’m sure it’s… interesting,” she said blandly, accepting the implied inferior product.

The jars slipped from her grasp, smashing onto the stone floor.

“Oh no,” Felicity said, tone flat. “Such a waste. I’ll just clean this up, then.”

“I’ll get the broom to sweep.” She rose from her seat to help.

“Witch.”

Elizabeth paused, hands gripping the arms of the chair.

“Which won’t be necessary,” Felicity said. A bitter smile crawled across her face. “I can clean this faster than explain where to find supplies.”

“Then I insist you let me help in the kitchen. Any task.” Anything to get her out of the too-small parlor.

Felicity pressed her lips together, but Gilbert answered. “You might as well let her pitch in. One day, hopefully, she may very well be mistress of the house.” He smiled at her, that overly-practiced grimace which exposed too many teeth.

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, putting distance between herself and… whatever Gilbert was trying to do. She liked him so much better when he wasn’t trying to be charming.

“If you must, but I wouldn’t want to ruin such a lovely gown,” Felicity said, jerking her head towards the kitchen at the back half of the cottage.

Elizabeth looked down at her mottled green skirt. It was a wool day dress, simple and unadorned. She hardly wore a gown.

The kitchen was as light and open as the parlor was cramped. Felicity set a bowl of cherries down at the work table, and Elizabeth took to pitting. Felicity perhaps banged pots around with more force than needed, but Elizabeth kept her focus on the cherries.

Gilbert joined her, working on his own pile of cherries. Her fingers stained red with the work, but she did not mind.

“Your hands,” he said, covering her hands with a damp cloth. He scrubbed, trying to remove the discoloration.

“I’ve had worse. Ink stains are notoriously difficult to remove. And a bit of color is festive.” She held up her hand to the light, noting how the cherry juice settled into her cuticles.

“I’m glad to see you don’t mind a bit of dirt,” he said.

“Mr. Stearne, in our long acquaintance, have I ever given you that impression?” She walked through the muck and the mud with him as he pointed out where her stone fence needed mending or gave advice on land management. Mr. Baldry kept the hedges trimmed and the lodge in good repair, but he left the fields to run wild.

“Back to formalities are we, Mrs. Halpine? I hoped our friendship had progressed beyond that.”

“I do consider you a friend,” she said, knowing she spoke the truth. His friendship of the last year had been of immeasurable help. If she moved on with anyone, it should logically be him.

In short order, Felicity served Christmas dinner. Gilbert carved the goose and gave her a generous portion. She picked at her plate, chasing a stray pea when needed. She tried to imagine herself as the mistress of the Stearnes’ cottage but came up blank. Perhaps Gilbert fancied himself as the master of Sweecombe, and that was why he pursued her. He wanted her grand house in addition to her land.

He’d want children, no doubt, little hands to help watch the flocks. She saw herself sitting in a nursery with a babe in her arms. It was everything she wanted before but could not have with David. Gilbert was undoubtedly fit. She’d seen him stride across the moors in the summer, shirt plastered to his back with sweat. He wasn’t unattractive, but she felt nothing. Not a jot for an imagined child or the pleasures of making that child.

She could see a very sensible, unassuming life with him spin out before her, like cloth in a weaver’s loom, and she wanted nothing to do with it.

She couldn’t help but wonder how Reven spent the day. Working on his ship, she imagined. She’d rather be with him in the cold barn, handing him tools as he required, than with the Stearnes. She knew that much. Reven’s time on Earth rapidly approached an end, and she didn’t want it to end. Time was so short. No one was guaranteed their days. The last two years had taught her that much.

Then why was she spending her precious time with people she did not care for? Politeness? Because it was the expected thing to do?

She perked up in her chair at the realization. Time was limited. She needed to spend it with the people she loved. That was what David wanted. That would be moving on. Anything else was existing in a colorless limbo.

She wanted color. She wanted risk and reward. She wanted Reven.

Finally, they served the pudding. With that, her long day concluded. She needed to get home and share her epiphany with Reven.

“I’ll walk you home,” Gilbert said, taking her arm as they left the cottage. The lights from Sweecombe glowed across the field.

“Thank you for a lovely meal,” she said.

“I hope this will be the first of many.” He turned to her, face bright with optimism.

Oh dear. Well, better to get the unpleasantness out of the way.

