No stars, no moon, only torrents of heaven’s overflow and a small blustering wind. Suddenly lightning fizzled a twisting silver furrow into the darkness above, and the echo of a thunderous drumroll followed immediately. “I – am – drenched,” Emeline croaked. “Please – where – why?”
He pulled her on. She felt the ooze of mud inside her shoes, wrapping around her toes. Where his fingers clasped her arm, the rain collected in rivulets. Her tiny gauze headdress began to slip down the back of her head, weighted by water. The neckline of her gown, velvet trimmed, sagged open and the rain found its own entrance. Her skirt hems slammed against her shins, soaked heavy. With no breath for complaints, she struggled and was hauled towards the riverbank.
The birch stood alone, low branches thick with dripping leaf. Nicholas stood beneath its damp shelter and its spreading shadows. Against the bark, the perfumes were loamy and rich. The rain, a little muted by the tree’s overhang, was warm on the evening air as the faint sour smell of the river slipped up between the leaves. Nicholas pressed Emeline back against the trunk and lowered his mouth to hers. She tasted the water drenching her face and his, the wisps of her uncovered hair, and the heat of her husband’s lips. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, tasting her as she tasted him. His body was pressed to hers, the sodden welter of his clothes further soaking her own. She caught her breath and closed her eyes. His voice was so tight to her ear that it was a hot breeze. “No one can see us from the house. I’m going to undress you. I want you naked in the rain.”
She tried to shake her head. “Not here –” but he was grinning. Emeline stared at the tiny milky drops in his left eye as they caught the last crackle of lightning above and turned his bright blue iris into white flame. “You are – frightening,” she whispered.
Nicholas snorted as his hands roamed. “Your nipples rise through the wet silk. So deliciously tantalising,” and smoothing downwards, unclipped the wide band just below her breasts, then loosening her gown where it was laced beneath her arm. The deep V neckline was already gaping and finally he slipped the heavy material from her shoulders. It sank and crumpled to her hips. Beneath it, her shift stuck to her, outlining her nipples, dark as her gown. The linen clung. Nicholas slipped his hands inside, warming and drying her as the tree trunk scratched at her back. She stopped struggling.
His wandering fingers found the fastening, untied the ribbon and pulled it loose from its eyelets. Emeline stood uncovered to the dip where her navel rested just above the first hint of belly. The rain sluiced down her, discovering the swells and angles, making its own little pools and ripples as she shivered.
“Cold?” The increasing darkness remained warm. Even the summer storm did not chill the night.
Emeline shook her head. “No. Hot. Inside, not outside.” Her hair was loose now, hanging in thick water logged ringlets, diverting the flow of the rainwater over her skin. Nicholas traced the rivulets, one finger down from her neck, curving out then pushing into her cleavage, down her ribs and to the round soft plane below. There the rain puddled until he tugged, and all her clothes fell sodden around her feet. She stood naked apart from her gartered stockings and her little mud squelched shoes, and he took her again in his arms and pressed her harder back against the tree. She could barely see him, too lost in fluttering leafy shadow, and his eyes, now heavy lidded, barely glinted. He said, very softly, “Do you want to please me, Emma?”
She whispered, “You have to teach me.”
The lightning again interrupted, startling silver arrows bringing one short and sudden moment of visibility and a shatter of vivid reflections across the river. The Thames was rising fast, its waves white tipped. Then once again everything was dark as the thunder bellowed. Nicholas murmured half muffled by echoes and reverberation, “Touch me.” He took her hand and brought it between his legs, one knee bent between hers, keeping her thighs apart. “Hold me, discover me. You’re getting to know the rest of me, now know me here. Around first, then over, softly or tightly as you wish. Thumb below here, fingers wide. Down, then down to the base, then up again, pulling and tight. Every part is sensitive, just as you are, some places more than others. Find the places.” His own fingertips were still running, exploring across her breasts, circling the aureoles, pushing up under her arms to the nestled curls, then down her body again to the richer, thicker curls at her groin. He cupped her there, his thumb to the opening, rubbing gently until she squirmed. Then he grinned and said, “Gloriously wet, my love, and not just from the rain. Look at me.”
Her eyes flickered open, her lashes sparkling with rain and blinking back the falling drops. “I’m – soaked,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes indeed you are,” smiled Nicholas. “And now I shall share your bath, both outside and in. I shall take you standing up, but afterwards I shall carry you to bed and dry you, and tuck you in the warmth, and stay beside you until dawn creeps in.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
He had wrapped her in his discarded shirt to bring her in to the house again, up the wide stairs and through the dark corridor to the bedchamber. Here he laid her on the soft yielding counterpane of gold thread and white fur, removed his wet shirt from her, plumped up the pillows behind her and smiled. He was naked too, although he had draped his doublet over his shoulders. Now he threw that off and began to walk the chamber, lighting candles beside the bed and on the table. A flask of wine had been left there with cups beside, and he filled the cups and brought one to Emeline. The candlelight turned the wine to cherry, shot with as much gold thread as the bedcover.
He put up the shutters across the two windows, wandered into the adjoining garderobe and returned with some damp cloths and several towels. Then he sat beside his wife. He lifted her leg, bent it, rolled off her sodden stocking and brought her foot to his naked lap. He began to wash her toes as they curled, pressing down as she felt the rising muscles of his groin beneath her sole. “You’re beginning to learn how to please me after all.” He twisted the wet cloth between her toes, cleaning away the accumulated mud. Then he took a towel, and briskly dried where he had washed.
She said, “All my clothes are lying down in the storm. So are half of yours. What will the servants think in the morning?”
“That they have odd masters with odd desires, and so will gossip about us in the kitchens.”
“You don’t care?”
“Why should I?” He leaned across her, removed the second stocking and washed her other foot.
“There’s mud everywhere,” Emma giggled, “and your feet are worse than mine. You didn’t even start with shoes on.”
He bent over her suddenly, kissing her hard. “Not such a practical bath then?”
She sipped her wine, peeping at him over the brim. “So were you drunk, Nicholas? Are you still? Are you all the time?”
He laughed, throwing the mud crusted cloths to the ground. “Was I? No. Am I? Not yet. Am I always?” He paused, looking down at her. “No, little one, I am not my father. But life can be sadly disappointing, and a fine wine masks the sharper edges. Is that inebriation? I was intoxicated on our wedding night, and that was purposeful. Usually I prefer my head clear. You’ve not yet seen me entirely drunk.”
“I was drunk on our wedding night too. That was the first time in my life and it was horrid.” Emeline wrinkled her nose. “I had a dreadful headache afterwards and I still had to face all the horror of the fire.”