Pendragon by Catherine Coulter
“Probably not, you clod. Get off me, damn you!”
He fell forward, flattened her, kissed her and shoved hard again and again. It was over again in less than a minute. He was heaving and panting, nearly crying because his body felt so very fine—nothing but soul-deep satisfaction and the overwhelming urge to sleep, to forget what he’d just done. Damn him and damn her. At least no one could take her from him now. Damn her honor. He’d been rough with her. He was sorry he’d hurt her, but in the end, she would have to learn that whatever he did, she had no say in it.
He thought about that life-changing conversation between father and daughter he’d overheard in the vicarage gardens not three hours after she’d become his wife. His wife whom he’d wanted to pull behind a shrubbery and kiss her silly, but that hadn’t happened. He’d seen her father, taken a step forward to ask if he’d seen Meggie, but then he’d heard her say in a voice stumbling with pain, “I truly didn’t want him to speak to me, Papa, but Jeremy believed that since I’d married Thomas, he could now redeem himself because obviously I didn’t love him anymore and it bothered him that I believed he was an idiot. Papa, Jeremy is honorable. I should never have believed that wretched act of his. He did it to make me stop loving him, oh God—so noble and I hated him, scorned him.”
Her father had held her close and whispered against her hair, “It will be all right. You’ve got a fine husband. You will come to love him, dearest. You will see.”
And Meggie cried against her father’s shoulder, and Thomas Malcombe’s life, as he’d known it, as he’d anticipated it would be with his new wife, fell into pieces at his feet.
The candle was nearly gutted when he rolled off her onto his back. She was up in an instant, ready to clout him when, her fist hard and ready, ready to strike, he snored.
Meggie couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t. She wanted to kill him for what he had done, damn him a million times more than she’d already damned him.
She looked down at him, waved her fist not an inch from his nose, and whispered, “Blessed hell.”
Slowly she got off the other side of the bed and managed to stand straight. Every part of her hurt, but nothing compared to the pain deep inside her, where he’d poked and pushed and shoved, and no, she still wanted to kill him, very badly. She felt wet and sticky and her legs were shaking. She could barely stand up.
She’d trusted him.
She’d been an idiot.
Was this the way things were always done? First a man left a woman’s body and the second time he didn’t? Was it some sort of strange ritual? Did her father do this to Mary Rose? Her brain shied away from that. What about Jeremy? Had he done that to his precious Charlotte their wedding night? Meggie had been eaten up with jealousy at the thought of Jeremy kissing Charlotte, not her, but if it had led to this utter humiliation, then her jealousy was ridiculous. Meggie walked over to the small table that held a basin of clean water and washed herself. She winced at the pain and saw that the water was red with her blood. He’d done that to her the first time just before he’d jerked away from her.
Then she headed straight to the table where the remains of their meal still were, and immediately picked up the champagne bottle. Thank the good lord it wasn’t empty.
She downed the rest of it. Warm or not, bubbles or not, it was quickly down her throat. She didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty. Then she stood there, staring out over the English Channel, at the magnificent moonlight that was a wide swatch across the water, making it glitter. Hah, glitter. Here she was admiring the beauty of nature when that man who was her husband was lying on his back, naked, snoring, on that wretched bed where he’d behaved so strangely. Surely a husband wasn’t supposed to do that to his wife. She wouldn’t believe that Jeremy had done that to Charlotte, that that was simply the way men behaved. Very well, if men weren’t all like this, then why had Thomas done it to her? Because he didn’t love her and thus didn’t care if he hurt her or not? That just made no sense. He’d laughed with her, saved Rory’s life, wanted to marry her. Meggie just stood there looking out over the moon shining onto the water, and wondered what to do.
She tipped the champagne bottle again, but the wretched thing was empty. She wondered what the innkeeper would think if she ordered another bottle, and then she just didn’t care. She pulled on Thomas’s dressing gown that he’d tossed over the end of the bed, an old burgundy velvet, its elbows nearly worn through, and tied it tightly around her waist. She left the room, walked barefoot down the hall and down the stairs. Mrs. Miggs was the only person in the taproom. Her hair was coming out of the tight knot at the back of her head, her apron was spotted, but she was humming as she wiped a wet cloth over the wooden tabletops.
