Page 15 of In Knots Over You (The Ladies Alpine Society #1)

T ristan paced. He hadn’t had any time alone with Eleanor, and it grated. What kind of tortuous world would keep them apart? It was obvious they cared for each other, so why was it so miserably difficult to speak to her in private?

He wanted to assure her of his continued affections. She needed to know that he intended to go straight to her father as soon as they were back in London. But what with the few days of recovery at the inn, the letters and papers he was obliged to pen to raise money for their Matterhorn attempt, and then the separate carriages and train cars back to Edinburgh, there was absolutely no chance to see her.

The most he’d dared was a scrap of paper with the word amor scribbled on it, which he’d slipped into her hand as he’d handed her up to board the carriage. It was ridiculous. They were affianced, at least, in their own minds, and aside from which, he’d had carnal relations—twice—with a respectable lady. That was enough, wasn’t it?

They boarded the train to London bright and early. Once again, separate cars. A stop for a meal in York, where he might steal a glance and a smile. He wanted to beat his head against the very train itself. Why must everything be so difficult?

His father sat opposite him, just as they had on the way up to Edinburgh a few weeks previously. It felt like an age since they’d done so. That day and night on the Ben had changed him profoundly. He knew now that he could keep Eleanor safe. That he deserved her, and that together, her brains and his beauty, they could do anything.

“Anything wrong?” his father asked before he cracked his newspaper open and fell into the daily natterings of the world.

Who cared about the outside world? Not when he had to meet with Mr. Piper. When he had to figure out his own financials, to prove to Mr. Piper he could support her. A merchant like him would want to know where the money came from. “I’m anxious to get back to London.”

“Oh? It seemed like you were enjoying yourself in Scotland.” There was a twitch at his father’s mouth that Tristan finally noticed. It was his father’s tell for teasing.

Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Yes. I enjoyed my time in Scotland immensely. But I’ve pressing business to attend to.”

“Any of it having to do with arranging a meeting with Mr. Piper?” His father acted as if he were actually reading the newspaper and not torturing his third-born.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do plan on that. Along with taking a meeting with the man who pulls the purse-strings of my inheritance.”

His father’s eyebrows shot up. “And who is that delightful fellow?”

Tristan was too agitated to play anymore. “Papa. Please. I’m crawling out my skin because of this.”

“Oh, all right.” His father dropped any pretense of reading the paper. “I can tell you that in addition to the portion you already receive, I have set aside a small bit from your mother’s dowry to go to you upon your marriage. You may tell Mr. Piper that Miss Piper shan’t want for anything.”

Tristan sagged against the train’s cushioned seat in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried, after talking with Herringbone.”

That piqued his father’s interest. “About the title’s finances?”

“He made it seem like it was in trouble, that there wasn’t enough and he had to marry an heiress to keep the estate afloat.”

His father blinked rapidly. “Unless he’s made some unwise investments that I don’t know about, I can’t think of why that would be true.”

“Or maybe that he’s using it as an excuse to not marry?” Tristan suspected that it had to do with the penniless Lady Emily. He and his father shared a look that seemed to say that was exactly what was happening.

The rest of the trip was made in relative ease, though Tristan was still anxious to be in London. They arrived late, and while Tristan had hoped to speak to Mr. Piper as he picked up Eleanor, the merchant did not show. A footman collected Eleanor’s trunks and then Eleanor herself.

“I’ll come to you tomorrow,” he whispered to her as she wafted by him. She looked back at him with those great velvety brown eyes, and he knew wild dogs couldn’t keep him at bay.

*

Eleanor arrived home well after dark. Her ankle throbbed in pain. She was still using Lord Rascomb’s walking stick. She hobbled up the stairs and asked for a bit of ice for her ankle. At least it was May, where the stores of ice were plentiful. She didn’t have the energy for a full bath, and she appreciated the work of her lady’s maid. Her traveling costume was not as simple as her outdoor clothes were.

Still, it felt good to be home, wearing a new, clean nightshift that didn’t smell vaguely of horses or oatcakes or the smoky peat of fires. She was nibbling on a tray of cold cuts when her mother burst into the room.

“You’re hurt?” her mother, who had not bothered to meet her at the train station, practically shrieked.

Eleanor could do without the histrionics. “I sprained my ankle quite severely.”

“Let me see it,” her mama insisted, lifting the poultice of ice and mustard seeds. She made a noise that Eleanor could only assume was anguish. “It’s awful! Those people tried to kill you!”

Eleanor laid back against her pillows. “No one tried to kill me. It was a bit of bad luck. And Mr. Bridewell saved me.”

