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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Twenty-Five
 
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Chapter Twenty-Five





He felt the most subtle shifting next to him, something soft and warm climbing onto the feather mattress, underneath the bedclothes. It was almost imperceptible, that movement. But he had always been a light sleeper. Even intoxicated as he was, he was a light sleeper. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Outside his windows, the clouds were beginning to disperse, pulling back their dark blanket to reveal stars, a three-quarter moon. Silver-white moonlight sifted through the open drapes, a wide slat of it barely illuminating the bed where he lay. Alcohol made him slow to react, to comprehend. For just a moment, all he could think was that the moonlight on the dark quilt made it look like water, navy and silver, and the movement of the body underneath it was the rise and fall of the surf.

There was the slightest pressure as someone leaned across him. Two small hands lightly gripped his shoulders and then kisses rained down like cherry blossoms: soft and light, and delicately pink. On his forehead and his cheeks, she kissed him, carefully skirting around his mouth to his chin. His throat. He could hear the sound of her breathing, could feel the warmth of her breath against his flesh. Her voice, so soft it was almost more a feeling than a sound:


“When thou art not pleased, beloved,
Then my heart is sad and darkened,
As the shining river darkens
When the clouds drop shadows on it!

When thou smilest, my beloved,
Then my troubled heart is brightened,
As in sunshine gleam the ripples
That the cold wind makes in rivers.”



He came awake in a moment, bewilderment rapidly replacing his exhaustion. For a second, he thought that he must have been dreaming; it was so unexpected. So bizarre. Elizabeth, in his bed, nestling against his body; Elizabeth, bathed in the silvery moonlight, her long hair falling in waves over one shoulder, murmuring poetry into the curve of his neck; it must be a dream.

Yet there was the warmth of her, the slight, solid weight of her body resting against him. Real. She must be.

“Elizabeth—” he rasped drunkenly. Hardly even a whisper, yet she heard him. When she answered, her voice was as soft as down, as soothing as a warm bath.

“William. Oh, William, I’m so sorry…”

Her mouth on him: why did he not stop her? Her long hair flowed like water over her shoulder, the silky sheet of it tickling his cheekbone. Why did he not brush it away? It all felt so surreal, so strange.

“Sorry—?” He said it as slowly as an echo. He was awake, but dazed. Awake, but still feeling as if he were in a dream.

“For making you believe I didn’t want to marry you, when I do. Sweetheart, I do, so much.” She was kissing him as she spoke, kissing and crying, so that her tears dripped down his cheeks as if they were his own. She shifted closer to him, nuzzling, whispering. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean it. Didn’t mean to hurt you…”

He wanted to move, then. He wanted to leap to his feet to argue with her, but his body felt so heavy. So tired. Her mouth was making him dizzy. He choked: “But you don’t really mean that.”

“I do—I mean it—”

Soft lips kissing at the corners of his mouth, soft fingers rubbing his shoulders; soft body—

Well, he forced his mind from that, forced himself instead to focus on her words and his own pained response to them.

“You say that only because I am upset. You—you say that only to placate me—”

Her body came over him, then. Soft breasts pressed into his chest, and they were bare but for the thin, almost diaphanous material of her nightdress. Her legs settled on either side of his hips, the weight of her body centering between her legs, on his crotch. He gasped at the suddenness of the pressure, at the intense pleasure it wrought.

It was as if she did not hear him, as though she could not feel his body responding—in its usual and inappropriate way—to her presence. She murmured into his throat, dropping words like kisses—with kisses—against his flesh.

“I want to marry you; I want to be your wife. William, I want it so much...”

“You said no—” His voice stronger, then. Discordant and angry, unpleasant even to his own ears. She didn’t even flinch.

“I was afraid—I’m afraid—a stupid coward—”

“…afraid of me…?” The mere thought of it hurt. She shook her head emphatically.

“I’m afraid of change…afraid of marriage.” She paused in her ministrations long enough to look into his eyes. She was backlit by the window, her face in pale shadow, the curve of her back chased by a line of bright silver. He could not quite see her eyes. Nevertheless, he felt the heat of her gaze burn into him like a brand. She was still crying. He could hear her snuffling between words. The slow spill of hot tears onto his face and neck as she whispered, “William, I lied to you about my father. He didn’t die. He ran off. He left my mother and me. Their marriage was a joke, at the end. I’ve never seen a happy marriage.”

