A Marq's Woman Ch. 14

Years of training for war had him ready to defend himself and reciprocate the blow as he hit the hard ground, his attacker on top of him. Rade couldn't make out the man's features, but knew that he had the intent of hurting his opponent in his mind. Blindly, Rade swung at the shadow's face, hearing a satisfying crunch. The figure keened and drew back, hands rising to clutch at his face. Rade took the opportunity to slam the smaller man into the wall.

Huffing slightly, he held the man up by his neck, feet dangling off the ground. He looked back to find Kistle staring at the scene with wide eyes.

"Do you know him?" he called to her, his hands still tight on the man's throat.

"I- I don't know."

He held out his free hand to her and she took it, coming closer to the immobile man. A gasp caught in her throat when she recognized the jaunty thrust of the man's jaw. Immediately, she began pulling at Rade's hand, a demand that he release him. Rade complied, watching as the limp form slipped slowly to the ground.

Kistle knelt, her fingers reaching out to check for a pulse. She let out a breath when she felt the steady thrum of one.

"Jones," she whispered, tapping on his cheek to awaken him. She didn't understand why Jones had attacked them, or why he had called her a whore. Granted, she knew that he had had his eye on her, but after a few home visits, it should have been apparent to him that she was not interested in a relationship. So why had he attacked them so?

"Jones?" Rade questioned, his brows furrowing. He reached out and pulled Kistle up from her crouch. He did not want her near this man. "Is he the one you were talking about during dinner?"

"He is, yes."

"Why did he attack us, then? Why did he call you a whore?"

A moan from the slumped form interrupted Kistle's reply, but she didn't bother leaning over to check on him again. If the man was in pain, it was of his own doing.

"I don't understand it either. When I first came to Brittle Creek, he visited me a few times to let me know he was interested in courting me." Rade's hand tightened on her arm. "But I made it clear to him that I was not interested in a relationship with anyone. I don't understand why he would react like this, attack you like this, just because he saw us together."

Ah. Rade understood now. The man had probably fallen for her charms, just like Rade himself had. And Jones had probably thought of Kistle as his to court, and had become enraged when he heard tell that another man had escorted Kistle to dinner. Knowing how small the town was, Rade wasn't surprised that the news had traveled that fast.

Rade shook his head, pitying the poor man. He could lust for Kistle as much as he wanted, but she belonged only to Rade. Only him.

"Come," he said tersely. "Let us leave."

"But Rade, I can't leave – he has children," Kistle protested, but Rade did not relent in his purposeful strides towards the livery, where Diane was awaiting them.

"I don't understand. Truly. He hasn't talked to me in weeks... yet he tried to kill you, did he not?" Kistle asked as she watched Rade slide the saddle on top of the white horse. She was just a jumble of confused emotions, not knowing if she should run back and help the injured man or take umbrage that he had tried to kill Rade. The latter came easier to her, and so, she felt herself turning red with anger at the thought that the low-down, measly bastard had tried to kill her... man.

Surprisingly, as the thought entered her mind, she didn't cringe or turn it away. It felt good to say it. Her man. Yes, Rade was her man. After all they had bee through, the least that he would be, was her man.

Her man. She knew she was repeating the phrase in her head unnecessarily, but she could not help it. It felt right, calling him that.

"Yes, he did. I'll have a talk with him on the morrow, when he's sober."

"I will accompany you, then."

He shot her a look. "No, you will not."

She accepted the hand he held out to her, and threw a leg over the horse. He followed closely behind her. "Yes, I will. He called me names, Rade. I have some things that I'd like to say to him as well."

"I'm not sure-," he started, but she cut him off.

"He's my problem, isn't he?"

Diane pranced under them, as though she could feel the tension of the minor dispute between the parties seated on top of her. Kistle's eyes never lost contact with Rade's as she put across her request. She wasn't going to back down, and he knew it.

Finally, after moments of tense silence, he uttered a low curse and kicked the horse into motion.

Bloody stubborn woman.

*

Farrow's Hill

December, 1828

Remy gingerly folded the letter and slipped it into a drawer, making a mental note to pen a reply to it later. It was a note from Kistle, assuring Remy that all was well, and that she and Tessa were safe. She had also briefly mentioned a flood in Brittle Creek, which had made Remy anxious, but had ended the letter saying that they had not lost much in it, because Sir Rade had assisted them.