“Hello, Mrs. Miggs.”
“Oh my,” Mrs. Miggs said, startled, her hand holding the wet cloth, clutched over her breast. “Lady Lancaster? Goodness, it is nearly midnight. What is the problem?”
“I would like another bottle of champagne.”
Mrs. Miggs nearly dropped the cloth she was so surprised. Then she really looked at the tousled girl in front of her, barefoot, wearing a man’s dressing gown that dragged the floor, very pale in the dim candlelight, and said slowly, “It’s very late, my lady. I do not see your husband. You are obviously alone. Thank heavens I sent the rest of the men on their way a few minutes ago.”
“I’m glad, too. I wouldn’t have come in if there had been men. They’re dreadful, men are. May I have another bottle of champagne.”
“Why?”
Meggie looked down at her toes and said with no hesitation at all, “It’s my wedding night and I don’t feel very good about things at all. After I’ve drunk the champagne I’m wondering if I should bash my new husband over the head with the bottle. I finished the bottle upstairs, gripped it about its neck, tested its weight, but decided rather than killing him right at that moment, I wanted to drink some more champagne. To consider it more at length. What do you think?”
“What does your new husband have to say?”
“The clod is sleeping in the middle of the bed, snoring.”
“Let me get you the champagne.”
Meggie didn’t realize she was weaving about a bit when Mrs. Miggs returned with a very cold bottle, but Mrs. Miggs did. The young lady had been shocked to her bare toes, and her new husband obviously hadn’t behaved well. She was too pale, and that worried Mrs. Miggs. She said, “You just sit yourself down on that bench, that’s right, just slide right on in and I’ll open the bottle for you.” She popped the cork out efficiently, then put two glasses on a table. “Come, let us talk about this new marriage of yours. Shall, ah, we toast it?”
Meggie grumbled even as she slid across the wooden bench, but she quickly accepted a glass from Mrs. Miggs. “I don’t want to toast my marriage. There is nothing to toast. Please don’t call me ‘my lady.’ My name is Meggie and this is my wedding night. It was awful. I wasn’t expecting any of it. He ambushed me.”
Mrs. Miggs, thick in the middle now from birthing five children and her own excellent cooking, said, “Wedding nights can be bad sometimes for the woman.”
“He left me the first time and then the second time—goodness, it was only a minute or so later—he turned into an animal. I wasn’t expecting any of that. The kissing was nice, but that didn’t last for long. He kissed me before we were married and I really liked it. He put his tongue in my mouth. That was odd, but I knew I could get used to it.”
“Kissing usually is nice. Tongues, too.”
“Ah, but the rest of it—I was hopeful, I actually trusted him, and what happened? You truly do not want to know, Mrs. Miggs.”
Meggie clicked her glass to Mrs. Miggs’s. She said, “Here’s to this bottle of champagne and to the witching hour that will chime in not more than four minutes from now.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mrs. Miggs.
Meggie said, frowning at the bubbles in her glass, “Are men all like that lout upstairs snoring to the rafters?
“I don’t know what you mean about him being gone, my lady—Meggie.”
“He left me before he did anything.”
Mrs. Miggs frowned. “A man does that when he doesn’t wish to impregnate a woman.”
Meggie hadn’t thought of that. She shook her head as she said, “That can’t be right, Mrs. Miggs. We’re married. Why would he do that on our wedding night? It doesn’t make sense because then he did it, I mean he went all the way to the end with the business. I didn’t like it either time, not at all. It was like he was someone else, not Thomas.”
Mrs. Miggs drank, and said slowly, “Men are not a patient lot, so aye, just maybe many men are too rough and maybe too they change their minds, just can’t help themselves. After all, they’re really a weak lot, now aren’t they?”
Meggie didn’t know about that. He changed his mind? About her? About their marriage and he didn’t care if she liked this lovemaking business or not? “What about your wedding night, Mrs. Miggs?”
