Becca, Bride Again

Little Tintagel, Cornwall

        Jon Eccleston, the Earl of Eske in West Yorkshire as his moth­er’s son and now also the Earl of Hampshire, since his father’s re­cent death, ex­­haled in long-awaited relief and contentment, whilst watching his Lady Eske and Hamp­­shire glowing in her brilliant wedding gown of varying gold silks mov­ing con­fi­dent­ly in lovely gentle grace amongst their hon­ored witnesses and guests, wheth­er com­moner or noble, and most, if not all, were exhausting themselves to see every little thing, to recall every­ little thing, in order to forever gossip about all of it later, “when we return to West­min­­ster and civilization.”

        Finally! Becca actually was his lady, now—To where else could she run? The land ends at the sea-drenched shore within hearing distance and she cannot run upon that water.—he chuckled in thought.

        He couldn’t wait to see and feel her hair undone in his hands. Her hair never felt like thin strings, when he’d “accidentally” or pre­tended to find a leaf amongst her tresses, which had texture and depth, like its mistress. Mistress Chiswick could make such sur­pris­ing and lovely ... sculptures her hair, wigs, and ex­ten­sions.

        The former Mistress Rebecca De­Lann will soon be his Duchess of Hamp­shire, as well, when his title’s restoration was finalized and confirmed by King William and Parliament. 

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        The evening was delightful, even when Dini had slipped away from Lady Frances and cornered Jon with talk that he’d “not need a mistress now”, as if campaigning for that position beneath him right here at his wedding.

        Lord Crisp had eyed Becca and she him; both amused about Dini’s wasted foolishness, as Becca, smiling, gently rescued Jon off to the dance floor, with a nod to the band’s conductor in the gallery above. Crispy had taken his own bride firmly in hand to the floor, as well, and they had shared a moment acknowledging her re­lentless flirting with Jon Eccleston, as Lord Peter Crisp made certain his wife felt the possessiveness in his touch at her waist, and in his eyes. Dini blushed with pleasure.

        Jon had obviously enjoyed that; the rescue not the cornering by yet another Court Lady or Maid Servant; he enjoyed dancing with His Bride, as he whispered to her, whilst inhaling the scent of her and her hair, “Every woman is a queen to her husband, or she has the wrong man.”

        Becca laughed in relaxed ease and he was so pleased to feel her in his arms and the pleasure radiate off her and into him. She was a bloody damn star in his arms; a sun around all of them revolved.

        This event had been years in the making—in his head—and now it was finally accom­plished: their sacred vows spoken in the sa­cred chap­el at Du­Maurier’s Daphnis House at Montdelon and their inked signa­tures now dried upon their witnessed Marriage Contract. Only their Marital Consummation lay ahead to enjoy and complete, sealing all things; and then Lady Rebecca Eccleston would be his entirely, ful­ly claimed, forever.

_continues in the novel "Becca DuMaurier"

Captain’s Cabin, The Hawk

Celtic Sea

        Nobles, gentry, and servants would have woken with cham­pagne headaches to Jon and his vocal hunting hounds searching. And worse; all would now assume she was alone without a female companion or male guard, let alone undressed with an outlaw and enemy of the British Crown and the Church of England!

        Instead of the Beloved Wife of a wealthy, popular Duke she’d chosen to be an infamous Pirate’s Whore. No. There could be no going back from this.

        Although, in truth, at this point none of them, not even Jon, had seen her on the ship. Footsteps in the sand only implied….

        You have burned a friend to the ground; an excellent friend.

        Jon will certainly never forgive “his” Becca. She’d finally outrun herself, she realized, lying in a pirate’s bunk far from anyone who knew her, in the long term. She was out to sea, with a half-known man’s hand upon her—intimately.

        I don’t know this man!

        If her hair had not been so bunched with sweat from her sick­ness, it would have stood on end, as a panic overtook her; until…

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        “May­hap I can help? I … I used to wash my wife’s hair. May I wash yours, then?”

        Becca’s dark eyes flew wide. She had heard many a scur­ri­lous thing between and about men and women at Court or in the streets of London; quite bawdy utterings of seductions, rapes, and murders, and yet she’d never blushed much about any of it; however, now she couldn’t answer, as his offer seemed a more intimate offer than his former help in re­moving her stays, or his caring for her in such gross sickness, or her lying in his bed, scented with him, in only her thin shift, sans stays, petticoats, and proper gown.

        Nevertheless, the Captain took charge without her assent and sat her in his chair and gently laid her head back to tend her hair.

        Ah! This may be the most sinful thing a man’s ever done to me!

        Nearly. She could half imagine Marcus sitting on the aft port win­­dow ­seat, book in hand shaking his dark head at her thoughts. Aidan gently poured a little water from a pewter mug through her hair, the residue dripping into a receiving bucket, before he opened a drawer beneath the bed, erm, bunk then gently, firmly, massaged a pleasant scented mild soap into her hair—.

        Where did he get that! Doesn’t smell very masculine. If he has another wom—! Ooohm. Ahh. That feels sooo good! Stop smirking, Marc! You shouldn’t be seeing this! she chided her spiritual spouse, who faded from her mind’s vision, as Aidan commented.

        “Such dark, soft, and thick, resilient spirals of curls; so….” Like? Unlike? He never fin­ished his distracted thought aloud.

        He’s thinking of his wife, I’d bet upon it. I wonder what color her hair, how straight, how wavy, how—?

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        “Your hair, lass, is more curly washed than it was after the rain in your cabin. Lovely weight and, well, just lovely and good to touch it is. Soft and … alive…. Reminds me of … my mother’s.”

        His ‘mother’s’? I am not playing this seduction game at all correctly.

        I mean, really, DeLann, what woman you know allows her possible man, or any man, including her husband to see her with her hair balled up and looking quite disordered like that of a theatrical maniac’s?

        How do I get myself into these odd situations. His ‘mother’! Ohhh. He’s massaging….

        “Mmm. Thank you for the compliment, sir. And thank you for this, I might just become the first lady in Britain to hire a man as my hairdresser. Od’s! Every British Courtier will think me decadently French-like. Plus assume you’re either a man-lover, or my lover.” She chuckled. “Hah, probably both!”

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        Eventually, the Master and Commander of The Hawk ran out of distractive work to do, or rather decided he was no longer good for doing any­more of it, as their gazes met. Only then did the Courtier realize that neither of them had spoken a word to the other in quite sometime. Words hadn’t been needed.

        “You’re not braiding it? It’s a little magical. May I…?” he queried her. His hand reaching yet being restrained from touching her without permission.

        “Like this.” She then watched him closely as he watched her deft fingers caress and twirl down the length of her dark hair, and finished. She proffered the next tress to him, moistening his fingers with a dab of the hair oil he’d gifted her.

        He apparently held his breath as he twirled, then was peeved, as he blew out a breath.

        “Wrong way. Mine should swirl the same direction as yours.”

        She said nothing, only watched him concentrate and improve, as he gently tugged and twirled and began smiling at the results.

        “So soft. So springy and more full of life than braids.”

        She divided and allowed him to finish, although she untwirled and redid the final one; his version made it fall down her face, she twisted again and back from but framing her face. He touched it. Held her head framed in his hands and was leaning towards her—.

_continues in the novel "Becca DuMaurier"