The Virgin in the Rake’s Bed by Ava MacAdams
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Gretna Green ahead,” the mail coach driver called out, and Catherine and Ian gathered their things together.
If Catherine had thought their journey north in the carriage from London had been arduous and uncomfortable, then the two days spent in the company of Walter Perkins and their fellow travelers had been like a journey across the ocean. The cramped and stuffy coach had bounced along near impassable roads, climbing to great heights over the northern hills. They had even encountered flurries of snow on the high moorlands, and Catherine could not have felt gladder to hear the announcement of their destination.
“At last,” she whispered, glancing at their fellow travelers, an odd assortment of people, including a tailor traveling north to fit a dress in Edinburgh, and a woman with a twitching eye who had stared at Catherine incessantly for the previous two days.
“If I am traveling back this way when you are done, hail me and I shall see you safely back to Lancaster,” Walter Perkins said, nodding to them both.
He had set them down on what must have passed as the main street running through the village. It was a motley collection of timber framed cottages, barns, and an inn, a sign directing them to the smithy at the far end of the street.
“Thank you for bringing us this far,” Ian said, handing the mail coach driver his fee.
“Always a pleasure, sir,” he said, and geeing off the horses, the mail coach trundled off along the road north, leaving Catherine and Ian alone with their bags.
There was a slight chill in the air, the countryside thereabouts green, though somewhat bleak in its appearance. They had passed through the city of Carlisle, and followed the road near the coasts, the Solway Firth opening up to the southeast, whilst rolling hills verged west, the afternoon sun breaking through clouds above.
“Do you think Rickard discovered we were making for Gretna?” Catherine asked, glancing back along the road and imagining her brother appearing at any moment.
“I do not think it will take much for him to assume our intended destination. I wonder how he discovered our intentions? Certainly not from Redbrand, though perhaps from the carriage driver who brought you to Westwick Manor. But never mind, we must see to it we are married before he can prevent it. Come, Catherine, we will make enquiries,” he said, beckoning her to follow him.
The people of Gretna Green were used to the arrival of English couples from the south, and at the inn, Ian gave their real names to the landlord, who smiled and showed them to a room simply furnished, and in which a large, log fire was burning.
“Will ye be marryin’ today?” he asked, and Ian and Catherine glanced at one another.
“As soon as possible,” Ian said, and the landlord nodded.
“Then get yerselves to the smithy soon, for if darkness falls the blacksmith will nae marry ye both,” he said.
Catherine and Ian wasted no time, thanking the landlord and hurrying toward the smithy. It felt very strange to Catherine, who had attended many society weddings and was used to seeing her friends wedded in church before a minister. To exchange her vows in such a place would be odd, but Catherine knew she was doing the right thing. A marriage was a marriage, and in her love for Ian there was no doubt. They had risked much for this moment, not only their reputations, but their ties to family and friends, too.
“It is strange to think we are to wed without friends nor family. What will your mother say when she discovers it?” Catherine said.
“You are certain you want this?” Ian asked, and Catherine nodded.
“I have never been more certain about anything, but I just marvel at what we are to do,” she replied.
Ian turned to her and smiled.
“My mother and I do not speak, I have few friends, and those I do have will understand. It is you I want, Catherine, you and you alone,” he said, and smiled, and nodded.
“And that is all I want, too,” she replied. as they peered nervously into the smithy.
It was not a typical blacksmith’s forge, the tradition of marriage – and the income it brought – having long since dampened the fires. But a man was sitting in front of an anvil, reading a book by the light of an oil lamp hanging above. He looked up and smiled, beckoning them inside.
“Ye have come to wed, have ye?” he asked, and Ian nodded, explaining their situation.
“And so we are both here of our free volition,” he said, and the blacksmith laughed.
“I daenae judge those who come here to marry. I can see ye are in love, tis all that matters. Come now, stand together in front of the anvil and ye shall make yer vows,” he said, rising to his feet.
The smithy was lit only by an oil lamp, the anvil smooth and polished. The floor was of cobbles, and the walls were of rough stone. It must have once been just what it was intended for – a smithy with roaring forge, resounding to the clang of metal. But now, it was a place of marriage, and Catherine knew she was but one of many to have passed through the doors and made her vows there. She joined hands with Ian, the two of them standing before the anvil, as the blacksmith cleared his throat.
“Do not be nervous,” Ian whispered, for Catherine’s hands were trembling.
The blacksmith had called for his assistant and a girl who was milking cows in a dairy across the street to be their witnesses, and now he cleared his throat, addressing them without a prayerbook or any other words in front of him.ν“What are yer names?” he asked, and they told him, “And do ye come here of yer own free will and accord?” – they nodded.
Catherine’s heart was beating fast, and she felt the tears rising in her eyes. It was not the wedding she had imagined for herself, but it was everything her heart desired. “Of my own accord,” she said, and the blacksmith smiled.
“And so, Ian Bennet, I ask ye dae ye take this woman to be yer lawful wedded wife, forsaking all others, kept to her as long as ye both shall live?” he asked.
“I do,” Ian replied, and the blacksmith asked Catherine the same question of Ian.
“I do,” she replied, glancing at Ian, and smiling.
Next came the exchange of a ring – a simple gold band which Ian had brought with him from London as a surprise – and further promises, before the blacksmith – known as the anvil-priest – pronounced them man and wife.
“And may that which is joined, be never put asunder,” he said, stepping back with his hands outstretched.
Ian turned to Catherine, taking her in his arms and kissing her. The two witnesses offered their congratulations before leaving the smith, evidently often called on to witness just such a ceremony.
“I love you,” whispered Catherine, and Ian kissed her.
“I love you, too, and you heard the words – nothing will lay asunder what we have,” he said, turning to the blacksmith and offering him a purse of coins.
