Hello all! In the CSMM community we have a love for more cake. More cake is synonym for more fics with that in mind I was happy when we extended the CSMM and made it year round. If you guys have written or would like to add any Movie AUs to the event message me but that is not the reason for this post. I'm very excited to announce the Captain Swan Netflix and Chill collection. It's an addition to the CSMM. We will be accepting tv series and any streaming series to the collection including both new and preexisting fics are welcomed.
The Huntsman Chapter 11: Saving Killian, Saving Grace
Summary: Born in a dystopian future ruled by machines, Killian Jones is a soldier in the human Resistance fighting to reclaim the world. In the past, Emma Swan is a student waitress, blissfully unaware of the coming war, and the key role that she plays in it. When the Huntsman - a cyborg assassin - is sent back in time to kill her before she can provide the hope that the future of humanity relies on, Killian travels back in time after it to protect her.
Available on: AO3 FFN
2016
Pain coursed through Killian’s body as he writhed on the back seat of the beat-up jeep his father had commandeered. Every bump in the road, every sudden turn, sent a new wave of agony shooting through his body. The jeep jerked again and Killian let out a cry, the unrelenting pain becoming too much for his little body to bare. He just wanted it to go away. He wanted it all to stop.
“Come on Killian, just hold on,” Liam urged.
His brother leaned over him, his hands pressed down on Killian’s side, on the origin of all the pain. Killian craned his neck in a desperate move to see, hoping that Liam’s actions would soon end the pain. The sight he was met by was terrifying; a pool of blood oozing around Liam’s hands, red rivers trickling onto the seats, the formerly dirty cream leather staining a dark red.
He took in a sharp intake of breath and turned his head away as quickly as he could, fixing his eyes on the back of the driver’s seat. He threw his arms over his forehead, grimacing at the discomfort which shot through his body; a harsh reminder to avoid moving.
“It hurts,” he croaked.
“I know, Killian, I know it does. Just hold on,” Liam repeated. “We’re going to find you some help. You’re going to be just fine.”
A Crystalline Knowledge of Love and Magic - Chapter 2
Hey everyone, I have finally managed to write the second chapter of this fic!!! I really hope you guys enjoy it - please note there is a trigger warning for this chapter: domestic violence is alluded to in this chapter. If you know the book or movie of Practical Magic you know there is mention of it, so please be aware.
Thank you as always to my amazing beta @snowbellewells for her patience in fixing my terrible grammar and punctuation errors that I always either miss forget to come back to! And thank you as well to @hollyethecurious for the beautiful banner you see in this post - I love it!! Finally, thank you to the mods of the @cssns event who have been an amazing support too!!
You can also read it on:
AO3: Chapter 1, Chapter 2
Tumblr: Chapter 1
Tag list under the cut - let me know if you want to be added of deleted :)
Elsa loved nights like these. The air was alive with life and warmth, the energy of nature thrumming through her with a frenetic beat that revitalized her poor overworked mind. Her second year college exams were finally over and now her summer was spread out before her, just waiting for her to fill it with things to do - anything to keep the throb in her chest that had been growing for some time from overwhelming her.
Elsa had known for a while now that Emma was looking to escape this town and everyone in it; she had just hoped they would have a little more time together before she did. But with the graduation ceremony now over, Emma was ready to leave. She had bravely posed for her photos with Elsa and Aunt Ruby and Aunt Belle, while everyone whispered around her that she must have cast some spell to clench Valedictorian from Regina Mills, as if it couldn’t be possible that a Swan woman could be intelligent enough to simply study hard and achieve her grades like everyone else. It probably didn’t help that her speech had fueled more resentment towards the Swans and their unholy alliance with witchcraft. It was short and to the point - a warning about the consequences of small mindedness and belief in the presence of a magical solution to all of your problems. It was met with shocked silence and a rushed half-hearted clap once it was clear that she had said all she was going to say.
So here Elsa sat, sipping her tea and stroking the soft black fur of their curiously magical house cat Henry, waiting for the inevitable. Soon enough, the sound of a motorbike could be heard making its way down the road to their driveway. There was nothing around for miles, so the house could be its only destination. If Emma thought she was making a quiet getaway from the aunts, then she should probably think again; the roar of the engine was deafening in the quiet of the night, even drowning out the waves that sounded closer than usual as they were pulled in by the call of the full moon.
Soft footfalls could now be heard making their way down the stairs to the second floor, avoiding the creaks and squeaks that they had learnt about so many years ago now. They made their way out to the small balcony overlooking the garden, an ivy trellis below providing the perfect means to make an escape in the middle of the night. Elsa continued to sit, giving no indication that she could hear anything amiss. The candles on the table that she had lit earlier (matches and lighters barely got a workout in this house with four more than capable witches around) cast an ethereal glow across the lawn that no normal lit candle would be able to replicate.
“Should’ve known leaving you a letter wouldn’t be enough.” Emma whispered, wrapping her arms around Elsa and laying her head on top of hers.
Elsa smiled, squeezing her wrist gently in affection. “I have felt you pulling away for some time now, I figured tonight would be the night.”
“That intuition of yours is getting stronger every day. Are you sure it isn’t telling you to get the hell out of here too?”
Elsa turned slightly to look at her sister. Emma was dressed in her tightest black jeans and knee high boots, the red leather jacket Ruby presented to her on her 18th birthday was fitted to her form perfectly and was zipped up - ready to combat the wind on the back of a bike. Her green eyes glittered in the light of the candles, tiny emeralds sparkling in excitement and joy. Elsa felt her heart lift in happiness for the journey her baby sister was about to embark on, even as it broke for how much she would miss her. They had never been apart for more than a night since their parents had died, and now here they were, saying goodbye.
“This isn’t goodbye, you know.”
“I think the guy trying to quietly make his way up the driveway would say otherwise.”
“Oh please,” Emma laughed, kneeling down now, her arms still around her stoic sister, trying to ease the heartache that she could feel emanating from her, despite her calm demeanor, “Neal isn’t some great love that I’m riding off into the midnight blue with. We both have the same goal - get the fuck out of Storybrooke. If we have a little fun on the way, then great! You however,” Emma moved, so that she was now kneeling in front of Elsa, “are one of the great loves of my life. Always have been, always will be.”
Elsa couldn’t keep up the facade of cool composure any longer, a tear slipping down over her cheek, the track it made marring the porcelain smoothness of her skin. She shook her head, trying to shake away the silliness she was feeling at being so emotional. Of course she would see Emma again - she was her great love too. There wasn’t a thing on this earth - or any other - that could break their bond, she knew that.
“Oh El,” Emma soothed, taking a hold of her hand and letting her energy flow through to her sister, hoping to ease some of the pain that she had clearly been hiding away for weeks now. “I will be back. You and me, we are going to live together in this ancient house and grow old, with Henry,” she laughed, rubbing his ears as he nuzzled into her hand. “We will find him a little girlfriend, one who reincarnates into another kitten and shows up on our doorstep every time they die, just like Henry does,” she continued, making Elsa snort inelegantly but halting the tears long enough so that she could clearly see the truth in Emma’s eyes.
“What are you going to do on your grand adventure then? You’ve had so many offers for college, but you’ve never said whether you’ve accepted any of them, or if you even want to do college at all.”
Emma shot Elsa a grin, “Yeah, about that. I’m taking a gap year, but I have accepted a place at one of the ones that offered me a full ride - Aunt Belle will be so proud of my choice, I’m sure. I hated every minute I spent learning in a classroom, and I don’t know, maybe college will be different, but for now I just want freedom. I want to learn things on my own with no expectations from anyone.”
Elsa knew that, had always known that. Emma flourished when left to her own devices and creativity. It’s what made her such a talented witch.
“I’m so happy for you Em, you know that right? Whatever you do, wherever you go, I’m going to be so proud of you.”
Emma didn’t answer, instead she turned to the guy, Neal, whom she had been seeing for the better part of her senior year, and whispered loudly for him to hear, “Babe? Can you throw your pocket knife up to me?”
A flash of silver rose into the air, before being snatched away by quick fingers. Emma knelt back down in front of Elsa, flipping open the pocket knife as she did so. “No matter where I go, we are always going to be connected. We are going to grow old together, hell, I bet we’ll even die on the same day. But for now, I’m going to feel you and you’re going to feel me, near or far, that’s the promise I make to you right now. Do you believe me?”
Elsa nodded solemnly, eyeing the knife in Emma’s hand, readying herself for the commitment that they were about to sign into one another’s souls. Emma sliced a thin line across her palm with a hiss, watching the blood well up in tiny pearls of ruby red before turning her attention to Elsa’s hand and doing the same. She closed the knife up, and pressed her injured hand against her sister’s; palm to palm, cut to cut, and intoned, “My blood. Your blood. Our blood.” The wind picked up around them as Emma spoke the words that would bind them together, the leaves that had fallen on the balcony over the last few days, swirled around them, dancing in harmony with the elements before dying down and falling silent once more. A beat passed, the humming sounds of nature all them around settling down again. Henry meowed; a confirmation of the spell being completed if ever there was one. Emma kissed his nose with a delighted giggle, her excitement back in full force.
Standing up, Emma slid the knife into the back pocket of her jeans and lifted the duffel bag she had carried out with her and threw it down into Neal’s waiting arms. She placed one leg over the side of the railing and turned back to Elsa, who had now regained her composure, her red rimmed eyes the only clue that she had ever been crying in the first place.
“When we get to our first destination, I will write, okay?”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to just send an email?”
“Oh come on, we’re witches, we’re not into technology unless Netflix is involved!”
Elsa couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped her, as Emma fully hoisted herself over the railing and dropped onto the trellis below. Soon, the echoes of whispers and giggles could be heard as Neal raced towards where he had left his motorbike, Emma riding piggyback on his shoulders and disappearing into the waning summer night.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Dear Elsa,
I am lying in the sun, with what feels like a million friends. Friends, Elsa! No one knows who I am or what I am! It’s the most amazing feeling! It felt a little strange being back in LA at first; I can barely remember when we lived here with mom and dad, so maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel like home. I can’t feel them here, but I am strangely okay with that.
Anyway, we won’t be here long. August wants to travel down to Miami when summer is over so we can continue our endless summer. I can’t wait!!
I want to hear more about you though…
Dear Emma,
I’m so glad you’re making the most of LA and that you’re surrounded by people who you can call friends. What happened to Neal? Did you leave him behind in New Orleans? I know it wasn’t serious between you, but I hope things ended well. Tell me more about August. What is he like?
Life is going pretty well. I’m helping Aunt Ruby with managing some of the restaurants down in Portland which has been great. I’ve made a couple of friends there myself, which has been lovely. I’m seriously thinking about opening a small cafe here in Storybrooke, actually. I know what you’re thinking, ‘Why don’t you get the hell out of Storybrooke??’ I think there is a market for a little cafe with a witchy vibe. Most of the townsfolk may never step foot inside, but tourists will, and I can showcase my skills on a smaller scale before trying to expand. The aunts are going to help me where they can, but I’ve told them that I won’t accept any starting capital from them. I want to do this on my own…
Dear Elsa,
I’m so sorry it’s been ages since I last wrote to you. I’ve been getting everything finalized here in Miami, so that all is ready for when I start at ‘Washington U’ in the fall. I managed to get a bail bonds license and started picking up skips for some extra cash. (Don’t raise your eyebrow at me El, I am super careful, no spells required!)
Oh my god! I have to tell you who I ran into at the Salsa Club the other night when I went on a date with Peter - Victor Whale. Yes, that Victor Whale who dropped a bucket of water on you when you were thirteen, to see if the ‘Ice Bitch’ would melt when it was 30 below. He didn’t recognise me at first, but when he did, the asshole tried to flirt with me. I reminded him what happened after he poured water on you. He went a really interesting shade of gray and then started trying to tell everyone in the place that I was a witch. Everyone just thought he was drunk - which to be fair, he was…
Dear Emma,
I’ve met someone. He is new to town and he is… he is just lovely. He doesn’t care about the fact that the town hates me because I’m a witch. I think he is a little bit skeptical about the whole witch thing, but it doesn’t matter. We have been on three dates already and I have never felt this way about anyone before…
Dear Elsa,
College is great. I’m on the fast track to graduate early, and I have been offered a place to continue my studies in the History and Social Sciences department. I’ve loved learning all about alchemy and its foundations in what we know about science today, but I don’t know - I’m starting to feel closed in. I’m not sure I even want to look for positions within the forensic field, which I really ought to, given that’s my major. I’m feeling a little lost.
Enough about me though. How are you and Jack going? Has he put a ring on it yet? Wait, don’t tell me! I want you to tell me on our next Facetime call, okay? I’m so happy for you El! You may be miles away right now, but I can feel you. It gives me strength to know you’re so settled and happy. I bet the aunts and Henry are missing you terribly now that you’ve moved out…
The sisters had mostly corresponded with each other over the years via letters. It was extremely old-fashioned, but the power of their handwritten words became a talisman of sorts, a security in the darkness of night when nothing seemed right and everything felt lost. Emma had made very few trips home, much to the upset of their aunts and Elsa, but they understood. She wasn’t done in her search; for what, she had no idea and neither did they, but they knew she couldn’t settle down anywhere until she had found it.
She was living in Phoenix when she felt the scar on the palm of her hand burn for the first time, a wave of grief crashing over her and a wish echoing in her head, the devastation in the voice as clear as a bell. I wish you were here, Emma. I need you to tell me it will be okay.
Elsa. No one else would ever be able to call out to her in this way. She made to slip out of bed when she felt an arm curl around her, tugging her back, a sleep roughened whisper of “And where do you think you’re going?” forcing her to remember the man she was currently sharing her bed with - Walsh.
“I need the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” she whispered back, twisting her neck slightly to give him a kiss. He deepened it, as though he couldn’t bear the thought of her being out of his arms for more than a moment.
“Fine, we’ll go together,” he breathed with a grin, his eyes alight once more with the crazed passion with which he had been attempting to worship her all night with.
“Walsh, come on!” Emma laughed, breaking out of his hold and slipping out of the sheets. She grabbed the bottle of tequila that they had left on the nightstand before collapsing into each other’s arms - he, exhausted from their night of drinking, and her, grateful that she managed to yet again forestall his attempts to ‘make love to her’. She took a swig, winking at him as she backed into the bathroom, and he just laughed, rolling onto his back and stretching out his arms above his head.
Closing the door behind her, Emma sat on the lid of the toilet seat, debating her next move. She knew Walsh would hate the idea of her leaving for any prolonged period of time. His devotion to her bordered on the possessive that was far unequal to the feelings that she had for him. All these years and yet, she had never felt herself to be in love with anyone. Walsh wasn’t any different. She knew she needed to end it now before things became untenable, but it would have to be something she figured out when she returned. For now though, she needed a way to slip out quietly. She swirled the contents of the tequila bottle she had taken with her inside the bathroom, contemplating how long she would need to get from here to Maine before Walsh could start harassing her about where she was and what she was doing. Standing up, she opened her medicine cabinet searching through the assorted bottles and tubes before finding what she needed - a small glass bottle with a tiny faded label in Aunt Belle’s neat script. Belladonna.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
“Wake up El, I’m here. I’m so sorry.”
“Emma?” Elsa opened her reddened eyes, still stinging from the amount of tears she had shed while alone in their childhood bedroom. She couldn’t bear to be in the house that she had shared with her husband Jack. Her baby girls were too small to understand where their father had gone and why the floorboards in the family room were in a scattered heap - the product of their mother desperately trying to find the Death Watch beetle before it took him away from them. So she had asked the aunts if they could move back in, which they agreed to gladly and with no small amount of guilt attached; after all, it was they who had meddled in her love life to begin with, thinking that if they cast a love spell to bring the two young people together, it would cancel out the curse. To Elsa though, it was just an experiment that had failed spectacularly. She was furious that they had done it at the cost of her feelings, at the cost of the little girls she now had to raise on her own; especially when they told her they wouldn’t bring him back to her - that they don’t do that - ever.
“How are you here?” Elsa asked, her lip beginning to tremble as she attempted to hold back her tears.
Emma gently lifted Elsa’s hand and traced the scar she had left there what felt like a lifetime ago. “My blood. Your blood. Our blood,” she murmured, pressing her own scarred palm against it. A choked sob broke free from Elsa’s lips, which had Emma shifting onto the bed and pulling her into her arms. She let the grief she felt for her brother-in-law mix with that of her sister and young nieces, until there was nothing left for either of them to expel.
It was sometime later that they quietly made their way downstairs to raid Belle’s tea supply and sample a few of Elsa’s baked sweets, before heading back to their bedroom to catch each other up on one another’s lives.
“So, how is Arizona? Or I suppose more importantly, how is the man you left behind in Arizona?” Elsa asked, her eyes lit up in playful curiosity as she delicately sipped at her elderberry and chamomile tea.
Emma leant back into the mound of cushions she had piled onto the fluffy cream rug in the center of the room, wondering what she should say. She didn’t want to worry her sister about Walsh. For her, he was just another guy who was keeping her loneliness at bay until the whisper of the wind from the East called to her, giving her warning it was time to move on. It was funny though, that wind had yet to call out to her, and it had already been eight months. Eight long months with a man she knew was not in her future.
“It’s hot and dry, and there are so many goddamn flying insects that it drives me insane sometimes,” Emma said, choosing to stick to the more superficial aspects of her life there. Elsa didn’t seem to buy it, given the way her eyebrow rose as she selected a brownie off the plate they were sharing between them.
“I do love the nights though. I’m renting this amazing ranch style house that looks right out onto the valley desert. I like to sit out on the patio by the peace pond and just listen to all of the sounds of nature that I didn’t even know existed. It’s so different to here - alien almost - but somehow, it makes me think of home. There are also some seriously hot cowboys too, which really helps with enjoying the scenery,” Emma added, trying to move past her wistful thoughts of returning to this house and never leaving again. She couldn’t do that yet. There was still something out there waiting for her that she had yet to find.
Elsa smiled, seeing Emma’s tumultuous thoughts as though she were speaking them out loud. Emma had never been one to share her thoughts and feelings until she was good and ready; she could wait until her sister was ready to reveal whatever it was that she was keeping secreted away.
“And are you dating any of these cowboys? I hear they are quite rough and tumble on the outside, but rather soft and tortured on the inside.”
“I am not dating a cowboy sadly,” Emma sighed, the last word mumbled quietly. Walsh liked to think he was a cowboy - he certainly tried to dress the part - but he was nothing more than a guy who owned a dive bar she had started to frequent when she moved to Phoenix.
“Okay, so tell me who you are dating. I know you broke it off with that Lance guy you were seeing when you were still working at the county sheriff’s office in Columbia, but you haven’t mentioned anyone else since. I know you would have found someone else pretty quickly!”
“Hey!”
Emma knew she couldn’t really protest. From the time she had rode off on the back of Neal Cassidy’s motorbike, she had bounced from one guy to the next; never staying for too long and always moving on with barely a dent in her heart. She often wondered if the spell she had cast as a little girl with no true understanding of her gifts had actually worked. Was that why every man she had dated seemed to fall so far off what she had assumed were fairly attainable standards?
“Look, it's nothing serious. Well, not for me anyway. I’m actually thinking it might be time to cut him loose, even if that means finding a new bar to unwind at.”
“Seriously!? Emma…”
“I know, I know, but he’s really… intense… and clingy… and just really freakin’ weird. You know, he actually talks about our relationship in terms of centuries.”
“Centuries?”
“Yeah, he’s got this idea that we’re soulmates and now that we’ve found each other, every lifetime we have will be shared together. It’s an insane idea, and every time I try to brush it off or turn it into some kind of joke, he gets even more obsessive and-” Emma paused. She didn’t want to go into detail about how far Walsh went the last time she tried to make less of their relationship status - the marks on her arms and wrists were faded enough now that she no longer had to buy multiple tubes of the good brand of concealer. She took a breath, and smirked as she continued, “Sometimes, I have to slip him a little Belladonna just to get some sleep.”
“So you’re drugging him? Emma, come on, you have to see how terrible that looks. Imagine if a guy did that to you…” Elsa had straightened her posture, disapproval and worry flickered in her eyes at the measures her sister was taking - this wasn’t like Emma. What was going on?
Emma nervously fiddled with the crumbs on her plate, a design of swirls taking shape - a perfect complement to the thoughts that refused to stop swirling through her mind.
“El, he’s strong. Much stronger than me.”
Despite once making a living as a bail bondsperson, most people she brought in came along quietly, and if they didn’t, she always had a few tricks to make them change their mind. She had never gone after the dangerous ones though - it wasn’t worth it when she had other career paths to pursue. She just needed to find a way to break it off with Walsh safely and without needing to flee the state. It wasn’t time to leave it behind just yet.
Elsa reached across the space between them, and Emma met her halfway, the fingers of their scarred hands linking together, creating a conduit to share their burden of emotions and find some peace until they were separated once more.
Elsa shifted, so that she was laying on her side next to Emma. “You know, you can always call me? No matter where you are, what time it is; if you need me, I’m there. Okay?”
Emma nodded in acceptance. She would have to be in dire straits for her to want to worry Elsa about anything she had to deal with - especially now that she was a new widow with two little girls to take care of.
Leveling Elsa with an unwavering gaze, Emma said, “And you know that you are strong enough to come out on the other side of this. Tomorrow, you are going to wake up and you are going to live a new day. You are going to open that cafe just like you and Jack planned and you are going to be a success; with or without this shitty town’s approval. Most importantly though, you are going to continue to love and care for those brilliant nieces of mine.”
A few more tears spilled over Elsa’s cheeks but they were not laden with grief and sadness as they had been before. Now they held a certain kind of relief of the pain she had been experiencing, and a hopefulness for what would come next. There was still the funeral to plan and get through, as well as the inevitable whispers and accusations that she was sure to have thrown her way by everyone who had ever heard of the name of ‘Swan’. It would be okay though, because Emma would be there, and despite her still simmering fury with the aunts, she knew that they too would support her and take care of everything that she could not. The sisters closed their eyes, too tired to move to the twin beds positioned under the window, and too content in amongst the blankets and cushions they had settled into on the floor.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Elsa woke to the pop and crackle of burning wood. She sleepily turned towards the fireplace, vaguely wondering if she had gotten up earlier to stoke it up again before remembering that she wasn’t the only one who had slept here last night. She glanced back to where Emma had slept; everything had been cleared away - as though she had never been there. Noticing something crinkle under her hand, Elsa looked down. A page ripped out of a small notepad was folded over itself. Opening it, she scanned the half cursive, half block script that was characteristic of her younger sister’s impatient hand.
I’m so sorry El. I have to head back. I just got a message from one of the guys at Phoenix PD letting me know they responded to a call about a disturbance and possible break in at my place. Once I sort out everything, I will be back to help you with the girls and saying goodbye to Jack, okay?
Love you, Em. x
“Love you too, Emma,” Elsa muttered quietly as she lay back and stared up at the intricate carved detailing of the ceiling above her. Emma wasn’t lying that something had happened, but she couldn’t help feeling that there was more to it than that. She just hoped that Emma wouldn’t try to deal with it all on her own. But for now, it was a new day and she was going to take her sister’s advice and get started on her new normal.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Emma took the earliest flight that she could back to Phoenix. Walsh’s threat to follow her to Storybrooke and to her family wasn’t really a threat; it was a promise. The fact that he had trashed her place in a drunken (and possibly drug fuelled) rage was enough to push her into doing what she had known she was going to do since that first mark ‘accidentally’ appeared on her arm a month ago. Loneliness was a far more appealing prospect than an obsessive asshole who became abusive whenever she opposed him and bruised his precious ego.
As the taxi pulled up to her house, Emma dug into the bottom of her tote bag, fishing out her obsidian stone of protection. Gripping it tightly to her chest, she silently mouthed an incantation for safety and heightened vigilance, not knowing what she would find when she crossed the threshold of her temporary home.
Stepping onto the small porch, Emma noticed that the front door had been replaced and a temporary lock installed that required a passcode to unlock - she had no doubt that her landlord would try to find a way to charge her for it, along with the time, money and inconvenience that the break in had caused. Typing in the passcode that had been texted to her, she cautiously moved inside, flipping on lights as she did so, taking in the destruction that extended the length and breadth of the house. There wasn’t a wall that wasn’t smeared with something that looked suspiciously like the cherry flavored syrup that she liked to add to her drinks and desserts from time to time; every cushion that she owned, along with those belonging to the sofa and armchair in the lounge room, were slashed, their stuffing strewn about everywhere without care; and the few delicate photo frames that she owned were all smashed to glittering fragments - although thankfully the photos within had been spared. Entering her bedroom, Emma looked around and determined that this was certainly the epicenter of the rage that had descended when she had disappeared only two days before.
She sat on the edge of her bed, avoiding the broken shards of the tequila bottle at her feet, overwhelmed by what she was seeing. Like the rest of the house, the walls had been decorated with that same cherry red liquid; however, where there had only been nonsensical patterns - or rather just general defacement with no purpose behind it - insults and threats had been scrawled around a haphazardly drawn shape of a love heart. A hole was depicted in the middle of it seeping what could only be assumed were supposed to be droplets of blood. There was something familiar about the image, but she couldn’t place where she had seen it. Fighting off the shudder that threatened to race down her spine, Emma turned her attention to the words, anger fused with a large dose of fear sparking a need to clean it all off. She started to move towards the bathroom to locate a washcloth or towel that wasn’t ruined beyond use before her logic re-emerged. She couldn’t simply clean up what she no longer wanted to see as she hadn’t received the go ahead from the police. She worked in the field; she knew it didn’t always take just a few hours to collect all the evidence there was to find at a crime scene. There was no way she was going to stay the night here though. She would spend only as long as she needed to for a quick inventory of anything missing to hand over to the officers assigned to her case, all while ignoring the words that told her she was a ‘Bitch’ and a ‘Whore’ and that she would ‘pay for breaking my heart’.
