look.
Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve taught all my girls that in bed they must be submissive and do as their husband wishes. It’s quicker that way.”
Alex swallowed down on an urge to guffaw. Elizabeth submissive? It was a mind-boggling concept.
“So you don’t…err…you don’t like bedding with Peter?”
Elizabeth looked at her as if she were insane. “I can bide with it. The good Lord has made it that way: that the woman must subject herself and procreate as her husband wishes. It’s not precisely unpleasant, but it’s somewhat of a relief now that I’m of a certain age to have left that part of my life behind.”
Alex looked over to where Peter was fast asleep in his armchair, snoring loudly.
“Left that part of your life behind?” she echoed.
Elizabeth eyed her askance. “It isn’t seemly, for a wife to display inappropriate affection for her husband – particularly after a certain age.”
“Really? Well, I don’t agree with you,” Alex said, “and my husband rather enjoys my inappropriate affection.”
Elizabeth acquired the hue of a ripe plum. “Man and woman are made husband and wife to procreate. Anything else is sin.”
“And your husband?” Alex asked. “What about him? His needs?”
Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
But if an indentured maid gets pregnant because your husband has urges, all you do is extend the poor girl’s contract and call her a whore, Alex thought angrily.
“And you?” Alex said to Mary, who had sat silent throughout the exchange, her concentration on the shirt she was making for her husband.
“Me what?” Mary dimpled, looking much younger than her fifty-two years. In fact, it was difficult to believe that Mary was the elder of the sisters-in-law, just as Thomas was the eldest of the Leslie brothers, even if only by a year.
“Do you…you know?”
Mary blushed a delicate pink and bent her head to her sewing. “On occasion, he still wants to, and so do I.”
Elizabeth produced a sound that conveyed just how close to the brink of eternal damnation Mary hovered and left the room.
Chapter 3
The room was stuffy and dark, inadequately lit by a number of lanterns that hung from the beams. It was also crowded, every table occupied by men who drank and ate – well, mostly drank. The taproom smelled of spilled beer and spicy stews, of lavender perfume and of tobacco.
Matthew shoved his cleaned plate to the side and burped discreetly into the crook of his arm. The lamb shank had been delicious, cooked to the point where the meat fell off the bone, and a mug or two of beer had him in a mellow enough mood, an interested spectator to the steady flow of business in the little inn. The stairs to his left led to the upper floor and, as the evening progressed, one man after the other trooped off with one of the bonny whores, was gone for a half-hour or so before reappearing at the top of the stairs. The whores rarely lost times between customers; no sooner were they done with one but they were leading the next one up the stairs.
Matthew called for some more beer and let his eyes wander the room. Many of the men he knew; a few of them were even elders. The door opened, there was a rush of cold air, and for some moments Matthew was convinced his heart had stopped. He blinked, settled back on the bench and stared at the man who’d just entered the busy room.
Jones! Dominic Jones, here! Matthew was surprised to hear his own harsh breathing and wiped a sweaty hand down his breeches. He leaned further into the protective shadow of his corner, throwing an irritated look up the stairs. Where was Thomas? How long could it take to conclude his business with the little whore?
Where before his heart had come to a standstill, now his pulse was thundering, leaving him weak-kneed and covered with a cold sweat. He gripped his dirk, unsheathed it. To sink it into Jones... He snuck another look at the hulk of a man, now standing only
Elizabeth shrugged. “I’ve taught all my girls that in bed they must be submissive and do as their husband wishes. It’s quicker that way.”
Alex swallowed down on an urge to guffaw. Elizabeth submissive? It was a mind-boggling concept.
“So you don’t…err…you don’t like bedding with Peter?”
Elizabeth looked at her as if she were insane. “I can bide with it. The good Lord has made it that way: that the woman must subject herself and procreate as her husband wishes. It’s not precisely unpleasant, but it’s somewhat of a relief now that I’m of a certain age to have left that part of my life behind.”
Alex looked over to where Peter was fast asleep in his armchair, snoring loudly.
“Left that part of your life behind?” she echoed.
Elizabeth eyed her askance. “It isn’t seemly, for a wife to display inappropriate affection for her husband – particularly after a certain age.”
“Really? Well, I don’t agree with you,” Alex said, “and my husband rather enjoys my inappropriate affection.”
Elizabeth acquired the hue of a ripe plum. “Man and woman are made husband and wife to procreate. Anything else is sin.”
“And your husband?” Alex asked. “What about him? His needs?”
Elizabeth waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
But if an indentured maid gets pregnant because your husband has urges, all you do is extend the poor girl’s contract and call her a whore, Alex thought angrily.
“And you?” Alex said to Mary, who had sat silent throughout the exchange, her concentration on the shirt she was making for her husband.
“Me what?” Mary dimpled, looking much younger than her fifty-two years. In fact, it was difficult to believe that Mary was the elder of the sisters-in-law, just as Thomas was the eldest of the Leslie brothers, even if only by a year.
“Do you…you know?”
Mary blushed a delicate pink and bent her head to her sewing. “On occasion, he still wants to, and so do I.”
Elizabeth produced a sound that conveyed just how close to the brink of eternal damnation Mary hovered and left the room.
Chapter 3
The room was stuffy and dark, inadequately lit by a number of lanterns that hung from the beams. It was also crowded, every table occupied by men who drank and ate – well, mostly drank. The taproom smelled of spilled beer and spicy stews, of lavender perfume and of tobacco.
Matthew shoved his cleaned plate to the side and burped discreetly into the crook of his arm. The lamb shank had been delicious, cooked to the point where the meat fell off the bone, and a mug or two of beer had him in a mellow enough mood, an interested spectator to the steady flow of business in the little inn. The stairs to his left led to the upper floor and, as the evening progressed, one man after the other trooped off with one of the bonny whores, was gone for a half-hour or so before reappearing at the top of the stairs. The whores rarely lost times between customers; no sooner were they done with one but they were leading the next one up the stairs.
Matthew called for some more beer and let his eyes wander the room. Many of the men he knew; a few of them were even elders. The door opened, there was a rush of cold air, and for some moments Matthew was convinced his heart had stopped. He blinked, settled back on the bench and stared at the man who’d just entered the busy room.
Jones! Dominic Jones, here! Matthew was surprised to hear his own harsh breathing and wiped a sweaty hand down his breeches. He leaned further into the protective shadow of his corner, throwing an irritated look up the stairs. Where was Thomas? How long could it take to conclude his business with the little whore?
Where before his heart had come to a standstill, now his pulse was thundering, leaving him weak-kneed and covered with a cold sweat. He gripped his dirk, unsheathed it. To sink it into Jones... He snuck another look at the hulk of a man, now standing only
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