Like Chaff in the Wind (23 page)

He backed her towards the bed, kissing her until he had to break away to gulp air. He eased her down to sit and guided her hands to his breeches, standing stock still when she released his cock from its constraints. Her mouth, Jesus sweet, her wonderful warm mouth, her tongue, her fingers fluttering over him, caressing his balls. He could scarcely breathe, drowning in a sea of sensations that centred round what she was doing to him.

“Now.” She shifted back and pulled him down on top of her, and he stumbled on his breeches and fell awkwardly, hearing the rope frame groan and squeak.

“Now,” he agreed and his cock was like a homing pigeon, burying itself in her. He filled her, he cupped her buttocks and held her so close he could feel her womb. He rode her, he drove her before him, he came and he went, and it built and it built and still he held back, because she had to know she was his, had to feel in every tingling nerve that he was in her, on her, possessing her. Only when he felt her begin to buck and saw her eyes glaze as she lost herself to him, did he let himself go, uttering a deep guttural sound of animal release.

Chapter 30

They read the letter in bed by the light of the headboard candle. They were all well, it began by assuring them, but wee Mark had been sick with the measles over his birthday, and had then succumbed to a nasty ear infection that had them all up for several nights running. In the end, Simon wrote, his eardrum had burst, and a large quantity of pus had leaked out.

“He’s deaf!” Alex sat up in consternation.

“Nay, that isn’t what it says. It says his eardrum burst – no great matter, is it?”

“It hurts like hell, and we should have been there, with him.”

“Aye well; he had Joan and Simon there.”

“Hmph!” Alex said, but nodded for him to go on reading.

Simon went on to describe what had been planted and on what fields, how the cabbage patch in the kitchen garden had been ravaged by rabbits, and how Gavin had narrowly escaped with his life intact after an incident involving bees, an irate Rosie, and the new bull.

“New bull?” Matthew frowned down at the paper. “What happened to Atlas?”

“Roast beef?” Alex said, which Matthew didn’t find at all amusing.

The letter ended with a very apologetic paragraph, where Simon began by explaining that he had not felt himself to have any choice, and that he was sure Matthew would agree that was the case. After all, what was he to do when Margaret showed up with wee Ian in tow, weeping that she had nowhere else to go?

“What? She’s at Hillview? Bloody hell!” Alex slammed her hand into the bedpost and ended up sucking her knuckles, eyes narrowed into blue slits. Simon went on to say that of course Margaret wasn’t staying at the big house, but was back in her little cottage. By the way, he added, Ian was a copy of his father, as was that little rascal, Mark.

“What does he mean? That it’s obvious they’re brothers, not cousins?” Alex looked as if she’d been fed a handful of worms.

“Half-brothers,” Matthew said.

“Huh; last time I saw him, Ian was all you – just like Mark.”

Matthew folded the letter together in silence. He shared Alex’s dislike of having Margaret back at Hillview, but deep inside it thrilled him that both his sons were there.

“Why is she there?” Alex settled down to rest her head on his shoulder. “Do you think Luke’s thrown her out?”

Matthew had no idea, and nor did he care. Margaret and Luke deserved each other, and he hoped they would tear as big chunks out of each other as they had torn out of him. But he pitied the lad, and said as much.

“Yes,” Alex said, “poor kid. Not a good role model in sight.”

“Role model?”

“Someone to emulate,” Alex explained.

“Simon is there. Surely any lad can use him as an example.”

Alex hid her face and laughed. “How many boys would want to use Simon as an example? Mostly he looks like a meatball on legs, and he sits a horse like an egg on a hot skillet, sliding this way and that.”

“You shouldn’t judge on looks alone,” Matthew said, trying to sound reproving. But he grinned all the same.

“I don’t, but small boys definitely do. They want heroes, dashing men with cloaks and swords – not a brainy small town lawyer.”

She turned on her back, caressing her belly. He covered her hand with his, following her movements up and down.

“Has it quickened yet?” he asked, feeling a twinge of jealousy that only she should be allowed to experience that moment in time when the wean sprang from possibility to certainty.

“No, not yet. Do you think it’s a boy this time as well?”

“Nay, this time it’s a lass. A lass as wild and magnificent as her mother. A lass who will follow her man to the ends of the world and beyond, no matter what it costs her.” He smiled down at her. “And if this isn’t a lass, then the next one will surely be, or the one after that, or the next…”

“Five?” she croaked.

