The Unchaste

The Sunday Mass.

Not many days later, Delilah left Stormcastle claiming that she was able-bodied now and while no one seemed very pleased on this chance of her departure, George Carson had been an absolute pain in head the day before she left. He followed her like snake tail, whining and brooding and complaining about her going away and despite all the temper Delilah pretended, she was secretly laughing at his babyishness.

Back home, more than Andrew, Mrs. Eves was pleased to have her step-daughter back. She fretted and fussed about how she had lost weight and how her face looked too wan for her liking. Then came the honeyed milk Delilah so hated and yet, it was only a sweet distress, considering Andrew had to drink it too and it was such a down home thing.

It happened in her own room that night.

Delilah woke up in her bed in the middle of the night, layered in a thin sheet of perspiration, racing heart and reddened cheeks. The cold wind from the window instantly iced her sweatiness and her breathing regained its normal stride.

The azure of the night was overflowing into the room through the curtains, with all of the unwelcome winter mist.

There had been this dream… a childhood recollection, more likely.

Delilah rolled up the sleeve of her cardigan, up to about six inches above her elbow. Tracing the skin through her fingertips, across the bandaged area where Philip had dragged his blade, in the small borrow of her elbow where her skin was sensually sensitive, higher yet, two fingers above_ dentures mark.

She was twelve, back then.

It had been a careless fox chase, without Jake and Andrew in company for they were off to the cliff where she wasn’t allowed to be; and she had actually been trying to retaliate them with her own little expedition.

It turned out to be a menace. The fox, a rather grown and ferocious male, had attacked her belligerently in turn and its fangs had browsed her arm bad enough to leave it bleeding scrupulously. She shooed the animal away by bombarding pebbles but was horrified to see the side of her dress soaked thoroughly in her own blood.

She couldn’t go home like that; she had frantically started searching for handkerchief.

“You are too old to be this stupid.” A voice had said, that boy. Not much older than herself. Flat-chested. Firm. Quiet. Shy. Blue gaze.

“Not your business.” Hers had been a barked out reply. Looking over her shoulder, she had found him sitting atop a rock.

She acutely remembered she was rude to him. To her, he had been a nobody, thus his conviction at her actions was not welcome, even offensive. Had it been Jake, Delilah would have blushed and would have felt honored by that care. But Richie Winter? Who even did he think he was?

“Here.” The boy pulled off his blazer and tore the sleeve of his cotton shirt in a yank. “We must wash your wound and stop the bleeding first.”

The small stream of fresh water was not far down the valley and he had tended to her most carefully, his father’s profession as a doctor seemed to have put competence in him as well.

“Your shirt?” Delilah had asked him as they were walking uphill, to Windsor, her home. “You will get a good whipping for being so…” Pleasant? Thoughtful? Heart-breaking? “…Outstrippingly idiot.”

“I won’t.” He had grumbled, his scowl consistent. “They know better. I would rather be benign than urbane.”

“What does that bloody mean?”