Mrs. Miggs poured each of them another glass. They clicked their glasses together again and drank.
“Well, let me see if I can remember that far back. A full long number of years ago that was. Hmmm, well, my Mr. Miggs, he was a big ’un, all full of fire and hops—because he always liked his ale—even when he was just a young man. We got hitched and the neighbors and our folks gave us a fine party and then Mr. Miggs lifted me up into the cart and off we went, to spend several days at my aunt’s house over in Fowey. Ah, but Mr. Miggs, he just couldn’t wait to get us to Fowey and to a bed. No, he—”
Meggie, mesmerized, held up her empty glass. Mrs. Miggs filled it to the top, then her own. She looked thoughtful.
“Come, tell me. What happened, Mrs. Miggs?”
“Mr. Miggs stopped the cart, patted that big mare on her rump, then jerked me over his shoulder and carried me into a field of wildflowers.”
“That sounds terribly romantic.”
“It was February.”
“Oh.”
“Aye, it was so cold I can’t believe now that Mr. Miggs managed to get himself upright, if you know what I mean.”
Meggie didn’t, but nodded just the same. She drank more champagne; so did Mrs. Miggs.
“Aye, he hauled me into that field, then yanked off his coat and laid me on it. Of course the coat wasn’t big enough and my lower parts were on the bare ground. It was over in under a half a minute and I was just lying there on my back, looking up into that cold gray sky and wanting to kick him. He looked like a blissful ass, just lying there on his back, maybe he was even whistling, I forget. I didn’t say a word to him. Instead, I got up, walked back to the cart, leaving him there panting and grinning like an idiot, so happy and pleased with himself. I yelled to him that he was a selfish pig, and then I drove away.”
Meggie was vastly impressed. She applauded after she’d carefully set her champagne glass down on the wooden table. She sighed, then said, “He might have been too rough, but he did get it done, didn’t he? That first time?”
“Aye, he got it done, all right.”
“Unfortunately I can’t leave my husband. I can’t imagine that our driver would be willing to leave his master here. We’re in a carriage pulled by two horses, and unfortunately I don’t know how to drive two horses.”
Mrs. Miggs nodded. “Have some more champagne.”
“Then what happened, Mrs. Miggs?”
“Mr. Miggs had to run after me even as he was pulling up his pants, hobbling about, looking like a fool until finally I slowed down that big old mare so’s he could climb in. The dear man never tried to do that again.”
“Was it better in Fowey?”
“Oh yes. You see, Mr. Miggs had learned his lesson.”
“So you’re saying that I must tell Thomas what’s what?”
“Aye. And you must ask him why he behaved as he did. Perhaps it’s some sort of tradition for the men in his family—well, I’ve never heard of it and that’s a fact, but men being men, it’s difficult to know what they hold dear and necessary.”
“I will ask him, but you know, I would rather do something like you did, Mrs. Miggs. You took action, and that was well done of you. You taught Mr. Miggs what was what right then and there. You didn’t give him the time to roll over and snore.”
“I doubt he could have slept, it was powerful cold in that open field.”
“That doesn’t matter, it’s a mere detail. Here’s to you, Mrs. Miggs,” Meggie said, and both women drank deeply. “What should I do to my new husband? I must show him that what he did was reprehensible, after I’ve gotten all his manly reasoning from him.” Meggie rested her chin on her hands, thinking hard. She said after a moment, “I mean, perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to hit him over the head with the champagne bottle. I might kill him. I really don’t want to hang. Also, my father is a vicar and that wouldn’t look good to his bishop or to his congregation. Ah, Bishop Arlington even conducted my wedding ceremony. He would be profoundly distressed.”
“A bishop, you say? My, that’s something. No, don’t take a chance of killing him, dearie. I don’t want you dumping cold water on him either, it would ruin my good bed.”
Meggie agreed and drank until her glass was empty. She looked at Mrs. Miggs. “Nothing feels bad now,” she said and burped and smiled at the same time. “As a matter of fact, I rather think I would like to dance.”
“Drink yourself one more glass, then go back upstairs to that husband of yours.”
“But what can I do besides ask him questions?”