“I could make you happy.” His throat felt so tight the words didn’t want to come. When they did, they burst out like a sob, dry and grating. It embarrassed him, that sound; it seemed more evidence of his weakness. Yet she didn’t seem embarrassed for him, or disdainful of him. Her mouth covered his, muffling the sound until it faded back and finally disappeared. He felt her fingertips brush across his chest, across his heart, as if she were trying to pull out the hurt.

And it felt—it felt as if it were working.

“Ask me.” She murmured it into his mouth, pleading.

William did not have to question what she meant. He knew. The request was as seductive as the kiss that followed it, maybe more so. Even before he could decide for himself whether he had forgiven her, the words forced their way out:

“Marry me.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “William, are you listening? The answer is yes.”

William was listening. He heard every nuance of every word, but he couldn’t respond. Her hands dipped beneath his shirt to caress his chest; her mouth was on his collarbone. He didn’t have any words.

He wanted that moment to last forever, but just as swiftly as she appeared, Elizabeth began to retreat. Gracefully, she slid to the side, her body flowing from his like warm milk. Flowing off him. Away from him.

Away.

“Don’t,” he beseeched her, feeling the sudden blind panic of a man at the end of a gun barrel. If she left now, he thought, it would kill him outright. If she left now—

“Don’t—!”

He reached for her and one hand closed around her upper arm. It was so small that his fingers could span it, with room to spare. Smooth as a pearl, fragile as a reed. He thought he was holding her back, but she offered no resistance. She eased back down against him.

“Sweetheart, it’s just for a little while. Just a little while so that you can sleep. You’re drunk.” Her tone was soft as pillows, taking the sting from the accusation. His head rocked from side to side in a way that completely belied his next words.

“I’m not drunk,” he insisted. “I just—I—I don’t want to be alone anymore. So tired of being alone—lonely—”

“Do you really want me to stay?” she whispered. She sounded surprised, a bit uncertain.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Stay with me.”

He meant only for her to stay with him, only to stay beneath the bedclothes and against his body. Stay to show him that it was not just some drunken dream and that she would still be here tomorrow morning. That she would, in time, become his wife. He didn’t think of sex. Although her earlier attention had him almost painfully aroused, it never entered into his head that they might actually have relations, or even that he wanted to. Yet when he spoke, her embrace suddenly changed. She kissed him full on the mouth; she used her tongue. He was still fully clothed, but beneath the delicate material of her nightdress, her body was bare. Her nightdress slid up her hips as she folded herself around him, and between her legs, that warm secret place gently cradled his erection.

It didn’t feel wrong. Although he told himself that it was, in his heart he no longer felt it. She was going to be his wife. With that promise, it felt as if she already were. It felt right, and he had already waited so long—

And in his mind, from far back where the alcohol did not reach, there came the thought: If we do, then she must marry me. If we do, she will not be able to change her mind.

Terrible thought, that. Yet he could not help himself. He was in love, addicted, desperate. He needed her.

Slowly, she rocked her hips against him, the way she had that first time. Only now, it was better. Now, she was wearing that delicate nightgown of muslin and lace, trimmed with ribbon. Now, he was stretched beneath her, his hands slowly sliding up the backs of her thighs, guilt gone somewhere too far away for him to find it.

She leaned over him, the gossamer curtain of her hair falling over his chest as she whispered, “You’re sure?”

To which he could only parrot stupidly: “…sure…”

She smelled sweet, like violets, and her mouth tasted of the strawberries they had eaten at dinner. He closed his eyes and inhaled that scent, opened his mouth wider so that she could overwhelm him with the touch of her tongue, the taste. He felt her hands moving down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt, and it was so much like a fantasy that, for a moment, he was certain it must be one.