“I don’t expect to remarry,” she said. She held her breath, waiting for his response.

His smile did not falter. “You say that now, but one day you will find yourself wanting a husband.”

“No doubt you picture yourself in that role.”

“When you’re ready.” He gave her arm a pat like she was a skittish animal needing to be calmed.

“I don’t want to give you false expectations.”

“You’ll find I’m a patient man, lamb.” Another pat. She recoiled at the gesture.

Before she understood what was happening, he pulled her to him, jerking her off her feet. Her chest slammed into his.

“But not that patient,” he said. With one hand holding her arm, his other hand cupped the back of her head and pushed her forward. His lips slammed into hers, all teeth and little give. She gasped, shocked, and he took that opportunity to shove his tongue into her mouth.

Revulsion overcame her, then panic. He tasted like tobacco and wrongness. Everything about the scene was wrong, from his too-firm grip to the forceful way he held her.

She struggled to pull away, but his grip on her hair tightened, pulling it to the point of pain. He made the little moans of pleasure he made as his tongue rolled around in her mouth.

Her hands beat against his chest, but she could not get leverage, his arms caging her in. She wiggled one hand up and took his ear in her grasp.

She pulled.

He yowled, releasing her as she stepped back.

“Mr. Stearne!” She retrieved her hat, dusting snow off the brim. “Never, in all my days, has any man taken such liberties with me!”

“Come now,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re hardly a maid, Widow Halpine. I know there’s a woman under all that ice.”

His hands grappled her waist, pulling her in again. He leaned in for another repulsive kiss, but she turned her face away at the last second. His greasy lips instead landed on her cheek.

“That husband of yours was a scrawny thing. I bet he couldn’t roger you properly. You just need a real man to remind you that you’re a woman.” He nuzzled her neck, his rough whiskers scraping against tender skin.

“Please, do not do this,” she said. “You are a friend.” A man she trusted. Perhaps she never held great affection for him, but she kept him in high regard.

“Two long years I’ve waited, Elizabeth, and I’m tired of waiting.” Something wet flopped against her neck. With disgust, she realized it was his tongue. Her stomach churned. Reven had licked the cords of her neck just last night it felt wonderful. Natural. Now she could think of nothing more loathsome.

“Marry me. This spring. No one will say it’s too soon,” he said.

Oh, no. Absolutely not.

“I have no intention of ever marrying you or anyone.” She stepped on his foot to get leverage and twisted to break free.

He lunged for her, fingers hooking into the front of her dress. The mottled green fabric ripped, the sound louder than a gunshot as the compromised fabric exposed her corset and shift. For a moment, panic flared in her. They were on the footpath between their respective homes, alone and in the dark. She didn’t take Gilbert to be a violent man, but the hard look in his eye suggested otherwise.

He grabbed her wrist, yanking her forward and her shoulder screamed in protest.

Her pulse raced, and she swallowed hard, trying to find her voice. “Please, Gilbert. You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, so it’s ‘please, Gilbert’ now? I didn’t think a stuck-up lady such as yourself could beg.”

Stuck-up? She expected to hear those words from Felicity, not from him. She tried to pull away, but his grip held firm. “I’m asking my friend to let go,” she said, keeping her voice even.

“Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I fixed what needed to be fixed without you asking?”

“Yes, of course. You’ve been a good neighbor.”

He huffed. “Neighbors, right. And you won’t even consider a proposal from me?”

She considered. She spent the day considering. “I haven’t—”

He cut her off with a shake. She cried out in alarm, frightened by this stranger who she thought she knew.

“You think you’re too good to be the wife of a sheep farmer? Felicity was right about you. I should have never wasted my time.” He pushed her away, and she stumbled to the hard ground. Her knees smarted as she landed awkwardly.

“I thought you were my friend,” she said meekly. He had been a good friend. She hadn’t imagined that. It could not have been a ploy to win her affections.

He loomed over her, a dark figure against the night sky. She raised her chin, unwilling to be cowed by this duplicitous man. If he thought he could bully her into submission, and ultimately marriage, he had another thing coming. He raised a fist. She refused to look away. There was a beast stalking the moors, but it was not Reven.

He sighed, lowering his hand, and said, “No man has ever been a woman’s friend.”

He left her there, kneeling in the snow. Bruised. Defiant. Decidedly un-engaged.