The mere mention of that man's name had Remy's skin crawling. She didn't understand how her friend could forgive his discretions so easily. Laying a hand on a woman was a cardinal sin in Remy's eyes, and she did not believe such a person could ever be forgiven.

But it was different in Kistle's case, Remy knew. She had seen the look in Kistle's eyes when she spoke about him during the few days they'd known each other. There had been a different light, a tenderness around her mouth and eyes that had spoken of affection. It was as though Kistle hadn't wanted to accept what he'd done to her, but did not have a choice but to do so. She had had feelings for the man, but she'd left because she'd known that it would be the best decision for her.

And Remy didn't fault her friend for that. But now, ever since the man had found Kistle again, she could read in Kistle's letters that the buried affection for him was returning, scurrying to the surface, and probably taking over her heart. Remy would have been happy for her friend if she hadn't known that the man Kistle loved did not have the tendency to lash out in anger. That fact worried her, and she knew she would write of her concerns to Kistle in her next letter.

She had just risen from her perch on the writing bench when she heard the neighing of Trinston, Scar's winged mare. A smile tilted the corner of her lips as she hurried to the doorway, anxious as always to greet her beloved after a long day of chores. But the blood in her cheeks drained away as she took in the bloody mess before her.

"Scar!"

Hiking her skirts up, Remy ran to her husband. The lanky woman was struggling to get out of the saddle, one hand clutching at the wound low on her belly.

Scar fell off the horse and stumbled into Remy's arms. Her stomach was aching like the devil, as was her calf, but she took the time to press a hard kiss to Remy's forehead, murmuring, "It's not as bad as it looks."

"The hell it isn't!" Remy snapped, worried over the amount of blood flowing from the wound. If she'd guessed correctly, Scar had opened up the older gash. Quickly and efficiently, Remy ushered Scar into the house and laid her on the settee. She'd just turned away to get the medical supplies, knowing that she should clean the wound and ask questions later, when she was pulled back to Scar.

"Lean down," Scar ordered, her voice husky.

"What? Why?" Remy protested, already mentally ticking off the list of supplies she wound need to tend to Scar. How one woman could get herself injured multiple times in the same area was beyond Remy's imagination.

"I want to kiss you. I've been thinking about it all day."

"Not now! I've got to..." But she saw that there was no point in arguing with Scar. When her eyes were as steely as that, she always saw that she got what she wanted. Thinking to get it over with as quickly as possible, Remy leaned down and pressed a hard kiss to Scar's lips. She was about to pull away when Scar's hand snaked through Remy's moon-lit tresses, fusing their lips securely.

Scar knew that it wasn't advisable to kiss her wife when she was bleeding like a lamb after slaughter, but she could not help herself. Throughout the day, Remy had been drifting through her thoughts, especially since they hadn't been intimate for a week. More than once through the day, Scar had stopped to think of what her baby was doing. Was she thinking of Scar as Scar was of her? The hunger had grown such that even in training, she had been careless and had gotten nicked by a prick of a soldier.

"Stop. Stop," Remy breathed when she felt herself falling into the hazy clouds of desire. It was always that way with Scar. One look, one kiss and she melted like butter under the afternoon sun. Disentangling herself from the taller woman's warm body, Remy hurried into the kitchen and poured warm water, herbs and healing oil into a bowl. Then, armed with a towel, she entered the hall and knelt beside Scar. The injured woman already had her shirt off, and had used the cotton material of it to staunch the blood flow.

True enough, the wound she had incurred whilst spying for the Marq army had been re-opened, and dried blood encrusted it, making it seem worse than it really was. Remy made Scar lean back on the settee again and washed the wound carefully. The oil mixed in the water helped cease the blood flow, and soon, Remy found herself wrapping a dry towel tightly over an angry, pinkish-red gash.

All this while, Scar's fingers had been playing on Remy's shoulder and neck, touching the soft skin there. Right now, she only wanted Remy cuddling by her side, not wrapping a bandage around her waist. Blast it, she would have to tell Remy about the other injury as well.

"That's not all," she said quietly, before pulling her breeches up to reveal another scratch, about six-inches long, along her calf. Remy glared at her, but didn't say anything as she bent to wipe that wound as well.

