He didn’t stop. He kept licking until I begged, then slid up my body and thrust inside, hard. I cried out, and he clamped a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound. The world shrank to his weight, his heat, the slam of his hips, the smell of turf and sweat and sex.
We fucked like it was the end of the world, and maybe it was. When he came, he groaned my name into my neck, teeth scraping skin. I held him tight, legs locked around his waist, and wouldn’t let go.
After, we lay tangled, both of us shivering in the afterglow. He kissed my forehead, then my eyelids, then the scar at my hairline.
I laughed, low. “I thought I’d never feel this again.”
He stroked my cheek. “We’ve got time now.”
I shook my head. “Time’s never been kind to us, Sully. It won’t start now.”
He propped up on one elbow. “You want me to stay?”
I punched his shoulder, hard. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
He grinned, wolfish. “Then I’ll stay until the crows eat my eyes, love.”
We listened to the fire, the wind rattling the shutters, the world outside growing colder. I closed my eyes and let him hold me, his chest rising steady against my back.
I knew the world would come for us, sooner or later. The Redcoats would want revenge. The priest would sniff out thedevil’s work in my bed. But for now, for this one night, we’d beaten them all.
If Sully was a ghost, then I’d be haunted forever. If I was dreaming, I never wanted to wake.
In the dark, I heard his heartbeat, steady and strong.
Catherine
It was the light that woke me. Day filtered through the cottage window in thin gold lines, pooling on the floorboards like coins from a lost kingdom. The hearth was ash-cold, the air in the house heavy with old sweat and newer smoke, and the weight of a man’s arm across my ribcage. I lay there a minute, breathing in the scent of him. Real, not a ghost, not some cruel echo, but Sully himself, who had come back to me with a jaw bruised purple and a hunger in his hands.
I’d half expected him to disappear in the night, vanish in the way men vanish, leaving a memory and a mess. But his snore—a lazy, huffing thing—kept me moored in the now. I watched him for a while, the way his brow furrowed even in sleep, like he was wrestling bad spirits in his dreams. I wanted to smooth it, but I didn’t. Instead, I crept from under his arm and stood barefoot in the sunbeam, letting the chill bite my legs. The skin on mythighs was marked from his grip, and when I ran a finger over the bruise, I felt a wicked kind of pride.
I pulled on my dress, the one he’d torn at the hem in his haste, and cinched it with a scrap of blue ribbon. My hands still shook, though I told myself it was just the cold. At the hearth, I nudged last night’s embers to life, stoked it with dry moss and half a peat brick. The room brightened, and with the brightness came the ache in my belly—hunger, shame, longing, all gnawing together like a litter of wolf pups.
He woke with a start, coughing. “Christ alive, what time is it?”
I checked the angle of the light. “Not yet seven,” I said. “You want bread or porridge?”
He squinted at me, then at the fire, as if he’d landed here by accident. “Both?” He ran a hand through his hair, which stood up like a thicket after a storm. He was so out of place—his shirt was foreign, the ink on his skin still strange to me, but the way he moved was pure Sully: careful, hungry, stubborn.
I put water on for the oats, and sliced the end of a loaf. He watched every move, eyes on my hands, my back, the little strip of skin at my neck. The way he stared should’ve made me self-conscious, but it only fed the low flame inside.
I caught him grinning. “What?”
He shook his head. “You’re the same, Cat.”
I grunted, but my cheeks burned. “You’re a liar.”
“Never to you,” he said, and he meant it.
We ate in silence, bowls balanced on our knees, steam curling up to frost our faces. It was almost peaceful. Almost.
A hard knock rattled the door. We both froze. He set down his bowl, careful as you’d handle a loaded pistol. I stood, smoothing my hair, and went to the door. It swung open before I touched it. In blew my father, Angus, big-shouldered and red-faced from the walk. He stomped the mud from his boots, shaking the floor.My mother, Mrs. Byrne, followed, wrapped in her shawl, already peering past me into the room.
She saw Sully first. Her hands went to her face. “Oh, Jesus, Mary, and all the saints!” she gasped, then made the sign of the cross.
Angus just gripped the doorframe, staring like he’d seen an abomination. His knuckles were white. “Catherine,” he said, voice flat, “what’s that doing here?”
The “that” was Sully, looking like a bandit or worse. He wiped his mouth and stood, head down, but not cowed. Not Sully. He squared his shoulders, but kept his distance.