Elizabeth scrubbed her face with her gloves, trying to remove every drop of his saliva on her skin. She needed a bath but suspected she wouldn’t feel clean.

She rotated her shoulder and then rubbed her wrists, willing away the tenderness from his crushing grip. The dress was ruined. Even if she could mend the tear, she wouldn't ever wear it again. Now it was little more than rags.

Fixing her hat in place, she noticed the bent brim. Ruined. With a frustrated cry, she tossed it to the ground.

Disgusting man. Traitorous man.

When she was certain he would not return, she pushed herself to her feet. She refused to run, but she did walk swiftly to Sweecombe.

Life was uncertain. No one was guaranteed their days.

She refused to spend another moment with people she disliked. She’d sell the property and move to Australia, as it was the furthest place away the could think of. No more hiding. No more dithering. She planned to live.

Reven:

Elizabeth came out of the fields, her hair disheveled and her body radiating distress. Her coat hung open, and her garments were in disarray. He followed her into the house, ready to demand the identity of who had troubled her.

“What has happened?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

She shook the snow off her outer layers and kicked off her boots. She discarded her wool scarf, gloves, and coat onto the floor.

“They will be wet tomorrow,” he observed. Typically, she was mindful of her possession and stored every article away after use.

She ignored his words and stood directly in front of him. The wet hem of her dress brushed against his legs. She stared up at him, eyes full of need.

“Your dress is wet,” he observed. More than the hem, too, but also the knees, as if she fell, or was shoved. Rage percolated up within him. “What has happened? Are you injured?”

She looked away. “I walked across the field. I didn’t want to waste any more time.”

“The road or footpath would have been safer.” Too many obstacles were buried under the snow in the field. She could have tripped, fallen, and injured herself.

“I wasn’t paying attention.”

“The risk to your person was too great.” Reven never believed he would be one to advocate caution, but with her safety, he could tolerate no risk.

“Ask me,” she said.

He tilted his head to the side. “Ask you what?”

“Any number of things. Am I angry? Why I hurried across a snowy field at night? Why I refuse to waste time? Or why don’t I take off this wet dress?” She leaned, hands on his knees, and the wet fabric tangling between them.

“Yes. That one,” he said.

She undid the ties for her skirt. The rich fabric fell to the floor in a whisper, revealing another simpler skirt. Reven halted her hand as she undid the buttons on her bodice.

“Elizabeth, you know we cannot.” He longed for her with a passion he never thought possible. His cock was hard as a rock and the most wonderful female he’d ever laid eyes upon was undressing before him, but all he could think about was how he would soon leave her.

“Not even for a night? It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she said.

“Pleasure between us will always hold meaning.” She was his true mate. He knew this from his horns down to his feet. If he claimed her, he would not be able to leave. Yet he could not allow himself to risk bringing her along. Even if they survived the journey, the world would have changed so much. She would always be a female displaced in time.

“‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” she whispered.

“Terran marriages… you make a pledge, yes?”

“To love, honor, and obey, until death parts us.”

He stroked the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch. “It is also a pledge if I claim you, mark you as my mate.” He pressed her hand flat to the center of his chest, needing her to feel his heart beating for her. Her delicate fingers flexed, digging into the thin fabric and his skin pricked with awareness at her near-touch.

“I will not make an empty vow to you,” he said. There were so many things he could not give her—the rest of his days or even a night of pleasure—but he could be an honorable male and not disrespect her with a hollow promise. “Tell me you understand.”

Her eyes searched his, holding his gaze, before she nodded. “Take me with you. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”

He frowned. They had discussed that subject to the point of tears.

She snorted, as if expecting him to decline, and pulled away.

“It is too risky. I cannot guarantee that repairs will hold.” He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. “The probability of success is thirty percent.” And it decreased by the hour. “How can I gamble your life with such unfavorable odds? I cannot.”

She sighed but continued to remove the layers.

“Elizabeth, this is inappropriate,” he protested feebly. She ignored him and soon she stood wearing only the thinnest shift.

“No one is guaranteed their days,” she said. “Not me. Not you. I spent today being miserable with people I dislike,” her voice waved, “when all I want is to spend my days with you. So, I will take them. One day. A dozen. A hundred. I want them. As many as I can get. Please, Reven, don’t say no.”

His hands skimmed up her arms, pausing at the red marks. His fingers flexed around the discoloration. Someone grabbed her forcibly. “Who did this,” he said, no longer a question.

