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| Details |
| Author: | OzmaAsimov |
| Summary: | After the picnic went so poorly, Siamus rides to the Thenedain estate to apologize to Morgauna. It does not go quite as he planned. |
| Rating: | A for Adults Only 18+ |
Arc: Ringside Seats
Two days after The Picnic, a rider on a dapple-grey Tirasian horse approaches the Thenedain estate. It is raining, because that seems appropriate to the general mood, and the rider is wearing a black oilskin greatcoat and black cavalier's hat over his riding clothes.
He rides up the drive to the main doors to the house and swings down from the saddle, glancing around for a groom or someone to take his horse out of the rain.
As a groom hurries through the rain to lead the horse to the stables, the doors of the estate open for another servant to come down the steps to meet the rider with an umbrella. A pointless gesture, given that he is already soaked, but it's the polite thing to do. Once inside, butlers are on hand to take the dripping hat and coat.
The head butler, Omberly, is every bit what one expects when one thinks of a head butler. A slender, older gentleman with a trim moustache. A surprisingly full head of hair for his age, the color a dashing silver that only seems to make him more handsome. His only visible flaw is a scar that bisects his immaculately shaped left eyebrow. Those who have been around House Thenedain long enough might learn that he earned it in the Second War, soldiering for the Alliance.
Omberly bows respectfully before the visitor. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Lord Fallon?"
"Omberly," says Siamus a little breathlessly. He drags his hands through his hair to reorder it, then straightens his collar. He takes a deep breath, recovering from the rigors of the ride, and nods to the butler. "I've come to see the Countess, if she'll see me."
"Of course, my lord. Her Excellency has been informed of your arrival. May I offer you the warmth of a fire and hot tea while you wait?" Omberly gestures invitingly to guide Siamus to a sitting room.
"Thank you, Omberly." Siamus flashes a brief, grateful smile.
The sitting room already has a blaze going in the fireplace to stave off the cold of the rainy day. A pair of maids arrive shortly after Omberly's departure to set tea before Siamus while he waits. The room itself is appointed comfortably, with a sofa, lounge, and several comfortable chairs. A thick, fur rug is spread out before the fireplace. Upon the walls are paintings of landscapes, architecture, and even a sitting portrait of what appears to be a simple blacksmith. All of them done by the Countess's own hand.
"Lord Fallon." Morgauna's voice is measured. Not cold, but not particularly warm. She stands in the doorway of the sitting room, hands clasped before her. She is wearing a gown of red velvet, and while (like most of her dresses) it accentuates her impressive décolletage, it comes up about her shoulders and forms a choker collar around her neck. She says nothing more, waiting for Siamus to make the next move.
Siamus turns away from the painting he'd been contemplating, and sets his teacup on the mantel so that he can make a correct, formal bow to Morgauna. "Lady Thenedain. Your Excellency. Thank you for seeing me; I apologize for the lack of notice."
Morgauna steps further into the room to stand by a chair, resting her hand on the back of it. "You are always welcome in this house, my lord." Her tone seems to suggest otherwise. "I trust there is a purpose to your visit?"
"Yes, Your Excellency. My – I'm afraid that my behavior when last we met was… churlish. I came to apologize, and to see what might be salvaged of our friendship."
Morgauna lifts her chin ever so slightly. She knows well how to use her height to her advantage – and when she is standing with a hand on her hip, jaw set, she projects a queenly bearing that cows most men.
But Siamus Fallon is not most men. It will take more than regal posturing to make him feel the weight of her displeasure. "Churlish. Were you churlish?" The question comes lightly, as if asking if he'd worn red or green that day. "Hm. Would that have been when you summarily dismissed any notion of a union between us without so much as mentioning the subject to me? Or would it be after I brought it up and you then refused to even discuss the matter? Or perhaps when you implied I was unseemly for allegedly trying to press you into marriage?" Her brow lifts inquisitively, awaiting the answer.
"The last," he says mildly, meeting her gaze. This is already an excellent apology.
"The last," she echoes. "But not the others. I see. You've a curious notion of what constitutes an apology."
"I can only apologize," he says, "for where I believe I wronged you. And I should never have implied unseemliness or lack of grace on your part, Your Excellency. You are the most gracious lady of my acquaintance, and ours is a very long acquaintance. But I cannot apologize to you for making my own decisions, according to my own conscience." He holds her gaze steadily, gravely.
"Then your conscience requires calibration, my lord," her words take on an icy sharpness. "You are not a fool. You've enough foresight to know the question of marriage between us was always there. But you had not the decency nor the courage to speak your thoughts to me nor learn my mind before making your decision."
He takes two heated steps toward her and then stops, collecting himself with effort. Apology going very well.
"Do I require that you consult with me before making decisions for Thenedain's future? I do not. I may decide for my own part, as you may decide for yours. I am not required to consult with you, Morgauna."