“When my heart is wounded, I lash out at the person who caused it to bleed.”
Emma stilled at the cold, detached voice coming from the doorway. She hadn’t heard anyone come in after her, causing her fear to heighten tenfold. Spying a decorative glass sphere she kept on her bathroom vanity, she snatched it up, forming a fist around it as she did so. If Walsh had plans on hurting her, she could at least try and fight back by landing a punch that could incapacitate him long enough for her to make an escape. Turning around slowly, Emma regarded Walsh. It was obvious he was coming down hard from some kind of cocktail of drugs - the fresh track marks on his arm, visible even from where she was standing, giving credence to the suspicion. His eyes were clouded over but rimmed with a deep shade of red, crazily putting Emma in mind of the reanimated dead that she had once spied in a book on voodoo. She silently cursed herself for her idiocy in mixing Belladonna with the tequila so she could make her getaway to Elsa. It wasn’t typically a drug that one could get addicted to, but Emma knew she should've seen the signs that Walsh was more than just a light recreational user. Taking a deep breath and pushing down the nerves that were beginning to show in the trembling of her hands, Emma spoke calmly, “Why, Walsh? I was barely gone for a day. My sister needed me, but I was always going to come back. Back to you.” She hoped he could hear some sincerity in her words as now was not the time to end things - not while she was alone here with him with no backup available to her; her spell of protection could only hold off so much.
Walsh chuckled, but again it was cold with no feeling behind it. “How many times do I have to tell you before you understand and believe me, baby? We are one, always and forever. Where you go, I follow; but I can’t do that if you disappear without a fucking trace! When you leave me, it hurts me and that isn’t fair, so I do what I need to make the pain go away.” At his last words, he swept his arm across the room, as though to excuse the damage he had caused in his rage. The deranged gleam in his eyes now told Emma everything she needed to do; placate and escape.
“I’m sorry, Walsh. I really am. I had no idea that you needed me this much.” Emma took a step forward, still clutching the sphere tightly in her fist, ready to throw the first punch if she had to.
“No, of course you didn’t, because you have never taken me seriously. I’ve tried to make you understand so many times, and yet all you do is act as though our connection has an expiration date - like you’re just waiting for something better to come along. We are soulmates, Emma, and it’s about time you accepted it. Now that I finally found you, I’m never letting you go. You are mine!” With every word spoken, Walsh’s voice rose higher in volume, the coldness dissipating to reveal an unchecked passion that broke past the border of deep and abiding love and crossed over into obsession.
Walsh pushed off the door frame he had been leaning against and walked unsteadily towards Emma, collapsing before her and pressing his face against her stomach, his hands gripping so tightly onto her hips that there would certainly be bruising there tomorrow as he began to sob uncontrollably. Emma automatically lifted her hand to sift through his hair. She felt no affection in the action, but knew she couldn’t stay motionless for fear it would set him off once again. She tried to make out the words he was mumbling into her belly, only able to catch the odd ‘mine’ and ‘forever’. Staring at the image on the wall again, Emma suddenly realized what it was that was so familiar about it. The mark of the ‘Wounded Heart’ killer. She had studied that mark so many times in her consultations with her fellow forensic investigators all over the South West - how was she suddenly living this nightmare that she had only read about? Silently sending a prayer to the Maiden and Huntress for fortitude and strength, she tried to hold her panic at bay, knowing that any change in her emotions and her reaction to them could tip him off.
She would allow him to fall apart, get him as vulnerable as possible, and provide whatever simple comfort she could. That way, when she made her next escape, he would be just as unsuspecting as he was last time. She needed to get back to Elsa - everything else could wait.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Special Agent Killian Jones stormed through the doors of the Arizona field office of the FBI, a to-go cup of hot tea in his hand and a scowl on his lips that was partially hidden by the brim of his Stetson. Most people (his brother included), took delight in teasing him about his first choice of beverage during work hours - his British heritage still visibly apparent despite having lived in the States since the age of twelve - however, when Killian Jones was in a dark mood, his co-workers knew to keep their heads down and ensure that he was given a wide berth. The ‘Wounded Heart’ killer was Killian’s first major case where he was given a lead role within the investigating team and evidence pointing to the killer were as elusive to come by as were any leads on the evidence they did have. Killian had been brought into this case specifically due to his previous successes in reviewing a case from a different perspective and finding the pieces needed to pinpoint their target and bring them in. His brother Liam, ran the investigation from the comfort of his office, coordinating leads and reporting to management back in Quantico. He was one of the youngest Deputy Special Agents in Charge at the age of thirty-two, and Killian couldn’t be prouder. He just needed to prove that he was here on his own merit and not because of his brother’s success.
Throwing himself into his office chair, Killian removed his hat and raked his fingers through the dark strands of his hair, willing away the headache beginning to form from long hours and little sleep. As he took a sip of his tea, he moved the mouse connected to his computer to wake it up and enter in the passcode to access the Bureau’s secure server. He was hoping to see if his colleagues in both Nevada and New Mexico had emailed him back with any information they had on the one piece of evidence linking the murders of six young women across three states, each branded with the mark of their killer.
Two loud thunks startled Killian out of his focus on the screen, as a grinning Liam leaned on the desk beside him.
“A meatball sub, with extra cheese, hold the jalapenos, and a gift from Phoenix PD. You are welcome little brother.”
“Younger brother,” Killian reminded automatically, “and a meatball sub? I thought you said that Tony’s meatball subs are a heart attack waiting to happen?”
“Everything in moderation Kil, and besides, with your eating habits of late, I sincerely doubt it will make a difference to your delicate figure.”
Killian snorted and shook his head, his bad mood ebbing slightly. Liam had always known how to bring about an end to Killian’s moodiness as a kid, why should it be any different now?
Leaning back in his seat, Killian placed a hand over the ‘gift’ that Liam had dropped onto his desk - a manilla folder stamped with the emblem of the Phoenix Police Department. “A gift from you, or from Starkey who I know has contacts in just about every local police force in the state?”
Liam sighed, although a smirk still lingered about his mouth. “Thank you was all you needed to say brother, especially since I took time out of my busy schedule to make sure you had something more substantial than tea for lunch.”
“Thank you, Liam,” Killian deadpanned, rolling his eyes as he turned his attention to unwrapping his sandwich while flipping open the case file to peruse while he ate. Liam left Killian to his study and lunch; he really did have quite a busy schedule today, his superiors were breathing down his neck about this ‘Wounded Heart’ killer. It had been eight months since the attacks, but there had been plenty of similar cases in the meantime that still kept the community on edge and worried about when the next victim would turn up.
Taking a bite of his lunch, Killian read through the report of a break and enter and subsequent destruction of property at the home of a Miss Emma Swan. Miss Swan had been in Maine visiting family when the incident occurred, and as yet had not indicated whether anything had been stolen from the property. There didn’t appear to be anything particularly unique about the crime that had taken place; the level of destruction throughout certainly pointed to a personal vendetta against the occupant rather than just tossing around everything in the search for valuables. It wasn’t until he unearthed the crime scene photos of the bedroom that Killian understood why this case was sent to him. There, covering a significant portion of one wall, was the calling card of their killer: a love heart showing blood dripping from a hole in its middle - a wounded heart.
“Hey Jones! You read that B&E report yet?” Starkey called as he walked into the bullpen, balancing a stack of files from one of their other open cases in one hand, and a tray of coffees in the other. Killian ignored Starkey’s question as he frantically skimmed through the persons of interest on the report, hoping for a name that sparked some kind of recognition. The third name on the list - Walsh Osman, boyfriend to Miss Swan - was familiar; not in an overt way, but it was something that Killian could follow up on now.
He scanned through his notes from each of the previous murders, searching for where he had seen that name before. The first victim, Dorothy Gale, had only been living in Nevada for a year before her murder. Her boyfriend, Walsh, had been questioned at the time, but had been cleared of any involvement by the Reno PD after his alibi had been verified. The couple had argued publicly the night of Dorothy’s murder, although no one could say what it had been about exactly, except that Dorothy had stated she would move back to Kansas if she needed to. According to Osman, it was because of a sick aunt that would need long term care.
Killian stared unseeingly at the words on his screen. It was too much of a coincidence for a person to be involved in the case at such different times and in separate locations. The first murder had happened over two years ago, with the break and enter having occurred less than three days ago. Instinct told him that he was onto something here, but telling his brother, hell even his brother’s superiors, that his gut was pointing to this Walsh guy having more to do with the case than anyone initially thought, was never going to fly. He needed to build his evidence up before presenting it to the team, which would mean an all-nighter and plenty of tea to compensate him. However, that left the question of Emma Swan. If Killian was right in his suspicions, how safe would she be until he could bring Osman in for questioning and potential arrest? One victim was one too many, and now they had six. He couldn’t handle investigating a seventh.
“Starkey, do you know if the investigating officers have had a chance to speak with Miss Swan about the break in? The report only mentions their intention to speak with her.”
Starkey, shook his head in the negative, before responding, “No, I think Smee mentioned something about there being a death in the family up north, so they were going to wait until she made it back to Phoenix. It’s not like they wouldn’t know how to get a hold of her if they needed to urgently - she works as a forensic investigator for the department.”
“What?” Killian quickly pulled up the state police database and typed in Emma’s name. There she was, Emma Swan, forensic investigator with the Phoenix PD for the last nine months; however, she had worked previously in Seattle and Indiana for short stints as well. He clicked on her photo thumbnail to enlarge it and felt his breath leave him. Glittering green eyes stared back at him with a demure smile gracing her lips. She appeared unassuming and professional, but Killian knew without a doubt that she was so much more interesting than that. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun at the base of her neck, but there was no hiding the fact that if she let it down, it would be a riotous mass of golden curls, tempting many a person to gently run their fingers through it.
The smell of roses and sweet cinnamon enveloped his senses the longer he gazed at the photo of the enchanting woman before him. He looked around him, but none of his female colleagues were anywhere close to them (not for lack of trying at least on their part); the source of the mystery scent eluding him. Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time he had been assaulted with this particular phantom smell; it had frequently come upon him ever since he was a child. His raven’s lucky feather he found as a boy seemed to be infused with it, but that was sitting at home in a small box on his nightstand. Killian couldn’t help the crazy thought that Emma Swan with her sweet smile and beguiling eyes had invoked one of his most favorite smells.
Shaking his head at his ridiculousness, he focused his attention on the evidence he was about to compile, calling out requests to Starkey and Mullins to assist him in his endeavor. Someone needed to get in contact with Emma and get her away from her boyfriend until they could be absolutely sure there was no risk to her life - or at the very least, her heart.
Summary: Born in a dystopian future ruled by machines, Killian Jones is a soldier in the human Resistance fighting to reclaim the world. In the past, Emma Swan is a student waitress, blissfully unaware of the coming war, and the key role that she plays in it. When the Huntsman - a cyborg assassin - is sent back in time to kill her before she can provide the hope that the future of humanity relies on, Killian travels back in time after it to protect her.
Read on: AO3 FFN
Opening: “Move Swan!”
The words were an order, direct and emotionless despite the chaos which encompassed them. It was like standing in the midst of a war zone; screams sound out all round whilst blood seeped along the floor, the formally wood-slated ground almost unrecognisable under the mass bodies. Despite all those horrors, Blue-eyes remained as consistent as ever, his stare fixated on her, eyes wide and alert, impossibly more intense than ever before. She looked to the shooter, the very man who was inexplicably getting to his feet, undeterred even after taking six shots to the chest. His similarly blue eyes were cold and harsh, dulled in comparison to the way Blue-eyes’ lit up with anxious intensity.
My writing motivation appears to be back in time for 2024 and I'm hoping it sticks around. I've made some writing goals for the year ahead and The Huntsman is a priority. I've been editing for the last couple of days so here's a few snippets from the next three chapters!
So spoiler warning for below I guess...
Nine
“I understand it’s a lot, love,” he spoke softly.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, gentle, calming and, for a split second, it didn’t seem quite so horrific. She wasn’t alone in this upcoming fight. She had Jones with her. The two of them against one machine didn’t seem quite so terrifying.
Jones’ next words ruined it, “But we need to get moving. We can’t afford to linger here. Like I said, the Huntsman is after us and it’s not going to stop. Not until we stop it, together.”
-
Nine
“Are you crazy?” Emma exclaimed, diving over him to pull his arm back from the car door handle. “Don’t!”
Jones shrugged his arm from her touch, still fully intending to go out there, single gun blazing. He was ready to take them all on. She could see it in the thunderous look in his eyes; his frustration at being bested.
-
Ten
She knew that he probably just wanted to see that she was safe, but it was a nice feeling to be wanted; to be wanted by him.
-
Ten
He had never believed in miracles. He had never believed in wishes being granted. The sight of the door opening was the closest he had ever felt to believing in both. He held his breath as he stared at the open door, hoping to catch the slightest of glimpses of long blonde hair to confirm that finally, finally they had listened to his requests and gotten Emma for him.
-
Eleven
Death, however, death was a constant in the machine dominated world. It happened all around him, all the time, but it had never once before crossed his mind that it could happen to him. It didn’t seem like something which could. He had never contemplated it before. He had always assumed that he would live forever.
Except he was bleeding. With blood came death, and he was scared. He longed for one person, just one person.
-
Eleven
“That’s stupid,” Killian shot in response, frustrated. “I’m not in the mood for games.”
The man’s grin faded instantly, and his blue eyes hardened. Killian swallowed hard; had he just offended the man who had saved his life? Killian shifted uncomfortably on the bed as the man approached him, getting right up close, encroaching personal space, and looking him dead in the eye.
“Believe me, boy, this is no game,” he spoke low, his voice hushed and urgent.
“I… I just don’t get what you’re trying to say,” Killian told him. “You’re not making sense. You sound crazy.”
“You people are so quick to categorize things you don’t understand as crazy. I’m making perfect sense,” the man protested, offended by the statement. He jabbed a finger at Killian’s forehead. “It’s not my fault your brain can’t keep up. There’s a giant jigsaw at play and you’re missing all the pieces.”
It seemed like the right time to dig out this older story of mine and revisit it. I even created some fic cover art for it at long last. I originally wrote this for @searchingwardrobes' Captain Swan is my Favorite Rom Com collection on AO3, and I had a lot of fun adapting one of my all-time favorite movies While Your Were Sleeping to include Killian, Emma, and many of our other favorite OuaT characters. I hope you will enjoy seeing it again, or seeing it for the first time, as this week's self promo re-run.
~*~ Complete in 8 Chapters ~*~
Also available on AO3 or ff.net if that is your preference...
by: @snowbellewells
Part One: Prologue
“Next.”
The clink of the subway token in the steel drop slot made its familiar sound as Emma Swan almost robotically gestured the traveler through to make room for the next and fished the coin out to add to the growing pile on the counter at her elbow. At this point, the main part of her job at the Riverside subway terminal on Boston’s Green Line was so routine she barely paid attention or even looked at the equally harried and distracted commuters, but simply gathered their fares, waved them on, and kept the line moving. It certainly wasn’t exciting or life-changing, but it paid the bills, kept her and her cat fed, and if she daydreamed meanwhile about someday traveling beyond the bounds of the city’s subway network, and having someone to travel with – well, no one had to know that but her.
The jangle of another coin in the till jarred her from her morosely-veering thoughts and reminded Emma of her duty, “Ne-” she began to say, even looking up at this person as if to prove she wasn’t lazing on the job, but the words froze on her tongue at the sight before her.
It was him – the mystery man who traveled through her station every week. Like clockwork, he appeared each Saturday at nine, then reappeared on his return journey in the early evening. Only on Saturdays, but without fail; once a week some pilgrimage brought him to her like a shimmering mirage, leaving Emma shaken and breathless, thinking throughout the rest of her work week that she must have conjured him from her own imagination. Though she wanted to shake her head at the preposterous reaction, roll her eyes at the dramatic way her heart raced whenever this guy came into view, and write herself off as pathetic for behaving with such girlish enthusiasm, it never failed to strike her again on Mr. Handsome’s next arrival.
It wasn’t just the perfectly tailored slate gray suit and handsome overcoat the man wore, the fancy watch on his wrist, or the confident, decisive way he moved and carried himself; it was more in the twinkle of playful mischief she saw in his breathtaking blue eyes behind the proper veneer of his business-like appearance (even on a Saturday), the subtle quirk of his mouth as he never failed to thank her, in a heart-stopping British accent no less, before moving on to his destination, and the way that, though he without doubt had the best products and stylists at his fingertips, there was still an unruly, disheveled mess of curls atop his thick, sandy head of hair. The man was clearly a mover and shaker, powerful, well-to-do, and yet he carried himself as if it were an easy mantle, with the grace not to give his power too much credence or act better than anyone else.
As if to prove her point, the guy smiled at her kindly, even as she did little more than nod dumbly and reach out to take his subway token. His voice was warm, almost melodious with the lilt of that accent as he added, “Thank you, Lass. Have a lovely day.” Then, with a dip of his head and a wink, he was gone, moving off on his way again, leaving Emma looking after him and trying to shake herself back into coherence.
She watched his tall, broad-shouldered frame, now with his back to her, stop on the platform to check the time, and she sighed, dejectedly berating herself for being too dumbstruck to even answer the seeming man of her dreams. “You have a nice day too.” “That’s a great tie you’re wearing,” she snarked to herself quietly, reminding her stunted brain of the sensible replies she could have given Mr. Dreamy instead of merely gawping at him like a fish out of water. “‘You’re beautiful”, “Take me with you…” Letting out a growl of frustration at her own lunacy, Emma buried her head in her hand a moment before knocking her brow against the glass a couple times for good measure. “Stupid, stupid,” was really all she could find to mutter to herself.
However, though she admitted that she might be many things, a wallower was not one of them. After her short personal pity party, Emma drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and looked up, intending to get back to work – monotony and all. Unfortunately, that still wasn’t in the cards.
She looked up just in time to see her daydreams’ focus be joined on the platform by three other men, looking much less clean-cut and a lot shiftier in their bearings. Whatever the first one said to her suited regular, it clearly wasn’t friendly, as he stiffened rigidly, and Emma did too merely from watching at a distance. The first newcomer gave her commuter’s scarf a flip back over his shoulder, making the muffler fall from his shoulders to the ground, and she could almost read the words on those well-formed lips, imaginary or perhaps even distantly hearing his, “Watch it, you lot. Just back off. I’m not looking for any trouble.” He had turned partially to take in all three of the men who’d accosted him, clearly not wanting to put his back to any one of them, and she could see the storm cloud that had settled on his strong brow, that handsome face dark and warning where before she had only ever seen it show either mild happiness or amused curiosity.
One of the newcomers jeered loud enough for Emma to hear as she cracked open the door of her vestibule, ready to call out and intervene, asking loiters to move on before the next train’s arrival. “Well, you may not want any trouble, guv’nuh,” mocking his English speech obviously as he moved right into her guy’s space, “but what if we do?” And before Emma could call out or make any sort of sound at all, he shoved at her regular passenger, hard enough to send him stumbling back despite his height and the casual poise with which Emma normally saw him move. Though he might well have caught his balance just fine in usual circumstances, they were standing too near the edge of the platform. The next foot he put back to brace himself found only empty space.
One of the hoods bent quickly to swipe the dropped briefcase he had been carrying; while another gave her handsome stranger one last shove in the chest before the three attackers bolted, disappearing up the subway steps, even as Emma finally jolted from her wide-eyed shock, leapt from her stool, and ran toward the fray.
Unfortunately, even as she hurried, she knew it was too late. In nightmarish slow motion, her guy’s arms pin wheeled, still seeking balance. The desperate attempt failed, and Emma skidded to a stop where he had been, grasping for nothing but air as he fell and vanished over the side, plummeting to the tracks below.
A/N: It was requested I post this here, as well, so here ya go! (Sorry if I double tagged anyone.) I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thank you endlessly to anyone still following this story. You have all my love.
Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.
Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny.
Find on A03 here
++++++
Chapter Four - Don't Get Around Much Anymore
Three Weeks Post-Op
Emma had been called a cynic plenty of times in her life. As it turned out, being pushed through the foster system for a decade and a half hadn’t exactly turned her into a beaming optimist. Like most cynics, she claimed she was actually a realist. She planned for the worst, because things tended to not work out that great for her, and hoped for the best. Sometimes she was pleasantly surprised.
But in the litany of potential outcomes Emma had been preparing herself for, a new heart had never actually made the list. It was akin to winning the lottery, in her mind. Life had not been particularly kind to her. Yet, she had always taken her blows in stride, and she never took handouts. And the prospect of finally making it to the top of the transplant list at the age of twenty-six, after almost a decade of waiting, felt like a handout from life.
Emma Swan had never been one to sit around waiting for handouts.
There were other things she had prepared herself for. Increasing the handful of pills she took each day to keep her body from failing on her any faster. Moving from her full time job and supporting herself completely on her own to working part time, then very part time, to not at all. Getting on a government disability program. Each new punch to the gut from life she took in stride, as best she could.
And through it all, righting her each and every time she stumbled, were David and Mary Margaret. They were some of the best, most genuine and caring people ever to be placed on planet earth. She didn't deserve them—there was a small, cruel voice in the back of her head that affirmed this for her every day. But they just kept showing up for her, and they wouldn’t leave, and they wouldn’t let her quit.
As it turned out, after the first week, getting a whole new vital organ sewn into her chest wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. By the third week, the pain was starting to subside, transitioning into a residual soreness, and her biggest struggle currently was not clawing at her incision every time it itched. When the skin itself didn’t feel like an odd mixture of both tight and numb, it felt ablaze with itchiness. It was all she could do not to scratch at it. (Every time she did, Mary Margaret would bark at her to stop it, or David would throw a random item in her direction. Most recently, it had been a box of tissues that had narrowly missed her head, and he threatened to get an extendable fly swatter to swat her with, as needed.)
For the first time in her life, Emma was well and truly doted upon. She had family members who inarguably refused to leave her side. That is, of course, until Mary Margaret was forcibly removed by way of her impending school year start.
She’d had almost a month left of her summer break when Emma had had her operation, and she had been able to push almost all of her classroom prep off until the very last minute. David helped her ready her room when he could, but Emma knew her friend was fraying at the seams from trying to do so much in such a short span of time. Mary Margaret had a handful of vacation days, but she hoarded them like a dragon for true emergencies, and worried constantly that if her students started off the school year with a substitute teacher, they would just end up watching movies all day instead of actually learning something.
This was their last weekend before the new school year started and Mary Margaret went back to working full days. Emma was lounging on the couch, dozing, lidded eyes half focused on the episode of Friends quietly playing on the living room TV. She and Mary Margaret had just finished putting together twenty-five “Welcome back!” folders for her incoming students, as well as a second set for their parents.
“Why couldn't they have been ready for you to have the surgery during the start of summer?” Mary Margaret lamented, as she plopped her last folder down on the pile. “I would have had three months off to be here with you!”
David glanced over at them from the pile of pans he was washing at the kitchen sink and gave his wife an odd look. “You do realize you're wishing the woman whose heart Emma has now had died earlier in the year instead of later, right?”
Mary Margaret looked aghast. “No! Of course I don’t wish that. I didn't... I just meant...”
David raised his eyebrows at her, but by now he was smiling gently at his wife. Mary Margaret huffed. A slightly awkward silence settled between the three of them. The fact that another person was dead and Emma was still alive because of it was something they all knew but typically left unsaid. David had said it out loud, and now the strangeness of that fact settled over them all heavily.
“I wonder what she was like,” Emma murmured from her spot on the couch, puncturing the silence. “They couldn't tell me much. Well, couldn't or wouldn't, not sure which. All they said was that she was older than me, but not by too much, and in great health. Obviously we had to have the same blood type. But they couldn't tell me how she died, just that it didn't affect her heart.”
“Probably head trauma,” David said sagely. Emma winced at the thought, but he was likely right. He had seen enough as an officer to know. Especially working night shifts, when the majority of car accidents took place in the area.
“That sounds awful,” Mary Margaret said quietly.
“I'd never say I was glad someone else died,” David said after a while. “But I'm glad Emma's still with us.” The fact that these things were one in the same went unsaid. Mary Margaret reached over and squeezed Emma’s arm in gentle agreement with her husband. Emma glanced over at her and offered her sister-in-law a small smile, trying to convey to her without having to say it aloud that it was okay.
But in truth, Emma was uncomfortable. It just made her feel so strange, knowing that for every happy moment she now got to have here with her family, someone out there was living new moments, making new memories, without their own loved one to share them with. Someone out there was grieving a tremendous loss—had lost a daughter, a sister, a mother, a wife. The woman whose heart Emma now had could have been any one of those things, or all of them at once. She was presumably loved, adored, missed dearly. And Emma just didn’t know what to do with that information, how to carry these feelings with grace and proper gratitude. Often they \manifested in the form of guilt. David and Mary Margaret were quick to talk her out of that whenever it came up. That woman’s death meant something, they assured her. Part of her lives on, and part of her saved a life. That has to mean something to her family, right?
They were right, Emma knew. David saw so much meaningless death in his line of work that she inherently believed him when he told her that it was a gift, her being able to use someone else’s heart. (She didn’t have the courage to ask him how he would feel about any of Mary Margaret’s vital organs going to someone else, if she died.) It was a guilt she carried nonetheless, and she carried it poorly. It was an awkward shape, this guilt, and heavy, and she didn’t know how to carry it well. It all too often made her fumble.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” she said Mary Margaret looked over at her sharply, instantly suspicious that Emma was still feeling off from the previous conversation, but Emma was quick to wave away her worry. “I’m fine,” she assured her. “Really. I just feel grimy, and I don’t want to taint the epicness of Last Dinner with my stink.” This was their last evening—Last Dinner—before Mary Margaret returned to work full time, and they were marking the occasion with David’s mother’s famous lasagna recipe, a favorite from David and Emma’s semi-shared childhood (and coincidentally the only meal David really knew how to make, but that was beside the point).