It wasn’t until she spread open his shirt to expose his chest that William felt his first flush of embarrassment. Her mouth was still on his; she was not even looking at him. But to be so bare…so vulnerable…

Her hands were on that vulnerability, touching it and making it into something else altogether. Stroking along his stomach and then moving up, trailing gooseflesh and confusion with her fingertips. His hands were still on her thighs, but with the movement of her body, they slid upward, dipping beneath the rucked hem of her nightdress to outline the swell of her naked bottom. It was unexpected and unplanned, but once his hands were there, he could not move them away. Once there, he could not help but caress the small rump, its flesh as soft and fair as unbleached silk.

A low sound from her—the mewling he remembered so well from before—and then her pelvis bore down against his crotch, creating a friction so intense both of them cried out.

William gasped into her mouth, shifted his lower body so that, in another moment, he was moving in clumsy counterpoint to the sway of her hips. He was going too fast, too hard: an ungainly thrust instead of her sinuous writhing. He knew that he was bad. He knew that it could not be pleasant for her, but he couldn’t seem to stop. She put one hand on his hip and held him back with a surprising amount of strength. She slowed him down, showed him how to move so that it was like dancing, their bodies rubbing against each other in a perfect, soundless rhythm.

When finally she broke their kiss, he thought he might have a chance to regain control of his lust, to slow down enough so that he could think. But no, because in the next second, her tongue was in his ear, and all he could do was stare at the shadows on the ceiling and hope he didn’t faint.

Not real. In no way possible, can this be reality.

A hand fondling at his fly, deftly undoing his buttons, easing his trousers over his hipbones: in another lifetime, he would have pulled away, pushed her away. He would have been ashamed. Now, he arched into her fingers and groaned when they wrapped around him. And if before he had been drawn and half-unwilling, then now he was far too enthusiastic. Within moments of her touching him, his need reached a fever pitch too extreme to ignore.

A spasm of hot liquid on her hand; release so intense it almost hurt.

It was agonizing, the moment after. Without the pressing need to climax, he suddenly came back to reality. Reality was that he was lying unbuttoned and opened, beneath a woman even more undressed than he was—a woman who was now wiping his spendings from her hand with the tail of her nightgown. He wanted to hide from reality; he wanted to flee from it. Oddly, this was not because of any sense of guilt in the act. Rather, it was the terrible feeling of shame, of failing her. Worst of all, there was the torturous sense of loss when he realized what he might have experienced had he held on for a bit longer.

Elizabeth, however, acted as if nothing was amiss.

After dropping a light kiss on his sweaty brow, she pushed herself upright, so that now she was not stretched across him but sitting astride. Her position was a little more forward than before, on the V of his belly, just in front of his crotch. Her face was a blur of light and shadow; he could not fathom what she was thinking. Not at that moment and certainly not later, when she pulled her nightdress over her head.

He heard the light rustle of the fabric as it slid up her body; he felt the sudden absence of it against his flesh. He could barely see her in the dimness of the room, but just the thought—just the thought—of her nakedness was enough, and he felt his erection returning.

This was, of course, the whole point.

Gently, she picked up each of his hands, one at a time, and lightly kissed each knuckle before placing them, palm-down, on the flat of her stomach.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

His hands were shaking, too clumsy to handle something as precious as her naked body. Yet she had asked him to; he tried to do as she asked. He tried to be slow and careful as he slid his hands up her ribcage to touch her breasts. Rather too soon, he thought; he should have built up to it. But it had been such a long wait—so damned long—that it was impossible to hold back.

Still, he did his best. One perfect breast in each hand: they fit into the curve of his palms as if that were where God created them to be. Her nipples rose up hard beneath his touch, and for some reason it excited him to feel it. He rolled his thumbs over them until she arched her back and moaned. That excited him even more.

When he first drew one into his mouth, he did it shyly, feeling more than a little embarrassed by what—to him—seemed a completely unnatural desire. His face reddened even as he suckled her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Nor did she try to stop him. In fact, the performance seemed to excite her as well. Her head lolled forward, and her hips rolled back, the firm curve of her buttocks pushing against his rapidly hardening member. He moaned, thrusting up against the welcoming flesh.

“Please, please,” he panted, not even completely comprehending of what he was asking for. She reached behind her and wrapped her hand around his erection. Her hips slipped back, and he could feel the slick heat emanating from her center. She was just inches away now. Just inches…

“You’re sure? You’re positive you want—?” Her voice was gritty, breathless. Not like her voice at all.