Oops, his formality slipped.
Morgauna tenses and straightens herself as he approaches, like a cat arching to make itself appear larger. "When my decisions affect House Fallon, you should expect me to consult with you, and I do." Her volume rises just ever so slightly; not shouting, but the contained anger is beginning to seep through. "I would never dream of outright dismissing the notion of marriage without at least having the conversation first. I owe our houses and our friendship that much."
"This was no' the same as a decision affecting House Thenedain, as if I'd decided to expand Fallon Harbor or go after shipping contracts. This was a decision affecting us, personally, as much as either House, and I was within my rights to decide for myself. If ye'd chosen yourself a husband meanwhile, I'd no' have come to ye complaining ye'd no consul–"
He takes a deep breath and smooths a hand over his hair. "Morgauna," he says. "I am not apologizing as I'd like to."
Morgauna's deep breaths are coming much faster, and are not calming her. Quite the opposite. "I would argue you are not apologizing at all. Have you truly come here out of contrition? Or simply to make yourself feel better?" Leaving the security of the chair, she takes a step toward Siamus, crossing her arms.
"If I did not believe I owed any apology, I would not have ridden here through the bloody rain," he tells her. His temper is clearly teetering at an edge. "But I'm no' here to apologize for what I said, only how I said it, and that your pretty picnic ended on such a note. I am trying no' to have my apology end on the same note, because I'd prefer no' to have to ride back in another bloody rain to do it again." His gaze is hot.
"Then you have clearly not learned a 'bloody' thing," her voice rises another notch, her words clipping sharper. "Because what you said and what you did are precisely the problem. You have disrespected me, Siamus. You disrespected our friendship. I asked for very little. Consideration. To be talked to before you decided our future. Yes, ours. Whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, our lives are and always will be intertwined."
"Aye, they will," he agrees, taking another step. "I've no wish to see that end. But ye must believe me, Morgauna, when I say I know myself, and it would no' go well between us. There is too much sentiment, I've known ye too long and in too much the wrong way." Siamus is a tall man but Morgauna is a very tall woman, and they are effectively eye-to-eye.
Morgauna takes the final step, invading his personal space in direct challenge. She glares with cold fire in her eyes. "Has it never occurred to you that we have grown? That we have changed? That our lives and relationship might change with us? We are not children anymore!" she shouts, her temper breaking. Her bosom heaves with the weight of her fuming breath.
Siamus has an instinctive reaction to the presence of an extremely gorgeous woman invading his personal space with fire in her eyes and a heaving bosom: He seizes her with a hand around the back of her neck and kisses her.
This apology is now going either very poorly or very well, depending on your perspective.
There is a little voice in the recesses of Morgauna's mind telling her she should be furious. That she should slap him, push him away, yell at him more. Fight with him. Make him apologize again.
The voice gets quieter…and quieter…and the kiss feels more and more like the real apology.
Morgauna's hands rise, but do not slap Siamus. Her fingers ball up in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him even as she presses herself against him. Her anger already had her temperature high, and she is not careful, not gentle; she pulls too hard, popping buttons that fall nearly silently to the fur rug.
((The following content is a bit steamy. Mouse over the black box to see it; otherwise scroll down to skip past it.))
Welp.
Siamus's fingers slide up from the nape of Morgauna's neck into her hair, taking hold of her firmly. His other hand goes to the small of her back and pulls her against him. He seems strangely unbothered about his lost buttons, if he has even noticed their loss. His body, at least, seems to be intently focused on other things right now.
Morgauna is kinder with the rest of his buttons, leaving them intact as she opens his shirt to press her palms to his bare flesh. Still a bit cool from the cold, rainy weather. Somehow it felt like this was how Siamus should feel. Siamus the sailor. The Commodore. Besides, the cold never bothered her anyway.
Siamus makes a soft sound at her touch; his gaze is very dark. Across his right shoulder from chest to shoulderblade, and extending down his bicep, is a tattoo, which Morgauna has not had occasion to see previously: a black-inked kraken.
He shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off impatiently and drags Morgauna close again with that hand around her nape, another on her hip now, to kiss the corner of her jaw, her throat, and then her mouth again. "Your dress," he says a little hoarsely against her lips, "is very annoying."
Morgauna cannot help a little laugh as she tugs on the opal brooch at her neck, releasing the clasp behind it. The choker portion of her dress falls away, loosening the fabric. With a fluid shrug she bares one shoulder demonstratively…the one nearest the fire. Surely a coincidence, despite that she certainly knows how well her complexion catches the flickering orange and yellow light of the flames. Then she reaches back to take his hand from her hip, guiding it to the back of her dress, pushing aside the two extra strips of velvet disguising a row of buttons. "Then…get rid of it."