“I hope ye will both be very happy together,” the blacksmith said, smiling at them both.
It felt strange to step out of the forge as man and wife. There were no clanging church bells, no thunder of an organ, no rice thrown in celebration. Just Catherine and Ian, walking hand in hand along the darkening street toward the inn. She could not have felt happier in that moment, married to the man she had come to love so unexpectedly and whom she could no longer imagine being without.
“I am sorry it was not the marriage you imagined it would be,” he said, but she shook her head.
“It was perfect, it was everything a marriage should be. I have attended society weddings, full of show and ceremony, but behind the façade, there was only unhappiness. It would have been my fate, too, if you and I had not met in that chance encounter. I would have been the bride forced to smile and make herself appear the happiest of women, when underneath I had nothing but sorrow in my heart. That was to be my fate, and you have released me from it,” she said, her arm slipped into his, her head resting on his shoulder.
“And now we must celebrate this happy day,” he said, as they paused outside the inn, and he turned to her and kissed her.
“And how might we do that?” she asked, smiling at him in the fading light of the setting sun.
“With what we each have to give,” he replied, taking her by the hand and leading her inside.
The bedroom was warm and inviting, the sheets on the bed turned down and the thick curtains drawn across the window. The fire in the hearth had been stoked up, and the landlord had left a simple supper of bread, meat, and cheese on the table, along with a bottle of claret and two glasses. Catherine and Ian shared a toast, sitting back together on the bed, glasses in hand.
“I never imagined this day would come. I was so close to it before, and then it was snatched away,” Ian said, taking a sip from his glass.
“But today, you have grasped it with both hands,” she replied, setting aside her glass, and resting her head on his chest.
“It felt exciting, did it not? To elope,” he said, and she nodded.
“And to get away with it,” she replied.
Until the very moment of her vows, Catherine had been anxious. She had imagined Rickard bursting in on them, somehow preventing their marriage and forcing her to return to London. But now the deed was done, and no man could tear apart what had been put asunder.
“And we shall return to London as man and wife, a fact with which your father, your brother, and the Earl of Westwood can never dispute,” he said, taking another sip of wine before laying aside his glass, too.
He smiled at her, his face bathed in the soft light of the flickering candles around the room. His hand traced a trail along her hairline, and he ran his finger gently over her arm.
“I never want to be apart from you,” she whispered, and he smiled.
“You will grow tired of me at some point,” he replied, but she shook her head.
“How could I grow tired of a man who has done so much to help me?” she replied, drawing closer to him, their lips meeting in a kiss.
“But you have helped me, also, for you have shown me that not every woman is as I had thought her to be,” he replied.
“Just as every man is not as I have thought him, either. Those men at Samantha’s ball. They possessed nothing of you, each of them lacked something, but you lack nothing,” she said, his arms now slid around her, their bodies entwined.
“You are truly the most perfect of women,” he whispered, his lips going to her neck, kissing her, his hands moving down her dress.
She slipped the shoulders down, exposing her breasts, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. Their passions were now aroused, and though unspoken, Catherine knew what was surely to come. In their journey from London, they had known one another, but now was to come that last act of intimacy, the moment she had so long imagined, and which each of them had desired. Rebecca and Samantha had talked of it, the intimate moment shared between two lovers, and now the time had come, Catherine felt excitement and nerves in equal measure.
“Will we know one another?” she asked, and he smiled.
“Better than we ever have before,” he whispered, his hand now searching her out, causing her to gasp as he pressed his lips to hers.
His breeches were pulled down, her gown pulled open, and he pulled her closer to him, his fingers still arousing her, his lips trailing down to her breasts. She clasped at him, but he pulled away, his fullness now opening her, the tip teasing at her sex. She gasped with the first push, gentle as it was, her whole body stiffening as much in delight as in terror.
“What am I to do?” she gasped, and he smiled.
“Let me show you,” he whispered, pulling her further toward him, their lips pressed together.
Now, he was arched over her, and though she wanted to cry out, she tried with all her might not to allow it, his arms drawing her closer. The pain of that first moment gradually gave way to a pleasure she had not known before, more intense and overwhelming than when his hand had sought her out, a feeling of heat and warmth rising in her loins and spreading through her whole body.
The feeling brought desire, and she clutched at him, pulling him closer, wanting only to know him more. He gave a gasp as she bucked her hips back and forth, his motion slowing as she took control of the movement, any pain she had known now given up to pleasure, a sense of ecstasy rising in her, one she found she could control it with her movements. She liked the sensation of pleasuring him, her own delight building.
“I had not realized it would be so…oh,” she gasped, as he now pulled her closer, his movements more intense, their bodies as one as Catherine felt the climax building inside her.
She gave a gasp, her whole body shuddering, and he too cried out, the moment of his climax coming as hers did, too. Breathless, they rolled to the side, and Catherine could barely move for a moment, so intense was the feeling which had built inside her. She wanted him again, to know that same pleasure, and she rolled back over, their lips meeting in a kiss.
“I have never known such a feeling before,” he said, and she smiled, shaking her head and raising her eyebrows.
“Do you mean that?” she asked, for she knew he had had many lovers in the past.
“None could arouse such passion in me. None I loved as I love you. Oh, Catherine, what a fool I was to think I would resist you,” he said, taking her in his arms.
The fire was growing low now, the embers glowing, and darkness had fallen outside. Catherine felt safe in Ian’s arms, and though she knew there was much difficulty to come, not least when her father discovered she was married, in that moment, none of it seemed to matter. All that mattered was to be there with Ian, to hold him, to love him, and to know she was loved.
“Will every night we share be like this?” she asked, closing her eyes and resting her head on his chest.
“If you wish it,” he replied, stroking her hair.
“I do wish it,” she whispered, and with that she fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