Och aye; at least five. He wanted many bairns with this woman, a line of strong healthy sons and daughters. He cocked his head, looking at her. Theoretically, they could have a dozen children, but he saw no point in telling her that, given how shocked she seemed at the notion of five. Ah well; she’d get used to the idea successively, with each bairn slipping from between her thighs.

“Do you mind?” he said.

“What? Five? Let’s say it’s a bit daunting to a girl who grew up in a time where a woman can decide how many children she wants. In general people opt for two.” She turned on her side, uttering a long ‘mmmm’ when, he spooned himself around her. “We’ll have as many kids as we make,” she said, reaching back to pat him. “Because I definitely don’t intend doing without.”

“Me neither, and my wife is most accommodating – dutiful and obedient.” He laughed when she slapped him on his thigh, yelped when she pinched him instead.

*

There were still days when Matthew woke far too early, awash with rage, but after that time with Alex down by the sycamore, he had learnt to trust that she’d be able to handle it should he need her to. This morning, it was enough to lie and hold her, hearing her steady breathing. Today was the day of James’ trial, and he worried; about the trial as such, about Jones being called to the stand and insisting that Matthew Graham had killed Fairfax, not James. What would the court say, faced with the obvious frailty of the defendant?

When Matthew entered the cell later that morning, James was ashen-faced with pain, but he refused the laudanum, drinking an impressive quantity of whisky instead. He hung on to Matthew’s arm as they crossed the little square, but once inside the court room, he straightened up and walked on his own to his designated place. Neatly dressed, down to borrowed shoes and stockings, James stood throughout the proceedings, leaning heavily on the table before him to keep himself upright.

It was a quick business, thank the Lord, the judge listening with severity to the described crime and nodding at the conclusion drawn by the constable. No innocent man would profess himself a murderer, and James repeated that yes, it was him who had ended the despicable Mr Fairfax’s life by driving twelve inches of Toledo steel into his heart. The outcome was given, and Matthew barely listened to the sentence, his eyes on his pale and trembling friend.

“You will hang, Mr McLean,” the judge said. “A week from now you will hang.”

“A week?” James breathed hoarsely. “Why wait a week?”

The judge looked at him with puzzlement.

“If it pleases your honour, I would ask you to hang me as soon as possible. Today, or tomorrow.”

“A week,” the judge insisted, slamming his gavel down with finality.

“I’ll be dead before the week’s up,” James said some time later to Matthew. “And I’ll die here, in this soiled straw without a glimpse of the sky.” He strained his face in the direction of the small window covered by a grimy square of oiled skin, and for the first time it seemed he would weep.

“I’m so sorry,” Matthew said, “Oh God, that I could help you somehow.”

James looked at him for a long time. “Ask Mrs Gordon, mayhap she can help.”

Matthew managed a weak smile. “Not Mrs Gordon for much longer. Mr Parson has proposed and been accepted.”

James chuckled, broke off with a gasp. He waved Matthew’s hand away, took a couple of breaths.

“He’s a most fortunate gentleman, be sure to tell him.”

“Oh, he already knows,” Matthew said, “and if he doesn’t, she’ll be sure to inform him herself.” Before he left he took down the yellowed skin, allowing in a ray of bright sun that fell like golden rain into the gloom of the little room.

James smiled. “Thank you.”

The soon to be Mrs Parson refused to do anything more than what they were already doing.

“I can increase the laudanum so that he sleeps most of the time, but more than that I can’t do.”

Matthew sighed but nodded his agreement. To poison someone, even if it was by their explicit wish, was to invite unnecessary attention from the authorities.

“Do you think he’ll die? Before…”

Mrs Gordon shook her head. “Nay, I think not. There’s a very strong flame in that man, and it won’t allow him to relinquish life easily. I pray for him, aye? Every day, I pray that God have mercy on him and take him home.”

“Aye,” Matthew said, “so do I. But it would seem our Lord has other matters on His mind.”

“The Lord does as well as He can, I reckon,” Mrs Gordon shrugged.

*

On the penultimate day of his life, James asked that Alex be allowed in to see him together with her husband. James lay wheezing in the straw when she entered the small space, and even in his exhausted state, he registered the shock that swept her face at the sight of him. A living skeleton, he was so thin it hurt to lie for long in one posture, his bones protesting at the unpadded pressure of the wooden floorboards. She smiled, a strained smile, and came over to him.

