Chapter Twenty-Three

Marianne

Glasgow— Monday 13th August 1877

I barely recall the journey back from the West End Park to the Queen's Hotel. We walked until Rory found us a hackney carriage. We sat side by side. I looked out of the dusty window, but I didn't see anything. My hand lay on Rory's leg. He unbuttoned my glove and eased it off slowly, finger by finger. He had removed his own glove. He traced circles on my palm.

All of my attention was on his hand, on the circles he was drawing, circles that were sending shivers up my arm, making my body thrum, making my nipples ache for his touch, making me feel as if I couldn't breathe. Making me want to moan my pleasure. I bit my lip, and he continued stroking my hand. I didn't dare look at him. I never wanted that journey to end. I was desperate for it to end.

When we arrived, and it did end, I did moan, softly. I heard the intake of his breath in response. I dare not look at him. I knew he was as aroused as I was. I knew, though I hadn't touched him. I don't recall descending from the coach or him paying the driver. I waited, barely aware of our surroundings.

But when the carriage pulled away and we ascended the shallow flight of marble steps to enter the hotel's reception area, Rory pulled me to one side. ‘Marianne, I want...'

‘So do I.'

He laughed shortly, his cheeks warm. ‘Two rooms. I'll get two rooms. Then it's not too late to change your mind.'

‘I won't, Rory.' Now that my decision had been made, I felt so certain. ‘I won't change my mind.'

I thought he would kiss me there and then. He shuddered. He shook his head. He made to say something. Then he headed over to the reception desk. Five minutes later, we were being escorted up the stairs by a liveried porter who seemed to take our lack of luggage quite for granted, muttering about the shocking state of the Edinburgh railway, the vast numbers of passengers and the lack of railway porters.

Rory nodded in agreement, though I knew his mind was on me, almost entirely on me. He barely contained his impatience as the porter showed us the two adjoining rooms, one for Mr Sutherland, one for his good lady wife, and the little sitting room that separated them. Happy that he had earned the tip Rory slid into his waiting palm, the man finally departed.

And finally, belatedly, my nerves began to make themselves felt. ‘I've never in my life been in a hotel before,' I said, going over to the sitting room window and staring out at the view of George Square. ‘Do you think they believed that we are married?'

‘If we'd been any younger, they might have been more sceptical. I'm not much interested in what anyone else thinks, however.'

‘But you're nervous!' I exclaimed, unthinking.

He laughed shakily. ‘Do you think I make a habit of this sort of thing?' He set his hat and gloves down on the table, and pushed his hair back from his brow. ‘I've never in my life—not like this. And I'm thinking—or at least I'm trying to think—to tell myself—that we shouldn't.'

But I felt that this was meant. Our one chance. Fate had intervened. And I wanted so much, so desperately, for this to happen. Now. As did he, I was sure of it.

I set my gloves down beside his. I took off my bonnet. I draped my shawl over a chair. I went to him, putting one hand on each shoulder, and I leaned into him. ‘I want you, Rory,' I whispered. ‘I have never wanted anyone like this.' The truth of it made me light-headed. Whatever this was between us, it was like nothing ever before. The delight of that, and the relief made me giddy. ‘And you want me too, don't you?'

‘You know I do Marianne, every bit as much. And I've never...'

‘Never,' I said, leaning closer.

‘Never.'

Our lips met. This kiss was different. I felt the jolt of connection, joining, merging, the rightness of it, deep inside me. It was a kiss like nothing I'd ever felt before. Elemental. I didn't speak, but I said his name in my head, over and over. And he spoke to me in the same language. Mouth, minds, touching, melding.

Rory, I thought, raking my fingers through his hair.

Marianne, he said, pulling the pins from mine, running his hands through my thick tresses, uncut for so long now that they hung down my back almost to my waist.

Rory. Pushing his coat back, I felt the heat of his skin through his shirt and waistcoat. The flex of his shoulders as I stroked, then the hiss of his exhaling breath.

Marianne. His mouth on my neck, kiss after kiss, fluttering down my skin, while he pushed back the neckline of my gown, and there were more kisses, on my collarbones, across the top of my breasts, making me sigh his name again.

His coat fell to the floor followed by his waistcoat, his collar and necktie. Kissing, we made our way to one of the bedchambers. Still kissing, we pulled the curtains closed. In the soft afternoon light, we stopped to look at each other for a moment, just a moment.

More?

Yes.

Oh, yes.

Passionate kisses now, but he was careful not to embrace me, his hands on my arms, on the fastenings of my gown, smoothing over my breasts, making my nipples harden and peak beneath the layers of my undergarments. I yearned for him. I ached for him. I was frantic for him. My desire for him staggered me, it was so new, so different, as if this was what I had always been waiting for. This man. This moment.

‘ Marianne.' His voice took me aback. His eyes were dark, his lids heavy, his breathing ragged. ‘I need to know—are you certain?'

‘You know I am.'

‘If you change your mind...'

‘I won't, Rory.'