William nodded, gasped: “Yes—”

But he wasn’t ready. Not at all prepared for the intense heat and the tight flesh that took and took and took, until he was completely sheathed inside her body. Muscles rippling all around him, tightening and releasing, hanging on greedily and then letting go: it was incredible, unlike anything he could have dreamed. He could not imagine it feeling any better than that until her body began to move. She rose up on her knees, easing her way off him. He watched the assent, bewildered and fascinated as his shaft slid out of her. She stopped when only the head remained and then waited a breathless moment. Both of them were panting, tightly strung and quivering in expectation. He couldn’t stop touching her. He thought nothing could be better than this.

Then she dropped back down, and after thirty-one years of searching, he found paradise.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





He awoke at three, needing to vomit.

Buffy was lying beside him. She had been asleep, but his sudden movement woke her, and she could tell from the way he lurched upward that he was about to be sick. Quickly, she slid the porcelain receptacle out from its place underneath the bed and leaned him over it. Just in time, too. Half a second later, he began to retch.

She rubbed the back of his neck as he emptied what seemed to be the entire contents of his stomach into the privée. His skin was clammy; the soft curls that drooped over his forehead were damp. When, finally, he finished, she pulled a handkerchief from his nightstand and gently wiped at the corners of his mouth.

“All done?”

“I—I—I think.” He looked weak, dazed. She squeezed his hand.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She left the room briefly, returning with a pitcher of cool water, a glass, and a cloth for his face. He rinsed his mouth with the water and spat it into the privée. He let her wipe the sweat from his brow. However, once she finished, he rose to his feet. Despite the purposeful look on his face, he appeared as wobbly as a piece of well-cooked spaghetti; Buffy pushed him back onto the bed.

“Whoa, cowboy. Where’re you going?”

“Sour. I must clean my teeth—”

“No, you must not,” she replied. “If you put tooth powder in your mouth right now, you’ll be sick again.”

“But…”

“No buts. Here—” She refilled his glass from the pitcher and handed it to him. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

He gulped thirstily, watching her over the rim of the glass.

The sky was clear, now, and the moon was so bright that she could actually see him quite well. He was naked, his legs tangled in the sheets and looking far longer than they actually were. His whole body looked long, although he was not very tall. Though their faces were the same, the similarities to Spike’s body were few. William was lean, his muscles strong but not large or cut. His wide shoulders made the rest of his body look even narrower, and he was thin. Too thin, really. His collarbones stood out starkly, the ridges of his ribs not visible but easily felt beneath his pale flesh. His belly was slightly hollow and it, too, lacked in any real definition. In short, his was the body of a man who walked a great deal, who rode horses: a body that was healthy and strong, but not terribly powerful. It was the body of a man, not a vampire.

Buffy had not noticed any of these imperfections—if one could call them imperfections—when they were making love. She didn’t notice them now. In her mind, he could not have been lovelier. She sat behind him on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around him, kissed the sweet spot between his shoulders.

“Is your tummy all better now?”

He nodded. She had put on her nightdress for the trip downstairs; he was still completely naked but for the sheet. She could tell from his expression that he was feeling shy about it, embarrassed, and she felt the first flicker of uncertainty. How drunk had he been?

“You don’t regret what happened tonight…do you?”

He dropped back against the bed, pulling his legs up so that he lay stretched beside her. She was still sitting up at that point, leaning over him, and he looked up at her as a reverent to his god: pure, unadulterated worship.

“You’re going to marry me,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. There was blatant longing in his tone; Buffy gave him a little squeeze.

“I’m going to marry you,” she whispered.

His smile was slow and bright, like a sunrise. He closed his eyes. She saw him mouthing the words to himself, soundless and exultant: “My wife.”

“Yours,” she assured him. “All yours.”

A moment of lingering peace, then his eyes opened again, and they were anxious.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Hurt me?” Buffy was mystified.

“Sometimes it hurts women,” he said. And she realized that, even after all that, he thought she had been a virgin. Of course, he would think that. All unmarried women were virgins here, unless they were prostitutes. He had no other experience to offer for comparison. Naturally, he would just assume. It made her sad thinking of his reaction if he knew there had been others. In a way, she wished there hadn’t been. She wished that she could be as pure as he seemed to think she was.