“I second the vote for a shower,” David said, raising his hand in mock vote.
“You would,” Emma said with a roll of her eyes that David didn’t even need to see to know was there. Mary Margaret started to rise with her, as if about to help her to her feet. “Relax, woman,” Emma said, putting her hand on her friend’s shoulder gently to stop her. “I’ve got it. I’m not a complete invalid.”
“Jury’s still out,” came David’s response.
Emma looked at Mary Margaret, half expecting her to admonish her husband, but Mary Margaret just stared up at her with poorly veiled anxiety. “I’m not!” Emma said. “Guys, it’s been almost a month.”
“Three weeks,” Mary Margaret corrected. “Since you got a new heart. Not since you got your tonsils removed.”
“Okay,” Emma said, stretching out her back a bit as she stood there, chasing a kink out between her shoulder blades. “Sure, it was a big surgery.” David scoffed from his place by the sink, and Emma shot him a warning look. “But the doctors even said I have to try to do more on my own. I think it’s safe to say that includes showering.” There was no argument from David on that one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, looked unconvinced.
“What if you slip and fall?”
“I’ll be sure to have my Life Alert button handy,” Emma retorted wryly. “Seriously, guys, it’s okay. I can handle showering.” Before they could argue any further, Emma slipped away, locking herself in the bathroom.
“Let me know if you need any help, okay?” Mary Margaret called through the door in a singsong voice only a few moments later. Emma swore she heard the doorknob jiggle, like her friend was testing to see if it was locked or not. It was, thankfully. Emma was already halfway undressed, and the last thing she needed was for her brother to get an accidental peep show because his wife thought Emma had already gotten stuck behind the toilet and died or something. “Emma?”
Oh, my God, Emma mouthed to herself. “Thanks,” she called out. “I will!” That seemed to appease Mary Margaret. But the faint squeak of the bar stool at the kitchen island assured Emma she hadn't gone far. It was endearing, how much they worried about her. At least, that's what she told herself in the moments like this, when it was almost impossible to find even just two seconds of privacy. Sometimes, she really did feel like she was a little kid again. Only now, she was re-living a much different version of her childhood. A sweeter, kinder version wherein people actually wanted to take care of her and didn't think of her as a monumental burden.
The tub's faucet squeaked shrilly as she turned on the water. When she’d first gotten home a week ago, just that motion, gripping the handle and giving the antique metal a yank, had left her arm feeling like a limp noodle. She was doing much better now, but she still felt pathetically weak and exceptionally out of shape. At one point, long ago, she had been fairly strong. A thin child, but always scrappy. Now she was a pale waif, muscles atrophied over the years as she'd gotten sicker. She vowed to herself that was going to change. Despite how frail she was, at the same time, she legitimately felt like she could take on the world now, with this new heart. She could finally breathe, take a breath fully in and out, without feeling lightheaded. That alone was a miracle.
Gingerly, she lifted her tank top up over her head. Her scar, where a surgeon had cut into muscle and bone and forcibly ripped open her sternum, stood out, an angry red slash against alabaster skin. For the first few weeks, it had been concealed by gauze. By this point, it was still tender, but her doctor encouraged her to air it out often. She even had some skin mobility exercises she was supposed to be doing daily, to help the layers of tissue beneath the scar not permanently adhere to one another. The scar itself stretched from the top of her chest, dropping down in between her breasts, all the way past her sternum bone. It was a thick, gnarled thing, aesthetically ugly; but she found herself overwhelmingly grateful for it the longer she looked at it. As ugly as it was, this scar meant she was going to live to see her next birthday.
Washing herself was still a slow, cautious process, but much easier than it had been when she’d first gotten out of the hospital. She took the time now to do her full, luxury, self care princess shower routine, something she hadn’t had the strength to do in months.
The venting system in the loft's tiny bathroom was terrible, and by the time she stepped out of the shower, steam cloaked the room like a fog. The sheer dampness of the air made her cough when she inhaled. Emma didn't care; she felt amazing. It was easy to underestimate how much better a good shower could make a person feel. She felt human again, instead of the fresh-from-the-hospital, invalid goblin she’d been feeling like for the past few weeks. Humming to herself, she dried off, turbaned her wet hair, and started to dress.
David had the water running at the sink, and the apartment’s ancient radiator had kicked on next to the bathroom; when Emma finally opened the bathroom door, her brother and sister-in-law didn’t hear the faint creak of the old wood on its hinge as it started to open.
“But you love your classroom.” David was saying in a low voice. It was clear he was trying to be fairly quiet, but this felt like intruding in on a conversation that had been going on for several minutes. Possibly the whole time she’d been in the shower.
Emma didn't hear Mary Margaret sigh, but she could tell by the tone of her voice that her words had come on the end of one. “Of course I do,” she said, “And I really do miss my kids. But Emma needs me here. I can't just leave her! She just got a new heart, David. A heart. It's not like she had her wisdom teeth removed and just needs a day or two to get back on her feet.”
The aforementioned heart skipped a beat in Emma's chest. A familiar, sinking feeling of guilt settled low and heavy in Emma's stomach.
“But she will get back on her feet,” David said gently. “You know she will. She just needs time.”
“Exactly! And she needs me here to help her until she does.”
“No, she doesn't.”
“David—”
“Mary Margaret,” David interrupted lovingly. “She's going to be okay. Better than okay. This is the day we've all been waiting for, don't forget. She's getting a second chance at life here.” Unexpected tears welled in Emma's eyes at that. “And Emma knows that,” David continued. “You and I both know she's going to be chomping at the bit to get back out there. It's going to be hard enough keeping her here the six weeks it'll take for her to heal. She's not going to need our help half as much as you think she will.”
Mary Margaret started to respond, but Emma couldn't take it anymore. She took the bathroom's old doorknob in her hand and gave it a good rattle, like she had just started to open it, and the door creaked loudly as she pushed it fully open. David and Mary Margaret grew hush until Mary Margaret piped up with, "Oh, hi Emma!" a little too brightly. David noticeably busied himself with cutting the garlic bread he’d pulled out of the oven moments before. The guilt at having eavesdropped coiled in Emma's chest like a snake ready to spring, and she swallowed around the lump that had grown in her throat. “Hey,” she said, trying her best to sound normal.
“Everything go okay?” Mary Margaret asked. “No dizziness?”
“I didn’t hear the Life Alert alarm go off,” David said dryly, shooting his sister a wink.
“I feel amazing,” Emma said earnestly. “Seriously.” She sidled up to her brother and successfully bumped him out of the way, taking over the cutting of the garlic bread despite his weak protestations.
“Oh, good,” Mary Margaret breathed, and the relief was evident in her voice. She shared a glance with David, which Emma pointedly ignored, and moved to grab the stack of dishes waiting on the island so she could start setting the table.
“I was thinking,” Emma went on, “Maybe I could come help you set up your classroom later today. If you think you need the help. Or I could just come keep you company, get a change of scenery.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” David said, as he watched his wife’s expression.
“That would be great, honestly,” Mary Margaret said, but was quick to add, “As long as you’re feeling up to it.”
“I mean, as long as you don’t have me lugging around twenty-pound carts of Crayons or something,” Emma laughed, “I think I’ll be okay.”
“Do fourth graders still use crayons?” David asked, as he popped open the oven one final time and withdrew the lasagna. The cheese on top was browning and bubbling and a minute away from burnt, just the way his mother had always cooked it, and the whole thing looked wonderful.
“Not really,” Mary Margaret said with a shrug. “But it doesn’t matter. I have a big, handsome deputy to do all my heavy lifting for me.” She batted her eyes at her husband a few times, who grinned back at her.
“All right, lovebirds,” Emma said, as she clicked the salad tongs at them a few times in playful warning. “Let’s eat. I’ve got my appetite back and I’m actually starving.”
“Jeez,” David said, “You’d think she’d gotten a new stomach with the heart. She’s gonna eat us out of house and home now.”
Table set, food out, they took their respective seats. David uncorked a bottle of red wine he’d been saving for a special occasion, which Emma was definitely not allowed to have, but she told Mary Margaret to enjoy it for her.
As Mary Margaret spooned squares of lasagna onto everyone’s plate, Emma took a moment to try to find the right words to say to convey how she was feeling to these people who would seemingly do anything in the world for her. But what she wanted most is for them to get back to living their lives, too. They had put off so much for her sake, and she was more grateful than she knew how to say. But it was time to move on now, to heal, for all of them.
“I know it can suck, having such a huge surgery,” Emma started, pausing to clear her throat. “But this is different.” She glanced up at Mary Margaret, who was watching her closely. “I mean, a month ago, I was dying. I never told you guys this, but it just felt like the end. I was working on drafting a will.”
“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret said quietly.
“That’s so morbid,” David said.
“I know it’s stupid.” Emma toyed with the end of her napkin as she stared down at her plate. “I don’t really have anything to will to anyone. I was just going to leave anything I had to you guys.” She cleared her traitorous throat again and took a moment to blink back some tears. She needn’t have bothered; when she glanced up at her family, they were both openly tearing up as they looked at her. “Okay, stop,” she said, pointing her fork at them, “Or I’m going to lose it. Absolutely no crying in baseball.”
“Got it,” Mary Margaret said, her voice watery and absolutely unconvincing.
“Just… Thank you,” Emma said, when she finally got her voice back under control. “I don’t want to think about where I’d be without you both. From the bottom of both my hearts,” she said, with a wry little smile she couldn’t keep at bay, “Thank you.”
David chuckled, wiping at his eyes, and Mary Margaret continued to stare at her, smiling and barely holding back the floodgates. “We love you, sis,” David said, and a moment later he raised his wineglass. “To Emma’s new lease on life.” Mary Margaret’s wine glass followed, and Emma clinked her water glass with theirs.
“And Mary Margaret’s new school year,” Emma added.
“Hear, hear,” Mary Margaret agreed. “I’ll take prayers, good vibes, anything you’ve got.”
“You’re going to do great,” David assured her, as he put his arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer to kiss her cheek. “Those kids are lucky to have you.”
Dinner was splendid, and the company even better. It was the first full meal Emma was able to enjoy without feeling nauseated, which was a win in her book. She literally couldn’t think of the last time that had happened. Mary Margaret did indeed have Emma’s wine, and was perhaps a little tipsy when they later ventured out to put some finishing touches on her classroom, which just made it all the more enjoyable for Emma and David.
And as Emma settled into bed that night, for the first time in a long time, she felt well and truly good. She felt full, warm, strong, and loved. And she knew, felt sure in her bones, that this was the start of one of the best years of her life.
+++++
The funeral went as well as a funeral could--especially considering there was no actual body to bury. Milah had set it up long beforehand that all salvageable organs were to be donated to the nearest hospital at the time of her death, then the rest of her body donated to science. This made planning her funeral and memorial service a unique affair, as there was no body for a wake, no urn of ashes received. That he would receive later, whenever the hospital saw fit. So Killian honored his wife's memory the best way he could.
Everyone who had ever known her in the past few years since she and Killian had moved Stateside was crammed into a small funeral home to celebrate her life and speak well of her. Her parents were long dead, but he had managed to get his hands on some childhood photos from her aunt who still lived across the pond; a small smattering of her extended relatives had sent cards to pay their respects. But the room was filled primarily with her coworkers and friends she’d made in the few years they’d lived in Boston.
Milah had been a truly gifted photographer, both in her work and personal life, evidence of which sat neatly framed and displayed on nearly every available inch of table space in the room. All the best photos Milah had ever taken through her work had been printed and framed and displayed, tucked neatly between bouquets of flowers. One table was so long, it took up the entire back wall.
Killian had almost, almost, completely lost the last tenuous grip he had on his sanity when the wrong flowers had come in that morning. He had distinctly ordered stargazer lilies, his wife’s favorite flower, for the table arrangements. Instead, what had been delivered to him were a rainbow assortment of Gerber daisies, of all things, which he viewed on this particular day as nothing short of an abomination. As it turned out, there had been a mistake with the delivery trucks, and his order had been sent to a birthday party instead. It probably should have embarrassed him, how angry a simple mix up of flowers had made him. But as he had very little pride left, he was literally seeing red, until Robin showed up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and gently steered him out the side door and outside for some fresh air. Will took over, his general belligerence a helpful and actually useful tool that day, and tried to get the flowers sorted out with minimal shouting.
As Killian stood now, gazing down at the myriad of perfect photos his wife had taken over the course of her career, he belatedly realized he had been the star of many of them, unbeknownst to him. His wife had apparently been a ninja behind her viewfinder when he wasn’t paying attention. It should have made him feel awkward, being the focal point of so many of her photographs; the last thing he wanted now was attention. And yet, he couldn’t help but smile at most of them. One of him leaning over the railing of a dock, for instance, staring pensively out at sea, squinting slightly in the light of the sun. Another of him from behind, a shadowed figure standing on the beach with his toes buried in the sand and his hands in the pockets of his shorts, staring out at the red slashed sky of an oncoming storm. He was the blurred, black clad figure in the background or at the helm in several photographs of the ships he and his brother had helped restore.
It was visible, tangible proof of how much she had loved him, how often her camera found itself pointed in his direction, focused on him. And God, if that didn’t make him miss her all the more. His heart was an open wound, and he was never going to be able to staunch the flow from it. Day by day, he felt like he was bleeding out, until soon there would be nothing left of him.
One photo, his favorite, and one that was already framed in his home, stood out prominently. His and his brother, Liam, in front of their first real score for the ship restoration foundation, a beautiful, towering piece of history in the form of a stunning antique merchant vessel. Liam’s arm was thrown over Killian’s shoulders, his face alight with absolute joy (and possibly the buzz from the beers they’d had over lunch). They were both squinting, laughing like fools at having finally pulled it off. Towering behind them, not to be overshadowed, was the ship, herself: the Jewel of the Realm. Milah had been sent by a local paper to get photos of the ship, and her new owners, as a focal point for a story on local maritime history.
Killian felt fortunate he remembered that day so well. It had felt like the best day of his entire life, at the time. Seeing his brother so elated, after everything they had endured together, had been enough to send Killian to the moon. It felt like things were finally, finally going their way. He had taken to Milah instantly, and spent the hour regaling her with the history of the ship. A merchant ship, originally, but thought to have been used for piracy at one point. He leaned heavily into the implications of the latter fact, as he felt—rightly so—that it added intrigue, and Milah had been enamored with the Jewel. He'd joked that day about renaming it the Jolly Roger, much to his brother's chagrin. She’d had other work to get to that day, so she hadn’t stayed long, but she’d given him her business card, which he still carried in his wallet. Liam had been killed shortly after, on one of his last missions with the Royal Navy before his scheduled retirement. Everything had changed, then. But Killian had always felt especially lucky that it had been Milah that day who had come to take their photo. For one short hour, she had been able to meet his brother, before Killian had lost him forever. The stars had aligned, and for one short span of time, the man who had meant the most to him and the woman who would come to mean everything to him had met, briefly. It wasn’t much, in the grand scheme of things, but to Killian, it had to be enough.
And then there were the glorious photos of the rest of the ships he had brought on through the years. He had always marveled at Milah’s skill behind a camera, her ability to find just the right angle, at just the precise time of day, to truly capture the essence of the ships he restored. Through her eyes, even the in-progress pictures never made them look like pieces of floating shit, which some of them very much were at the start of the process. She managed to make them look like hidden treasure, just waiting to be uncovered. Pieces of history waiting to be lovingly restored to their former glory. That’s what he’d felt like, with her. She’d been the one to see past his flaws after the death of his brother, to see something worth loving in him, something worth restoring.
And now what was he, without her?
The frequent looks of sympathy that came his way over the course of the memorial service were one of the worst parts of the day. Each and every concerned glance that flit in Killian's direction was threaded not only with heavy condolences, but something much worse: pity. And he knew he was a pitiable sight, indeed. He was dressed well enough, in a deep black suit Milah had bought for him after his business had another big break. But, his arm with the broken collarbone was still in a sling and had no hand at the end of it. Dark circles cradled his eyes, which seemed to be permanently bloodshot these days. He had given up almost entirely on sleep.
Sleeping felt impossible, an insurmountable task despite its simplicity; the bed was too big, too cold, and too empty when he was the only one in it. He tried—really tried. Each night, he made a valiant attempt to sleep in his own bed. He'd toss, turn, and generally do a lot of staring up at his ceiling. Eventually, he resorted to Netflix. But his “recently watched” list was full of her favorite shows, episodes half finished, series just begun. It was a terrible distraction.
The first week after he arrived home from the hospital, his recliner chair in the living room had been the only place he could comfortably fall asleep with his arm in a sling. It was a lumpy, unsightly thing he had inherited from his brother (it was this reason and this reason alone his wife had allowed him to keep it.) Milah had called it his old man chair. These days, he’d often fall asleep in the chair, wake up with a start an hour later, and make his way to the couch, where he’d try to fall back asleep, but would mostly lie awake, staring into the dark, letting his mind off its leash and letting it wander to dangerous places.
Often these thoughts centered on what he would do if he could track down the driver who had hit them head on, then fled the scene. What he would do when he found him or her varied. Sometimes, he pictured lighting him on fire. The next moment, he'd revel in the thought of running him through with a knife, watching him slowly bleed out on the floor. Or he’d take his hand from him, too. Such thoughts kept him company and carried him through until morning.
Now, with the lack of sleep and the general dissociation he felt, he often didn’t feel cemented in reality. When he looked around the room, taking in the funeral parlor, it felt like this was happening to someone else, and he was merely observing. It didn’t help that he was surrounded by a sea of people who didn't know what to say to him. The moment never came that he was spared the awkward indignity of a conversation with someone who had little else to say other than I'm sorry.
She was a lovely person.
(Each time, he bristled at the use of the past tense.)
She'll be missed.
Pity had overtaken the room, lingering like a dense fog. Everywhere he turned, his friends, her friends, co-workers, even a handful of people he had never seen before in his life, were all wearing the same expression on their faces. It transcended simple pity. It was next-level pity, flashing from their eyes and those slight down-turned corners of their mouths like a brightly-lit billboard in the night that read "YOUR LIFE DEPRESSES ME."
He couldn't blame them. He pitied himself, too, when he wasn't numb, pulled down so deep into his own despair he could no longer think straight.
At least the food was decent—or so he had been overhearing. One quick glance over at Will Scarlet in the back of the room, face stuffed with h'orderves, told him the funeral parlor's appetizers couldn't have been terrible. If there had ever been a time he appreciated his friends more, he couldn't think of it. Of all the people who had shown up to the service, Locks and Scarlet were the only two who didn't make him want to scream. Or run. Or throw a punch. All of it, all at once.
Will and Robin sat apart from the rest, in a pair of wingback armchairs in the corner of the room. Killian hadn't had a chance to speak to either of them, apart from initial hellos and quick hugs when they'd first arrived, and of course the ordeal with the flowers, but somehow, he knew without even asking they intended to stay for the entire affair, likely planning to take him out for a drink when this was all over.
What else do you do for your best friend after his wife's funeral?
All in all, it wasn’t a very hopeful affair, and too often bordered on bleak. Killian had no words in honor of Milah he wanted to share with a roomful of people who didn’t know her very well, and he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking down. So, people ate, drank, and made a reserved and somber form of merry. They swapped stories back and forth, each offering up little pieces of the woman they had known.
Milah's parents had died years ago, and she had no siblings, so the room was occupied primarily by people she had thought of as friends. That was a nice thought, and in the coming weeks, Killian would be touched by the food, flowers, and cards that continued to arrive on his doorstep in memory of his wife.
But here, in this moment, he couldn't bring himself to find hope in anything.
+++++++
One Year Later
Was a house truly haunted if you didn’t mind the ghost?
It felt like a haunting for months after Milah’s funeral, this limbo state he found himself in, where he couldn’t bring his heart or his brain to fully comprehend that she was gone. They traded shifts in misunderstanding, his heart and brain. There were days where, logically, he understood his wife was dead. And yet, his heart still leaped at the sound of a car door shutting outside, or an imagined creak in the floorboards that sounded like her coming around the corner in the hall. Other days, his heartache was so profound, he could barely muster the strength to get out of bed. All too often, he’d forget, and for a few blissful minutes, reach for his phone to call her and ask her a question. Those were beautiful moments, the forgetting. But the remembering that followed took his breath away.
Then there were the things around the home he couldn’t bring himself to toss. Notes she’d left on the fridge, a grocery list on the table. Leftovers from her favorite meal at their favorite restaurant he couldn’t bring himself to throw away until they were fouling up the whole kitchen. Her phone was recovered from the accident and eventually made its way to him, via the detectives working the hit and run case. He went through her email drafts, texts, anything he could get his hands on that held pieces of Milah. He'd saved every voicemail she'd ever left him, had them memorized, and he'd play them when he missed her most, poking the bruise in his heart over and over until it numbed and didn't hurt so much. It all felt relatively harmless, like doing this to himself couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.
Until he found himself practically sobbing the floor of the shower one morning over a soggy clump of her hair he’d pulled from the drain.
He just couldn’t seem to pull himself together.
How do you bring yourself to purposefully excavate traces of someone from your life, after they’re gone, until it was like they weren’t even there at all, the life you shared existing only in snapshots and memories? How exactly does one get to that place, force yourself to loosen your grip on all you have left of the person you love, the person you’d give anything to see one last time? Killian couldn’t fathom it. He couldn’t picture himself ever ridding himself completely of Milah’s memory.
But he could stop leaving land mines for himself.
He’d always run a tight ship at home, in terms of cleanliness. He had never had much, by way of possessions, and wasn’t sentimental about keeping things. Now he found himself debating whether or not he should keep a note in the bathroom his wife had scrawled out for herself to remind herself to order new contacts. These were the silly, useless things he stared at for minutes on end, debating what to do with. This little scrap of her pretty handwriting he recognized and loved. The thought of it winding up in a landfill somewhere made him ill.
Eventually, he gathered these random scraps and pieces of her he’d found (except the clump of hair from the drain—that one did make it into the waste bin, thankfully) and gently shepherded them into a large Ziploc bag, which he kept in a box on her side of the closet.
Robin and Will called often, texted even more often, and even dropped by now and again. They offered their help constantly, gladly would have helped with menial tasks like this (like throwing away scraps of paper Milah might have touched, God, he was a mess), but he turned them away each time. He just wanted to shut the world out, encase himself in a tomb of his own grief.
He hadn’t even been able to see her, to say goodbye to her, because he hadn’t been bloody conscious for it. He had no memory of Robin telling him of her death; in the week following the accident, he left a slew of traumatized nurses in his wake as people had to tell him again and again for what felt like the first time that his wife was gone.
Milah, bless her ever-loving soul, had signed herself up to be an organ donor. Of course she had. On some level, he knew this. It was marked on her driver’s license, and it was surely something they had talked about at one point. But now he resented it, resented the whole idea of it. He resented anything that didn’t allow him to see his wife one last time. One doctor had had the absolute audacity to tell Killian that he didn’t want to see his wife, anyway; the damage from the accident had been too great, the brunt of which had gone to her head, and that it was a miracle her heart was still beating enough to allow for any organ transplants. Killian, for his part, had an entirely different definition of the word “miracle”.
So he waited to receive her ashes, held a funeral without her body. But he certainly didn’t wait patiently.
He wonders sometimes what she would think of what he's become. No doubt there would be times she'd laugh at how ridiculous he was being, debating on keeping an old, wet clump of her hair like some kind of serial killer, and the subsequent guilt he felt at throwing it away, this gross little piece of her DNA.
And yet, he reminds himself that there is, oddly, more of her DNA out there somewhere. Somewhere, out in the world, a select few of her vital organs are in new bodies, presumably thriving and keeping their hosts alive and well. Presumably, there are people out there who will be forever grateful for these pieces of his wife. Actual, living pieces of her. Killian has no idea how to feel about that, truly. There will come a day, when he is able to pull himself out of this darkness that perpetually feels more crushingly inescapable by the day, that he is able to see the true and abundant beauty in it. Milah, gone, but literal parts of her living on, providing life-giving support to someone else’s body and soul. That's the true miracle, really, and something he’d know she would be proud of.
For now, in the depths of his despair, he feels annoyed, indifferent at best. Her benevolent medical and scientific donation was, for many long months, the thing standing between him and a proper burial for his wife, the thing that stood in the way of closure and him being able to say goodbye to her properly. This is the thing his mind latched onto, chooses as a target for his blame.
Closure arrives on his doorstep one afternoon, boxed and bubble wrapped, in the form of an unassuming black urn. When he finally received her ashes, half a year after her death, he knew what he would do with them, knew immediately what she would want him to do with them. But he can’t yet bring himself to say goodbye, and the urn sat above their fireplace for months. This is the moment it hits him, truly, that she is gone. This is what it takes for it to finally sink in. He spends a long time building up the courage, brick by brick, to do what he needs to do. And as what would be her 37th birthday approaches on a warm July day, he finally gathered the strength to lay his wife to rest and honor her the way she deserved.
What he doesn’t appreciate about the day, however, is the weather, which turns out to be an absolutely perfect New England summer day, which Killian very much resented.