He studied me for a long moment. Then he kissed me again, slowly this time, taking his time, but when I tried to deepen the kiss, he drew back. ‘There's no hurry,' he said, and it confused me, for I thought there was always a hurry. There always had been before. My body was clamouring, roused. I remembered what I had forgotten. That I had reached this point but no further. That the rush there had always been had left me disappointed. I had been so sure that there was more, but there never was.

‘‘Trust me,' Rory said, kissing me softly again. ‘Will you trust me?'

I knew I could. I knew. I nodded, overcome, unable to speak.

He turned me around, pushing my hair over my shoulder to kiss my neck. He began to unbutton my gown, his mouth feathering kisses on each bit of skin he revealed. I gave myself over to him. He unwrapped me, layer by layer, and I stood pliant, though every touch, every kiss aroused me more. My gown slid to the floor. He reached around me to unfasten my corset, carefully working to untie the knots. Behind me, he was all but fully clothed, careful to keep a distance.

Trust me.

I resisted the urge to lean into him.

My corset fell to the floor. His arms were around me, but carefully, his hands cupping my breasts, his thumbs stroking my nipples through my chemise, drawing a long moan of pleasure from me.

Marianne. Marianne. Marianne.

The way he said my name roused me more. I could no longer resist leaning back into him, my petticoats against his thighs, his soft cry of pleasure as I nestled closer, emboldened by his arousal. My petticoats were next. I stepped out of them. He turned me back round to face him at last, and our mouths met again. Frantic this time. Not slow. Frantic. Still he did not embrace me, but I wanted to be closer. Pressing against him again, I felt him hard against my belly. His hands cupped my bottom, pulling me closer. Hot. I was so hot.

I tugged at his shirt. He pulled it over his head. I studied him. Taking my time. This was new. All of this was new. The way he watched me watching him. The anticipation, sharp between us, shared between us. I smoothed my hands over his skin, encouraged by the sharp intake of his breath, feeling the ripple of his muscles under my touch. Smooth skin. Rough hair on his chest. The dip of his belly. A scar, a long thin scar on his abdomen.

‘Knife,' he said, as I traced the curve of it.

His skin was burning. I wanted to feel his arms around me, but I was afraid, and so I wrapped my arms around his waist instead. I burrowed my face into his chest, my smooth cheek, his rough hair, his nipple peaking under my palm, the smell of his soap, a faint tang of sweat. His hands smoothed my hair. He said my name and I looked up, seeing such tenderness in his expression. I slid my arms up around his neck and burrowed closer. Then our lips met again and we fell back on to the bed, still kissing. But though he had kicked off his shoes he was still wearing his trousers. I was frantic, but I wasn't sure what to do. What he wanted.

‘Nothing,' he said to me, pushing my hair back from my face. ‘I don't want anything. Trust me.'

I did, but I didn't understand, and I must have said so, for he smiled, a smile that I had never seen before, a smile that made my insides tense further with desire. Then he began to kiss me. My lips. My neck. My breasts. Taking my nipples in his mouth, teasing, sucking, licking, driving me wild, and stilling me with his hands. My belly. He knelt down and eased my legs apart. I grabbed his hair. He looked up. Another of those smiles. ‘Do you want me to stop, Marianne?'

‘No. No, no, no.' And as he kissed me again, his mouth soft and hot between my legs, ‘Yes, yes. Oh, Rory, yes.'

His kisses made me feel like molten metal, melted chocolate, bubbling, burning sugar. I was a tightly coiled clock spring, I was a bow stretched too tight, I was clinging to a cliff face, my whole body tensed, and then I was shattered int a million pieces of pure and utter delight, spinning and spiralling out of control, as wave after wave of pleasure picked me up and tossed me in the air and then let me fall.

I was calling out his name, I was clutching at his hair, at his shoulders, my legs were wrapped tightly around his body, and then I was trying to pull him up towards me, to find his mouth. Such kisses. Such bliss. I was lying on top of him, my breasts flattened against his chest, kissing him frantically, saying his name urgently, his hardness pressed to the throbbing heat between my legs. He was still half dressed.

‘Rory.' I tugged at the waistband of his trousers. He removed my hand and eased me on to my side. ‘Rory?'

‘I can't.' He sat up. ‘It's not any lack of desire. I've never wanted anything so much in my life, but I simply can't—must not.'

‘Why not?' I sat up too, pulling the sheet over my nakedness. ‘What did I do? What's wrong?'

‘There's nothing wrong. This couldn't feel more right, and that's the problem.'

The words frightened me, for they echoed what I was feeling. Instinctively, I shrank away from him.

Rory rolled out of bed and pulled on his shirt. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘You're sorry ?'

‘I don't mean that, not the way you think.'

‘Then what do you mean? No, never mind. It's best if you leave me alone now.'

He took a step towards me then changed his mind. ‘You're right.'

The door closed quietly behind him. I felt as if I'd been dropped violently from a very high, blissful place, to a very cold, rocky one. Tears burned my eyes. I burrowed my way under the sheets, digging my nails into my palms. I wasn't hurt. I wouldn't cry, but I had been such a fool.