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‘Let me see,’ she said, taking hold of his hand. Ilene could just make out a huge splinter driven in deep. Without thinking, she put his thumb to her mouth and sucked on it, then again, harder.
Murray was as still as a statue.
‘There, I have pulled it to the surface, now I should be able to grip it with my nails,’ she said, biting her lip as she plucked it free then held it up to him.
‘That’s a good trick,’ he said, slowly.
Murray’s face was very close to hers and the fire in his eyes set Ilene’s pulse racing. When the wind picked up, blowing her hair across her face, he reached up and gently pulled it off, fingers sliding, rough and hot, across the softness of her cheeks. What madness made her eyes go to his mouth, she could not say, but suddenly his hand went to the back of her head, pulling her in as his lips met hers, hungry, demanding, sensual. The smell of leather and sweat on him, so masculine and virile, made Ilene cling on, as his arms took hold of her waist, gripping hard like iron bars, as his arousal grew with hers.
Ilene pushed her hand inside the collar of his shirt. Murray’s skin was feverishly hot, muscles tensing along his neck as she kissed him back and flicked her tongue into his mouth. He lifted her off her feet in a tight hug, one arm coming up her back slowly, into her hair. They pressed up against each other, out in the wind, mouths and bodies joined. An aching need, down deep in her belly, had Ilene longing for him to just pull up her skirts and go inside her.
Instead, Murray gently placed her back on her feet and released her.
‘Best go inside now.’
‘But Murray…’
‘I said, go inside,’ his voice harder now, an order.
Ilene walked away, with a face so hot with shame, it could burst into flames. How he would despise her, for that show of lust. Did it disgust him, the fact that she wanted him, as a woman wants her husband? It seemed so, his rejection had said as much.
But as they ate supper that night, Murray was softer with her. He didn’t snarl or snap at her, as was often his way. He talked quietly about his plans for Cuan Dubh, about the harvest, about training the villagers. It was almost a normal conversation, for the first time since they had come to Shillinglaw and Ilene could feel him watching, as she moved about the room to clear the table and add wood to the fire.
A brief quickening in her belly made her stop dead, and her hands went to her stomach. There it was again, a soft, almost imperceptible movement, from within. Her baby had started to move inside her of late and she revelled in the feeling, for it was so miraculous. She could not help but smile in wonder, and then, there he was, looming over her.
‘What’s amiss?’
‘Nothing, the baby moved, I think.’ His face was grim as he looked down at her stomach. In response, she clutched her hands tighter around it.
‘Does it hurt?’ he said frowning. ‘What does it feel like?’
She was surprised he would want to know. ‘Well, it’s hard to describe, but it’s like tiny butterflies are beating their wings against the inside of your belly, trying to get out. It’s a nice feeling.’
He was still frowning. ‘So, all is as it should be, with the bairn?’
She nodded and he turned back to his supper, then spent the rest of the night in virtual silence, which Ilene dared not break into.
Later, when Murray got into bed beside her, he propped himself up on one elbow, staring down into her face. For a moment she thought there might be admiration in his gaze.
‘Next time I go to the village, you are to come with me,’ he said, then, as if breaking a spell, he turned over. Ilene was left staring at the light from the fire flickering across the walls, feeling the warmth coming off his broad back, trying hard not to reach out and touch him.
***
Ilene sat on a bank of grass, nibbling on a hunk of bread and some strong cheese, as she watched two geese squabbling with each other, honking loudly in the afternoon sunshine.
‘They’re a bit like me and my man, a good deal of noise, but no harm done,’ said Flora, long-suffering wife of Duff, as she wrenched cockles from their shells with the tip of her knife. A pink-faced baby, scarce a month old, suckled wetly at her swollen breast.
Flora was a buxom woman and one who had probably been quite pretty, in her prime, before relentless childbirth and a ne’er do well of a husband had taken their toll. A loud-mouthed, frowsy redhead, she was always laughing, loud and braying, like a donkey. She was fascinated by Ilene, whom she declared, was far and away the prettiest thing ever to have descended on the village. A slovenly, but friendly sort of person, Flora had fast become a friend, ever since Murray had begun bringing Ilene along on his trips to Shillinglaw, these last few weeks.
Flora’s brood of unruly children played in the mud around the pond, poking about with sticks, for frogs and beetles. Ilene placed her hand on the soft swell of her belly, fighting an urge to grab the infant from Flora’s arms and hug it close. Tender feelings often came upon her these days, and sometimes she cried, out of the blue, for no good reason. How she longed for her baby to come so that she would have someone to love, someone to hold.
Suddenly, one of the older children pushed another spitefully into the mud. Flora was off and running, her hand outstretched to slap, with the greedy bairn still clinging to her breast like a barnacle. There followed much screeching, in a voice like a banshee, and Ilene laughed at the abuse being heaped on the offender. Flora knew some truly shocking curse words, many more than she did.
Ilene watched Murray emerge, with some men, from one of the nearby cottages. He was at least a head taller than most them, an imposing figure and a handsome one, at ease and relaxed in male company. This day his face had a warmth to it that she seldom saw. The sun in his hair streaked it gold, it had grown longer, curling slightly at the nape of his neck and over the collar of his blue jacket. He should always wear that jacket, she thought, for it matched the deep-water blue of his eyes. And he had beautiful eyes, when they looked at you with approval, hooded and intense, the lashes so dark and thick. But they could turn as cold as ice when you displeased him, which it seemed she always did.
One of the bolder children ran up to him and poked him with a wooden sword and then rushed off, to take refuge behind some herring barrels heaped on the shore. Murray easily caught the boy, smiling as he lifted him over his shoulder, whirling him around. The boy giggled as Murray set him down and sent him on his way, with a firm tap on the bottom. It made Ilene wish she could bring a smile to his face like that. Then he noticed her gaze on him, and it was as if the sun went behind a cloud, though bright sunshine still blazed from the sky. He strode over and looked down at her.
‘I will not be home tonight. I have much to do at Cuan Dubh and will work into the night.’