“I brought you a clean shirt,” she said. To die in; he hoped she’d taken it in at the sides so that it wouldn’t flap like a sail around him come the morrow.

“That is kind of you,” James said between shallow breaths. It was pushing against the diaphragm, this thing in his belly, and every breath was an effort. Strange, how something as natural as breathing should become an endeavour requiring fortitude and concentration. He rested his eyes on Alex. He had wanted to see the lass one more time because she reminded him slightly of his Elizabeth, all those years ago when they first met.

“Would you mind undoing your hair?” he asked.

Alex shook her head but looked at Matthew – as she should, married woman that she was. Matthew gave a nod, and she lifted her cap off her hair and undid it.

“Ah…” James exhaled, beckoning her closer. His hand rose from the floor, fingers spread to comb through the wavy hair. Alex took his hand in hers and guided it through her curls, silent tears coursing down her face.

“Shh, don’t cry, lass. Tomorrow I’m released from this prison of pain, and I’ll stand humble in front of my maker – humble, but free.” James fumbled with his other hand and took hold of his Bible. “I would ask you a favour, that you carry the Book back home with you and that you give it to my wife.” He stopped for breath, closing his eyes as he re-oxygenated his blood. “Tell her that I love her. That even as I lie here, so far from home, it is her I see as I draw my last breaths.” He fingered her hair. So soft, like a live pelt, just as Elizabeth’s had been. Now his wife’s hair was grey but still as soft, and he slipped away, drifting into a half-dream where the lass presently at his side was in fact his beloved woman. “Tell her she was everything a wife should be and more,” he whispered, and warm tears slid from under his shut lids.

“Will you be coming tomorrow?” he asked as Alex stood to leave.

“Do you want me to?”

“Aye I do. And I would like it if you smiled at me.”

Alex nodded, gave him a watery smile, and hurried from the room.

*

Matthew moved over to sit in the spot Alex had vacated and pillowed James’ head on his lap.

“Will I tell you then? Will I tell you of Scotland?”

James sighed in agreement and Matthew began to talk; of moors that stretched endless under pale summer nights, of hills that shifted in browns and deepest pinks. He spoke of gorse and heather, of lapwings and hawks. He described the rocky backbone of their country, the silence and the cool clear nights. He whispered to James of the bluebells in the forest and the glitter of frost on the rowan trees, of how water sprang fresh and cold from the hillside, and how in winter the sky hung bejewelled with stars, seemingly so low one could stretch out a hand to touch them.

He talked until James was fast asleep, his breath rapid and shallow, and still Matthew stayed with his friend, recounting the wonders of their homeland so that James would die on the morrow with the memory of the land of his birth fresh on his mind.

In the blackest hour of the night, James woke in panic, and Matthew held him and plied him with whisky until he subsided again. At dawn, James woke again, clearheaded despite the whisky and the pain, and he stood shakily as Matthew helped him dress for one final time. There were no words between them, there was no need, and when the guards came to fetch their prisoner, they found him calm and surprisingly strong, an almost eager shine to his eyes.

The gallows had been built at one end of the small square, and before it thronged people, far more than Matthew had expected. He scanned the crowd to look for Alex, finding her straight in front, her face a startling white. Beside her stood Mrs Gordon and Mr Parson, and Alex met Matthew’s eyes, assuring him that he could stay as close to James as he needed to be, she would be fine. James grasped Matthew’s hand one last time.

“Go with God, lad.”

*

James walked on his own up to the noose, and stood still as the rope was tightened into place. He swallowed and swallowed, gulped down air, wonderful air. Any moment now, and he’d be dead. James felt a wave of fear rush through him and he looked desperately for something, for someone, to ease his way. That was when Alex stepped forward, took off her straw hat and shook out her hair, smiling so hard he feared her face would break. James smiled back, his eyes locked on her.

A faint breeze lifted her hair to float. Someone was droning to his left – the reverend, no less – one of the guards adjusted the noose, shoved him to stand in the right place. Alex raised two fingers to her mouth and blew him a kiss. A drum roll. Another drum roll. Yet another blinding smile from Alex. A third drum roll. He fell, gasped. His eyes flew over the crowd, found her again. His Elizabeth; no, Alex Graham. Elizabeth…my Elizabeth…my.