Half an hour later, when Scar was finally patched up, Remy returned to the sitting area with their dinner. She sat on the floor, between Scar and the low table, as she sliced the newly-baked bread and meat onto a plate. There were no vegetables, for she knew that Scar hated greens.

But Scar was not interested in the meal, she was more interested in biting into the delectable expanse of neck that showed above the modest neckline of Remy's gown. She feathered her thumb over it and felt the shivers that rose as tiny bumps on Remy's skin. The younger woman turned and frowned at her.

"You've yet to explain yourself."

Scar laughed, thinking that her wife looked damned desirable when she was angry.

"Come here and I'll tell you," Scar said, shifting so that there was enough space for Remy's sweet derriere to fill.

Remy could see the devilish light in Scar's eyes. There was something wrong with her husband today; she was being overtly romantic. Had she done something wrong and wanted to make up for it?

"What happened?" Remy asked as she seated herself next to Scar. The food remained untouched on the table.

"I got distracted." Scar's hand snaked around Remy's shoulders.

"Distracted?"

"Yes. Thinking of you. The soldiers were training, and I was on duty. A few of them were talking about women, you see, and how they were inferior to men. Hearing that, I couldn't leave without teaching them a lesson."

"And you've got these cuts to show for it. You could've gotten yourself more seriously injured, Scar!"

"Yes, but at least they're moaning more than I am," Scar said, her eyes tracing the outline of Remy's lips before she captured it with hers. Ah, this was the best kind of heaven.

The fresh shirt that Remy had made her put on was rough against her suddenly tender nipples, and Scar began to tear at the buttons to her shirt. But Remy stopped her, telling her that she needed to put some food in her stomach for strength. She had lost enough blood as it is.

Groaning, Scar let her head drop into the crook of Remy's shoulder. Remy always smelled good, like laundered clothing and woman. Scar took a deep breath of her love's essence and sighed. She hated being aroused and not being able to do anything about it. But she knew that Remy was speaking the truth. Blood loss tended to leave her weak if she didn't feed her body soon.

So she leaned back against the cushion, patiently and waited for Remy to feed her bits of bread and meat.

"I received a letter from Kistle today."

Scar nodded for Remy to go on.

"I think she's in love with him."

Scar swallowed the food in her mouth, weighing Remy's tone. "And that's a bad thing, why?"

"Have you forgotten that he laid his hands on her once, Scar?" Remy asked, incredulous.

"No, I haven't. But I happen to know that it was an accident, and I can forgive Rade for it. He isn't the type of man to hit a woman, beautiful."

"But what if an 'accident' happens again? What if he hits her too hard and something happens? What then? I sent her away for a reason!"

Remy was getting tensed again. Scar sighed and cupped Remy's cheek, smoothing it patiently. "You have to trust Kistle a little more, Remy. I'm sure she's woman enough to decide whether or not Rade is worth taking back."

"But she's so innocent..."

"Only as innocent as you are, sweets."

Remy thought about what Scar said for a moment, accepting the piece of bread that Scar pressed against her lips. It was true. She did have to trust Kistle more to make her own decisions. But she just didn't want her friend to make the same mistake twice!

"Shh. Enough about her. You should think about me more often," Scar teased, setting the plate of food away. Remy smiled distractedly, still lost in thought about her dear friend. The older woman traced the slight curves of her love's breasts, lingering between them, before moving up, towards Remy's neck. Scar placed a soft, wet kiss on Remy's neck, nipping slightly, until Remy had no choice but to notice the pleasant humming of her body. Her worries about Kistle faded away as Scar's fingers deftly handled the tiny rows of clasps on the back of her gown.

*

Remy pulled the blanket firmly over her shoulders, feeling the chill in the room attempting to penetrate their love-warm cocoon. She and Scar were sprawled in the sitting room, for they'd had little strength to rise after a passionate bout of long-awaited loving. Remy smiled contently as she turned in Scar's arms, pressing a kiss to the underside of the taller woman's chin. Scar grunted softly and held Remy tighter against her naked body.

But something had caused Remy to awaken, for she was usually a sound sleeper. She popped one eye open and listened carefully to the night's whispers. There seemed to be nothing out of place... Oh! But there it was. That peculiar scratching noise...