“What’s this?” her father wandered in. “I hear your mother screeching, then Sellers tells me you’re hurt? What in blazes is happening to this world?”

“Papa, I’m fine. It’s a sprained ankle. It’s still swollen, but not nearly as badly as it was when it first happened.”

“It was worse?” her mother keened.

“See here, I won’t let them take my little girl and put her in harm’s way for some ridiculous political stunt! That’s not empowerment, that’s endangerment! I won’t allow it! Oh, I’ll stop it completely! They think they can use up common folk like us? Think again, I say!”

“Stop,” Eleanor said, taking hold of her mother’s arm. But her mother didn’t stop her ridiculous fussing. “Papa,” she begged, taking a hold of his arm, though he was still shouting about noblemen.

But this had been her whole life. She’d been the audience for their antics, while they’d barely registered her presence. Like now, when neither of them could stop themselves from their dramatic performances.

“Enough!” Eleanor shouted. It at least cut through their chatter long enough to quiet them. “Neither of you bothered to meet me at the train, so I can’t imagine you are terribly upset.”

Hollow sputtering came from both of them. Eleanor held up her hand to quiet them.

“I climbed Ben Nevis. I got all the way to the top—we all did—without trouble. We made great time, all of us fitter than we thought we’d be. Then, on the way down, a snow cornice fooled me, and I stepped right through it, and down I tumbled, taking Mr. Bridewell with me, as he was standing next to me.”

“He should have—” her mother insisted, but quieted when Eleanor held up her hand.

“Snow cornices aren’t visible from the top. I didn’t see it, neither did he. No one is to blame. In the tumble of the fortunately not-too-steep edge, I hurt myself, and then compounded it by walking on it, even when I knew I was hurt. I made the mistake, not wanting to confess to my injury.”

“Did the rest find you?” her father growled.

“No,” Eleanor answered, wanting to be absolutely truthful, because it was the clearest way to get what she wanted. “The fog drew in too quickly, and we couldn’t see. I couldn’t walk by then, but we found a ravine to settle into for the night.”

“You spent the night alone with that man?” her mother asked, her eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline.

“I did. And the next morning, he carried me down the mountain and we returned to Fort William, and then to Edinburgh, and then home.”

Her father crossed his arms across his chest, nodding to himself. Her mother stared at her father.

“Did he—” her father choked. “Did he—”

“Have his way with me?” Eleanor asked with the same serenity that Lady Rascomb displayed. “Yes, he did.”

Her father’s face turned purple. Eleanor’s mother gasped and ran out the door.

“That was either very stupid or very wise,” her father said. The mottled purple color was changing to red, which was a good sign. Still, he ground his teeth. “But for right now, I cannot speak to you. I’m disappointed in you. So very disappointed.”

He followed the path Eleanor’s mother took, slamming the door behind him. Eleanor sat back against the pillows once again, her appetite gone. Their disapproval hurt. Why was her accomplishment of summiting Ben Nevis not celebrated? Why was that feat washed away by the revelation of her virginity? It didn’t seem fair. Eleanor felt far more like a woman who had climbed a mountain rather than a woman who’d engaged in carnal relations outside of wedlock. She went to sleep, secure in the knowledge that Tristan would ask for her hand, her father would be forced to accept, and she would live happily ever after.

But the next day, Tristan didn’t call. The physician came and examined her ankle, saying the same things that Tristan had said in the gully. He wrapped it with a clean bandage and instructed her to keep her foot elevated. But by evening, she was anxious. Hobbling downstairs, she went through all the calling cards on the silver platter next to the door. Tristan’s was not among them.

“Mrs. Piper said you were ill and not receiving callers,” Sellers, their butler, informed her.

“Indeed,” Eleanor said, managing the stairs with the aid of Lord Rascomb’s walking stick.

The next day came and went, and still she’d had no word from any of the members of the Ladies’ Alpine Society, nor from Tristan. Her heart sank. After all that, she was just forgotten?

Again?

*

Tristan was about foaming at the mouth. He’d never been so angry in his life. First, he’d been denied at the Pipers’ home residence. Then his letters were returned to him. He couldn’t get a note to Eleanor, he wasn’t allowed to see her, and her father refused to take a meeting with him. He was ready to punch through a wall.

Finally, he staked out the man’s offices down at the docks. Tristan dressed down, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. Still, the quality of his tailoring, his excellent skin, and his polished boots gave him away. Tristan didn’t care. He was on a mission. He waited until he saw the Pipers’ carriage arrive and the man himself descend.

