(archived Seacliff)

chapter four

1919

"The first time we made love," Saoirse read aloud from one of her aunt's diaries, "he tried to take me from behind, like an animal..."

She cleared her throat, on the verge of a giggle. Aoife had been a prolific diarist her whole life and a bookshelf in the library-cum-study was dedicated entirely to her journals.

"But I held him to me," Saoirse continued, in a mock-sensual fashion, "held his body against mine and kissed him on the lips. 'Lie down,' I told him. He did. I sat astride his hips and guided his big rough hands to my bosom. He rose to suck on my breast like a babe and a fire began to burn at my core. I felt him underneath me, too, coursing with arousal. I do not know which words to choose henceforth...Alas, I can think of none that can prettily convey the truth of the matter: my Eachann had a great big – "

Saoirse stopped short. Beside her, James flipped his notebook shut, glancing her way. They'd fetched some journals from the study and sat on the settee so they could keep an eye on Sorley while examining the mystery of his existence.

"Go on, then," the doctor encouraged her.

She felt the heat of a blush creep up her neck. "I'm not sure you want to hear the rest."

"Saoirse, please." Mischief glinted in his eyes. "I am a trained physician. I don't shy away from anatomical descriptions."

"All right."

Her thumb found the row where she'd left off but seeing the crude detail her aunt had gone into, Saoirse squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to shake the mental image out of her brain.

"Oh, I can't!" She discarded the diary and buried her face in her hands. "This is my auntie, for crying out loud! My poor eyeballs..."

James reached for the journal, chuckling. "Your aunt could have passed an anatomy examination with this," he said as he skimmed through, page after page. "It goes on forever!"

Saoirse slumped on the settee, her head thrown back as she stared at the ceiling. "I envy her, really," she whispered.

"You and me both," James replied, almost absent-minded.

Saoirse stole a glimpse in his direction. His white, creamy cheeks and his slim, smooth fingers roused a tingle in her spine. She strained to suppress it, feeling filthy in the company of such a sweet, innocent youth. Not only was he a few years her junior, but he'd also never witnessed any of the war horrors that had become so ingrained in her flesh.

The youngest of four brothers, James had been made to stay at home and finish his medical studies, despite a staunch desire to join his peers in serving his country. A cautionary measure which had paid off when all three of his elder brothers never came back from the Western Front. The Mortimer bloodline still had a chance to prevail, except, well...

James had fled the good society of Edinburgh once his studies no longer retained him there and settled instead in the little coastal town of North Berwick. His friends in the city – those few who had returned from France – could hardly bear him in their midst, nor could he bear himself.

This self-imposed exile also served to keep him away from all the 'suitable' girls his family were very keen on introducing him to. James didn't care much for marriage, or girls, and while everybody else surmised grief, or embarrassment, Saoirse and her aunt had argued otherwise among themselves over tea.

Still, he had the fullest lips, red like strawberries, and Saoirse was tired. She couldn't even remember when she'd last had a strawberry. Must have been that summer, since Aoife grew some in the garden. Thoughts swam in her weary mind, consciousness slowly slipping as vivid dreams engulfed her.