Unsure (19 page)

I know I’m at Black Combe, in one of the spare bedrooms. I remember waking up on the sofa late yesterday evening to be told by Tom that it was time for bed. That it might be Christmas but he still had stock to see to in the morning. I thought he meant to take me home, to Smithy’s Forge, and I was sad to be leaving the comfortable warmth of Black Combe for the chilly solitude of my little cottage. But no, no one was leaving. Tom had planned all along to stay over—too many beers to contemplate anything else—and so I was staying too. In no time I was tucked up in this comfortable bed in this pretty little room, half expecting Tom to slide in beside me. I’m not sure I would have stopped him. Instead, though, he just kissed me lightly on the cheek and left Mrs Richardson to show me the en suite and find me something to wear.

A pretty white nightshirt made of some sort of lacy, silky fabric appeared. “Left behind by Eva,” Mrs Richardson explained, “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. This was her room when she first came here.”
Ah yes, the mysterious Eva. The woman Nathan Darke hasn’t heard from.
I dismissed her from my thoughts and promptly fell asleep.

Wide awake now I hop out of bed and get dressed quickly. I want to catch Tom if I can before he goes off to Greystones. I know farmers start work early, and by eight o’clock the day’s half over. But still, it’s Boxing Day and he might be having a lie-in.

I follow the smell of coffee and the sound of a radio downstairs. I enter the kitchen expecting to find Mrs Richardson there. It would be nice to have a chance to talk to her, to thank her for being so kind to me yesterday. Instead I find my nemesis, Nathan Darke, casually pouring himself a cup of coffee.

He turns as I come in, leans back against the worktop to watch me. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, self-conscious and uncertain of my welcome. He’s been reasonably nice to me so far, for Tom’s sake. Not warm exactly, he hardly spoke directly to me throughout yesterday, but he was pleasant enough and I felt welcome in his house. Very welcome. Now I’m not so sure. Tom’s not here, there’s no reason why Nathan Darke shouldn’t revert to type. I start to back out of the room.

“I’m sorry, I was looking for Tom…”

“He left about an hour ago. Pregnant ewes to check on. Dan went with him—those two both have an unhealthy fascination with sheep’s genitals if you ask me. But that’s what you get for associating with farmers and vets. Coffee, Miss McAllister?”

I’m nervous, stammering. I need to get away. “No, no, thank you. I must be going. I’ve imposed on you long enough.”

“Please. Sit down and join me.” Ignoring my refusal he’s pouring me a coffee anyway. “Milk?” He walks toward me, hands me the mug with a smile. He seems genuine enough. I take the cup, but don’t move any farther into the kitchen. “Miss McAllister? Milk?” He’s over at the large American-style fridge, taking out a carton of fresh milk.

I nod and he places the carton on the large oak table, now clear after yesterday’s feasting. Without being incredibly rude I have no alternative but to go over, help myself to milk. So I do that then sit down at the table. Nathan Darke takes the seat opposite me, leaning back casually as he watches me sip my coffee.

“I’m sorry. For being here, I mean. Tom insisted and he said… Well, I know you would never have invited me but for him. It’s been wonderful, thank you. I’m very grateful, especially as I know how much you… Well, I know you don’t want me here and I’m imposing on you. I’ll just drink this and go.”

“I was hoping to get a chance to talk. Alone.” His tone is even. I don’t detect his usual hostility. Still, I’m wary. I know he doesn’t like me, doesn’t trust me. If he had his way I’d be spending my second Christmas in jail. I wait for him to continue.

“Well, you’re right about one thing—Tom was very insistent when he phoned me yesterday. It seems he was either coming here with you, or not at all. A package deal. But I’m glad you came. I’ve wanted to talk to you, clear the air I suppose. And Rosie was delighted. She likes you. And Tom definitely likes you. More than likes you, in fact. He wants to fuck you, and that’s not the half of it.”

I gasp at his bluntness. Nathan Darke does not pull his punches.

He grins at me, but not maliciously. “I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know. Let’s just cut to the chase, shall we?”

“Mr Darke, I…”

“Nathan. Call me Nathan. And can I call you Ashley?”

I nod nervously, waiting for whatever might be coming next.

“Tom wants you to bottom for him. Do you know what that means?”