It was almost like it was mocking him. Jabbing a bright, sunshiny finger right into his face and laughing at his grief, which still, even almost a year after the death of his wife, was still a wound that had left him hollowed. When his brother had died, suddenly and with too much life left unlived, he'd felt like the ground itself had been pulled out from under him, and he'd been left in free fall. Now, with Milah gone, it felt as if his heart had been ripped right out of his chest and crushed in front of him.
How did people live like this?
If he were truly honest with himself, Killian wasn't certain what he was doing each day could actually be called living. He was alive, sure. Most days, the only thing that kept that from being true was the unknown lurking behind the veil of death. He had his own theories, his own hopes, for what awaited in a possible afterlife, but of course, no one really knows for sure until their time comes. He couldn't be sure what would happen to him, whether or not he'd see Milah, if he died tomorrow. Hell would be dying and not being reunited with her. And that was a hell whose existence he was not quite ready to test.
The closest thing he had to his wife now was resting in his lap, ashes encased in ceramic. He had taken a small, private sailboat out to sea, sailed until there was no one else in sight, trying to find a good spot to release her ashes to the ocean she had loved so much. It had been close to two hours, now; he knew he was putting off the inevitable. If he didn’t do it now, he feared, with good reason, that he never would.
The best part about giving someone’s ashes to the sea was that there wouldn’t be one particular spot where her body would be laid to rest. The waves would take the dust of her and spread it for him, from shore to shore, just like they had taken his brother’s ashes. There would be no headstone, but the ocean itself would remind him of her, and he could visit her anytime he liked on a sea that had always brought him a sense of serenity.
Killian Jones had never believed in soul mates until he’d met Milah.
And he still didn't quite believe in them, in the traditional sense. He didn't believe in a ready-made mate just waiting for him to find her. No, in his experience, life was far from ever that easy or that simple. But things had changed for him when he'd met his wife. Then, with her love, the broken pieces in him, irrevocably shattered the day his brother had died, shifted together into something that could almost be held together again. With her, he’d felt more whole than he could ever remember feeling in his life.
She had been married at the time, when they’d met. Daydreaming of leaving her terrible husband, dreams which grew in intensity with each passing day. And while she hadn't exactly left him for Killian, she may has well have. Everything had changed for her that day, too.
For while Milah had been his partner, they hadn't met each other and been perfectly content. But they had made each other stronger, in all the ways that counted.
Now he believed wholeheartedly that soul mates existed. But they weren't found, ready made and prepackaged. They were made, forged through love and hard work working hand in hand.
These were the things he thought, as the gentle salted breeze ruffled his hair and brought stinging tears to his eyes. As he looked down at the urn that held the last physical piece of the woman he’d loved, would always love, was lost and adrift without.
“I love you, Milah,” he whispered to the wind. The tightness in his throat and jaw wouldn’t let him say more, but he knew he didn’t need to. She’d known how much and how fiercely he’d loved her, and he had to think that wherever she was, she still knew the hold she had on him.
He held the urn against his chest with his prosthetic hand, working to unscrew the top. The breeze calmed at just the right moment, and as he leaned over the side of the ship to release Milah to the sea she'd loved, the dust of her settled gently down into the water.
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gonna tag a few folks who I think might care this is up (again, sorry if I already tagged you!)
@spartanguard @sunbeamsandmoonrays @caprelloidea @kmomof4 @queen-mabs-revenge @ahsagitarius @galadriel26 @t-tamm-
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: I totally forgot to post the last chapter and epilogue on here, but hopefully you are following me on AO3 and have read it there. If not, I do apologize, it has been a hectic few weeks! Thank you everyone for all the lovely comments and feedback! I'll be posting the epilogue on here shortly.
Thank you Ultraluckycatnd for being an amazing beta reader!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Hope you all enjoy!
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue
Chapter Twelve
The walk from the hut to Goldby feels like the longest and dreariest and gloomiest walk she’s ever been on. Probably because it has occurred to her that this is the last time she will ever take this particular walk. This is the last time she will ever walk from the hut to Goldby, and her heart aches at the thought.
She will never again walk the forest to go to or from Killian’s cottage, she will never go to the hut again to see him or the pheasants. He left the key where they always left it—above the door—so she had taken it and put it on the chain around her neck, tucking it under her scarf. If Neal wanted the key, he would need to have another one made.
She is completely exhausted and out of breath by the time she reaches Goldby, even though she had moved at a snail’s pace. Killian hasn’t even been gone that long, yet she already feels completely alone and desolate on this land. There’s Johanna, whom she’d become fond of and had befriended since she became Neal’s caretaker, but Emma’s sure the woman will stay here to look after Neal when Emma leaves.
“My Ladyship, you shouldn’t be here.” Johanna rushes up to Emma as she storms inside, determined to get this over with.
She doesn’t want to be here any longer than she has to. Emma stops and places a hand on the woman’s arm. “It’s okay,” she assures. “I need to speak with him.
Johanna nods. “Yes, of course, milady. He’s in his room.”
So Emma goes to the library—the room Neal uses as a bedroom—finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, gaping at her in surprise.
“Emma…”
She closes the door behind her, drawing in a long breath, and prepares to tell him the things she’d replayed in her mind over and over again on the way here.
For a second, he just stares at her in silence like a wounded bird, helpless and hurt. But she doesn’t feel guilty or bad, and perhaps she should’ve reserved an ounce of emotion for him, but there is nothing left inside her. Everything she feels is for Killian. The sadness, the anger inside her from having to be apart from him, the love coursing through her veins—it’s all for him and the child she bears.
“So it’s all true? Why would you do this?”
“It was your idea.”
“My idea?” Neal barks out a contemptuous laugh and shakes his head furiously. “No, no, no.”
“Neal, you knew perfectly well what I was getting into.”
His eyes go wild with rage and disappointment as he looks at her. “With the right sort of man. I said the right sort!”
Emma balls her hands into fists, glaring at him. “Killian Jones is a better person than anyone I’ve ever met!” she states with conviction.
He lowers his voice, speaking through gritted teeth. “I was perfectly clear, Emma. We discussed the rules.”
“I’m going to have his child,” she says proudly.
“You’re going to…” For once, he’s at a loss for words, and he just sits there gaping at her, his eyes wide and jaw dropped. “You’re sure?” he finally says after a moment, his brows knitting together with puzzlement.
She nods. “I went to see the doctor before I left for Venice.”
He scoffs. “But… everybody knows.” He gestures toward her stomach. “You can’t possibly expect me to claim that child as mine now.”
Emma shakes her head. “No, I…I don’t.” She looks him straight in the eyes, speaking firmly but calmly. “I want a divorce, Neal. I’m leaving you.”
He blinks a few times, his face pale. “No.” He shakes his head furiously, not accepting it. “No, you can’t.”
Emma gulps, hoping he won’t make this difficult. “Look, I’m…”—the words get caught in her throat as her eyes water with tears—“I’m so sorry about how this has all turned out, but we both know this…marriage has been unhappy for a very long time now.”
“No, it hasn’t been. Not for me.”
She manages a laugh. “Well, yes, because you laid out all the rules.” She breathes through her nose, trying to block out any fear pushing its way inside her as she says the things she needs to say. “And I tried to follow them. I tried to support you in every way I could.”
Her voice is shaking as she pushes through her fear and anxiety and raises her voice, thinking about how Neal used to make her feel when she had actually tried to show him affection and had wanted it from him in return. She thinks about how loved and cherished and cared for she is by Killian, and it’s so much different and greater than anything Neal has ever shown her.
“But you gave me nothing in return. Not the slightest drop of affection or kindness.” Because of Killian, Emma now knows the true meaning of love. It's not a piece of paper binding two people together, it’s not merely living under the same roof with someone, it’s wanting to give everything she has without feeling ashamed and regretful for it or sad for receiving nothing in return. Because Killian gives her everything and then some. He has opened her eyes to love and sensuality, and she is now able to want what she wants without feeling remorse or shame. Emma is glaring at Neal, resentful and bitter. “And what’s worse, you made me feel ashamed for even wanting those things.”
“I’ve always cared for you, Emma.”
“Yes, cared for me. In the same way you care for your books and for your radio, but you never cared for me or loved me in the ways I needed you to!”
“I love you, Emma. I’ve loved you the only way I know how. I’ve given you everything I know how to give.”
She shakes her head, speaking softly again. “It’s not enough.”
“Then talk to me, Ems. Help me understand. Show me how I can prove to you how I feel.”
“Let me go. Please. Let me go.”
He nods and gestures toward the door, but she knows it won’t be this easy. “Go. Though, know this…I will never grant you your divorce. Because you broke your word. You promised to come back to me after you returned from Venice, but instead you come back carrying my servant's child!"
“Technically, I never made it to Venice,” she says snarkily. “And technically, he’s not your servant anymore.”
“I’m quite aware,” he snaps, his eyes wild with anger. “He had the nerve to come in here and tell me he was unapologetically in love with you!”
“He said that, did he?” A small smirk curves the corner of her lips from knowing he told Neal he was in love with her and not ashamed to say it.
He scoffs. “Oh yes, well I’m glad you find enjoyment in betraying me,” he says sarcastically. “You’ve made a mockery of my life here in Goldby, and I am not inclined to give you anything ever again.”
She laughs, tickled by the false notion that he actually gave her anything. Yes, perhaps a house and possessions but nothing that truly means anything. He never gave her anything she actually needed or craved. “I don’t think you ever really were.” She turns around and heads out the room, shutting the door behind her and letting out a long sigh. It feels like a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and a tear rolls down her cheek. Not of sadness. She is sad Killian is gone, of course, and she has no idea when she will see him again, but this particular tear is one of relief.
“Milady.” Johanna approaches her outside the door, her face etched with apology. “I wasn’t meaning to pry, but I worried about you.”
Emma smiles at her. “I’m all right. Thank you for letting me know.” She’s not the least bit mad Johanna told her. Why would she be? Because of the telephone call, Emma had the chance to see Killian before he left. Though she wishes they could’ve left together. “Thank you for prying,” she says sincerely.
Johanna blushes and nods, her lips expanding into a smile.
“Do you have any idea where Killian has gone?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Would you ask your friends to let you know if they hear any news?”
“And why shall I say I’m asking?”
A smile touches Emma’s lips. “Because I love him. Tell them that.”
“Yes, milady.”
“Goodbye, Johanna.” Emma turns around and starts to head down the hall.
“Milady…”
She turns back around to see the woman’s eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I do hope you find your gentleman.”
“Thank you, Johanna. So do I.” A gentle laugh leaves Emma’s lips. “So do I.” Johanna turns around and walks away as Emma does the same.
She doesn’t care to grab anything from here—she doesn’t want any of it. But she does grab one thing before she leaves Goldby.
The wedding photo of her and Neal. But not for sentimental reasons.
She plans on burning it.
~*~
Emma stares vacantly ahead as the gondola glides through the water, the man in a blue and white striped shirt and straw-hat towering above the sisters from behind, rowing with easy, practiced strokes of the great oar.
The city is bustling with activity, travelers strolling along the stone arch bridge, which spans across the Grand Canal, chatting amongst themselves and pointing at things that catch their eye and couples linking arms and kissing. She watches longingly, wishing Killian could be here with her, holding her hand, kissing her for everyone to see. Perhaps then she might actually enjoy her time here in Venice. After all, he is the father of her child and the love of her life. Who better to share this trip with than him?
So she just can’t enjoy it like she did when she was younger. And she has every reason to enjoy it—she finally told Neal she wants a divorce, she finally left Goldby, left it all behind, though she knows Neal won’t actually give her a divorce. After she left the smoky midlands, she decided to meet her father and sister in Venice and stay here for two months, considering she doesn’t really have anywhere else to go. For the first time in her life, she doesn't have a home to go back to. But she'll have two months to figure out what to do. Two months to wait and hope for Killian to show up.
“Are the signorine staying long at the Villa Esmeralda?” The gondolier wipes the sweat off his face with a white and blue handkerchief.
“Two months. And we are both married ladies,” Mary Margaret corrects him in Italian. Though the man may have been half-right addressing Emma as an unmarried lady.
“My apologies, signoras.”
“Actually, I asked Neal for a divorce,” Emma tells her sister, still staring ahead as they relax on the pillows in their sunny frocks. Or rather, Mary Margaret is sitting up straight, wide-eyed and excited about being in Venice, and Emma is slumped against the pillows, sulking in her misery of being without the man she loves.
Mary Margaret gapes at her sister. “You did?! What did he say?”
“Said he wasn’t inclined to grant me one,” Emma answers glumly.
Mary Margaret waves off her worry. “I’m sure he’ll be inclined to eventually. Just give it time. He is desperate for an heir. Maybe he’ll find someone who will happily give him one.”
Emma cocks her head toward her sister, eyeing her apprehensively. “Yeah, I doubt Neal will want to make that mistake again.” She laughs a little at that.
“True. But what if he found someone who was already pregnant?”
“Who?”
She shrugs and wraps an arm around Emma’s shoulders. “I don’t know. Best not to worry about him. We are in Venice now, and you are going to have a good time.”
Emma tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She doesn’t wish to sulk the entire time here—she’s on a holiday, for heaven’s sake—but she can’t help but feel like part of herself is missing without Killian.
The Villa Esmeralda is quite a long way out, on the edge of the lagoon looking toward Chioggia.
The house they are staying in is crowded with other guests but quite lovely, with terraces that face the sea and afford a picturesque view of a large garden below with dark trees that are walled off from the lagoon.
Sir Leopold still paints a Venetian lagoon-scape now and then, in contrast to his Scottish landscapes. So in the morning, he is rowed off to a site with his huge canvas.
The sisters don't find the house parties particularly entertaining, but they are rarely at the house anyway. In addition to taking them to the exhibition, with its miles and miles of paintings, Leopold also takes them to the Villa Lucchese to visit all his cronies. He sits with them in the piazza on warm evenings, takes them for coffee at Florian's and brings them to the theater to see the Goldoni plays.
Everything one could possibly need for a holiday is here, including dances and illuminated water fêtes. This is the holiday place of all holiday places, but there are too many couples showing affection in the piazza, too many children playing, too many languages being spoken, too many pigeons and too much sun. Too much fun, too much enjoyment—but she can’t enjoy any of it. Because out of everything here, there’s no Killian. Not his sea blue eyes or his smile or his warmth or his handsome face. And it hurts. It just hurts too much, everything is all jumbled together and there’s a big gaping hole in her heart that won’t stop aching.
“Hullo!” Graham Humbert, an artist and friend of theirs, had arrived at the Villa Esmeralda, coming north from Rome. “Come and have an ice cream or something!” He escorts them to the Lido in his gondola.
Emma believes that if she had followed through with her plan, she would have told Neal she had an affair with Graham. For she can trust Graham and confide in him. In fact, she tells him everything that happened back in Goldby, and she knows he won’t share her secrets. He only hopes Killian finds her.
When they arrive at the Lido, she and Mary Margaret know almost everyone there. Five or so years ago, when Emma was actually a signorina, she would’ve engaged in all of this. The cocktails, the vermouth, the cigarettes. Lying in water and sunbathing on hot sand, jazzing with some fellow in the warm nights, cooling off with ice cream. It was a complete narcotic. And that was what she had once wanted—a drug.
Being a married woman herself, Mary Margaret enjoys simply sunbathing with her sister, observing all the women and speculating about them. How does she look? What man has she captured? What fun is she getting out of it? Emma’s just glad they don’t know what happened back at Goldby. At least not yet. It might only be a matter of time before the word spreads abroad.
Emma had once missed her old life, but now she wishes more than anything to skip forward to the day she can see Killian again.
Until then, she is happiest when she can persuade Mary Margaret to accompany her across the lagoon to a solitary shingle bank where they can bathe alone.
And Emma was right. Word eventually spreads to Venice about Emma’s affair with her husband’s gamekeeper and the fact she is having his child. She can see the way they turn up their noses at her, and she can hear them whisper and speak in hushed tones around her, especially now that her pregnancy bump shows. Mary Margaret and Graham tell her to ignore them, but it’s too late. The charm of this place has already faded after two months, and she’s ready to leave. So they go back to London and stay there for a little while.
Emma doesn’t know how her sister and brother-in-law can be apart for so long, but Mary Margaret always tells her that no matter how many miles are between them, they will always return to each other. Emma envies what they have together.
She reads a book on a bench in front of some hedges, or at least she stares at the pages as she thinks about her time with Killian. She thinks about him all the time.
She sees the images in her head of him—his handsome, tanned face, dark, unruly hair, and that gorgeous grin flickering on his lips. She hears his voice, that deep, husky brogue and the way it sets her insides on fire. And she feels his strong, warm hands on her body, softly caressing her skin as they lay naked together. He always knew how to make her feel so loved, so special, so beautiful.
“How many times have you read that page?” Mary Margaret’s voice startles her, breaking Emma out of her dreamy daze, and she looks over to see her sister taking a seat next to her.
Emma smiles a little and closes the book in her lap, knowing she’s been caught daydreaming, her cheeks warming. “What?”
Mary Margaret lets out a soft sigh. “Well…”—a small smile tilts her lips as she hands Emma an envelope—“it looks as though he’s found you.”
Emma gapes at her and then at the envelope, her mouth falling open as she snatches it from her sister’s hand and quickly but carefully opens it up. She truly hopes her sister is not messing with her, because that would be very, very cruel. But then she pulls out a sheet of paper and unfolds it, revealing a letter signed by Killian.
“Oh my God.” Emma is breathless as she glances at Mary Margaret once more, and she can see the sincerity in her sister’s eyes before her own flicker back to the letter.
Her eyes are stinging, and her heart is pounding as she reads through a teary gaze.
Tears are streaming down her cheeks, and she’s clasping the key around her neck, rubbing it with her thumb as she finishes the letter. “May I take the—” Before Emma gets the chance to ask Mary Margaret if she can borrow the car since her sister had planned on staying here for a few more days, the words catch in her throat.
“I told you I’d find you, love.”
Emma gasps, her heart skipping as she places her hand on her chest, wondering if what she’s seeing is actually real.
Once she can move again, she tucks the letter inside her book to keep it from blowing away and stands up, cupping her hands over her mouth. When a grin overtakes his face, she laughs, tears of joy spilling freely down her cheeks. She hadn’t even noticed Mary Margaret was no longer sitting next to her, and she had expected to drive to Scotland to find Killian’s little village, but instead, he’s standing right there in front of her, even more handsome than she remembers. The expression on his face is full of so much love, and he’s wearing a dark blue sweatshirt that matches his stunning eyes.
Emma springs forward and throws her arms around him with a force strong enough to cause him to stumble backward a few steps. As he completely envelops her in his embrace, his melodic chuckle rings in her ear, making her heart race. For a long moment, Emma just holds him tight like her life depends on it, with no intention of letting him go ever again.
He’s soft and warm in her arms, and she sobs into his shoulder while he strokes her hair, whispering in her ear, “I love you so bloody much.”
“I love you, too.”
Emma lifts her head and cups his cheeks in her hands, seizing his lips with hers, a rush of heat sweeping through her as she feels his sharp stubble on her fingertips and lips, tastes his mouth and tongue on hers, hears the low, little groan he makes, feels his solid chest against her breasts. Her breaths are shaky, her heart spiking as she breathes him in. It feels surreal touching him again, kissing him. She had hoped to see him again and wished for it every moment they were apart.
He frames her face in his hands, and they deepen the kiss, getting completely lost in each other. She had waited for this moment for two damn months. Her fingers slide into his hair as warmth rolls through them, and he pulls back for air. She is blushing, beaming at him and out of breath as they both pause to draw air back into their lungs. Their lips remain nearly touching, his fingers moving stray hairs from her face. “I’m never letting you go again,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over the corner of her mouth, then her cheek.
Emma grins, placing her hand on her baby bump. “You don’t have a choice. You’re stuck with us.”
“I love the sound of that.” Her heart flutters as he peers down at her stomach and caresses her baby bump through her dress. “How was Venice?” His breath is still ragged as he looks up at her again.
She eyes his lips and leans in, capturing them with hers. “Awful.”
He chuckles into the kiss, matching her unbridled enthusiasm with each subtle shift, each gentle stroke of her tongue with his. “I missed you too.”
Her heart bursts with joy, and they laugh a little, still kissing, giddy and glad to be together again. “How did you even get here?”
“David brought me.” Killian encases her hands in his. “I was going to ask him to deliver the letter to you, but…I decided to deliver it personally.” He smiles and lifts her hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles. “How would you like to go to dinner with a working fellow like myself? I even got a formal black suit to wear.”
Emma lifts a brow. “Oh really? In that case…I’d love nothing more,” she teases with a grin. “As long as I get to keep you.”
“As you wish, milady.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Don’t call me that.” She doesn’t wish to be addressed as Milady or Your Ladyship ever again. And the thought of being called Lady Cassidy now repulses her.
He lifts a brow and releases her hands, closing the distance between them and wrapping her up in his arms. “Well, now that you’re no longer with Neal, what should I call you?”
Emma winds her arms around the back of his neck, gazing wistfully into his eyes. For the first time since she met Killian, her time with him is not limited. She doesn’t have to settle for a quickie or a fleeting cuddle and go back to Goldby to a husband she doesn’t love and a life that depresses her. She just gets to be with Killian, and even though they can’t get married yet, that doesn’t matter.
All that matters is they’re together. Just the three of them. Their little family.
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: Thank you everyone so much for sticking with me, and I hope you have enjoyed this fic!
Thank you Ultraluckycatnd for being an amazing beta reader!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue
Epilogue
It’s been two months since Hope Swan-Jones was born, yet Killian is still mesmerized by her impossible beauty. Those dazzling, big blue eyes gazing up at him, her bright, gummy smile, her chubby cheeks. Mesmerized but not shocked. She gets her looks from her mother after all. Today, Hope is wearing her pink baby bonnet and a lacy frock adorned with a silk bow at the neckline that her mother had sewn. The color matches the stockings Emma still wears with her dresses.
He could hold Hope forever, his sweet baby girl cute and tiny and soft, snuggled up against his chest with her hand tightly wrapped around his finger as he gently rocks her in his arms. He’s weak when it comes to his baby girl, and he often wonders how such a tiny little being has so much power over him, a grown-ass man. From the outside, it may look like he has her wrapped around his finger, but in truth, it’s entirely the other way around.
He lowers his head to drop a gentle kiss on her head.
She’s so precious to him, just as her mother is, and he’d do anything for his two beauties. Their smiles are infectious, and his face hurts from smiling so much. That’s how happy they both have made him.
Jolly is roaming around the yard as Killian looks around, taking stock of everything he has been blessed with since Emma entered his life. He may have lost his job and cottage back in Misthaven but all of that was nothing compared to what he has gained in return. Now he has Emma all to himself instead of having to watch her leave him every day and return to another man who couldn’t even bother to make sure she was happy. He gets to sleep with her in their bed, wakes up next to her every morning and holds her in his arms. He may have to leave for work early but he does so, knowing he’ll get to return to his darling fiancé and adorable baby girl and the life they’ve made together. And yes, he replaced the stem ring he gave her a year ago with a real one. They may not be able to get married yet but that doesn’t mean he can’t think of her as his wife. She and Hope are his family.
His home.
And he’d do anything for them.
He’s not even sure how he’d left Emma and didn’t see her for those two months she was in Venice. They were the worst two months of his life, and that’s saying a lot since he’s been to war. But when she fled from London after he’d been sacked and wanted to leave with him right there and then, all he could do was hear Mary Margaret’s words in his head.
“Mr. Jones, how do you expect to take care of her and the child once you’ve lost your job? Do you actually believe you can give them both a chance at happiness?”
He didn’t think he could at the time, given the circumstances. He had nothing. And Emma and their child deserved so much better than what he had to offer. He had all of his love to give, yes, but he wanted to give them so much more than that. He still does. He wants to give them the entire world. Because they’re his world. They’re his everything.
After a while, Hope stirs in his arms restlessly, and the high-pitched wail that pours from her mouth makes his heart crack into a million pieces. He hates when she has anything but a smile on her face.
Jolly is sitting in the grass as she looks at the crying baby with concern. She rises and strides over to make sure Hope is okay. She adores Hope and is very protective of her.
“It’s okay, princess,” Killian coos to his baby girl, gently rubbing her small back and swaying her softly. “Mum’s just inside to feed you.” He stands from his chair and carries her into the house, Jolly following behind him.
The kettle is singing by the fire, the sun streaming into the windows as Emma places two cups on the table. Hearing the soft cries from their daughter, she turns around and comes over to them, scooping the wee baby into her arms and kissing Killian on the lips.
“I think she’s hungry.” He unties Hope’s bonnet and removes it from her head, pressing his lips to her golden wisps of hair.
Emma smiles and speaks to their daughter in a sweet voice, her emerald eyes so soft and warm as she looks at the adorable baby girl in her arms.
Killian melts, as he always does, when he sees the interactions between them.
“Is Hope hungry?”
She answers with an even louder cry.
Emma can't help but laugh a little as she kisses Hope's forehead. “I think she is.” She rocks her gently as she walks over to the wooden chair and sits down, untying the front of her dress and releasing one of her breasts. Hope’s cries quickly abate as she fumbles for her mother’s breast and latches on to her nipple, suckling quietly.
He adds some more wood to the fire and returns to his wife and daughter. “How did you sleep, love?” He places a hand on Emma’s shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of her head.
I will protect both of them with my life , he thinks to himself as he admires his two loves.
“It was good, thank you.” She smiles up at him. “I needed that.” She definitely looks more rested than she did before she took a nap.
Hope may be cute and small, but she keeps them up most nights. Only once in a while does she sleep through the night until morning. When he’s home, he does as much as he can so Emma can get some rest, but today, Hope has been particularly fussy and refuses to sleep, so Killian took her out in the garden with Jolly while Emma rested.