He waited a few minutes, thinking that he would be in a better mood if he’d had a chance to settle into his workday before being interrupted. Then he snuck in past the man with the slate who’d thrown him out last time. Tristan dodged around the crates being opened and the others being hauled in, the bustle and movement an ideal way to not be noticed.

But it was on the stairs he found his way blocked by a man with an epically flowing silver beard and an eyepatch. “Who ye be?”

Tristan pulled his hat off, an attempt at showing respect when he’d been found out. This had to be Eleanor’s Captain Smythe. “Tristan Bridewell, sir. Here to see Mr. Piper.”

“And Dreggles down there sent you up?” The bearded man squinted at him. He likely needed glasses, Tristan thought.

“No sir, I did not go through Mr. Dreggles. He denied my entrance last time.”

“Oh? That’s unusual. Very few are blacklisted round here. Why would Dreggles send a well-dressed chap like you away?”

Tristan’s hands sweated into the brim of his beaver-skin hat. He turned it, hoping to not deform it or leave a mark. “Well, you see, I’m here to ask for the hand of Miss Piper, and I don’t think Mr. Piper wants that to happen.”

The other man’s bushy white eyebrows moved like lazy caterpillars sunning themselves. “That so? For Miss Eleanor? Hm. What be your qualifications?”

“I’m er,” Tristan stammered. What were his qualifications to be a husband? The accident of his birth? “I’m good in a crisis.”

The old man nodded.

“And I’d climb the tallest mountain for her,” Tristan said, as if that were a decent argument for marriage. “Or with her, if she wanted to go.”

“Good enough for me. Come on, I’ll help you with your suit. I’ve known ol’ Bruce for longer than he knowed himself.” The old man clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder and propelled him up the rickety wooden stairs.

Tristan knocked on the door at the top at the old man’s urging.

“Come in,” Mr. Piper yelled through the door. “Damn it all, Smythe, I’m behind as it is. What now?”

Tristan opened the door, entering with the old man at his back. The room was sparse. Mr. Piper was at a desk of moderate size, though considering the piles of papers stacked at all angles, a bigger desk was likely needed. In the other portion of the room sat a worn sofa with a number of clumsy needlepoint pillows flung about. Across from it was a low table with a washing up stand. Tristan surmised that some nights, Mr. Piper slept at the waterfront.

“You,” growled Mr. Piper. “Smythe, how dare you let this man cross my threshold? He’s been the cause of the utter downfall of my daughter. He almost gets her killed, and when she is vulnerable, he takes advantage of her!”

Well, that was good to know that Eleanor had told her parents. Made his position a bit awkward, yes. There was no denying his actions, and no explaining them either, not to a man like Mr. Piper.

“Mr. Piper, with respect,” Tristan said, his hands raised.

The man stood, and with his fervor, a pile of papers toppled to the floor. “If you had an ounce of respect, you wouldn’t be here! And Eleanor wouldn’t be laid up at home, recuperating from an injury you caused her!”

That barb stung a bit. He didn’t cause anything. “A snow cornice is a dangerous formation that—”

“I don’t want to hear your ridiculous excuses! Get out!” Mr. Piper roared, throwing an inkpot at him.

Tristan ducked, hearing it clatter to the floor behind him.

“Now, Bruce,” the older man said.

“Don’t you do it, Smythe. Don’t you talk me in circles about this. I know a degenerate ne’er-do-well when I see one!”

“Is he not the son of a viscount? That’s good business there, to be associated with the nobility. Surely, it is no balm to ye, when ye were expecting a grant from our queen. But it is a step closer than ye were before.”

“They pretend to fine manners, but look where it got my Eleanor! I could kill you for this, Bridewell!”

Smythe gestured at Tristan to stay put. “The boy is a blighter, that’s true. But he tells me he loves Eleanor. And that’s not a thing you could ever buy for her.”

Piper stood still, his hands still balled in fists. “S’that true?”

Tristan nodded his head, then feeling stupid for not speaking, he assured him that way as well. “Absolutely. Yes. More than anything. More than my own life.”

“Eleanor says you saved her in the mountains. That if it hadn’t been for you, she would have perished there from the winds and the cold. Is that true?”

Tristan hadn’t thought about it, didn’t want to contemplate Eleanor being at risk alone, as he’d already resolved to be by her side. “I suppose it is.”

Piper stared at him, then sat down and wrote a letter. When either Smythe or Tristan attempted to speak or ask a question, Piper silenced them. Finally, he melted a bit of wax, sealed it with a ring and handed it off. It felt all a bit medieval to Tristan, but all he’d hoped for was an audience and he’d gotten that, so he felt he ought to keep his mouth shut.