Tops and bottoms, Dominants and submissives, Doms and subs. Yes, I know what that means, I think. I did the research as Tom suggested I should. I nod again, hesitantly.

He continues, explicit to a fault, “So, will you do it? Is it for you?”

His head is cocked quizzically to one side, his voice gentle. He’s not pressuring me, just asking. I flush, but only slightly. Nathan’s matter-of-fact approach actually makes this stuff easier to discuss. I shrug my shoulders, and realize I genuinely don’t know if it’s for me or not. How strange, that I might even be contemplating this. Nathan knows that too, understands the significance of my uncertainty.

“The fact that you’re not dismissing the whole thing out of hand suggests this might be a possibility, something you could consider. If you definitely didn’t want to, I think you’d tell me that now. And you’re not saying no, are you? Are you, Ashley?”

“No. No, I’m not,” I whisper, shocked to hear myself saying this and knowing it’s true. After all I’ve been through, the supreme effort I made to be rid of a man who hurt me, I’m apparently contemplating taking up with another. And I’m calmly discussing it with his best friend. Christ, how did I get into this situation?

“So, what’s stopping you?” His question is blunt, to the point. I look him in the eye and decide he deserves an equally straight answer.

“I don’t like men who hurt women. Who hurt me. I’ve been there, done that. I don’t need a man at all, I can get by on my own. But if I do have another relationship sometime in the future I want it to be with someone who’ll be gentle, caring, someone who’ll respect me. Why shouldn’t I have that? Why should I always end up a punchbag, bullied by violent men?”

The dark gaze across the table is steady, considering. I’ve said my piece—well, he did ask—and now I wait. Nathan just watches me for a couple of minutes before nodding slowly.

“That’s fair enough, Ashley. You do deserve all that. And I can understand that you’re scared, scared of being hurt. Injured. But what Tom’s offering you isn’t a violent, abusive relationship. Far from it. It’s safe and it’s consensual. Or it will be. I know your first encounter with Tom wasn’t, but don’t base your decision on that. And it can be very, very fulfilling if it’s the lifestyle for you. A Dom does inflict pain, that’s true, but he’ll offer you pleasure too. Exquisite pain and intense pleasure, you wouldn’t know where one ends and the other begins. And Tom already cares for you, you must see that. As for respect, I believe so. Hell, even I’ve started to respect you myself so I think Tom’s a goner.” His wry smile is engaging. And his intuitive words leave me speechless. Can it be true? Is there some subtle difference here that I don’t understand?

Groping around for some insight, some sort of sense to all this, I blurt out the huge question at the heart of my fears. “But—he hit me. That first day. He, he forced me to… You know what he did to me. You both terrorized me. Christ… I thought Kenny was abusive, that’s why I left him. But men like you two scare the shit out of me. Totally.” I drop my gaze, unable to put into words how scared and vulnerable I felt the first time I met Tom Shore. Well, the second time technically. And how affected I was by Nathan Darke’s visit, the episode when he took my camera. And afterwards, when they both came to my cottage. Just reliving the experience is enough to plunge me back into the sheer terror of that day when I fully expected to be gang-raped.

He watches me, watches my emotions flit across my face. I feel the blood drain from me, as it did that other day. He’s silent, considering. I don’t feel in danger now, but he does scare me. Intimidate me. So does Tom, and I’m not sure I can live with this. Live like this. Again.

Then, his voice low, soft, he responds, “We behaved badly, both of us. I know Tom’s apologized since, and I want you to accept my apology too, for the part I played in it. I was cruel, deliberately so. I should never have confronted you that day. And taking your camera was a really shitty thing to do. I can’t believe I did that. I was already on my way back with it when Tom phoned me. Christ, he was pissed off. With me, not you. And I never considered how it would look to you, us both showing up at your cottage. I doubt if Tom did either, it would have never crossed his mind. I realized you were taking it badly when I saw you trying to escape through the bedroom window. I was mean to you even then, but mainly because I was terrified you were going to jump.”

He pauses, and I relive that scene in my head. Yes, that could be an explanation for his callous reaction, his apparent heartlessness. I remember I was more scared of Nathan than of Tom, and I’d preferred to stay in the bedroom, face up to Tom and whatever he might do to me, than try to get past the formidable Nathan Darke. He smiles at me wryly.