Siamus does not require further encouragement, and he seems to have a great deal of practice with Undoing Ladies' Buttons By Feel. There is some bonus Feeling that goes on, too, amidst the unbuttoning: occasional distracted pauses for his fingers to slip beneath partially-loosened cloth, for a palm to slide across recently-bared skin.
But not too much, because getting rid of that dress is priority one. As soon as the buttons are undone, the gown itself is yanked out of the way in a manner that may require a tailor's repairs later.
Morgauna pulls her arms from the sleeves as Siamus unfastens the back of the dress…and then the whole thing is torn away. She inhales sharply as small ripping sound informs her of the literal tearing….and her teeth graze along his jawline to exhale a needful moan by his ear.
A noble lady's undergarments are no less annoying than her outer layers…particularly her corset. But as her fingers sink into his hair, nails raking his scalp, she growls softly, "Just cut it off."
Siamus, being a gentleman attentive to a lady's requirements, does not have to be instructed twice; he has a dagger, there is a neat, sharp series of tugs as laces are sliced, and then the corset falls loose. Siamus seizes the edge of it to wrench it away and toss it. The dagger goes with it; no more need for that. Maybe.
There is suddenly a great deal more smooth, dark skin for Siamus's hands to explore, and he seems to be trying to explore all of it at once.
Morgauna's lower lip catches in her teeth, her breaths coming in rapid, staccato gasps as the dagger releases her from the corset. Agile hands upon her naked flesh send waves crashing into her senses, drowning reason. She wraps her arms around Siamus, pushing her ample bosom to his bare chest. She presses a tender, but heated kiss to his lips, then locks her eyes with his as she hangs herself on his shoulders, letting gravity urge them downward toward the fur rug at their feet.
Siamus is very good at gravity and only too happy to be pulled down by the twin forces of Morgauna and natural law. He pushes her onto her back to kiss her again, as his hand travels and assesses, fingers tracing forms and exploring softnesses.
He breaks from the kiss and says, "Hell," against her lips. "Trousers."
He rolls slightly away and sits up to reach for one of his boots – boots before trousers, y'all, even in pretend – and then hesitates, glancing down at Morgauna. "Trousers?" he asks her seriously. Is this… a trousers-removal type of occasion?
Giving Siamus come-hither-oh-but-you're-already-here looks, Morgauna's hands blindly locate his belt to unfasten it. "Trousers," she purrs as she pushes the garment in question down his hips with increasing urgency. The Countess lays back in the fur, lifting her legs to envelop him in her warming embrace.
Siamus also has a great deal of practice at divesting himself urgently of trousers, and someplace much better to be right now than in his own pants, and so he sheds boots and trousers with pretty remarkable alacrity and rolls urgently back over to be embraced by Morgauna's legs.
Hereafter things become a little hazy, in a soft-focus sort of way.
Morgauna melts into the blur of the next…hour? Several hours? She lost any sense of time, and certainly would not be asking the staff about it later (though she had little doubt they heard…things).
In the trembling aftermath of the timeless bliss, Morgauna found herself resting by Siamus's side, using his extended arm as a pillow. She stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes as she caught her breath.
"That was…well, 'amazing' does not do it justice." She gives an awkward little laugh. "You are extraordinary. Truly…I felt things I have never felt before." But…there is a but, unspoken, yet lingering on her lips.
Siamus laughs too. It isn't awkward, perhaps, so much as a little… rueful. "Go on," he tells her, smiling back at her. "Ye can tell me."
Morgauna turns to prop herself up on her elbows, her damp hair tumbling around her face. "Please tell me I am not alone in feeling this. This really was wonderful, and I will cherish this forever. Yet, now that our passions have cooled…does it not feel to you a bit like sleeping with…?" She leaves the question open-ended to see if he will complete the thought.
Siamus watches her from where he lies, his black gaze glittering. After a moment he quotes wryly – who is he quoting? – "'Westfall strange,'" and starts to laugh. "Ah, Morgauna. Aye."
Morgauna's brow creases in confusion for a moment at the turn of phrase, but it soon dawns on her and she cannot help falling into a brief bout of giggling. "Oh, you're terrible! But…yes. That. Oh, Siamus. What a strange pair we are, indeed." She sighs. "I think, maybe, this needed to happen. Something we've been flirting with for some fifteen years now. But…and I do mean it when I say I will cherish it…however, we should not speak of it again. I think it best we do not let this define us. Don't you?"
Siamus rolls toward her and slides a hand along the side of her face tenderly to lean in… and kiss her on the cheek. "Morgauna," he tells her very seriously, but with a laughing light in his eyes. "You are the best and most beautiful woman I know. And we will never speak of it again." He pauses, and his smile quirks a corner of his mouth. "And if it's no' the wrong time to ask… will ye accept my apology now?"
Morgauna stares for a moment in silence as if trying to remember what he is even referring to, then laughs and lets out a relaxed breath. "Shameless Fallon," she winks, "I believe I just did."