“Deliver that to my wife at my house. It says you may see Eleanor. Says I’ve approved your marriage. Says you’re a damn lucky prat that I don’t kick in your teeth and dump you in the ocean.”

Tristan took the letter and, glancing at Smythe, who gave him the nod to leave, he bowed. “Thank you Mr. Piper. This is—”

Mr. Piper growled at Tristan’s groveling for his efforts, but that was more than enough. Tristan flew down the stairs and ran to his own hack. He delivered the letter and sat in the front entrance of the Pipers’ grand in-town house. He tapped his toes on the cold marble foyer floor. Finally, he was summoned to the upstairs drawing room, nearer to Eleanor, nearer to wedded bliss, nearer to purpose.

*

Eleanor had been clear about the marriage contract. She’d insisted on being a part of negotiations, despite the lawyer constantly protesting her presence. In the contract, it stipulated that Tristan could not forbid her activities with the Ladies’ Alpine Society. It also had a clause paying Mr. and Mrs. Piper damages should Eleanor become injured during a husband-approved expedition.

“Shouldn’t damages be paid to me?” Eleanor asked, but the lawyer fussed at her about a woman’s place until she had no choice but to ignore him and move on.

They would settle into a Bridewell townhome in the fashionable Belgravia, the upkeep of which would be paid for by Eleanor’s dowry. The details didn’t matter to Eleanor. What mattered was that Tristan would be with her when she climbed the Matterhorn. That together, they could accomplish the impossible.

*

“You are dismissed for the evening!” Eleanor called to her lady’s maid as she left. Tristan could hear her through the adjoining door of their marital suite. Everything felt new. The furniture was new, the gas lighting throughout the house was new. The indoor plumbing was new. He was the luckiest man in London, and he knew it well.

“Oh!” Eleanor started as she spotted him leering through the adjoining door. “I didn’t even hear you.”

“I’m certainly not going to languish all alone over here on my wedding night.”

“Nor would I have you do so, but...” Eleanor trailed off as she dug through the trunks she’d expressly asked her lady’s maid to leave alone. “I have some preparations to make.”

“I love preparations,” Tristan said, coming into her room and taking a seat.

Across the room, Eleanor pulled out small lengths of rope. “You know that I like to solve problems with knots.”

Tristan’s heart skipped a beat. “I would very much like to be the problem,” Tristan said, his throat already dry and his cock already at attention. He would be lying if he had not already had some very explicit fantasies of his bride in the weeks leading up to the wedding, some of which had involved her expertise with rope.

Eleanor smiled, her brown eyes focused on him and only him. His wife. His wife! As of this morning, the bishop proclaimed them man and wife, and if that was good enough for Mr. Piper, then Tristan would tell the whole world to sod off. Eleanor was his.

“I’m glad to hear it, because I thought of you as I designed these knots.” Eleanor went to the foot of the bed and started tying. Tristan didn’t care. Nothing worked in his brain and frankly, he was all the better for it.

“Shall I take off my boots?”

Eleanor glanced up as she finished tying the next one. “Please.”

Tristan’s wee little mind, which, compared to Eleanor’s vast intelligence, creativity, and imagination was the size of a gnat’s, went into a flat buzzing sound. He stood in his stockinged feet and drifted over to the bed.

“May I help you with your stays?” he asked, hoping the answer was an enthusiastic yes.

Instead of that coquettish assent, she looked at him with almost pity. “Oh, no, my love. You won’t be touching me tonight.”

Panic seared through him. “I won’t?”

She bit her lip and shook her head. “I’ll be touching you. Because you’re mine. Take off your shirt and lie down.”

Still, he trusted her, so he did as he was bid, watching her busy with finishing the knots on the far side of the bed. “Give me your hand.”

Her voice was thick with lust, and Tristan had no choice but to comply. He gave her his hand, and she slid a strip of silk around his wrist, cinching it tight. This is not what he expected on his wedding night, nor what he expected from his blushing bride. Did he have complaints? Absolutely not.

Tristan quickly pushed his hair away from his face as she rounded the bed, her eyes on the expanse of his bared chest. He wasn’t a particularly hairy individual, and of that, most was pale and golden, with the exception of that concentrated line that drifted from his navel down into his trousers. An area that seemed to fascinate Eleanor.

She bent down and kissed him deeply, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. He lost his mind at that moment, giving himself up to his wife, as she had once given herself up to him. The reciprocity was heady. Neither of them was alone. As she broke off the kiss, he realized she’d slipped his other wrist into a silken knot and cinched it tight.