“Despite first impressions, we’re not like your Kenny.”

“Not
my
Kenny,” I mutter.

He shrugs, continues, “No, I see that. Well, whatever, we’re Doms. Dominants. That means we can be intimidating, harsh, stern. A submissive might feel nervous around us, apprehensive. That all goes with the territory, it’s the role we play. But she should always feel safe. A Dom/sub relationship is not about abuse. Doms don’t bully, or threaten. We certainly don’t rape. We would never lay a hand on a sub in anger…” I jerk my head up in protest, and he reacts. “Yes, I know, I know. Tom broke our rules that day. He knows it too, bitterly regrets it. You can be certain it will never happen again. Tom cares for you, he
will
look after you. Whatever you decide.”

He sees my confusion. His smile is reassuring. “Ashley, if you don’t want to submit for Tom, if our lifestyle is just not for you, then that’s fine. If you’re not a submissive, and never want to be, then you only need to say so, there’ll be no pressure, no coercion. Tell him straight. Tom’ll still want to fuck you, and he’d be very good at it. I really think you’d like that. Wouldn’t you?”

I find myself nodding. Only slightly, but enough for him to know.

Nathan nods in return, and continues. “So, you could just do that. Have fun. Keep it safe, keep it on your terms. Your choice, Ashley. Now, do you have your phone with you?”

“What?”

“Your phone, please.” He holds out his hand, waits patiently.

Puzzled, I pull my phone from my pocket, hand it over. Nathan punches a few keys and hands it back.

“I’ve given you a phone number. Abigail. Abbie. She’s a good friend of mine, I’ve known her for years. She knows Tom too, I think. Anyway, she’ll explain this lifestyle of ours to you far better than I can, from a female, submissive’s perspective. Talk to her, tell her I gave you her details. It’ll help you understand what we’re all about, and what you could expect from submission to Tom.”

I’m amazed, incredulous. “This—Abigail? Is she your…? I mean, have you…?” God, this is awkward. What’s the right word for this?

“Is she my submissive? No, but she was, for quite a while. She was good too. Not for the last couple of years, though. She’s in a regular relationship now, talking about getting married last I heard.” He leans toward me, his voice low, serious. “Talk to her, Ashley. It
will
help you to understand us, maybe understand yourself. And decide what you want.”

I shove my phone back in my pocket as Nathan stands up, our discussion apparently concluded. “You hungry? Grace is still in bed, and in any case it’s her holiday too. So, my repertoire extends only as far as bacon sandwiches this morning, I think. That suit you?”

And so, incredibly, I find myself sharing a relaxed Boxing Day breakfast of bacon sandwiches and coffee with the devilish Nathan Darke. And enjoying it. I feel more relaxed, more hopeful, than I have in a long, long time. Especially when he casually mentions that I can expect a call from Caroline, the co-owner at Moffats, when the shop reopens after the holiday.

Chapter Thirteen

Despite everything—despite David, my mum, Sadie, my suspended sentence hanging over me—I do feel that life’s good as I make my way up to Greystones the following Friday to spend the day with Tom. As his guest.

Caroline Moffat, the shop’s co-owner along with Nathan, has indeed phoned me to say that circumstances have altered somewhat and she is after all in a position to stock my work if I still have samples available. We’ve arranged to meet next week. The weather’s still cold but the light has a crisp, wintry quality to it, the low cloud dropping into the hollows on the landscape in huge fluffy cotton wool pools. I’ve been up on the moors each of the last two days, and I even took up Tom’s offer of borrowing his quad bike. He brought it round to my cottage the morning after Boxing Day, showed me how to ride it and left me with the machine, a crash helmet and a can of petrol to keep me going.

It’s brilliant fun, so wonderfully exhilarating to speed across the moorland tapestry. The sense of freedom and space is intoxicating, and as if that’s not enough it’s really practical for me as it means I can achieve so much more. I started to thank him but Tom just grinned, said I’m welcome and that he’d need it back at lambing time. And to make sure I rode up to Greystones on it the following day. I really must put one of these bad boys on my shopping list if I ever manage to make any money out of my pictures.