"Scar?" the flaxen-haired beauty nudged her husband.

"Hmm?" Remy could feel the awareness sweeping through the other woman's body. Scar had always been one to rise quickly.

"I think there's something outside. Listen."

Scar rose on her elbows and strained to catch the faint noise. True enough, there was a peculiar scuffling noise coming from the area of the house which boasted the gardens. Immediately on guard, Scar pushed Remy firmly to the ground and shrugged into her shirt and breeches, wincing when she felt the twang of her protesting injuries. How was it that she never felt those pains when she was in Remy's arms?

The threat outside could possibly be merely an estranged animal, but it could also be those boys from the village again, trying to destroy the home that Remy had built for her. It wouldn't be the first time they had attacked them, and Scar could feel rage rise in her. If she caught them today, she swore she would snip their fingers off.

But she did not see anyone as she shifted out of the house and into the gardens. There was no whiff of fire or burning wood, neither was there the slightly revolting smell of a man's sweat. Everything remained still around her, until she heard the tiny sniffles about ten feet away from where she stood.

Her brows furrowed instantly as she made her way towards the source of the noise. It sounded suspiciously human.

She found a small, fair ball of human flesh in the corner of the garden, huddled against the fencing. It seemed as though the young thing was crying. Then, as the clouds ceased blocking the moon, Scar got a good look at the boy's face.

The name erupted from her lips before she could stop it. Her limbs were too cold with shock for her to move.

"Remy!"

*

Brittle Creek

January, 1829

Kistle drew the needle through cloth, her fingers steady as she put together yet another dress. It was a beautiful, emerald-green one this time, and it had been ordered by the wife of the chief of the town. Thus, Kistle was giving it special care, making sure that she did not miss a single detail of the dress. She wanted to assure Madam Borne got the finest quality of gowns, for the sum of money she had promised to pay Kistle was too much not to.

Moreover, it would be the last dress Kistle would be sewing in Brittle Creek, and she wanted it to be the best.

She looked up to find Tessa seated on Rade's lap, a children's book open in front of them. Kistle could see the joy in Tessa's face as she pointed to the characters that were illustrated on the page. Rade's voice was a low rumble in the background.

It was a beautiful sight, really. One of many that had convinced Kistle that she was doing the right thing.

For the past months, Rade had flitted around Tessa and her like a mother hen around her chicks. He had hunted fresh meat for them for the first few days, but after Kistle had told him that she could afford to feed her own child, he had stopped, though she did spy him slipping extra cans of soup into the cupboard when he thought she wasn't looking.

Also, he had begun to teach Tessa the art of sword-fighting. He had, of course, asked Kistle if she approved of her daughter learning such tactics, but Kistle had told him that she saw no harm in it. It would aid Tess in the future if she knew how to defend herself.

Thus, every morning, the cling and clangs of battle would sound from the fields at the back of the shop, as Tess tried to defeat Rade with her four-inch, blunt blade. And every day, without fail, her daughter would emerge the victor. Kistle had to admit, though, that her daughter was having fun with her father.

"Is that what the prince will look like, Rade?" Kistle heard Tess ask as she bounced on Rade's lap, head tilted up to him. Tessa had taken to addressing Rade by his first name, a habit that Rade had not corrected, and Kistle hadn't felt compelled to. If only Tessa knew that she was calling her father by his first name.

"Yes, I suppose so, little one," Rade replied, turning a critical eye on the young lad that was depicted in the book. Much too young to be of any use as a prince, he mused.

"Why doesn't Mama have a prince?" Tessa asked with a blink of innocence. Kistle sat up in her chair, placing the half-ready dress on her worktable. It was already late; the candles were burning low.

"Mama doesn't-," Kistle began, when Rade cut in.

"She doesn't need a prince, Tess. She has me." Kistle flushed at that, but did not say anything.

"Come on, Tess. It's time for bed," Kistle said, reaching into the trunk for their blankets. It was a routine of theirs. Once Tessa was safely tucked in her blankets, Rade and Kistle would move to the porch and talk for a while. They would talk about everything in the world, although they did tend to avoid the uncomfortable past. Kistle was amazed, though. Throughout the three months that he'd been with them, Rade had not made a single advance towards her. No matter how sexually charged the situation was, he seemed to have developed an edge of steely control, one that she appreciated.