“Hmmm. Let me think about this, Meggie. Are you leaving in the morning?”
“I think so. He won’t tell me anything, curse his eyes. He has really quite lovely eyes, you know, all dark and brooding, but then he’ll laugh and his eyes change and dance and lighten up and flash. I don’t think he wets his finger and dampens his eyelashes to make them look longer and thicker. Many girls do that, you know. No, his are naturally thick and long. Did you remark upon his beautiful eyes when we arrived? No, well, you can remark upon them in the morning. Ah, perhaps I could take a mail coach and just go back home. I wonder if he would run after me, tugging on his trousers.” Meggie frowned. “Somehow I cannot imagine Thomas running after anything, particularly if his trousers are down.”
“No, Meggie, forget about mail coaches. They aren’t for you.”
Meggie was forced to agree. But she really didn’t feel at all bad now, didn’t feel like Thomas would be better off dead. “I can play the fiddle a bit, Mrs. Miggs. If you have one I will play for you and we could both dance.”
“I’m sorry, no fiddle, Meggie. Do you play well?”
“No, but it is at least music. I thought I loved my dratted almost cousin Jeremy just last year. Actually, I would have sworn I would love him to my deathbed just three months ago, but then he opened his mouth and out came such obnoxious condescension. I saw the real him and it wasn’t a pretty sight.”
“Cousins can get under your skin, that’s true.”
“Then he spoke to me right after the ceremony. I didn’t want him to, but he insisted. He told me it was all a ruse, a performance he’d given just for me, and he apologized and said he didn’t want me to feel badly about him anymore, that he really wasn’t a pig. He was noble, Mrs. Miggs, and for a time this afternoon, I just couldn’t bear it. I’d loved him so very much, then despised him while loving him, and then he has to tell me he was noble all along. It gave me a headache. And now Thomas is upstairs, snoring, and I’m not particularly pleased about anything right now.”
“I know, but things will change. You will learn how to manage him, Meggie. A taste of the whip, a lick of honey, and you can have a man at your knees, his tongue out, ready to evict your mother-in-law. Now, here’s a last glass for you, dearie. Then you need to get yourself to bed. You’re slurring your words, which is a
Meggie said to the now-empty champagne bottle, “He makes me bleed, leaves me, then finishes the business, and now that I’m feeling really quite fine, she tells me I’m going to feel awful again.”
“It’s the wages of drink, my dear.”
16
MRS. MIGGS WAS wrong. Meggie awoke alert, full of energy—no pounding head, no queasy stomach, not a single fuzzy residual thought in her brain. She felt strong and fit except for the ache between her legs and just a slight feeling of silliness. Actually, she believed she could still dance a bit. Had she really said she could play the fiddle for her and Mrs. Miggs?
Oh, dear.
Blessed hell. She’d forgotten—she was married. She had a husband, a husband who had behaved very peculiarly last night.
Meggie turned slowly, fully expecting to see Thomas lying beside her, on his back, still snoring, but Thomas was gone, none of him anywhere to be seen. And he’d been gone for a while. His pillow wasn’t even warm.
She looked at the small clock on the mantel. It was only seven o’clock in the morning. He’d left her very early indeed.
When she’d eased into bed long after midnight, her husband of one day—and one half of one night—had been sprawled on his belly, arms flung wide, taking up much more than half the bed. A single cover was to his waist, leaving him bare the rest of the way up. There was a lot of the rest of the way up to see. She’d seen the front of him and now she was seeing the back. Without considering what she was doing, Meggie raised her candle higher. He was a big man, long and smooth, not hairy on the back like he was on the front, very nicely made—she’d give him that—but nothing else. For a moment, no, just for the quickest of an instant, she wanted to pull the cover down, but she got her brain back, and backed away. She finally doused the candle, made herself into a ball, and hugged the side of the bed until her fuzzy brain became so vague, so empty of anything save visions of swimming in the sea, only she wasn’t really wet or even swimming, just there somehow in the water and it was cradling her, making her feel just fine. When she fell asleep, she slept deeply, not a single disagreeable dream to wake her in the night.