After Hope is done eating and burping, Emma stands up and carries their daughter to her bassinet. Perhaps now she’ll be tired enough to sleep.
Killian gives his daughter a featherlight kiss on the forehead, whispering, “Goodnight, little love.”
Emma also gives Hope a kiss before lowering her into the bassinet. “I love you very much. Pleasant dreams, kiddo.”
He goes behind his fiancée and wraps his arms around her as they watch their tiny precious daughter breathe softly, drifting off into baby dreamworld. “Fuck, she’s beautiful.” Killian tightens his arms around Emma and lowers his head, kissing her neck. “Just like her mother.” He kisses her blushing cheeks and grins against her soft skin. “What do you say we make another one of those?”
She turns around in his arms so they’re facing each other and wraps her arms around the back of his neck, arching a brow. “Another girl?” One of her breasts is still out, and he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself by thinking she left it out on purpose but a lad can dream, can’t he?
“Or a boy.” He flashes a smirk. “I’ll love whatever we make together.”
Emma giggles and leans in to give him an eager kiss of approval. When they turn their heads back to look at Hope, she’s sleeping soundly. Neither of them can help but have smiles on their faces.
When they turn to look at each other again, Emma’s eyes sparkle as she rises on her tiptoes and captures his lips with hers. She swallows his groan as she rests her hands on his chest, his heart speeding up rapidly under her palms.
He draws her closer in his arms, their bodies flush against each other as he strokes her tongue with his, getting lost in the kiss. He growls into her mouth when he reaches up and feels her naked breast against his palm and lets his hand linger there, his cock stirring to life. It’s been months since they’ve kissed like this or made love. He has been patient and would never pressure her into anything before she’s ready. But judging by the soft moans she’s making as he caresses her bare breast, the way her body molds into his, he’d guess she’s ready. But still, he has to be sure.
He breaks the kiss, leaving them both gasping for air. “Is this okay?” he wheezes, his voice completely wrecked.
She nods fervently and licks her lips. “More than okay.” Her voice is also wrecked as she slides her hands up to his shoulders, squeezing them firmly. “I want you inside me.”
Her words and the lust in her eyes are all the confirmation he needs. “Fuck,” he whispers huskily and kisses her soundly on the lips. He pushes down the other sleeve of her dress and lets the top fall below her hips.
She tugs at his sweater and he raises his hands so she can lift it over his head, and soon all their clothes are on the floor and he’s carrying her to the bed. He kisses every inch of her, his lips worshiping the goddess she is. The mother of his child. His lover. His everything.
He takes his time exploring her body, tracing her stretch marks with his lips and gently kissing her breasts and stroking her tender nipples with his soft tongue. She writhes underneath him and spreads her legs wide.
Killian growls, his cock hard as a rock as he gets settled in the cradle of her lovely thighs and dips his head into the crook of her neck, kissing her there, whispering sweet nothings against her skin.
Emma answers with heady sounds of her own as she reaches between them and wraps her hand around his cock, stroking him. They both moan, panting heavily as he rocks into her fist, Killian’s voice gravelly when he says, “I can’t wait to have you, love.”
“Killian…” She’s breathless, her eyes gleaming with so much want and need and love. She moves the tip of his cock to her entrance and inhales sharply at the sensation, different but so familiar.
Killian groans at the feeling of having Emma around him again, even if only around the tip. He waits patiently for her to give him the signal to go deeper, and she pulls him closer, wrapping her legs around his back. He moves achingly slow, pushing himself steadily into her and then retreating.
As he thrusts into her warmth gently and sweat pools on his forehead, he exhales ragged breaths over her face. “Fuck, Emma,” he growls. “You feel so good.”
She answers with a low moan.
His hand migrates up the swell of her tender breast and he moves his thumb over her nipple, making it pebble beneath the pads of his fingers.
Emma continues urging him on as his hips roll against her, his pace languid but pleasing. He reaches between them, pressing lightly against her clit and drawing circles on her. She throws her head back as their escalating cries blend together.
When Emma’s climax overtakes her, she cries out in ecstasy.
He picks up the pace, heat spreading through him as he chases his own orgasm. “Does this hurt?” he asks, even though he can’t detect a hint of pain in her eyes. But he has to be sure.
She shakes her head. “Not at all. It feels good,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.” Framing his cheeks in her warm hands, she seizes his lips with hers as he pounds into her. Soon, he can feel her walls flutter around him once more and they both orgasm together, swallowing each other’s moans so they don’t wake their daughter. He stills, her name heavy on his lips as he explodes inside his sweet goddess, his muscles tense and his grip firm.
Moments after they come down from their highs, he’s lying beside her, and she’s in his arms, their limbs intertwined as they lay there in bed, the duvet swaddling them in warmth and security.
“Do you think we woke her?” Emma asks, her face clouding concern once she comes back to reality and sits up.
“I will check, love.” He kisses her forehead and climbs out of bed to check on Hope, who’s still sleeping like an angel. He returns to his fiancée and pulls her into his arms. “Still sleeping.”
Emma breathes a sigh of relief and lays her head on Killian’s chest. “Sorry, I know I worry about her far too much.”
He chuckles and moves some stray hairs from her face. “You’re just being a mum.” He smirks. “A great one at that.”
“And you’re a great papa. I am so glad you’re in our lives. I’m so glad Neal didn’t try to keep our baby. He would’ve been sorely disappointed she’s not a boy anyway.”
Killian tenses at the mention of him. After they burned the wedding photo of him and Emma, they have barely mentioned him, neither of them wanting the past to darken their bright, happy sky. They only want to be reminded of the good parts. So they framed the key from the hut and the letter he wrote her and hung it on the wall.
He’ll never forget the times they met in the hut. Especially the first time they made love. It wasn’t exactly making love that time—it was more like animalistic fucking—and he might have done things a little differently if he could but he'd never take back the time they spent together and their blossoming relationship. He is so proud of her for telling Neal she wanted a divorce, and of course he told her he wouldn’t grant her one, but that was expected.
“He’d only succeed over my dead body,” Killian snarls.
“Mine too. I’m so glad I never wanted to go along with Neal’s plan.” She looks up at him, her fingers teasing his chest hair. “I may not have planned on you, but I would never want it any other way.” She flashes him a smile. “It still surprises me how happy I am. When I was with Neal, I never thought I would be.”
He grins from ear to ear, his heart bursting as he kisses her lips. “Aye, love. Me too.” He gazes deeply into her eyes, stroking her cheek. “Would you change anything? Anything at all?” he asks, knowing the life they have now is vastly different from the one she once had. She went from living on a large estate with servants to living in this small cottage with just the two of them raising a child together.
She gives a firm shake of her head, her eyes glistening with tears. But they’re not sad tears. She rests her forehead against his, cupping his cheek in her hand and caressing her thumb over his stubble. “No. Only I wish to be married to you instead of Neal. But I wouldn’t trade the life we have here for anything in the world.”
Neither would he. He also wishes he could be married to her instead of Milah.
It still amazes him how much different things are now than they were when they first met. Emma was just as beautiful but he could tell she was a little broken, and to him, she was untouchable. He never thought in a million years she would fall for a fellow like him. She was out of his league. She had wealth and the rarest of beauty and a title. Maybe that’s why he was so quick to believe she had only wanted him for a child after she confessed she was pregnant. Thank God he was wrong.
He was foolish for thinking such a thing. He knew better than that. But he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation as to why she liked him. And during those two months they were apart, he had time to reflect and he knew what they have between them was deeper than any class difference or what society thought of the two of them together. Emma felt the flame burning between them just as he did. The flame that still burns between them and always will.
~*~
A year later, they both get their wish.
It turns out Milah attracted some fool at the tavern the night she played victim and was spreading all those lies about Killian and how he’s the one who abandoned her for someone else, and how he never took care of her. Some sap devoured every word she said, took pity on her and promised to give her a better life. Killian doubts the bloke made good on that promise.
And Neal—well, the irony of this all is that he ended up falling in love with one of the servants he hired after Emma had left. Her name is Tamara, and Johanna is sure she is only after his wealth and title. But Johanna didn’t stick around long enough to see what came of them. After she left, Emma and Killian hired her as Hope’s nurse, and since Emma gave birth to a boy shortly before they married, Johanna is Liam’s nurse as well. Emma also invested some of the money her mother left her to start a farm with Killian where they raise cattle, sheep, pigs, horses and livestock feed. Now there is rarely a quiet moment at the Swan-Jones Farm, with two rambunctious children, animals to take care of and visitors always coming over.
It took some time for Leopold to warm up to Killian after what happened in Goldby but considering he adores his grandchildren as if they were his own children, he’s not bitter about it. He knows Killian is a hardworking man who loves his family more than anything in the world. And Killian and David eventually became good mates. He and Mary Margaret had a son of their own named after Leopold. So whenever they go on holidays, it’s the four of them plus their children.
Emma can't believe how much her life has changed in only a few years. She thought she was stuck in a loveless marriage with a man she would never love, with a man who would never give her what she needed or craved. She thought she would never get to experience a real married life with someone kind and caring and affectionate. With someone who put her and their children before himself. Now she has a loving family, a loving husband she wakes up to every morning, a man she would do anything for. She would do anything to keep this life. She would die for her family. She can't believe she was ever with Neal, that she ever settled for a life with him. It's surreal how unhappy and desolate she was because now she is so extremely happy and her heart is so unbelievably full.
Her days may be filled with crying babies, changing diapers, cleaning up messes and running a farm with her husband, and she may not live on a large estate with servants and fancy things, but in her eyes, she is living the life of luxury she has always dreamed of.
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Rated M for mature content including but not limited to adultery, language and smut.
Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: Thank you everyone for all the lovely comments and feedback and for following along! There will 1 more chapter after this and possibly an epilogue.
Thank you Ultraluckycatnd for being an amazing beta reader!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Hope you all enjoy!
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11
Chapter Eleven
The sisters check into a hotel on Pall Mall when they get to London and enjoy afternoon tea next to a fountain in the lounge. The table is set with a damask tablecloth, white bone china crockery, silver cutlery and delicate napkins.
They eat sandwiches and cakes and sip tea while they discuss their trip to Venice, listening to a pianist playing soft music at the grand piano. It’s only been a handful of hours since she left Killian, but she already misses him terribly. She tries not to let that affect their day, however. She is away from Goldby, away from Neal, spending time with her sister, and will soon see her father. So she should be happy about that. She is happy about that.
After paying the bill and leaving the lounge, their father shows up at the hotel and takes them to the opera. Truthfully, Emma has missed spending time with them and is reminded of her youth when they lived here in London. Though she wishes their mother could be here with them. Sir Leopold had remarried a few years ago to a woman named Regina, who is currently back at home where they live in Scotland. When he can spend time with his daughters, Sir Leopold cherishes the holidays he occasionally spends away from her.
Emma and Mary Margaret sleep at the hotel that night while their father stays at his club nearby, and the sisters wait for him in the lobby the next morning. Emma feels miserable today, partly because of how nauseous she is from being pregnant. The sweet scent of the flower arrangement adorning the table behind the couch they’re sitting on helps a little. Mostly, her sour mood is due to how resentful she is that Killian can’t be here with them. She wishes she didn’t have to make up some elaborate story about having an affair in Venice. She wishes she could just get a divorce from Neal and be together with Killian without having to worry about the consequences.
She hates being apart from him. One would think she'd be used to leaving Killian since she always had to be back at Goldby after spending time with him, but that has probably made leaving him for three weeks even more painful.
“For heaven’s sake, Emma! We’ll be in Venice tomorrow. Do you have to look so unhappy?
Emma looks over at her sister, her expression clouded with guilt. “I told Neal I’m having an affair in Venice.”
Mary Margaret eyes her in surprise, her mouth falling slightly open. “Why...why would you tell him that?”
“Because he wanted me to get pregnant by another man. He said he’d be glad to have an heir, even if the child isn’t his.”
Mary Margaret arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“Mmhmm.” Tears sting Emma’s eyes. “I don’t plan on having an affair in Venice, I only told him that so he wouldn’t know who the real father is.” She’ll be proud to have Killian’s child, though, and she wants to announce it to the world. If only it were that easy. “But I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this charade.”
Mary Margaret places a comforting hand on her arm. “It’s alright.”
“Keep up with what charade exactly?” Sir Leopold looks puzzled as he approaches them, his hands tucked into his pockets. “What’s happened?”
Emma sighs and looks down at the floor, hoping her father won’t be disappointed in her. “I’m in love with someone…who isn’t Neal. I’m going to have this man’s child.”
“You’re sure?” He doesn’t sound surprised, though. Almost relieved. “Do I know the man?”
“No.”
There’s a long pause. “And what are your plans?”
“Well, Neal told me he wouldn’t mind if I had a child, so long as I went about it discreetly.”
“Only sensible thing he could say under the circumstances. Then I suppose it’ll be alright.”
“In what way?” Emma looks up into her father’s eyes, which are big and green like her own.
“You can present Neal with an heir to all the Cassidys and put another baronet in Goldby.”
“But I don’t want that. I want a divorce from Neal.”
“Because of your feelings for this other man?”
She nods.
“Well, if you want my advice…”—He sighs and sits down next to her, and she knows what he's about to say—"I'm sorry, but you stand to gain very little by breaking things off. Feelings come and go. You may love one man this year and another the next, but the world will go on. Goldby will go on standing. Put a little baronet in Goldby and please yourself, but stick by Goldby. And Goldby will stick by you.”
Emma, of course, doesn’t at all like what her father has to say. She knows the feelings she has for Killian will never go away. She has never felt this strongly about anyone in her life. She has never loved anyone, and she loves Killian with her whole heart. When it comes to her feelings for him, there is no going; there is only coming and staying and growing. But at least he isn’t disappointed in her. In fact, he seems pleased she found another man. Like Mary Margaret, he never much cared for Neal, but he knew, as did Emma, Neal was a safe choice.
The telephone tinkles from the registration desk, and the room clerk answers it.
“Shall we go to Venice?” Sir Leopold stands, and his daughters follow suit, heading toward the exit, the bellboy carrying their luggage.
“Lady Cassidy?” The room clerk grabs her attention before they make it out the door.
“Yes?” Emma steps up to the desk, where the telephone sits, its earphone in the gentleman’s hand. “Someone wishes to speak to you, milady.”
Emma’s heart flitters with panic, her eyes widening as she looks at the man. The only people who know where she’s staying are the people at home in Goldby, as well as Killian, but he does not own a phone. And she told Johanna to write to her if there is any news. So if someone is calling, it must be an emergency.
She takes the earpiece from the clerk’s hand and holds it to her ear, speaking into the mouthpiece at the top of the long black stem. “Hello?”
“Oh, milady, thank goodness you’re still there. You told me to write with any news, but I’m afraid there’s not enough time for that.”
Emma’s body goes cold. What could have happened that there is no time for? Did something happen to Killian? To Neal? Emma assumes Johanna is using the phone at Goldby, based on the fact she’s whispering in a hushed tone. Emma never uses it much herself, she prefers writing letters. “Not enough time for what?”
~*~
There’s a giant knot of nerves in the pit of Killian’s stomach as he walks through the park, just as he has done so many times, wondering what Neal wants to speak to him about. He has mostly kept to himself since Emma left for Venice, only going into the forest to check on the pheasants and working in the hut, so he has no idea why Neal has called for him.
Johanna is already at the door to let him in when he arrives at Goldby.
“Mrs. Bolton,” he greets with a small smile.
“Good day, Mr. Jones.”
“I hear Sir Neal’s asking for me.”
She nods cordially. “Yes, he’s in his study.” She moves aside to let him in.
“Thank you.” Killian salutes her and heads inside.
“Mr. Jones?” she calls from behind him.
When he turns around to look at her, she peers at the ground.
“I called Her Ladyship, and she’s coming back.”
His brows furrow in confusion. Emma had just left yesterday, and she and her sister had planned a day in London and were to depart for Venice this afternoon. So why would she be coming back here to Goldby? Not that he’s distraught about it. In fact, his heart flutters in anticipation. He has already missed her sweet, smiling face, her sparkling green eyes and her wonderful giggle. “When?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his enthusiasm.
Johanna looks up at him, her face contrite. “This evening. As soon as she can get here.”
“How come?” On one hand, he is relieved she’s returning, for he didn’t know how he’d make it three weeks without her. On the other hand, he’s worried about why she felt the need to come back, and judging by Mrs. Bolton’s expression, he has an inkling it’s not good.
Her eyes are full of hesitance and gloom, like she doesn’t wish to tell him something but she knows she must. “I’m afraid Milah has told people in the tavern about you and Her Ladyship. My friends have informed me she came to your cottage to patch things up with you, and she found a book inscribed with Her Ladyship's name in it and a silk nightdress. I told them it was nonsense to jump to conclusions over a borrowed book, and the nightdress could've belonged to anyone, but it didn’t matter. The rumors had already been spread.”
Killian gulps, his face paling, the world suddenly spinning around him so fast, he feels nauseous. At the same time, anger spirals through him. Milah must have broken into his cottage yesterday when he’d gone for one of his walks with Jolly or when he was at the hut. “I take it that’s why Sir Neal wishes to see me?”
She nods, her eyes cast downward at the ground. “I’m afraid so. I overheard Sir Neal talking to Mr. Geppetto earlier today, so I called Your Ladyship right away to inform her. She said you could meet her at the hut and decide what to do.”
“Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Bolton.” He begins to turn around once more, but pauses to look back at her. “There’s…there’s dark days coming. Best to steer clear of it all.”
She nods as he turns around and heads inside, removing his hat. His heart hammers away in his chest as he goes to face Neal, wondering what he believes is the truth. But he, like everyone else, probably assumes what he heard is true, and he knows Killian had an affair with his wife, so he’s most likely about to get fired.
Killian knocks at the door of Neal’s study. He knew this would happen eventually, he knew he and Emma wouldn’t be able to hide it for too long, he just didn’t expect it would happen so soon.
“Come in,” Neal calls through the door.
Killian takes a deep breath, his heart lodged in his throat as he walks inside, closing the door behind him.
Neal is behind his desk, his hands joined together as he stares blankly at Killian, his expression unreadable.
Killian remembers the first time he stepped into this study after Neal became a baronet. Killian was so lost and hopeless and alone. He hated the world, especially Milah. He had no idea he’d fall in love with Neal’s wife, he had no idea Emma would give him reason to live again. And he doesn’t regret one second of it.
After a moment of studying him, looking him over, glaring at him, Neal finally speaks. “You are my servant, living upon my land at my sole discretion, and now your indecencies have become the subject of gossip.”
“Then you should shut the mouths of the gossips…”
Neal scowls at him, unamused. Killian imagines he wouldn't be either if he were in Neal's shoes. But Neal doesn’t seem to show any emotion at all, apart from annoyance. Like the affair and gossip are merely inconveniences he has to correct.
Neal always came off as the sort of man who only sees things and people as machines or the new technology of the twentieth century. Emma, his servants, a Goldby heir, the workers. He believes their mere existence is to make his life easier, and he finds no emotional attachment toward any of it. Not even his wife. He thinks he needs her. But he doesn’t. She’s a vice he likes to keep close, just like Killian is only a vice to Milah, whom she holds close.
“Are you aware Lady Cassidy’s name has been slandered?”
That, of course, is the last thing Killian wanted. He never intended for the word to get out like this. And he hates Milah even more than he already did. Though he also blames himself for starting anything with Emma in the first place.
“Apparently, her name was inscribed in a book found at your cottage.”
“I’ve got a picture of Queen Mary on my wall calendar, I suppose she’s in my harem as well.”
Neal’s nostrils flare, his face turning scarlet with anger. “I do not appreciate your sarcasm, Jones. You have until the end of today, after which time I never want to see you set foot on my land again. Do I make myself clear?”
“Oh, perfectly. I better get packing then.” He turns around and walks out the door. There are a million things he wants to say to Neal, like how he should’ve treated Emma better and made her happy. Maybe then she wouldn’t have found herself so lonely and in need of affection and companionship that she had to seek out one of Neal’s servants. But it’s best not to anger the man even more than he already has. If Emma’s on her way here, he wants to be able to see her when she arrives. So instead, he turns around, looks Neal straight in the eye and says the truest thing he can say without Neal having him escorted immediately off his land. "I'm sorry about how things turned out, I'm sorry Her Ladyship's name was slandered...but I'm not sorry about how I feel about her." He sucks in a breath and speaks very proudly and firmly. “I’m not sorry for loving her and showing her the love and tenderness she deserves. I will never apologize for that.”
Neal says nothing in return, just stews in silent vexation—his stare could burn a hole through Killian’s forehead—and with that, Killian turns around and walks out the door. At least the man has the capability of showing emotion—when he wants to, at least.
~*~
As soon as she ended the telephone connection with Johanna, Emma told her sister and father she couldn’t go to Venice. She had to go back home before Neal kicked Killian off his land. So her sister gave Emma the key to her car and told her to go. Mary Margaret and Father would go to Venice by train, as they had planned to do anyway. Emma just wouldn’t be going with them.
She takes her sister’s car and drives to Goldby as fast as she possibly can. Her heart is pounding the whole time as she wonders what will happen. Where will she and Killian go? Will Neal even let her leave? Will he grant her a divorce?
Emma knew she’d have to face these questions, she just didn’t think it would happen so quickly. Or like this. All because Milah had to spread rumors. Emma never liked what Milah did to Killian, and she has liked the dreadful woman even less since yesterday morning, when she came over to his cottage while they were in bed together. She almost ruined a perfectly good morning, tried to put her hands on him and tried to get back with him. It had Emma seething under the blankets. She had no doubt Killian would send her away.
As soon as Emma pulls up onto the lane-end, she jumps out of the car and runs through the forest, her heart hammering in her ear. She hopes Johanna got the message to him, and she hopes Killian is able to meet her in the hut. She knew the cottage would be too risky. People would be too nosy and try to see if Emma would show up. Hopefully, they won't go to the hut as well.
Emma dashes up the steps and bursts through the door, catching her breath as she sees Killian. They run into each other's arms, lips colliding so eagerly and passionately, tears streaming down her cheeks without effort. For a long moment, they just hold onto each other, lips latched, with no intention to let go. As though they’ve been apart for years rather than a day and a half.
He draws back and holds her face in his hands, regarding her with so much love, her heart swells. She wants to get lost in this moment, but reality crashes over them, and he breaks away from her to scan the outside and make sure no one is around.
Emma’s eyes roam the hut, and she spots his bag and jacket on the chair. When she looks back at Killian, his face is clouded over with worry. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
He leans against the edge of the table, where they had made love many times.
This hut holds so many memories for them—it was where they had been together for the first time—but she fears this will be their last time in this hut. “Killian?”
“The cat is well and truly out of the bag now, Emma.” He sighs, his eyes meeting hers. “Everybody’s talking. I’ve been sacked. You cannot be seen here, Emma. You need to be in Venice.”
She shakes her head, a hopeful smile spreading over her lips. “But we could just leave together. Now.” This is their time to get away. Escape. From Neal, from Goldby. From all of it. They could live their lives the way they want. They could spend their days together in a house of their own, raising their child. Just the three of them. Or four or five, or however many children they decide to have.
But Killian doesn’t appear to be happy or hopeful about any of it. “Look at me. I have nothing to give you. I’ve no job, no home. I’ve no purpose in life. Nothing.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t say that. You are everything to me. I don’t need anything else. You and our child are all I need. All I’ll ever need.”
“Jones!” comes a voice from outside the hut.
Killian rushes over to the door, shuts it and locks it. Neal must have sent his men here to make sure Killian leaves.
“You need to go!” the man shouts impatiently.
Killian looks through the cracks of light between the panels, and Emma knows they don’t have much time.
She goes over to him and wraps her hands around the back of his neck. “Look at me.”
He turns toward her and cups her cheeks in his hands, his stormy blue eyes connecting with her green ones.
Her heart sags in her chest at the thought of leaving him again. “Promise me, promise me we’ll share our lives.”
“Aye,” he whispers, nuzzling her nose with his. “I promise, my love.” He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against hers. “When the time comes.” He whispers even softer, his words ghosting over her lips. “When the time comes.” He captures her lips, and Emma lets her eyes fall shut, savoring his taste, for she has no idea when she'll get to kiss him again. When she’ll get to touch him, hear his voice or see his sparkling blue eyes. The future is so unknown.
“Jones!” the man shouts through the door again.
Killian groans and grumbles as he turns around and cracks open the door. “Can I grab my coat, mate?”
Emma sniffles as more tears leak down her cheeks.
Killian shuts the door and goes to the chair, grabbing his bag and draping his coat over his arm. He closes the gap between them once more and touches her cheek with his free hand, his thumb wiping away a tear. This time his eyes are brighter, calmer and full of hope and promise. “I love you, Emma. I will always love you.” He brings his hand to her belly and kneels down, caressing her there. “I love you, baby,” he whispers against her dress, kissing her stomach gently. He rises and searches her eyes with his glistening ones as he rests his forehead against hers, his fingers grazing along her cheek. “I will find you,” he whispers. “Wherever you are, I will find you.” His words send a shiver down her spine.
It's one more promise before they part. And it gives her a shred of hope to hang onto. Knowing he will be trying to work his way back to her, knowing he won’t forget about her or the times they shared. Knowing he’ll do whatever it takes to reunite with her.
“I love you, Killian Jones.” Emma grabs his face and kisses him one last time before he’s forced to leave, her hands sliding into his thick hair and her heart sinking deeper and deeper as the seconds pass by.
Her eyes fall shut as tears stream down her face and mingle with the taste of him as she curls her fingers in his hair and keeps her lips there, holding him close, wanting this moment to last as long as possible. Wanting to stop time and keep him here, never letting him slip from her grasp. But she knows she has to.