“No one of consequence.”

He growled. Her clothes were disheveled and wet. She had been forced to the ground by a male, and he knew which one, the one with the blustering cheeks and red hair who stood too close to when he spoke to his mate. “To injure a female is a coward’s act and beyond contempt. He will pay in blood and bone.”

And he knew which bones to break as payment. Terrans had so many little bones, so fragile and easy to snap.

She placed a hand on his face, capturing his attention. “Reven, I need you with me now. Please. I want the time we have. Can you give that to me?”

He blinked, letting his fury dissipate. Rushing into a battle was the folly of youth, not a skilled a warrior. He would give his female what she wanted now and then plan for retribution.

“I am with you always,” he said.

“Thank heaven.” She sagged against him. “I need a bath. And brandy. And Mrs. Baldry’s plum pudding.”

He disliked the bruise blossoming on her arms. “Take your bath. I will fetch a salve to minimize the bruising.”

“Bruising?” She twisted her arm to see. “It’s not so bad.”

“It is damage to your capillary system caused by outside pressure. It is unacceptable.” His hand brushed the affected area. Just thinking about it stoked his anger. Elizabeth asked him to be with her now, not to storm off to break bones, but to stay and tend to her aches. He would do that. It took all his will, but he would do that.

“Take your bath,” he said, forcing himself to ignore his female’s injury.

In the shuttle, he retrieved a tube of gel to ease the tenderness of her bruise. Back in the house, he found her in the bath. Steam hung in the air and condensation clung to the colder tiles on the wall and the window.

She flinched as he entered the room but relaxed back into the water, not bothering to cover herself. “Oh, it’s you.”

He frowned. She acted like a defeated creature, skittish of sudden noises. This was not his Elizabeth.

He knelt beside the tub and took the washcloth from her. Gently, he lathered up her back and arms, using the opportunity to inspect the damage. “How many bones of his do I break for you?”

“Just his hand, I should think.” She took the cloth and scrubbed at her face and neck. Once clean, she leaned back in the water, letting her dark hair fan out.

“I will make it so,” he vowed.

“I’d rather not talk about him,” she said, floating in the water. “We only have tonight and tomorrow left. Please, let’s not allow Gilbert to spoil it.”

He growled at the male’s name.

“My opinion, exactly,” she said, some warmth returning to her eyes.

“I apologize for my actions last night.”

“I won’t allow you to ruin our remaining time together, either, Reven Perra, so do shut up. What has passed is past.” She gripped the edge of the tub and hauled herself out, water sluicing off her form.

Reven toweled her dry and immediately sat her on a low stool. She wrapped a towel around her midsection, covering her nudity as much as possible. He applied the gel to the bruise and every slightly off-colored patch of skin.

He hated this. The situation was wrong, and he didn’t know how to fix it. He hated the feeling of helplessness with his female. He hurt her with his words as surely as that Gilbert fool hurt her with his hands.

He needed her to be angry with him, not this quiet, passive female.

“Would you feel better if you yelled at me?” he finally asked.

“Is shooting you still an option?”

Much better. Her bite returned.

“I appreciated that you didn’t ogle me,” she said. “I’m unhappy but not with you. I know you do not feel as strongly about me as I do about you.”

He wanted to say that was not true, that she was his light in the darkness, and he dreaded spending the rest of his days without her. She would then tell him that the solution was simple: take her on his journey home. The risk was unacceptable. They had that argument already. No good would come from treading down that road again.

Perhaps she spoke a falsehood to make their separation more bearable. If she could pretend that he did not care, she could feign equal indifference. Again, no good would come if he voiced his observation, so he kept his mouth shut.

Finally, after all these years, he learned to hold his tongue. His father would be proud. Reven would laugh if the situation did not hurt his heart so terribly.

“Done,” he said, capping the tube.

“It tingles.” She shrugged on a silken robe.

“That’s how you know it’s working. Now, to bed with you, female.”

Quickly, she climbed into her bed. He turned to leave, to return back to the shuttle.

“Don’t go,” she called after him. “Please. Stay with me. We don’t have to—” She blushed.

“I will watch over you as you slumber,” he said. Cautiously, he sat at the edge of the bed. The springs creaked under his weight.

“Thank you. I feel much better knowing you’re here.”