Chapter Text
“Is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
Francesca huffs, clenching her jaw as the statement rattles around in her brain, the utter amusement in the other woman’s eyes, like she was taunting her. Her and her infuriating presence that is just… everywhere. Everywhere, all the damn time, she cannot even escape her in London.
She nearly groans but manages not too as John sleeps quietly next to her and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes to try and erase it, to try and make herself stop thinking of it for once but it is no good. As soon as her eyes are closed, she sees her face flashing in them, the light sparkle of entertainment swirling in doe brown, her stupidly pretty mouth forming around the words and tilting at the ends, the scrunch of her eyebrows as if she really meant it as a question and not as a poke to Francesca’s ribs.
Huffing once more, she throws the covers from her body.
If she cannot sleep, then she will not sit here and let herself think of it. She’ll do the very thing she’s been doing over the past year, and she’ll play over it all. It is better than tossing and turning and keeping John up with her… better than thinking.
She lets out a deep breath the moment her hands have finally grazed over keys. Her jaw, which she had still been clenching, finally relaxes and an ache takes up in its place. The sound that pours from her hands is not a comforting melody, not something to ease sleeplessness, but instead more of an emotional weep. It fills the room immediately and with its notes floats out every frustration.
No more Michaela behind her eyelids.
She plays until her hands ache and the only thought on her mind is the sound. No more pinnacles and whatever the hell they are meant to feel like, no more gorgeous annoying cousins, nothing else until it is just the music in the room, in her chest, in her hands. When she finally stops, she feels out of breath, like she has been running, her heart slamming hard against her ribcage.
“That sounded a bit more distressing than your usual.” Her hand smacks downward too hard on the keys, a loud uncomfortable ring breaking though the rest of the quiet. Pain shoots into her hand and she whimpers with it, a curse nearly making its way off her lips. She clutches it to her chest immediately as she whips around to find Michaela leaning against the closed door of the music room.
She has a concerned look on her face instead of that infuriating amusement Francesca has come to learn of her. “I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you.” She says, gentle and kind, moving closer to her within the next blink. “You are alright?” She asks, with genuine concern, which infuriates Francesca more and she can never fully pinpoint why.
“You should not just sneak up on people in the dark.” She answers bitingly.
“If you were not playing in the dark, I would not have been sneaking.” She reasons easily and then pries Francesca’s aching hand from her chest…. Touching her… touching her, God, why must she always do stuff like this?
She means to rip her hand away but instead she simply stops breathing as Michaela pries her hand open in the dark to look at it. Only the moonlight encases them from the window behind her, highlights Michaela like she is this world’s very own muse. She looks over her wound as if she would even be able to tell if it were hurt in such heavy darkness, her touch like fire when it is meant to be soothing, her fingers grazing across her hand gently, like Francesca is precious.
Forcing air back into her lungs she tugs her hand free from Michaela’s grasp, anger flaring in her chest that is already much too tight. “I am fine.” She snaps and infuriatingly, Michaela only smiles at her.
“Why are you up so late, playing such a distressing song in the dark, Lady Kilmartin?” She tilts her head at her; coiled curls trail around her face in such a distracting way with the moonlight accenting all the features Francesca can actually see. Her hands itch, her heart now knocking wildly against her ribcage in that uncomfortable way it always does when Michaela is around, worse when she is directing such a look at her and invading her personal space.
“Who’s to say that it is any of your business?” She says sharply, trying to give her a look to match, one that will communicate that she doesn’t wish to be friendly with her right now.
Michaela’s smile does not waver, and it makes her feel even more unsteady. “Forgive me Francesca, but as it has been over a year of knowing you, I know that you only play in the dark when you cannot sleep.” Michaela finally looks away from her to look down at the keys, her hand that she had smacked still throbs, so she pulls it back to her chest, curling it and making the throb worse.
Better to feel its pain than every other confusing feeling working its way through her nervous system. “That still does not make it your business.” She does not soften her tone even though she knows in some way she is being unreasonable.
“Doesn’t it?” Michaela winds an eyebrow up at her suddenly. “If the Lady of the house cannot sleep, then why do any of us deserve sleep?” Annoyingly, Michaela reaches for her curled palm again. “I am sorry.” She mutters again, her voice softening imperceptibly.
She sighs, Michaela’s returned touch soothing the ache in her hand and yet distressing her further. She does not rip it away again. “It… is alright.” She gives, swallowing when Michaela’s smile returns to her.
She is close now, her features so much more noticeable, features that Francesca has spent far too long examining whenever she is in the same room as her. “It could help to speak of it; I am told I am an excellent listener.” She is sure Michaela is right… but she is not about to discuss her Michaela sized irritation with the woman herself, and she is not about to discuss any of the other things either… she cannot even fathom the embarrassment of discussing pinnacles with Michaela.
Her face flames immediately, flushing without her permission.
No, that is for married people anyway, what would Michaela even know of it?
“It is nothing.” She mutters unconvincingly and this time she does not rip her hand from Michaela’s soft gentle touch but carefully removes it, letting her palm fall into her own lap with her other one.