She doesn’t even open her eyes until he’s heading through the door, looking back at her. She can’t find it within herself to say goodbye, she doesn’t want this to be goodbye. But when he closes the door, leaving her there all alone in the hut, it all becomes too real, and suddenly it feels like the room is a million times bigger and emptier and colder than it was a moment ago.
Emma knows she’ll see him again—she trusts him to find her. This isn't the last time she'll see him, but she's caught up in a wave of grief, and her heart hurts so badly it feels ripped in half.
She slides down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs and tucking them under her chin. Her body shudders violently, and suddenly, in an indrawn breath of silent sobbing, the tears come faster down her face. She buries her face in the crook of her arm and weeps, hoping she’ll see Killian again. Hoping she won’t have to be apart from him for long.
The walk from the hut to Goldby feels like the longest and dreariest and gloomiest walk she’s ever been on. Probably because it has occurred to her this is the last time she will ever take this particular walk. This is the last time she will ever walk from the hut to Goldby, and her heart aches at the thought.
She will never again walk the forest to go to or from Killian’s cottage, she will never go to the hut again to see him or the pheasants. He left the key where they always left it—above the door—so she had taken it and put it on the chain around her neck, tucking it under her scarf. If Neal wanted the key, he would need to have another one made.
She is completely exhausted and out of breath by the time she reaches Goldby, even though she had moved at a snail’s pace. Killian hasn’t even been gone that long, yet she already feels completely alone and desolate on this land. There’s Johanna, whom she’d become fond of and had befriended since she became Neal’s caretaker, but Emma’s sure the woman will stay here to look after Neal when Emma leaves.
“My Ladyship, you shouldn’t be here.” Johanna rushes up to Emma as she storms inside, determined to get this over with.
She doesn’t want to be here any longer than she has to. Emma stops and places a hand on the woman’s arm. “It’s okay,” she assures. “I need to speak with him.
Johanna nods. “Yes, of course, milady. He’s in his room.”
So Emma goes to the library—the room Neal uses as a bedroom—finding him sitting on the edge of the bed, gaping at her in surprise.
“Emma…”
She closes the door behind her, drawing in a long breath and preparing to tell him the things she’d replayed in her mind over and over again on the way here.
For a second, he just stares at her in silence like a wounded bird, helpless and hurt. But she doesn’t feel guilty or bad, and perhaps she should’ve reserved an ounce of emotion for him, but there is nothing left inside her. Everything she feels is for Killian. The sadness, the anger inside her from having to be apart from him, the love coursing through her veins—it’s all for him and the child she bears.
“So it’s all true? Why would you do this?”
“It was your idea.”
“My idea?” Neal laughs contemptuously. “No, no, no.”
“Neal, you knew perfectly well what I was getting into.”
His eyes go wild with rage and disappointment as he looks at her. “With the right sort of man. I said the right sort!”
Emma balls her hands into fists, glaring at him. “Killian Jones is a better person than anyone I’ve ever met!” she states with conviction.
He lowers his voice, speaking through gritted teeth. “I was perfectly clear, Emma. We discussed the rules.”
“I’m going to have his child,” she says proudly.
“You’re going to…” For once, he’s at a loss for words, and he just sits there gaping at her, his eyes wide and jaw dropped. “You’re sure?” he finally says after a moment, his brows knitting together with puzzlement.
She nods. “I went to see the doctor before I left for Venice.”
He scoffs. “But…everybody knows.” He gestures toward her stomach. “You can’t possibly expect me to claim that child as mine now.”
Emma shakes her head. “No, I…I don’t.” She looks him straight in the eyes, speaking firmly but calmly. “I want a divorce, Neal. I’m leaving you.”
“For heaven’s sake, Emma! We’ll be in Venice tomorrow. Do you have to look so unhappy?
Emma looks over at her sister, her expression clouded with guilt. “I told Neal I’m having an affair in Venice.”
Mary Margaret eyes her in surprise, her mouth falling slightly open. “Why…why would you tell him that?”
“Because he wanted me to get pregnant by another man. He said he’d be glad to have an heir, even if the child isn’t his.”
Mary Margaret arches a brow. “Seriously?”
“Mmhmm.” Tears sting Emma’s eyes. “I don’t plan on having an affair, I only told him that so he wouldn’t know who the real father is.” She’ll be proud to have Killian’s child, though, and she wants to announce it to the world. If only it were that easy. “But I don’t know how much longer I can keep up this charade.”
Mary Margaret places a comforting hand on her arm. “It’s alright.”
“Keep up what charade exactly?” Sir Leopold looks puzzled as he approaches them, his hands tucked into his pockets. “What’s happened?”
Emma sighs and looks down at the floor, hoping her father won’t be disappointed in her. “I’m in love with someone…not Neal. I’m going to have this man’s child.”
“You’re sure?” He doesn’t sound surprised though. Almost relieved. “Do I know the man?”
“No.”
There’s a long pause. “And what are your plans?”
“Well, Neal told me he wouldn’t mind if I had a child, so long as I went about it discreetly.”
“Only sensible thing he could say under the circumstances. Then I suppose it’ll be alright.”
“In what way?” Emma looks up into her father’s eyes, which are big and green like her own.
“You can present Neal with an heir to all the Cassidys and put another baronet in Goldby.”
“But I don’t want that. I want a divorce from Neal.”
“Because of your feelings for this other man?”
She nods.
“Well, if you want my advice…”—he sits down next to her, sighing, and she knows she won’t like what he has to say—“I’m sorry, but you stand to gain very little by breaking things off with Neal. Feelings come and go. You may love one man this year and another the next, but the world will go on. And Goldby will go on standing. Put a little baronet in Goldby and please yourself but stick by Goldby. And Goldby will stick by you.”
Emma of course doesn’t at all like what her father had to say. She knows the feelings she has for Killian will never fade. She has never felt this strongly about anyone in her life. She has never loved anyone, and she loves Killian with her whole heart. When it comes to her feelings for him, there is no going, there is only coming and staying.
But at least her father isn’t disappointed in her. In fact he seems pleased she found another man. Like Mary Margaret, he never much cared for Neal, but he knew, like Emma did, Neal was a safe choice.
The telephone tinkles from the registration desk, and the room clerk answers it.
“Shall we go to Venice?” Sir Leopold stands, and his daughters follow suit, heading toward the exit as the bellboy carries their luggage.
“Lady Cassidy?” The room clerk grabs her attention before they make it out the door.
“Yes?” Emma steps up to the desk, where the telephone sits, its earphone in the gentleman’s hand.
“Sorry to keep you, Milady, but someone wishes to speak to you. Says it's rather urgent.”
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd and for looking this over and for being amazing!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Hope you all enjoy!
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9
Also on: AO3
Chapter Ten
Emma is both grateful and resentful for the day Mary Margaret is to arrive. Grateful to be leaving this Godforsaken place, but resentful of not seeing her gamekeeper for three weeks. She’ll be even more resentful if she can’t sleep with him the night before she leaves. If Mary Margaret is against the idea .
So Emma thought ahead and told him that if everything promises well for their night together, she will hang a green shawl out the window for him to see when he takes his daily stroll through the park. If there is a change in their plan, a red one.
“It will be so good for your ladyship to have a change,” Johanna comments as she helps Emma pack.
“I think it will.” Emma folds her clothes and places them in her suitcase. “You don’t mind having Sir Neal on your hands for a time without me, do you?”
Johanna waves off her concern. “Oh, no, I can manage him quite alright. Don’t you think he’s better than he used to be?”
Emma smiles appreciatively. She has to admit, Neal has been much more tolerable to be around and much less needy since Johanna entered their lives. “Oh, much. You have done wonders with him.”
“It’s nothing, really. Men are all alike, just babies, and you have to flatter them, wheedle them and let them think they’re having their own way. Don’t you find it so, Milady?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She may not have had much experience with raising children, but she remembers how Neal was when she was his caretaker. A small smile tugs at her lips at the thought of gaining the experience of raising a child with Killian.
Mary Margaret arrives at Goldby in her car, suitcase strapped behind her seat. Emma is only allowed one suitcase as well, but she had sent a trunk to her father, who is taking a train from Scotland. No use taking a car to Venice. And in July, Italy is much too hot to motor in.
Emma runs out to greet her sister, accosting her with a big hug.
“It’s been so long!” Mary Margaret pulls back and grabs Emma’s arms to get a good look at her. “Oh, Emma, you look so much healthier than before!” The corner of her mouth twitches into a smirk. “You look happy!”
Emma’s cheeks heat, knowing there is one person in particular who is the cause of her pleasant appearance these days. She no longer appears ill or on the verge of death, but rather radiant, her cheeks fuller, her eyes sparkling with life. She is definitely happy.
She grabs Mary Margaret’s hand, and they run inside and go upstairs to chat privately, butterflies swarming in her belly as they enter her bedroom and shut the door. “You know I’ve met someone, don’t you?”
Mary Margaret grins and lunges for Emma, tickling her sides. Emma squeals, and they both giggle as they sit on the edge of her bed, facing each other.
“I gathered from your letters.”
Emma is relieved she’s not upset by this new development. Mary Margaret never cared for Neal anyway.
“I tried to tell myself it was nothing, I tried to stay away, I did.” But as Emma is telling her sister this, she knows she didn’t honestly try all that hard. “But I can’t. He…”—she swoons, struggling to find the adequate words to describe how she feels about him—“I really love him!” She bites her bottom lip, wondering how her sister will feel about her staying the night with him. “And…I said I would stay with him tonight. I promised.”
Not seeming the least bit perturbed, Mary Margaret nods and joins her hands in her lap, her big green eyes dancing with curiosity. “Are you going to tell me who he is?”
“Killian Jones,” Emma answers proudly. “He’s our gamekeeper.”
Mary Margaret’s smile fades.
Emma can see the disappointment written all over her face as she processes this. “No, Mary Margaret, he’s lovely,” she assures with a smile. “Honestly, he’s a good man with such tenderness. He’s quite the exception, you’ll see.”
Mary Margaret averts her gaze, staring blankly for a moment before she sighs and fixes Emma with inscrutable eyes. “I long hoped you would find someone else. But one of Neal’s servants?” she asks in a disapproving tone.
This immediately enrages Emma as she shoots up from the bed. “I’m not giving him up!” She thought if there is anyone who would understand, it’s Mary Margaret. She met her husband when he was a poor shepherd living with his mother, Ruth. Of course neither of them were married. Still, Emma no longer sees herself married to Neal.
Mary Margaret raises a brow. “And doesn’t Neal suspect?”
“Oh, no. Why should he?”
“I’ve no doubt you’ve given him plenty of occasion for suspicion.”
Emma shakes her head. “Not at all. When I leave to see Killian, Neal thinks I am going for walks and reading my books. I return through the side door and bathe immediately. He has no reason to suspect.”
“Where does the man live?”
“In the cottage at the other end of the forest.”
Mary Margaret stands from the bed and encases Emma’s hands in hers. “Please, come to Venice and take the time to think about what you truly want,” she advises steadily.
Emma snatches her hands away, her face hot with anger. “I know what I want!”
Mary Margaret raises a skeptical brow. “Oh really?”
“Yes! I really thought that you, of all people, would understand!”
“Why? Because David was a shepherd?” Mary Margaret shakes her head. “That was different. I was not married. And not to an aristocrat.” She places her hands on Emma’s shoulders, her eyes softening. “Look, Emma, I am only thinking about what people will say when they find out. I do not wish for my sister to be the target of ridicule or mockery. I do not wish for your reputation to be slandered!”
Emma clenches her jaw. “Then let them talk. I do not care what they think. And I’m seeing him tonight, or I’m not going to Venice. I can’t!”
Mary Margaret eventually caves in to Emma’s insistence. She can see how much her sister cares for Killian, so she consents to driving to Mansfield, bringing Emma to the lane-end after dark and fetching her from the lane-end the next morning, herself sleeping in Mansfield.
Emma drapes an emerald-green shawl over her windowsill and dons her long, blue motoring coat before accompanying Mary Margaret downstairs with her suitcase.
Neal, Johanna, the housekeeper and the manservant gather outside to send Emma off.
Neal takes her hand in his as he looks up at her. He is not particularly happy with her leaving, but he is glad for the reason he thinks she’s going. He's excited to have an heir. “Goodbye, Emma. Come back to me safely.”
“Goodbye, Neal.” Emma offers a sad smile, pretending to be sorrowful for leaving him, so as not to give him a reason to be suspicious and so he’ll think she is coming back to him. Though she will be coming back, it will only be to tell him she fell in love with someone in Venice and to ask for a divorce.
“Good-bye, Mary Margaret! You will keep an eye on her, won’t you?” Neal asks her.
“I’ll even keep two.” Mary Margaret shoots Emma a glance that says a thousand words, her face still serious from their conversation as she climbs into her car. “She shan’t stray very far.”
Emma drops a kiss on the top of Neal’s head and looks over at Johanna. “Goodbye, Mrs. Bolton. I know you’ll look after Sir Neal nobly.”
“I’ll do what I can, your Ladyship.”
“And write to me if there is any news.”
Johanna nods. “Very good, your Ladyship, I will. Have a good time and come back and cheer us up.”
Everybody waves as Emma throws her suitcase behind her seat and gets in beside her sister.
When they’re off, Mary Margaret asks Emma about Killian’s history.
“He was a lieutenant in the army in India for four or five years.”
Mary Margaret seems to relent a little. “And how would you like to be Mrs. Killian Jones, instead of Lady Cassidy?”
Emma smiles from ear to ear, her heart thudding at the thought. “I’d love it.”
“But you’ll be through with him in a while, won’t you?” she asks, reminding Emma of the men she had been with in the past, with whom she had very brief dalliances. But those men were not Killian. Not even close.
“He’s different. Can’t you see I have opened up my heart to him, as you told me to do.”
“True but I did not mean to Neal’s servant!”
“I never planned on this. Just like you never planned on David.”
“But perhaps you should plan for what will happen next. What will he do after Neal fires him?”
Emma shrugs, not having thought that far ahead. “He has his war pension. And I still have twenty-thousand pounds from the trust Mother left me.”
Mary Margaret doesn’t say much more after that, for she knows she won’t be able to change her mind. Emma knows her sister’s only looking out for her. But she doesn't want or need it.
That evening they head back, both of them wearing goggles and disguising caps so no one will recognize them. Mary Margaret parks on the lane under a wych elm tree, and they remove their goggles and caps.
When Emma steps down from the car, she can see Killian standing there under the tree, looking as handsome as ever in his blue plaid shirt and waistcoat.
She accosts him with a big grin and throws her arms around him, kissing him soundly on the mouth. “Did you wait long?”
Killian winds his arms around her, holding her close. “Not at all,” he murmurs against her lips.
Emma looks over at Mary Margaret and gestures between them. “This is my sister, Mary Margaret. Mary Margaret, this is Killian Jones.”
He steps up to the brunette, extending his hand.
She shakes it, her lips twitching into a small smile. “Hello.”
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Do walk down to the cottage with us,” Emma pleads with her sister. “It’s not far.”
Mary Margaret knits her brows together, hesitant. “What about the car?”
“It’ll be fine on the lane,” he assures her, grabbing Emma’s suitcase.
Mary Margaret looks over her shoulder toward the car. “Can I back around that bush?”
He nods. “Yes, of course.”
She gets into the car again, backs slowly around the curve, out of sight from the road and locks the car. The hedges rise high near the unused lane and cast a dark shadow over the car.
There’s a fresh, sweet scent in the air as Killian leads them to the cottage in silence, guiding their path with a flashlight torch as an owl hoots softly over the oaks and Jolly pads around them.
When they head inside, the fire crackles in the grate as Killian sets down the suitcase and removes his hat. “Do sit down, Mary Margaret,” he offers, pointing to a chair at the table. “Can I make you tea or anything, or will you drink a glass of beer? It’s moderately cool.”
“A beer for me, please,” she replies, looking around the room.
“I’ll take one too,” Emma says.
He takes a blue jug to the scullery.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Emma whispers, nudging her sister’s elbow.
A hint of a smile pulls at Mary Margaret’s lips. “He is very handsome,” she agrees as they both take a seat.
When he returns with the beer, he pours them each a glass and hands it to them. “As for cigarettes, I’ve got none. I don’t smoke, myself. Shall you eat something?”
“What is there?” Emma asks when her sister doesn’t answer. She can tell Mary Margaret is still skeptical about the whole thing, still stewing in her thoughts as she drinks her beer.
“Boiled ham, cheese and pickled walnuts, if you like.”
“Yes.” Again Emma replies when her sister does not. “Won’t you, Mary Margaret?”
She nods. “Yes, thank you.”
Killian goes to the pantry for food. He returns and sits down at the table with them, cutting the bread. “Help yourselves.”
The three eat in silence, and Emma can’t help but notice Mary Margaret observing his table manners. He’s instinctively more delicate and well-bred than her. He may be from the working class but he is well-mannered and presents himself as a gentleman, even if he doesn’t consider himself one. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, has a certain Scottish clumsiness they've always joked about. And he possesses all the quiet, self-contained assurance of the English, no loose edges. She may not be there yet, but Emma knows it will only be a matter of time before Mary Margaret warms up to him.
Her sister finally speaks again. “Do you really think it’s worth the risk?”
He furrows his brows at her, lifting his glass of beer to take a sip. “Is what worth the risk?”
“This escapade with my sister.”
“Mary Margaret!” Emma snaps.
Killian waves a hand. “It’s alright, Emma.” He looks at the brunette. “I wouldn’t call what we have a simple escapade. I’m afraid I love your sister.” He encases Emma’s hand over the table, his lips twitching into a smile. “I’d risk my life for her, I assure you.”
Emma smiles back at him, her heart fluttering as she brushes a thumb over his hand. She reverts her attention to her sister. “I wish you wouldn’t cavil.”
“Naturally, I don’t want to. But someone has to think about these things.”
“We have.” Her face flushes as she gazes at Killian, still holding his hand and squeezing it. “I’m to have his child.” She hesitantly looks at Mary Margaret to gauge her reaction. “I’m pregnant.”
Her sister’s face is pale, her jaw dropped. “Oh,” she murmurs quietly. “Right.”
“I plan to divorce Neal.”
There’s a moment’s pause as Mary Margaret processes this, Killian and Emma exchanging an adoring look.
Finally, her sister looks at Killian, speaking very calmly. “Mr. Jones, how do you expect to take care of her and the child once you’ve lost your job? Do you actually believe you can give them both a chance at happiness?”
“Oh, you’re asking the wrong person there,” Killian answers bitterly. For the three of them know Neal certainly doesn’t make her happy. “All I know is I get a great deal of happiness from Emma and knowing we’re having this child together.”
“I see you’ve thought of your own happiness at least,” she remarks sardonically.
“Mary Margaret, enough!” Emma scolds.
She fixes her eyes on him. “I think you understand far better than she does how badly this could end, Mr. Jones. Think about how much she and your child really mean to you.” She rises from the chair and heads toward the door, turning around to look at Emma. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. At eight. Don’t keep me waiting.” She nods at Killian. “Mr. Jones.”
Emma stands up and calls after her sister, but she storms out the door, shutting it behind her. “Mary Margaret!” She spins around, flashing him an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought her. Please don’t let her upset you. She’s just protective.”
“She’s right. We haven’t thought beyond tomorrow, have we?” His expression is unreadable, his eyes dark, the future weighing heavy on his mind now. “Sir Neal will fight this divorce. He’ll fight to keep our child.”
Emma goes to him, and he opens his arms. She sits on his lap and wraps her arms around him, kissing his forehead, relishing in his scent and the feel of his warmth against her.
He nuzzles her nose with his. “I never had to think about these things until you turned up,” he murmurs against her lips.
They both close their eyes, their foreheads touching as they soak up a few quiet moments. She knows there is much to think about, but she wants to spend this one night with Killian without those negative thoughts weighing heavy on their minds. Just one night before her trip.
She pulls back a little, and they both open their eyes, his blue depths full of so much love for her. “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispers.
~*~
They undress each other between kisses, clothes falling to the floor one by one until they're both naked. His eyes drink in her lovely form, her emeralds roving down his body, making his skin heat. He closes the distance between them, cupping her cheeks in his hands, his blue eyes flickering over her soft, pink, full lips. He buries his fingers in her golden locks as he seizes her mouth with his. Surrendering immediately, she melts into him. His tongue slips into her mouth, flicking against hers, and her lips intoxicate him, making him dizzy.
She grabs the back of his neck and kisses him harder, pressing her naked, perky breasts against his chest. He growls and wraps his arms snugly around her frame, his lips hungrily colliding with hers, unable to get enough of her sweet taste. He tries not to let the things her sister said invade his mind, he tries to push all those thoughts away.
He only has one night with Emma before she leaves for three weeks, and he has no idea if he’ll be able to survive without her. Without seeing her gorgeous smile, kissing her lips, touching her soft skin, feeling her walls clench around his cock or hearing her sweet voice. He’ll be lost without her. So he wants to make this night last as long as he can.
He pulls away, nipping her bottom lip and kissing fervently along her jaw. He buries a hand in her hair, gently pulling her head back as he leaves a trail of kisses up her neck and whispers huskily in her ear, “Turn around.”
Her breath catches, her chest and cheeks flushed with red as she obeys him.
He moves her hair over her shoulder, out of the way, and wraps his arms around her body, his hands roaming up and down every curve, his heart fluttering when he caresses her stomach, knowing there’s a tiny human growing inside her. Knowing she’s carrying his child—their child—makes him love her even more if possible. He’s panting hard against her ear as he pulls her flush against him, his stiff cock straining against her arse. “Get on the bed.” He noses her ear, growling darkly. “And lie down.”
She moans and does as she’s told, crawling to the middle of the mattress, her beautiful bare arse on full display. He licks his lips and climbs on the bed, creeping up behind her, kissing every inch of skin in sight—her calves, her thighs, her arse. He spends an excessive amount of time on her bottom, caressing each perfectly round globe with his lips, kissing and licking between them. He could honestly spend hours—hours—right here, just appreciating her bottom. He wasn't joking when he said he'd happily spend a lifetime rubbing her arse.
She whines, grinding herself against his face as he slowly makes his way upward, taking his sweet time, his hands groping and caressing and appreciating every part of her skin he can reach. He can hear her heavy, shallow breaths as he explores every inch, his scruff dragging along her delicate skin, his hot breath fanning her neck, creating goosebumps in his wake. She props herself up on her elbows as he slowly makes his way down, his lips sliding tenderly over the slope of her spine. Trailing his fingers over her rib cage, his hand stops at the curve of her breast.
She shivers at his touch as he drags his fingers teasingly along her skin, finding her nipples hard when he runs his thumb over one. “Spread your legs for me.”
She rises on her hands and knees and opens her thighs willingly, offering herself to him.
"Good lass," he growls, his fingers latching around her hips, causing her to gasp as he presses his thickness against her arse.
His cock is throbbing, aching to be inside her as he opens her up and slides his fingers through her folds, finding her utterly soaked.
Emma’s sharp intake of breath is drowned out by his appreciative growl at how ready she is for him. Wrapping his hand around his painfully hard cock, he lines himself up to her entrance and grabs her waist, sharply entering her sweet cunt. She rolls her hips back to meet his insistent thrusts, taking him deeper, moaning loudly as he fills her completely to the hilt.
He takes her slow at first, enjoying the feel of her tight, slick walls around his cock, but soon picks up the pace, gripping her harder and moving faster. The friction is maddening as her arse moves against his hips, her heat greedily taking all he has to offer. He looks toward the ceiling, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, the pleasure almost too much. He has to slow down before he comes too soon.
The rhythm they've built up begins to falter, his head spinning and moans spilling freely from her lips.
When she grabs his hand and brings it to her breast, he squeezes firmly and pulls her up. She rises, leaning back against his chest as he cups her other breast and sucks on the spot between her shoulder blades. Her soft weight fits so perfectly in his palms, her nipples stiff against his fingers. She turns her head toward him, her eyes surging with heat, their harsh breaths mingling.
Soon enough, heat bursts under his skin, both of them moaning and groaning and panting, louder and louder with each thrust.
She reaches behind his head to stroke his hair, their lips colliding as they kiss frantically, getting caught up in all-consuming pleasure as he kneads her breasts, brushing his thumbs over her nipples. God, she’s so incredible, greedily taking every thrust he gives her, her high-pitched moans bringing him closer and closer to the edge. When he releases one of her breasts and wraps his hand around her neck, she arches her back.
“Killian!”
He smiles against her hair as her body surrenders to him, his heart beating furiously in his chest.
Fire courses through his veins, and heat gathers in the pit of his stomach. Her hips buck back, throbs of pleasure bursting through him. “That’s it, come for me, love.” He sinks his teeth into the delicate skin of her neck, moving his other hand between her thighs, where they’re joined, and he rubs her clit.
Emma throws her head back onto his shoulder, his hips thrashing against her arse as she cries out in ecstasy.
"That's good," he groans in her ear, his voice shattered. “That’s so good, Emma.” Skins smack fiercely as he pounds into her mercilessly, taking her with him, her walls clenching around his cock.
“Yes, Killian, yes! Come inside me!”
The sounds she makes push him to the brink, and he finally explodes, releasing his seed deep inside of her, and she slowly rocks against him until they are both completely spent. Emma's body slumps into his, head against his shoulder, eyes closed as they both try to catch their breath.
When he finally withdraws from her warmth, she collapses on the bed, Killian gently lying atop her, their breaths heavy. He takes her hand, threading their fingers together behind her head as she lies on the pillow. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, a strangled laugh leaving her lips. His hair is slick with sweat on his forehead as he kisses her shoulder blade, still panting furiously against her skin. He sprinkles a few soft kisses over her back before he falls beside her, and she rolls over, resting her head on his arm.