“Clever girl,” he said, hoping his admiration was obvious. It was obvious in other places. Like his trousers.

She smiled, kissing down his bare chest. “No interference. I get you all to myself.” She unbuttoned his trousers and slid them down to his knees. He helped kick them off as she slid the silk restraints around his ankles. He felt vulnerable, yes, lying naked on a bed with an erection waving about in the wind.

But Eleanor’s hands dragging up his legs made his eyes roll back in his head. “I want to take my time tonight, but I knew that if I let you free, we would focus on my desire, and not on my curiosity.”

“Your curiosity?” Tristan managed.

She slid one hand up his cock, which made him tense his arse. He couldn’t help it. He thrust into her warm, smooth palm. “I’ve had this inside me, yet I feel like I hadn’t gotten a proper look.” She conducted her experiment again, and again, he thrust up into her. “Does that feel good?”

He let out a strangled assent. Words were beyond him now. Gently, as if she were a lady leaning down to smell a rose, she licked his length.

“You did this for me, and I quite liked it.” She drew him all the way into her mouth, and he nearly blacked out.

It was an inexpert cock-sucking, but since he couldn’t think of a bad one, he was pleased beyond all measure. He did his best to keep from all-out spending, as she sucked so hard he thought he might die. And right when his cock was hard and aching and ready to erupt, she sat back.

Her lips shone with wetness. From her saliva, from his cock, it was a heady sight. He hoped she would do him the honor of truly riding him, but instead, she leaned against the footboard. He strained to look at her, and she watched him as she slowly pulled up her skirts, revealing her naked core. She dipped a finger in it and started to tease herself.

He bucked and whined, wanting to be there, to smell her, to touch her, to taste her. Instead, her slow grin turned to a pant as she aroused herself.

“Eleanor, please,” he pleaded through gritted teeth.

He watched her as she came, falling apart in front of him. God, he wanted to feel that. He wanted to feel her orgasm pulsing against his cock. “Hm?”

“Sit on my cock,” he said.

She leaned forward, giving his waving cock a quick lick that sent him perilously close to the edge. “Only if you say please.”

“I said please. Please. Eleanor. Please. My love. My life. My bride. Sit. On. My. Cock.”

She laughed, but straddled him, her skirts bunched up all around her. She settled and arranged herself around him until finally, finally, she pressed his cock to her entrance. “For you? Anything.” And she sank, mercifully, slowly onto him.

She rode him as promised, him straining to keep from reaching his limits, waiting for her to find her second ascent. Thankfully he didn’t need to wait so long. She fell apart, and an instant later, he did as well, yelling nonsense as he climaxed harder than he’d ever done in his life.

They lay panting, the sweat from Tristan’s chest cooling him. She rolled off him, gathering towels she’d set aside. What a clever wife he had. She cleaned herself, cleaned him and freed him.

They lay naked under the covers, clinging to one another.

“The one question I still have from our sojourn in Scotland is a bit odd.” Eleanor shifted, as if he might be uncomfortable with her. He didn’t like that one bit, so he snuggled her closer, kissing her bare shoulder.

“What is it?”

“Who was it that stashed the whisky and the food and the blanket on the Ben? And why had they not come back for it? How long had it been sitting there, waiting for them?”

Tristan then knew how selfish he was, as it had never occurred to him to wonder. If the cheese had been inedible, and it had been stowed in a cool, dark mountainside, how long had it been there? Decades? “I don’t know.”

“I want to think they were lovers who eventually got to be together, and they left that cache for us. Another set of lovers who were in need.”

He kissed her temple. “We did need it, though we weren’t lovers at the time.”

“We became lovers,” she said. “And it was thanks to the ghosts of lovers past.”

“Ghosts, now?” Tristan said. “I don’t think ghosts left dried apricots.”

“Not ghosts then, but they became them. Because they were ghosts for us. We don’t know them, we just know that someone, somewhere, needed a place to stay. And we benefited. I’d like to send them a thank you card, but I don’t know how to do it.”

“I’d send a selection of fine cheeses, theirs was horrifically inedible.” Tristan added, pleased when she laughed. “How about we be grateful? Every day. Because we don’t know what happened to that other couple. I can only hope they were as lucky as us.”

Eleanor kissed his cheek. “We are lucky.”

“I love you, Mrs. Bridewell. I can’t wait to whip you into shape for the Matterhorn.”

She batted at his arm. “I love you too, Mr. Bridewell. I’ll be testing your knots at every opportunity.”

He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and gave it a playful bite. “Any time, Mrs. Bridewell. Any time.”

The End.