“You could never hurt me, William. I trust you never to hurt me. It felt nice—more than nice. It felt wonderful.”

He flushed with pleasure at that, suddenly not a repressed Victorian but a normal man, flattered to think that his performance was satisfactory.

“Wonderful,” he echoed shyly.

“More than wonderful,” she murmured. “Perfect.”

He looked pleased. Still, there were the same old doubts, the same uncertainties as before. He asked, “When you came to me, did you come—did you come for—”

Did she come for sex? He was embarrassed to spell it out, but to Buffy, the meaning of his words was clear. She dropped her head down to kiss his neck. “I came to apologize,” she said. “I came to make things right, and to tell you that I do want to marry you.”

“But you stayed,” he began.

“You asked me to,” she reminded him. In the white light of the moon, he looked suddenly defensive.

“I—I assure you, I did not mean—”

“I know you didn’t mean that. I didn’t do it because I thought you expected it…or because I had to. I did it because I love you.” She sprawled beside him, allowing one arm and one leg to fall across his body. She kissed his bare chest, just over his heartbeat, and murmured, “I adore you. I just wanted to show you.”

“I adore you, as well.” He said it in a whisper. For some reason, it made Buffy feel sad instead of happy. She sighed.

“But you don’t even know—”

“Know…what?”

“Anything about me.”

There was not the slightest shift, not a start, no indication at all that he felt surprised by this statement. Rather, his hand came up to stroke her hair and he took his time in answering.

“I don’t ask you questions,” he said, finally.

“Why don’t you?”

He stared up at the ceiling, seemingly as comfortable with this conversation as any more mundane. Her heart was beating painfully fast in the middle of her throat.

“I suppose it is because I think that you will tell me when the time is fit, when you are ready.”

“But you—I mean, there’s so much you don’t know—”

“I know the important things,” he insisted. “I know that you are beautiful and kind; I know that you take care of others before you consider yourself.” Beneath her hand, the flesh of his chest suddenly warmed with embarrassment. He added shyly, “I know that you love me.”

“And that’s enough?” she whispered. She had dropped her head to his shoulder, and she could not see his face, but she could feel him smiling.

“That’s enough,” he answered softly.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





Dawn was just fading the night’s blackness to gray when he woke again. Soon the servants would awaken; they would begin to ready the house for the day. They would stoke the fires—fires like the one gone to ashes in William’s hearth, like the one in the little coal heater in the corner of his room.

She would have to leave soon.

He eased his body out from underneath Elizabeth’s without waking her and stepped onto the cold wooden floor. He picked up his trousers from the floor and pulled them on. When he lit the candle on the bedside table, he saw the book lying next to it. The Song of Hiawatha, first edition. She had brought it back to him. He reached out, gently touched the leather bindings with his fingertips.

I’m going to marry you.

She had said it; she must want it. She had just been afraid. It wasn’t unusual. Women were often afraid when it came to matters like marriage. And she had come back to him. She had given herself to him. Surely, that must be the most concrete evidence of her intentions. She could not go back on her word, now. He had left his mark on her, in her body. She was his.

She wanted to be his.

He glanced at the bed, then. Elizabeth was still asleep, lying on her side with one arm folded underneath her. The other arm stretched out across the empty space he had occupied, as if unconsciously reaching out to him. She looked so peaceful. They did not have a great deal of time left, but he thought he might let her sleep a bit longer.

Careful not to disturb her, he perched on the edge of the mattress and reached for his book. The light was dim, but he thought he would read a little until it was time to wake her. When he opened the book, it fell open to the end of the second chapter, as if one of the previous owners had read and reread this passage:


And the South-Wind o'er the prairie
Wandered warm with sighs of passion,
With the sighs of Shawondasee,
Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes,
Full of thistle-down the prairie,
And the maid with hair like sunshine
Vanished from his sight forever;
Never more did Shawondasee
See the maid with yellow tresses



A shiver skated down his spine, and although he knew that it was completely ludicrous, William felt a sudden stab of terror, reading that. It was a bad omen.

He slammed the book shut.


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