He closes his eyes in contentment as he hums into her skin and holds her close for a while. “I will never tire of this, Emma,” he murmurs softly, swiping some damp, stray hairs from her face. “You fit perfectly in my arms.”
She smiles softly, placing her hand on his chest. “Killian, I love you so much.”
“I love you too. If you leave Goldby, you’d be giving up everything…and I don’t know if I’d be able to stomach that.”
Emma shakes her head against his arm and takes his other hand, placing it on her stomach. “Giving up what exactly? Goldby? Some meaningless title? A husband who shows me no affection? None of that matters to me.” She lifts her hand to his face, brushing her fingers along his scruff. “ You matter to me. This baby. I’m doing this for us—our family.” A big smile overtakes her lips. “So if you ask me, I’m gaining so much more in return.”
He kisses her nose, his heart bursting underneath her palm. Her beautiful words are music to his ears. They’re everything. His gaze is drawn to her emerald orbs. “You are more than I deserve.” She is the other half of his heart, the missing piece he had no idea he was missing. Life without her would only be half a life.
“I would do anything for you.”
He takes her hand in his, kissing her knuckles, their eyes locked. “And I for you. I cannot wait for our life together to start properly so I can take care of you and our wee one every single day,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead.
They eventually fall asleep and wake just before the sun rises. They lie there, gazing into each other's eyes as he toys with her golden locks and she plays with the hair at his nape. They spent more time gazing into each other’s eyes in a comfortable silence and basking in the warmth of each other’s embrace than they did sleeping.
Pound, pound, pound.
The loud, incessant knocking on the door, followed by Jolly’s loud warning yaps, breaks their trance. Emma quickly pulls the sheet over her breasts, her eyes wide with surprise. He hurries out of bed, pulls on his trousers and heads downstairs. He grabs his gun, wondering who could be at his door at this hour, his heart pounding. Has Neal discovered Emma here with him and sent his servants to fetch her?
Jolly growls at the door as Killian looks upstairs at Emma and makes a gesture for her to hide under the covers.
Once she’s hidden from sight, he cautiously pads over to the door and unlocks it, pulling it open.
Anger surges through him, his fingers tightening around the barrel of his gun.
It’s even worse than Neal’s servants.
It’s Milah.
Her face lights up when she sees Jolly. “Hey girl, I’ve missed you.” She reaches a hand out to pet her.
Jolly bares her teeth, growling at her.
Milah snatches her hand back, a frown on her face.
“The fuck are you doing here?” he snarls, not even bothering with pleasantries. She’s the last person he ever wants to see again.
Milah furrows her brows, as if she has no idea why he doesn’t want her here. “Is that any way to speak to your wife?” She steps over to him and tries to touch his face and kiss him, but he quickly steps back.
“Don’t touch me,” he mutters through clenched teeth.
The nerve of this woman showing up on his doorstep and trying to be affectionate with him after everything she has put him through.
“Calm down, Killian. I’m not here to fight. I missed you.” She smiles and tries to put her hand on him again, but he gently grabs her wrist to stop her.
“I didn’t miss you,” he states coldly.
She pulls her hand away and pins him with a glare, clenching her jaw. “I’m still your wife, entitled to half your military pension.”
“Aye, and I’m entitled to a divorce.” He wishes to tell her the reason he wants a divorce. So he can marry the love of his life—the woman who is currently pregnant with his child—and so they can leave this wretched place and live happily ever after together, but he can’t say that. She’d no doubt blab to everyone in the tavern, and the word would spread like wildfire. Faster than wildfire. And people would wonder who she’s referring to. He doesn’t need that kind of light shining on his and Emma’s relationship, even if they didn’t know who the said mistress is. “I won’t get one, will I?”
She crosses her arms and looks past him. “Why on earth would I--” The words catch in her throat when she spots something behind him, her eyes surging with anger. “What happened to our wedding photo?” She tries to walk past him, but he steps in her way.
“What do you mean?”
She points at the empty spot on the wall where the frame used to be. “It’s gone! What have you done with it?!”
Killian refrains from smirking as he remembers how he and Emma had burned it in the fireplace. “I burned it. What else would I do with garbage?”
Milah’s eyes go wild with rage, her face pale. “That was our wedding photo!”
Killian grins proudly and looks at the beautiful spot on the wall that no longer holds the bloody thing. “Aye, it sure was.”
She once again tries to push past him but Jolly barks at her.
Milah steps back, lifting her arms to shield herself. “Oh shut it, you mangy mutt! I never did like you.”
Jolly growls again and moves toward her, causing Milah to step back even further until she’s just outside the door.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Killian snarls. She’s more faithful than you’ll ever be! He bites his tongue to refrain from saying his thoughts out loud.
He slams the door on Milah’s offended face and quickly locks it, breathing a sigh of relief. He kneels down and ruffles Jollys fur. “Good girl.”
She licks his face, panting and wagging her tail furiously. She's not normally mean or aggressive, only with intruders.
Milah bangs on the door and calls through it. “You'll regret this, Killian Jones!”
He's not worried. He's used to her empty threats.
Jolly barks again, but after a moment, it's silent.
Emma pops her head out from under the covers. “Is she gone?”
He rises and looks out the window, seeing Milah walking away. “Stay there till we know for sure.” He watches until she disappears beyond the stone wall. Setting the gun down against the wall, he heads upstairs and sits on the edge of the bed, kissing Emma’s temple. “I’m sorry about the intrusion, love.”
She shakes her head, sitting up, the blankets falling from her naked breasts that are practically golden in the rising sun streaming through the window. “It’s not your fault.” She cups his cheeks in her hands and kisses his lips, instantly melting away his anger. “I knew she would try to get you to take her back.” A faint smirk touches her lips. “Not that I blame her for it.”
His heart flutters as he wraps her up in his arms and rests his forehead against hers, feeling her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples poking through his fur. He loves the feeling of her naked skin against his. He wants to wake up to this every morning, minus the intrusion from Milah, of course. “Shall I make you some breakfast before you go?”
“Okay.” Her face clouds over with sadness at the reminder.
“Stay here. I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
She eyes him in surprise. “You don’t have to do that.”
He kisses her forehead. “Oh, but I want to.” He gets up, throws on a shirt and tramps downstairs, making breakfast and bringing her a big tray. He places it on the bed in front of her as she sits cross-legged in her nightie, and he pours her some tea. He sits next to her with his plate of food.
“This is nice,” she mumbles through a mouthful of bacon. “Thank you.”
He smiles at her and takes her hand, dropping a kiss on the back of it. “Of course, love.”
They eat in silence, his mind drifting to the time that is quickly passing. He dreads it with every fiber of his being.
“Almost time to get ready,” he mumbles bitterly after they finish their breakfast. “I’ll go look around outside to make sure the coast is clear.” He sets his empty plate on the tray and takes it downstairs.
He steps outside with his gun, Jolly trotting alongside him as he goes to the gate and surveys the area for any sight of Milah or the goons she sleeps with. Seeing no one around, he heads back inside. Emma is already washed and ready with her coat on. They make sure she grabs everything, and he carries her suitcase as they head out the door.
This is the moment he’s been dreading since Emma told him she was heading for Venice. His heart sags in his chest when he sees Mary Margaret’s car parked in the lane on the other side of the wall. He hands Emma her luggage, knowing it’s too risky to walk her to the car in the daylight.
They get a few long, lingering kisses in just outside his door, savoring each one as he walks her backward toward the gate, her hand around the back of his neck and his arm around her waist.
They hear a loud toot of the car horn, sending panic through him. He pulls back, grumbling. “Ugh, what is she thinking?”
Emma looks back at her sister, frowning. She faces him again, her eyes clouding over with sadness. He kisses her once more on the lips, closing his eyes to relish this one last second with her before she goes.
They break the kiss and say their goodbyes. He watches as she turns around and trudges away miserably, looking back at him, green eyes glistening.
Tears are streaming down her face as she climbs into the car. Mary Margaret hands her the cap and goggles.
Emma pulls on the disguise and leans her head on her sister’s shoulder. The brunette wraps a consoling arm around her and rests her head against Emma’s, looking across the gate to where Killian still stands. And for the first time, she doesn’t look at him with distrust or disappointment. She looks at him with a bit of warmth and perhaps apology that she’s taking Emma away from him for the time being. She nods at him cordially, and he salutes her as she starts the car and takes off down the lane.
His own eyes burn with tears as he watches the car disappear, his heart already aching for Emma. He heads inside, knowing he’ll be counting the minutes—no, the seconds—until she returns to him.
Emma is both grateful and resentful for the day Mary Margaret is to arrive. Grateful to be leaving this Godforsaken place, but resentful of not seeing her gamekeeper for three weeks. She’ll be even more resentful if she can’t sleep with him the night before she leaves. If Mary Margaret is against the idea.
So Emma thought ahead and told him that if everything promises well for their night together, she will hang a green shawl out the window for him to see when he takes his daily stroll through the park. If there is a change in their plan, a red one.
“It will be so good for your ladyship to have a change,” Johanna comments as she helps Emma pack.
“I think it will.” Emma folds her clothes and places them in her suitcase. “You don’t mind having Sir Neal on your hands for a time without me, do you?”
Johanna waves off her concern. “Oh, no, I can manage him quite alright. Don’t you think he’s better than he used to be?”
Emma smiles appreciatively. She has to admit, Neal has been much more tolerable to be around and much less needy since Johanna entered their lives. “Oh, much. You have done wonders with him.”
“It’s nothing, really. Men are all alike, just babies, and you have to flatter them, wheedle them and let them think they’re having their own way. Don’t you find it so, Milady?”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. She may not have had much experience with raising children, but she remembers how Neal was when she was his caretaker. A small smile tugs at her lips at the thought of gaining the experience of raising a child with Killian.
Mary Margaret arrives at Goldby in her car, suitcase strapped behind her seat. Emma is only allowed one suitcase, as well, but she had sent a trunk to her father, who is taking a train from Scotland. No use taking a car to Venice. And in July, Italy is much too hot to motor in.
Emma runs out to greet her sister, accosting her with a big hug.
“It’s been so long!” Mary Margaret pulls back and grabs Emma’s arms to get a good look at her. “Oh, Emma, you look so much healthier than before!” The corner of her mouth twitches into a smirk. “You look happy!”
Emma’s cheeks heat, knowing there is one person in particular who is the cause of her pleasant appearance these days. She no longer appears ill or on the verge of death, but rather radiant, her cheeks fuller, her eyes sparkling with life. She is definitely happy.
She grabs Mary Margaret’s hand, and they run inside and go upstairs to chat privately, butterflies swarming in her belly as they enter her bedroom and shut the door. “You know I’ve met someone, don’t you?”
Mary Margaret grins and lunges for Emma, tickling her sides. Emma squeals, and they both giggle as they sit on the edge of her bed, facing each other.
“I gathered from your letters.”
Emma is relieved she’s not upset by this new development. Mary Margaret never cared for Neal anyway.
“I tried to tell myself it was nothing, I tried to stay away, I did.” But as Emma is telling her sister this, she knows she didn’t honestly try all that hard. “But I can’t. He…”—she swoons, struggling to find the adequate words to describe how she feels about him—“I really love him!” She bites her bottom lip, wondering how her sister will feel about her staying the night with him. “And…I said I would stay with him tonight. I promised.”
Not seeming the least bit perturbed, Mary Margaret nods and joins her hands in her lap, her big green eyes dancing with curiosity. “Are you going to tell me who he is?”
“Killian Jones,” Emma answers proudly. “He’s our gamekeeper.”
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd and for looking this over and for being amazing!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Hope you all enjoy!
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8
Also on: AO3
Chapter Nine
Dear Emma,
Father is going to London this week and I shall call for you on Thursday, June 17th. You must be ready so we can go at once. I don’t want to waste time at Goldby, it’s an awful place. I shall probably stay the night at Retford, so I should be with you for lunch on Thursday. Then we could start at teatime and sleep perhaps in Mansfield with the Tremaines. It is no use our spending an evening with Neal. If he hates that you’re going, it would be no pleasure to him.
Can't wait to see you!
Love,
Mary Margaret
The sun is shining, the pale blue sky dotted with clouds as Emma walks beside Neal, his three-wheeled motor chair chugging along. It’s quite a lovely Sunday morning, despite the thick, gray clouds that have loomed over Emma ever since she told Killian she was expecting.
She had suspected it wouldn’t go over well with him once she told him Neal wanted the child for his own agenda—to have an heir—but Emma had been too wracked with emotions to tell Killian she didn’t want that. He had been too stubborn to listen anyway.
He is sure Emma only wanted him for a child, but that is so far from the truth. On one hand, she can understand why he feels made use of, but on the other, she would think he knows her enough by now—knows how much she cares for him—to know she wouldn’t do that. She’s not like Milah. Emma’s never met her, but she knows she is a vile woman who treated Killian like something his dog threw up.
“With the new generators, we’ll be able to reduce the workforce. Striking will be impossible.”
Emma furrows her brows at Neal. “What about the workers?”
He shrugs. “No man’s forced to work for me and I’m not forced to hire them. What is the point of striking in the first place? Merely ruins the industry, what’s left of it.”
“Perhaps they don’t mind ruining the industry,” Emma points out wryly, disgusted by Neal’s views on the working class. He speaks of them like they are less than human. Like they can just be replaced by machines and everything will be okay.
“Ah, don’t talk like a woman. The industry fills their bellies, even if it can’t keep their pockets quite so flush.”
Emma scoffs. “No wonder the men hate you.” She’s not sure what makes her feel worse—the way Neal treats the workers or the way she has hurt Killian. It was not intentional, but still, she feels completely and utterly terrible. She had seen the pain on Killian’s face when she told him Neal was glad to have a baby, as long as it seemed to be his.
Neal wrinkles his brows in confusion. He’s completely clueless. “They don’t hate me. They depend on me. They should be grateful. They’d starve without someone to tend to them.”
Her stomach turns as she flashes him a scowl. “You talk about them as if they’re herd animals.”
He chuckles. “Don’t be foolish. They are animals. Not all of them, of course. An individual may rise from the pack now and again. Most of those men have been under rule since the dawn of time.
He cannot be serious!
How did Emma end up with such a cold-hearted, callous husband? She’s ashamed to even call him her husband.
She rolls her eyes, speaking in a sarcastic tone. “And you can rule them?”
“Yes, because I’ve been brought up and trained to do so. That’s my role in society, as it’s their place to serve.”
She throws up her hands, completely done with this conversation. As well as Neal and his attitudes about the working class. “So there is no shared humanity between us?”
“We all need to eat and breathe, but beyond that, no.”
Emma stops in her tracks, dumbfounded and revolted, as Neal goes on his merry way, proud of his closed-minded and shallow views.
“Shall we go as far as the spring?”
You can go as far as hell, for all I care! Emma refrains from saying, feeling a powerful urge to turn around and head back, leaving Neal to fend for himself and hoping his wheelchair gets stuck and he rots in the damn thing.
Emma looks past him, her heart jolting when she sees Killian striding toward them, his dog trotting alongside him.
“Good day to you, Mr. Jones!”
“Good day.” Killian salutes, not even looking her way. She hurries over, her eyes pleading with him as she whispers so Neal can’t hear her. “Killian, shall I see you tonight?”
He ignores her as if she’s not there, his face expressionless as he continues walking.
Her heart plummets, but she supposes she deserves it.
Papp, papp.
Emma hears the toot of Neal’s horn. Annoyed and irritated by both stubborn men, she huffs and begrudgingly follows Neal.
When she catches up to him, the motor of his wheelchair strains and balks and struggles to move along any further.
“Wait, Neal. I’ll push.” Emma comes up behind him.
“No! Don’t!” he groans angrily. “What’s the good of the damned thing if it has to be pushed!” When he tries to get it going, the engine falters and starts up again, but more ineffectual this time.
“Neal, you’re making it worse!”
“Hell, be quiet, woman, will you?!” he barks indignantly.
Emma groans, the urge to leave him stranded here intensifying by the second.
“Damn thing!” Neal grunts in exasperation and honks the horn stridently. “Jones!”
Killian appears from behind, striding up to them solicitously. “Yes, Sir Neal?”
She knows he probably turned around and started toward them once he heard Neal shouting and struggling.
“Know anything about blasted motors?” Neal sighs.
“I’m afraid not. Has she gone wrong?”
“Apparently!” Neal snaps as if to say Isn’t it obvious? He gestures wildly toward the chair. “Just have a look and see that nothing’s broken,” he demands harshly, not even bothering with civility. After all, Killian is just an animal, according to Neal.
Emma seethes silently behind him, clenching her fists.
Killian sets his gun on the ground as Jolly sits in the grass, wagging her tail. He lays flat on his stomach and peers under the chair, poking at the greasy engine with his finger, inspecting it for a moment before pushing himself up. “Seems all right as far as I can see, sir.”
“Then stand back.” Neal starts the engine again and shifts it into gear. The chair hums and lurches like it wants to start, but it doesn’t budge.
Killian places his hand on the back of it to keep it from rolling backward. “Maybe, if I give her a push.” He starts forcing the chair forward but Neal resents the interference.
“No, no, keep off! She’ll do it by herself.” He is determined to get the thing moving again, but it only coughs and sputters, weakly ebbing forward. By this point, he is pale with anger and jabs obstinately at the levers. The chair reels on for a few more yards before coming to an end once more.
Neal doesn’t listen and instead yanks the gear again, successfully steering it forward. The chair fights the steepness of the hill, but Killian manages to get it moving again, pushing it steadily.
“Yes, that’s it! You see, she’s doing it!” Neal cheers victoriously, unaware Killian is aiding the chair along until Neal glances over his shoulder. “Are you pushing her? I asked you not to!”
“It won’t go if I don’t,” Killian wheezes breathlessly, using all his strength to keep the chair going.
“Give it a chance, man!” Neal barks vehemently.
Killian releases the chair and stands back, him and Emma watching as it struggles immediately, standing inert. Neal is white with vexation as he jerks at the levers, and with savage impatience, he moves the handles and gets some humming and rumbling out of it, only to have the chair slowly roll backward.
“Neal, your brake!” Emma cries, moving forward to stop it.
Killian grabs the chair by the rail, and Neal quickly brakes, the chair jerking sideways and coming to a halt.
Neal sits rigid with rage as he kills the engine. It’s silent for a moment before he exhales a sigh of defeat. “It’s obvious I’m at everybody’s bloody mercy.”
Killian is still holding onto the chair as Emma rushes over to the other side of him.
“It would seem, Mr. Jones, that she would need to be pushed,” he grumbles resentfully. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Alright.” Neal steers the chair forward and shifts it into gear.
“Hang on, hang on.” Killian catches the chair again when it starts to roll back. “One, two, three.”
The engine roars to life once more.
“Bombs away!” Neal shouts as Killian pushes it forward.
The chair is moving steadily for a moment.
“There we are.”
Killian grunts once it slows down.
The chair stops once more, and Killian coughs, struggling to move it any further.
“For God’s sake, man, what’s the matter with you?” Neal asks impatiently, showing the man no compassion, even though Killian is trying to help him.
“Lungs are a bit knackered, sir. Little souvenir from the war.”
Flushed with anger, Emma goes to his side, takes hold of the chair and helps him push.
“For God’s sake, Emma!” Neal barks at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
“He needs my help!” She’s nearly at her wits’ end with him. She turns to look at Killian in concern as they continue to push the chair up the hill. “You alright?” she whispers.
He answers with a nod, but he looks angry. She has to wonder if he’s still mad at her or if he’s angry at Neal.
She leans in and kisses his cheek, but to her dismay, he releases the chair, turns around and walks away, Jolly following behind him. Emma’s heart constricts as she watches him pick up his gun and continue without so much as looking back in her direction. She turns around and watches in vexation as Neal’s chair chugs along.
For the first time, she finds herself consciously hating Neal—with vivid hatred—and wishing more than anything that he was obliterated from the face of the earth. She uses her hatred to push him the rest of the way.
It’s strange how free and full of life it makes her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to herself.
When they return to Goldby, the servants help get him into his house chair, and Emma, still furious, can no longer contain her feelings toward him.
“I suppose the other chair will need a new set of wheels,” Neal says, trailing behind her.
She ignores his statement. “Who do you think you are? I mean, how can you treat someone like that?”
Neal scoffs. “Who? The gamekeeper?” He says it as if Killian is nothing.
Emma turns around, pinning him with a glare. “He was injured in the war as well. I mean, if he was in that chair, what would you have done to him?”
Neal’s eyes widen and fill with rage as he wheels himself toward her. “I find your comparison in very bad taste.”
Emma turns around and heads upstairs, shouting over her shoulder. “Well, I find your lack of common sympathy to be in the worst taste imaginable!” She spins around, not even bothering to hide the anger and irritation she feels. “You and your ruling class! I thought you were different, but you’re not. You make people work for £2 a week or starve. It’s not ruling, Neal. That’s bullying.” With that, she turns back around and marches upstairs to her room, leaving Neal stunned in his chair.
She is determined to get him off her mind, though. She doesn’t want to hate him. She doesn’t want to feel anything toward him.
Outside, the sky turns gray, there’s a storm coming, but Emma is determined to make things right with Killian. She says nothing to Neal during lunch, and afterward, she sneaks out before it rains, racing across the park. She heads to Killian’s cottage and doesn’t bother to knock, simply steps inside and tries to catch her breath as her eyes search around for him.
He is sitting on a stair step, removing his boots and setting them aside. He looks over at her, his eyes no longer filled with anger. In fact, they’re the usual calming blue.
God, he is handsome. His hair is unruly from running his hand through it, and he’s dressed in trousers and a white undershirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing his exquisitely soft chest hair, suspenders strapped over his shoulders. She so badly wants to run over to him, wrap her arms around him and hold him, never letting him go.
“I’m sorry.” She steps closer as he plants his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on hers. “I’m sorry for hurting you.” She’s hoping he’ll forgive her, hoping he was simply frustrated this morning by Neal and the fact that she is carrying a child Neal will try to claim as his. A small smile tugs at her lips as she shakes her head. “I don’t want you for the sake of a child. I just want you , Killian. Alright?”
He nods, his expression softening. “Alright.”
“But Neal...he has to believe I tried to keep us together. That this was his idea, just all gone terribly wrong.” She sucks in a breath. “For him to give me a divorce, for us to be together, he needs to believe that.” She swallows hard and exhales deeply, her heart pounding. “I’m in love with you.”
He is silent for a moment as he stares at her, but it’s a warm stare, not a cold one like the one he’d given her when he was upset with her. Finally, his lips crack into a smile, his blue eyes twinkling. “I’m so bloody in love with you, Emma.”
She sighs in relief, her heart singing as she goes over to him. “I just want to be with you. If that’s what you want.”
“You know what I want.” His eyes darken a little, a slight bitterness in his tone. “I want to be with you always, and not have to watch you go back to Neal ever again.”
Her heart squeezes at that. She wants the same.
“But I still have to get a divorce from Milah myself.”
She holds out her hand, and he takes it, pulling her to him and wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She winds hers around his nape, sighing pleasantly against him. She had missed the way he feels against her, the way he smells, and being enveloped in his embrace. She had missed his voice and his tenderness and his kisses.
“Aye, let’s dinna fight,” he murmurs against her neck, kissing her there, sighing against her as he tightens his hold around her, whispering ever so softly, “I’m sorry, love.”
Emma pulls back slightly to look at his face. “I’m sorry for the way Neal acted this morning. It was horrid.”
He shakes his head gently. “Don’t apologize for him.”
Emma searches his eyes. “Are you sure you didn’t hurt yourself with that chair?”
“No, I’m fine now. My heart’s just not as strong, and my lungs aren’t as elastic as they were before the war.”
Emma’s heart aches for him and for all that he has suffered. She wants to take all his pain away. “Do you hate Neal?”
“Hate him? No. I’ve met too many like him to upset myself by hating him. I knew beforehand I don’t care for his sort, and I let it go at that.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Do you hate him?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t before today. But I hate the way he treats people. I hate the way he treated you. But I don’t want to think about him. As you said yourself, I don’t want to upset myself by hating him.” She cups his cheeks in her hands, speaking softer, a smile touching her lips. “Why don’t we just leave them all behind?” Her fingers brush along his ginger scruff. “Go to Australia. Go somewhere…anywhere.”
He grins, his beautiful blue eyes lighting up at that idea as his hand caresses her belly. “The three of us?”
Her heart flutters. “Mmhmm. Just our family.” She rests her forehead against his. “No one would judge us.”
He kisses her mouth, whispering against her lips, “Sounds bloody perfect.” He nuzzles her nose with his, closing his eyes. “I’m pleased for us. I’m pleased for you to be pleased.”
She giggles and kisses him again.
A peaceful silence falls over them for a moment, only interrupted by the low rumble in the sky and the soft pattering of the rain outside.
She looks over, watching the rain stream down the window. She rises from his lap and kneels down to unlace her boots, pulling them off and removing her stockings and dress.
“Emma? What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes dancing with amusement as she removes the pins from her hair and shakes out her loose blonde locks.
She smirks and cocks her head toward the door before opening it. The steady rain pours down like a sheet, and she feels a rush of adrenaline, knowing everything will be okay. Knowing she’ll get to leave Neal and be with Killian and raise their child together. There is something so freeing about knowing what she wants in life. Knowing what they both want— each other . And their family.
She dashes outside in her underclothes, extending her arms and tipping her head back to face the rain head on. She spins around, screaming and giggling, the rain wet and refreshing on her skin. “Woohooo!”
