The English army tries to crush the rebels once and for all at the Battle of Bannockburn, while Sybil waits anxiously behind the lines to find out her fate, and that of Tom Branson… Story rated M.
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“I’m sure this won’t take too long, my lady. A couple of hours, perhaps – our knights will mow these rebels down like grass in the field.”
Sybil bowed her head to hide the look on her face as her heart turned over in her chest. What if her husband were proved correct? What would happen to her, and the child she carried – and that child’s father?
“Yes, my lord. I send my prayers for a successful outcome.”
“Stay here, with the baggage train – you will be safe enough. I can’t spare a knight to look after you, but there’s no chance that those damned Scots will get anywhere near you here.”
“Yes, my lord. As you wish.”
It all comes down to this… if my husband wins today, I lose.
And it feels so good! Haven’t really written anything since before my trip to France, which means since late August.
Just finished the first draft of a long overdue update to a certain mediaeval AU… here’s a sneak peek:
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“I’m sure this won’t take too long, my lady. A couple of hours, perhaps – our knights will mow these rebels down like grass in the field.”
Sybil bowed her head to hide the look on her face as her heart turned over in her chest. What if her husband were proved correct? What would happen to her, and the child she carried – and that child’s father?
“Yes, my lord. I send my prayers for a successful outcome.”
“Stay here, with the baggage train – you will be safe enough. I can’t spare a knight to look after you, but there’s no chance that those damned Scots will get anywhere near you here.”
“Yes, my lord. As you wish.”
It all comes down to this… if my husband wins today, I lose.
Well, it’s spring in Sydney, the season of new beginnings… I’ve even had my first sight of jacaranda trees flowering, which is a certain sign in this city of the warm weather to come.
Time to set my writing plan for the next few months!
Yesterday, Mr.C asked us (@cassiemortmain and I) in which kind of universe we were writing (modern, AU, era…) and we realised that (or maybe we’re wrong but I don’t think so) nobody…NOBODY ever wrote some space Bransons.
Back home from my meeting with the lovely @cassiemortmain. We had a great time visiting and have eat some good things. It was also fun to talk about The Musketeers with Mr.C. It’s an amazing thing to think we met thanks to the internet. At last, Downton was useful at some point! lol Now, I already miss the both of them…Safe travel guys! I can’t wait to see you again!
She got a taste of that “rebellious freedom” when she chose her new frock, but yes, when she decided to have it cut short, I do think this was a choice that was 100% her own, without having to worry about anyone telling her she could or couldn’t do it.
As for Tom, I think he loves Sybil’s hair regardless of it’s length; in my headcanon, he misses her long hair just because he loves to run his fingers through it when it’s down, but then again, he adores her short style because it *SCREAMS* Sybil, and…well, @cassiemortmain provided an excellent reason in this story ;oP
He turned back towards his wife and froze where he stood. She was standing before him in only her slip!
When…?
How long had she been…? He opened his mouth to voice those very
questions, but Sybil was in front of him, placing a finger against his
lips and whispering a quiet, but clear “Shhh…”
He shushed right up.
“Now…I
know the day has been difficult—and you’ve been feeling a great deal of
stress over the cottage—” He had opened his mouth to say something, but
Sybil pressed her finger even firmer against his lips. “…Wait,” she
told him, and he closed his mouth again. “As I was saying,” she
continued. “I know you’ve been feeling like a prisoner as of late…”
A
shaky breath escaped his lungs as he felt Sybil’s other hand, which had
been pressed against his chest, begin to wander down, its intent
seeming to be quite clear…
“Do you deny it?” she asked him, her hand moving further and further down.
Tom swallowed. “Deny it?” he repeated.
Sybil
caught her bottom lip between her teeth and gave her head an innocent
nod, just as her paused to run along the leather of his belt. “Do you?”
she whispered, her fingers ghosting just along the inseam of his
trousers. “Do you deny it?”
He was starting to sweat. “N-n-no…” he stammered, his throat going dry and his body tingling with anticipation of her touch.
“Say
it, then…” she prompted, her face tilted and her lips brushing his chin
as her fingers brushed the inside of his thigh, before rising higher,
to where his cock had stiffened, as if reaching out for her. “Say it,
darling,” she whispered again. “Say that you feel like a prisoner…”
It
was an odd request, but he wasn’t going to argue with her, not when she
was like this! “I feel like a prisoner,” he whispered, gasping when her
hand finally made contact with his cock, still trapped within the
confines of his trousers, but he was certain he would be burning a hole
right through them if she kept stroking him like that.
Sybil
smiled and gave his chin a peck, before leaning away ever so slightly,
her hand still stroking him, and whispering, “That’s because you are.”
Musings of a Yankee Countess 