Joan Wolf by The Scottish Lord

horse across it so Frances had to stop. She pulled up, rocking a little in the saddle from the suddenness. He leaned forward toward her and struck her, openhanded, across her left cheek. Her horse reared a little in fright.
    “You deserved that,” Ian said, his voice shaking. “You damn little fool, the bridge is washed out.  You might have killed yourself.”
    She looked from his taut face to the swollen river, the bridge, and the small sign. Her eyes widened and then slowly swung back to his face. At this moment, the heavens opened and the rain poured down.
    “Come on,” Ian said through shut teeth. “There’s a cottage just down this road.” He turned his horse’s head and, obediently, she fell in beside him. Neither of them spoke as they cantered toward the small, thatched-roof cottage he had pointed out.
    The overhanging trees provided some cover but the rain was hard and they were both thoroughly drenched by the time they reached the shelter of the cottage. It was empty so Ian forced the door and let Frances in while he went to put the horses in the shed.
    The cottage was clearly someone’s home. There was rough but comfortable furniture in the main room and wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. When Ian came in, blinking drops off his lashes. Frances was competently building a fire. It flared, up as she lit it, illuminating her rain-wet figure and tumbling hair. She raised her arms to push it off her face and turned to look at him. He crossed the room to stand beside her. The mark of his hand was still on her cheek. He reached out to touch it.
       “I didn’t mean to hit you, mo chridhe,” he said, speaking in Gaelic. “You frightened me.” A strand of her wet hair caught on his fingers. He looked at the pale gold tendril, then back to her face. He regarded her unsmiling for what seemed to her a very long time. Her heart was hammering in her breast. He left the fire and went over to the old sofa and picked up the blanket that was neatly folded across its back. Then he returned to the hearth and spread it on the floor.
    “What are you going to do?” she asked in the same language he had spoken in. They were the first words she had spoken since he struck her.
    “Make love to you, m’eudail. ” He took a step toward her and, instinctively, she moved backwards. He stopped dead. “Frances.” His voice was very deep and she stared as if hypnotized into the darkness of his eyes. “Come here,” he said softly.
    There were three steps between them. In the five seconds before she took those steps, Frances made a decision. Then she moved and he reached out and caught her against him, his mouth coming down hard on her own. She slid her hands under the wetness of his coat and held him close. She could feel the strong muscles of his back under her palms. He did not release her mouth as he swung her into his arms and then knelt to lay her on the blanket. Frances opened her eyes to look up into his passion-hard face. His hands were on the buttons of her shirt and then she felt his lips on her breast. As she closed her eyes and gave herself to the growing urgency of his passion, the thought that lay behind her surrender flickered once again through her mind . He won’t leave me now.
     
    * * * *
     
    They lay close together for sometime without speaking, then Frances said softly “Ian?”
    “Hmm?” he raised himself on an elbow to look down at her face, framed by the primitive splendor of her ash-blond hair. There was a very faint mark on her cheek. He bent to kiss it.
    “You’ve been doing this with someone else,” she said in accusation.
    “What?” He stared at her in astonishment.
    “I’m not a fool,” she said heatedly. “I can tell. Who is she?”
    He flopped back onto the blanket, his face vivid with amusement. “Frances, I love you. You never say the expected thing.”
    She frowned suspiciously. “What expected thing?”
    “Something tender,” he said, laughter trembling in his voice.