~*~
He rises from the step and goes over to the doorway, watching her in fascination. The second she stepped into his cottage, he saw the look on her face, and the anger and disappointment he felt toward her had instantly melted away. Her eyes were full of apology and softness and he didn't have the heart to not hang onto every word she told him.
He felt like a complete arse for storming away like he had in the park, but he could no longer listen to Neal and the way he spoke to Emma, his own wife, nor could he be around her without wanting to wrap his arms around her and kiss the bloody hell out of her right in front of the bastard. Then she told him she loved him and wanted to leave them all behind and go somewhere, just the three of them, and he was a complete goner, just like he was the first time they kissed. He decided from that moment on, he will do whatever it takes for the three of them to be a family. He will jump over whatever obstacles it takes to make Emma and their baby happy.
Their baby.
He still can't believe he's going to be a father.
It's surreal. But he loves the idea of that. Of him and Emma raising their wee little boy or girl together.
It makes him so happy to think about.
Killian holds his breath as Emma removes her underclothes and runs across his yard, tossing the garments aside and dancing. He grins from ear to ear, thinking she is crazy for running out into the rain, naked nonetheless, but at the same time, he enjoys seeing her carefree and happy like this, her naked form so beautiful and pure and ivory against the rain. He lets out a chuckle, strips off his clothes and jumps out into the harsh, slanting rain while completely naked. Jolly leaps in front of him, barking frantically.
Emma, her hair all wet and matted to her head, looks at him, her green eyes blazing with excitement. When he runs over to her and throws his arms around her wet, naked body and carries her in his arms, she shrieks and wraps her arms around the back of his neck, her chilled skin quickly heating up at the contact. He spins her around and then sets her down on her feet, falling to the ground when the world continues to spin around him. He chuckles and quickly recovers, getting up and chasing her.
They run around for he’s not sure how long until he catches her from behind and wraps his arms around her stomach. They stop, just standing there, holding each other, motionless against the biting rain.
When they head inside, he quickly grabs two towels and comes back to her. Emma’s hair is plastered down by the rain, her face flushed ruddy, and her body glistening and wet, her beautiful breasts rapidly rising and falling as she tries to catch her breath. He rubs her down with a towel before she takes it from him, scrubbing her hair with it. He wipes himself off with his towel, starts the fire and grabs a blanket from upstairs. When he returns, Emma is kneeling on the hearthrug, shaking out her hair in front of the fire to dry it. Killian wraps the blanket around his back and sits in the chair, watching her in fascination. He gazes at the lovely curves of her hips, her thighs, her beautiful arse. And in between her thighs is her warm, secret entrance he loves getting lost in.
Releasing the blanket, he reaches out and strokes her bare bottom with his hand, taking her round, perfect globes in his hands.
She cranes her neck around to look at him, giving him a smirk.
He smirks back, his cheeks heating. “Sorry, love, I can’t help myself. You’ve got a very lovely arse. The loveliest arse of anybody.” He caresses her soft skin, his fingertips disappearing between her thighs and sinking into her heat before brushing over the puckered entrance between her cheeks. “If I only lived ten minutes and had the pleasure of stroking your arse, I should reckon I’d lived one life very happily. Here’s one of my lifetimes.”
Laughing, she rises and turns around, climbing into his lap. She straddles his waist, her arms winding around the back of his neck, her eyes piercing his. “Kiss me,” she whispers against his lips.
And he does, slowly and softly, combing his hand through her damp, disheveled hair.
He knows the thought of their separation is latent in both their minds. He’s not looking forward to her departure to Venice, he dreads the thought of not being able to see her for three bloody weeks. It will be torture for him.
She rests her head against his chest as he pulls the blanket around them and holds her close, their naked bodies now warm and dry against each other, the flames crackling and blazing in the fireplace.
After the rain ceases, they both rise, and he wraps the blanket around her and dons the clothes he’d discarded on the floor, letting his suspenders hang from his waist. He goes outside the cottage to retrieve her underclothes, Jolly running out the door and roaming around the yard.
He wrings them out as best he can before heading inside. She puts on her dress, deciding to leave her underclothes hanging out to dry so she doesn’t have to wear wet clothes or explain to Neal why she took them off and is carrying them around.
~*~
Yellow rays of sun are shining through the trees as Killian escorts her to the park gate, his arm wrapped around her shoulders and hers around his back. They hadn’t imbibed any alcohol, but she feels drunk. Drunk on life. Drunk on the feeling of knowing she has a future with Killian. Drunk on love.
She loves this feeling and never wants it to subside.
She just doesn’t know what exactly will happen after she tells Neal she wants a divorce. She’s not sure where she and Killian and the baby will go, but it doesn’t really matter as long as they are together.
“I leave for Venice on Friday.” They stop in their tracks to face each other. She almost resents that she has to leave. “I want to see you before I go. Shall I come by the cottage the night before?”
He arches a brow. “Isn’t your sister picking you up that night?”
“Yes, but she’s staying nearby in Mansfield with some friends. She’ll sleep there that night and I’ll sleep with you. I can have her drop me off at your place.”
“Then she’ll have to know about us.”
“Yes, but that’s okay. I already mentioned you, just not by name.” Emma flashes a teasing smirk. “Don’t worry, she’ll adore you as I do.”
Blush paints Killian’s cheeks, and he smiles. “Alright then.” He leans in and captures her lips.
Emma’s heart races, her breaths shattered as their mouths fuse together, tongues caressing tenderly and passionately. He wraps his other arm around her frame as she melts against his body and runs her hand up and down the expanse of his back.
Her skin heats up as he completely closes the distance between them, their heads tilting to deepen the kiss, bodies flush against each other. She feels like she’s floating, and she never wants to let him go. She’s so glad he forgave her, she had been miserable when he was mad at her, when he thought she only wanted him for the sake of a child.
“Milady?!”
Emma’s eyes widen when she hears Johanna calling for her. They both separate immediately, and Killian pulls his suspenders over his shoulders, turning away from her, both of them trying to reassemble themselves after that kiss. But her heart is still pounding and her cheeks are still warm, her lips swollen. It’s obvious they’ve been kissing.
Mrs. Bolton’s face is pale as she rounds some trees and stops quickly, breathing a laden sigh of relief when she spots Emma. “Oh, milady, there you are! Sir Neal asked me to look for you. He was worried something had happened.”
Emma offers a faint smile, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, despite the fact she is livid that Neal sent someone out looking for her. “No. No, I was sheltering in the hut from the rain.”
Mrs. Bolton glances at Killian, and Emma thinks it’s obvious he loves her. It’s written all over his flushed face, his blue eyes sparkling as he looks at her. Mrs. Bolton can probably see that too. She’s no fool.
He greets her kindly. “Mrs. Bolton. Your Ladyship will be quite all right from here. Good evening to you. Good evening to you, Your Ladyship.” He salutes them, his eyes meeting Emma’s once more before he turns around and walks away.
Emma is fuming with anger as she walks back to Goldby with Johanna. “I am not a child. It’s monstrous I have to be followed.”
“My Ladyship, don’t say that. Sir Neal was sure you’d been struck by lightning. And he was determined to send Cogsworth and Plumette to the forest to find the body. So I thought I’d better come, rather than set all the servants agog.”
Emma offers her a small smile and shakes her head as she places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. It’s foolish of Neal to worry.”
“Well, let’s go home now.” Johanna grabs the boots and stockings from Emma’s hands, taking in the state of her hair. “And I’ll take care of the rest.”
When they reach Goldby, Neal is waiting for her in the foyer as she marches toward him. “You don’t need to send the servants out after me.”
Johanna stands back, watching the scene unfold before her.
“God, where have you been, woman?!” Neal explodes like a volcano, steam practically shooting from his ears. She can tell he had been stewing for a while now. “You’ve been out for hours! Hours! And in a storm like this? What in the name of hell have you been doing?”
She shakes her slightly damp hair with her fingers. “I went to the hut and lit a fire.”
He eyes her up and down with a scowl on his face. “Look at you. The state of your hair!”
Emma gets a rush of satisfaction from seeing him so enraged. It’s one of the few positive feelings she has felt toward him in a very long time. “I went out into the rain… naked ,” she replies very breezily as she strides past him, heading toward the stairs, not about to let herself get worked up over Neal and how upset he is.
He spins around in his chair and rolls after her, his eyes bulging out, his nostrils flaring. “Are you mad?! Suppose Jones had seen you while you were prancing around with nothing on.”
She stops at the foot of the stairs and places a hand on the baluster, turning around to face him. She tries to feign a look of concern, but a smirk teases her lips. “Yes…suppose he had.”
Neal gapes at her, his face as white as a sheet.
She thinks about what Killian had said after he had not only seen her prancing out in the rain naked but also joined her. She wishes, she dearly wishes, she could tell Neal that not only did he see her bare ass, but that he said it was the loveliest ass he’d ever seen. Instead, she prances her lovely ass upstairs to her bedroom. “You’re right, Neal. I should really go and get cleaned up.”
Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.
Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.
At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.
But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.
A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd and for looking this over and for being amazing!
Based on Lady Chatterley's Lover for @captainswanmoviemarathon
Hope you all enjoy!
Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7
Also on: AO3
Chapter Eight
Emma’s heart is lodged in her throat as she absentmindedly chews on the end of the capped pen and watches the rain patter against the window, listening to the rumble of the storm in the dark sky.
She’s not exactly sure how to feel about this situation. She is glad to have a child but also worried. Worried for Killian, worried for the baby. Worried about what will happen now and how things might change.
She keeps thinking back to the conversation she had with Neal. Would he truly be okay with her having a child with another man?
But she doesn’t care about that anymore. She doesn’t want to be with Neal. She doesn’t want to pretend the baby is his when it’s not. Killian is the father, and she wants to raise this baby with him. She wants to live with him in his little cottage and raise their child together.
Hearing movement from behind her, she spins around and gasps, her heart skittering, but it’s only Johanna approaching the lamp to turn it off. Emma clutches her chest, breathing a sigh of relief.
Johanna gapes at her in surprise, apology on her face as she pulls her hand away from the lamp. “Oh, Your Ladyship, I’m sorry to disturb you. I saw the light on and—”
Emma manages a soft laugh and waves off Johanna’s apology as she goes to sit in the chair where she had been writing to her sister at the table. “It’s all right, honestly.” She gestures to the chair across from her. “Sit. I’d be happy to have some company.”
Johanna sits down, folding her hands in her lap.
Emma crosses her arms on the table, still holding onto her pen, as she eyes the woman curiously, for it’s one in the morning. Emma knows why she herself can’t sleep. With a baby growing in her womb, there is much weighing on her mind, but she assumes Johanna must be exhausted from having to look after Neal all the time, so Emma’s surprised the woman is not in bed, sleeping after their card game. “Why are you up so late?”
“Uh, Sir Neal…he’s not been sleeping.” She lets out a heavy sigh, worry etched in her worn features. “I can’t help looking in on him.” She shrugs. “It was the same with my husband. If he so much as got a cold, I’d be up all night worrying over him.”
“You must miss Ted.”
"It's been twenty-five years, but I still wake up in bed and think, ‘He's not in bed with me.’” She chuckles softly.
Emma nods in understanding. She feels the same when she wakes up chilly and realizes Killian is not in bed with her. She misses his warmth and the way he touches her. However, it is a poor comparison. Johanna lost her husband and will never see him again. Emma’s lover, on the other hand, is still breathing, still living just beyond the forest. “It’s the touch of him.”
“Aye, milady, the touch of him. I’ve never gotten over it to this day and never shall. If there’s a heaven above, he’ll be there and warm up against me so I can sleep.”
Emma plants her chin in her hand, her elbow propped up on the table. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How someone can get so deeply into your blood.” A small smile pulls at her lips, for she’s not talking about Neal. She’s talking about Killian and how much he has gotten into her blood over such a short period of time.
“Oh, it is. It can make you bitter. If it hadn’t been for that pit, Ted would still be here. He hated it down there. He hated it, but what could he do? He was trapped.”
Emma peers down at the pen in her hand. “I suppose we all are in different ways.” She quickly moves on from that thought and looks up, hoping Johanna doesn’t read into it enough to wonder if Emma feels that way here at Goldby. “You never wanted to remarry?”
“Oh, Lord, no.” They share a laugh.
Emma lowers her hand, joining it with her other one on the table. “So Ted was the only one?”
Johanna nods. “He was. But you and your man grow together. What else is there in life? Children, of course, but...” Her eyes widen, apology washing over her features. “Oh. I’m sorry, that was thoughtless of me.”
Emma shakes her head and offers a reassuring smile. “No. Don’t worry. It’s fine.” Her smile widens, cheeks warming as she peers down again, thinking about the tiny human growing inside her. “Um…more than fine, actually.” She looks up at Johanna and nods, licking her lips. “There still might be some hope in that regard. There's a possibility of a child in the future.”
“You mean, if anything happened to Sir Neal?” Mrs. Bolton stammers, not sure exactly what she is telling her.
“No, I mean as things are. It’s only muscular paralysis with Sir Neal—it doesn’t affect him,” Emma claims, lying as naturally as breathing.
But it’s Neal’s fault. He had implanted the idea in her head. He had once gone on about not being mutilated, stating his sexual potency might return even if the muscles of his hips and legs are paralyzed. And then the seed may be transferred.
Emma had worried that might actually be true, but she is quick-witted enough to use his suggestion for her own agenda. For she could use his theory as a reason to have hope and tell people there is a possibility of a Goldby heir. But of course, Emma’s plans have since changed, and she does not intend to share her child—Killian’s child—with Neal. She does not intend to put their baby in the Goldby cradle.
“The doctor says his recovery is remarkable. So who knows? I might have a child yet.” Emma looks up warily to gauge the woman’s reaction, hoping she believes her.
Mrs. Bolton is breathless for a moment— flabbergasted —with a contrived smile on her lips. She doesn’t believe it and sees it for what it is—a ruse.
Secretly, Emma believes Johanna knows about her affair with the gamekeeper and doesn’t look down on her for it. She doesn’t seem like the type to judge or gossip if it meant shedding bad light on her, but Emma hopes Johanna does spread the word that Neal may have an heir. Then it won't come as a surprise when Emma starts to show.
“Well, milady, I only hope and pray you do.” Johanna rises from her chair. “Can I get you a blanket?”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Sleep well.”
“Good night, milady.” Johanna leaves Emma to mull over her thoughts as she wonders what will happen when people find out she’s with child. How will Neal react? How will she even tell him? Who would he even think she made the baby with? Perhaps a trip to visit her sister would give her an excuse to lie to Neal and tell him she plans on having an affair.
Emma’s belly swarms with nerves at the conversations she must have with Neal. In order for him to think she intends to stay with him, this must be planned very carefully, unlike the actual conception of the child.
The next day, Emma is arranging tall, red tulips in a glass vase when Neal rolls into the room in his wheelchair.
“Hello, Ems, I’ve just had the most interesting meeting with Mr. Geppetto.”
Emma arches a brow but keeps her eyes glued to her task. “Is that so?”
“Have you heard the rumor that you are to supply Goldby with an heir?”
She freezes, her stomach lurching. “No.” She continues placing the flowers in the vase and holds back a smile, knowing her plan has so far worked. She knew Johanna would say enough to the women in the village so they would spread the word of a future heir. She just didn’t expect it to spread so soon. “Is it a joke?”
When she looks over at him, he is grinning up at her, his eyes buzzing with excitement.
He seems awfully chipper for someone who has trouble sleeping at night. Which goes to show the only thing he cares about in life is having an heir. Even if the child is not biologically his.
“I hoped it might be a prophecy.”
Emma returns to her task. “I received a letter from Father this morning. He’s been invited to Venice for July and August and has asked me and Mary Margaret to come with him.”
“July and August?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t need to stay for that long. Are you sure you wouldn’t come?”
“I won’t travel abroad.”
“Do you mind if I go then?”
“For how long?”
“Three weeks should be more than enough time for what we discussed.” Warily, she looks over at him again, but to her relief, his eyes light up, and he bites his bottom lip.
He reminds her of a child on Christmas morning, full of hope and wonderment. “Have plans already been set in motion?”
She shakes her head. “Not just yet.”
“Well, I suppose I could stand it for three weeks if I were absolutely certain you’d want to come back.”
“Of course I’ll come back,” she says with heavy conviction. But she doesn’t plan on coming back to Neal. She plans on coming back to his gamekeeper.
Neal seems to believe her and looks relieved and immensely happy. She hasn’t seen him smile this much since he saw his picture in the paper. “I don’t want to know his name. No one can.”
Emma nods in agreement as she takes the vase of flowers to the window, setting it on the ledge.
“In that case, I think it ought to be alright. Don’t you?”
“I think so. I should like to see Venice again, and bathe on one of the shingle islands across the lagoon. If Mary Margaret is there and we have a gondola of our own, it will be rather lovely.”
But honestly, she hates the idea of going away for three weeks. Three weeks without seeing her keeper—the father of her child. Three weeks without feeling his touch, his kiss. But she has to go. In order for her plan to work successfully, Neal has to believe she will take a lover in Venice. Yes, she wants to see her sister and father, but she’s also doing this for her future. Her child’s future. Their future with Killian.
~*~
Killian sits at the table, eating potatoes and chops in his cottage, when Jolly rises from the mat at the foot of the stairs where she’d been lying. She trots toward the door, barking softly and wagging her tail.
He’s wiping his mouth with a red handkerchief when Emma appears in the doorway, which he left wide open to let the sunshine pour through.
“May I come in?”
His eyes light up, a smile blooming over his lips as he stands and goes over to her. “Of course.”
She steps inside, carrying a book in her hand, which he takes and sets on the table. It’s The Voyage Out by Virginia Woolf. He’s not a fan of tragic endings, but he does enjoy a good book about adventure and self-discovery, and even more if it takes place on a ship at sea.
He hadn’t expected to see her today, but he’s not complaining about the impromptu visit. He wraps his arms around her and kisses her gorgeous lips. She tastes as sweet as sugar.
She smiles faintly and looks happy to see him, but there’s something different about her. She seems occupied by her thoughts. Distant.
“Everything all right, love?”
“Perfectly fine.” Shaking away whatever is on her mind, she grins and wraps her arms around the back of his neck, giving him another kiss. She looks behind him, spotting the plate of food. “It’s a bit late to be having lunch, isn’t it?” she teases playfully.
“I had to get summonses for two poachers I caught,” he explains with a sigh. “Shall you have something? A cup of tea? The kettle’s on the boil.”
“If you’ll let me make it myself.” She gestures toward the chair he was sitting in. “You sit and eat.”
He tugs on her hand to keep her from walking away and pulls her back to him, drawing her into his arms again and wagging his brows with a smirk. “I see something else I’d rather to eat.” He growls and leans in, gently biting her neck.
She laughs, pushing him back, but her laugh isn’t as carefree or joyful as it usually is.
He reluctantly releases her with a pout. “Teapot’s in there”—he points to a corner cupboard, sitting down in his chair—“and cups. And tea’s on the mantle over your head.”
She gets the black teapot and tin of tea from the mantel shelf and rinses the pot with hot water.
He continues eating as she makes the tea and sets the teapot on the hob, and he can’t help but think about how domestic it feels to have her here. He enjoys watching her find her way around his cottage. Of course, he prefers to make her tea, but he can envision her living here with him instead of having to leave and go back to Goldby. He can envision a future with her. Perhaps it wouldn't be here in Misthaven, but somewhere else, just the two of them.
When he’s finished eating, he takes his empty plate to the scullery as she sets two cups on the table.
“Will you have a cup?” she asks when he returns to his seat.
“If you like. Sugar’s in the cupboard, and there’s a little cream jug. Milk’s in the pantry.”
She goes to the back, into the penthouse scullery, and returns with some milk. She pours the tea into their cups, poising the cream jug. “Where are the spoons?”
He reaches over and pulls open the table drawer, grabbing one and handing it to her. She pours some milk into the teas and stirs before setting the spoon down.
“Do you like being a gamekeeper?” she asks curiously, taking a seat in the chair across from him and sipping her beverage. And apparently reading his thoughts.
“I don’t hate it. So long as I’m left alone and don’t have to deal with poachers.”
“Couldn’t you be independent?”
“Me? If you mean live off my pension, I suppose I could. But I have to work, do something with my hands. So all in all, I’m very well off here, especially lately,” he adds with a wink, taking a sip of his tea.
She laughs, her cheeks turning pink.
Her expression clouds over with something more serious, and he’s fairly certain the conversation is about to take a serious turn as well. He has a feeling she didn’t come over to discuss the book she brought with her.
“You know how much you mean to me, don’t you?”
He eyes her dubiously. “And you to me.” Why does he have a feeling there’s about to be a big but after her statement?
“I’m going away for a while.”
“Where?”
“Venice.”
His heart sinks. “Venice? With Sir Neal? For how long?”
“Three weeks.” She shakes her head softly. “But no, not with Neal. He doesn’t like traveling abroad with how he is.”
“Aye, poor devil.” He almost feels sorry for the fellow. Almost.
She smiles at him. “You won’t forget me when I’m gone, will you?”
“Forget?” He chuckles. Forget a woman like Emma? Forget her warmth and her softness? Forget her light and her beauty and the way she feels around him? The way she tastes on his tongue? The way she makes him feel? “There is not a chance I’d forget.” On the contrary. He wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her. He wouldn’t be able to get her out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He’d miss her terribly. “It’s not a question of memory. There's not a day that goes by I won't think of you.”
“Good.” A small smirk plays on her lips as she looks down, speaking in a softer voice. “I told Neal I might have a child.” She looks up at him again, very shyly.
His mouth falls open slightly as he looks at her—really looks at her with searching eyes.
Is she telling him this because she might get pregnant? Or is she already…?
“You did?" he finally asks after a moment.
“I…I think I’m already…”—she sucks in a big gulp of air—“expecting.” She swallows, silently awaiting his reaction.
But he’s not sure how to react. He’s not sure how to feel. He should be glad to have a child with her, and part of him is, but what does this mean for them if she’s having his baby while she’s still married to Neal? What does this mean if Sir Neal knows about the baby? Does he already know she’s been having an affair with him? Is he about to get fired? Is that why she asked him if he liked his job and if could be independent?
He looks away and gulps thickly, his mind spinning with so many questions.
“Killian?” Her voice pulls him from his train of thought, and he reverts his gaze to her.
“What did he say?” He stares blankly at the crackling fire, his heart pounding mercilessly in his ear.
“Um…he said he’d be glad…”—she speaks tentatively, carefully choosing her words—“so long as the child… seemed to be his ?”
“No mention of me, of course?”
She shakes her head. “No. No mention of you.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Then where does Sir Neal suppose this child is coming from?” He’s not sure he wants the answer, though.
“I told him I might have a love affair in Venice.” She hangs her head, her expression clouding over with guilt.
“You might?” he says slowly, cocking his head to the side, anger pulsing through him. He doesn’t like where this conversation is going. The longer it continues, the more his hope for a future with Emma evaporates. “So that’s why you’re going?”
She snaps her head up, staring at him with pleading eyes. “Not to have the affair. Just the appearance of one.”
He stares out the window in silence, emotions spiraling through him. He feels like a used pair of drawers, and now that she is done with him, now that she has what she needs, she’ll toss him away like Milah did.
And here he thought she was nothing like her.
His heart stings painfully, and he can barely breathe. “So that’s why you wanted me then?” he asks satirically, bringing his eyes back to her. “To get a child?” He should’ve known. He should’ve known a woman of her class and stature wouldn’t go for a commoner like him. A servant, no less. He feels foolish and stupid and used. To think he was falling for her. Falling hard.
He could have had a family with her. She’s pregnant with his child, for Christ’s sake! But she doesn’t truly want him. She only wanted a baby from him, and Sir Neal is too impotent to give her one himself, so he sent her off to find a breeder. But of course Neal can never know the real father is his gamekeeper. He’d never swallow the idea of his servant as a substitute breeder for a Goldby heir.
“Of course not.” She appears calm, but her green eyes are wild with emotion as she tries to contain it. “I never planned on you. I never planned on any of this, really.”
“What was the plan then, Emma?” he asks rather tartly, cutting her off. “What was the plan, really ?”
“I-I don’t know.”
He scoffs, irritated. “You don’t know?”
She looks at him reproachfully, raising her voice. “I don’t know!”
He chuckles bitterly, his heart twisting inside his chest. “Then I’m damned if I do.”
There is a long period of silence. A cold silence that chills him to the bone, makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He sighs sullenly and drags his hands over his face, unable to believe this is real. “Fucking hell.” Just moments ago, he was happy. He was happy and in love. Now he finds out she was only using him! It feels like she just reached her hand inside his warm chest and ripped out his bloody heart. And now his chest is empty. Cold and empty. “Well, it’s as your ladyship likes. If you get the baby, Sir Neal is welcome to it. I shan’t have lost anything. On the contrary, I’ve had a very nice experience. Very nice, indeed.”
He lowers his voice but is no less sour as she stares at him, stewing in anger. But he’s the one who should be angry. “If you’ve made use of me, it’s not the first time I’ve been made use of”—he shrugs sardonically—“and I don’t suppose it’s ever been as pleasant as this time, though. Of course, one can’t feel tremendously dignified about it.”
Her eyes glisten with tears, her jaw set. “I didn’t make use of you, Killian.” She rises from her chair and heads toward the door, not looking back at him.
He gives a mocking salute. “As your ladyship pleases.” He watches her storm away, his eyes catching a glimpse of the book that’s still on the table. He quickly grabs it, holding it up. “You forgot your book!”
The door slams shut.
She's gone, and he's speaking to the door at this pont. “Or have you made use of that as well?!” He forcefully tosses the book on the table, and it slides across the surface, knocking off a bowl of fruit along the way and falling to the floor along with his broken heart.