She watches Michaela’s hands twitch themselves before retreating to her lap. “It does not sound like nothing.” Her voice is smooth and coaxing. Just for a moment, Francesca wishes she hadn’t forgotten to light a candle when she stormed in here so that she might be able to see the features of her face a bit better but as quickly as the thought occurs, she banishes it.
She does not wish to see any of Michaela, ever.
She swallows, head shaking and sending tendrils of loose honey hair spiraling around her, reminding herself that such features appear so often behind her eyelids that she does not need a refresher. “Why have you come?” She asks bluntly, barreling past her question. Her eyes suddenly search the deep soft brown that gazes into her own for any kind of answer even though she knows whichever one she will receive won’t satisfy her. A light in them dims.
For a moment, Michaela shifts uncomfortably in front of her. That picture of confidence and charm she always exudes falling away into something else… nervousness? Worry? “Perhaps I have gotten used to more people in my house and I was lonely, maybe I missed John.” Michaela looks away from her then, past her shoulder, something shuddering across her face. “It is me that distresses you?” She asks, almost coldly, melting away the softness that always seems to be there, especially for Francesca no matter how unpleasant Francesca is to her in return.
Francesca’s heart trips at it. “No, I-” She huffs again, a deep breath in and lets her eyes shut to try and regulate all of her own thundering emotions. “It is not… you.” Or not entirely you. She keeps that part to herself. “It is a married woman thing.” She settles on because she is not sure she could actually survive looking Michaela in the eyes and telling her of the same plight she has indulged in with her own mother or Penelope and now with John.
She also knows she can’t look her in the eye and tell her that she does find her presence distressing but not because it is anything she’s done… simply because she is just so… Just so… Michaela. And for some reason Michaela’s rules are so different than her own. She waves her hand, the one that isn’t still aching from a smack, to try and rid the question from between them.
“Did John do something? Would you like me to have a stern talk with him?” That light is back in her eyes, her plump lips tripping up into a smile and suddenly Francesca cannot help a soft laugh from escaping her. She cannot think of a single time she has asked for Michaela’s help against John and cannot fathom a time she ever will.
They are not even friends… not really. Maybe they could be if Francesca did not in fact avoid her as much as humanly possible and when she couldn’t avoid her, she would meet her with obvious indifference that Michaela never returned. Michaela only ever seemed amused by Francesca, only ever seemed delighted by her discomfort, which normally just frustrated her more.
“No.” She chuckles and Michaela sits up straighter beside her, on a bench not really meant for two people to occupy. It is too small for it though somehow; they remain to not be touching despite it, Michaela slightly hanging off one end to maintain that distance with her hands bunched in the skirt of her green dress in her lap.
She looks at her with sudden interest, a light and an answering smile on her face that makes Francesca’s heart trip inside of her ribcage once again. “Are you sure? I have been setting him right for years.” Her voice is light and it does make Francesca feel a fraction better even if Michaela’s overall presence unsettles her.
She laughs again. “It is not John, he is perfect.” She sighs and forces herself to look away from that unsettlingly pretty face, eyes back on dark piano keys. Everything is a soft blur around her, darkness making her vision fuzzy. “It is me.” She utters it so quietly, even John’s previous reassurance feeling faraway.
Michaela doesn’t touch her, but she seems to reach out like she is going too. “What do you mean? You are perfect.” She asks with such confusion. Francesca means to be mad at her for it, turning her head to tell her to stop teasing her yet again when she does not have the energy to resist her with ire but when their eyes connect all of that normal mischief and entertainment is not even in the doe of her eyes. The eyebrow scrunch is there, but it is utterly genuine this time.
Like she is truly confused… like she means what she is saying.
Francesca’s heart aches from racing so often. “I am not.” She says, her tone shaky, giving her away. She blinks at Michaela, waiting for it… for the teasing, but it does not come.
Instead, the scrunch of her eyebrows smoothed out into a look of concern. “Who has made you feel this way about yourself?” She asks with a slight edge to her tone, and the way she clenches her jaw… as if angry… is only briefly distracting, even if the darkness has blurred the overall effect.
Francesca scoffs, brushing off her concern and stares back down at her keys once again, even as her eyes wish to wander back and take in all of Michaela’s blurry dark features. She brings her hands back up to them to give them something else to do besides sitting empty in her lap, Michaela’s touch still lingering, just as it does every single time that she has ever touched her or briefly brushed her in the last year. “It is not anyone, it is just… true.” She presses a finger down into a soft key lightly, the noise of it ringing off the walls but not as jarring as it had when she had been startled.
For a while, the silence extends between the two of them and Francesca fights the urge to lift her head and see Michaela’s face, examine her dark eyes and really take her in. Her presence buzzes beside her, her skin so aware of how close they seem. Michaela is wearing that nice perfume again, the one she knows she wears when she attends whatever party or gatherings she’d leave for back in Scotland.
It is such a pretty scent and Francesca always has to resist the urge to breathe it in.
“Francesca…” Michaela’s voice always caresses her name when she says it in such a soft way. It tingles up her spine, awareness and warmth that she has not experienced from anyone else surfacing and making her uncomfortable again. Michaela’s touch on her skin, a light barely-there graze, is just as distracting as when she had been gentling her fingers down her injured hand. “Why do you say that?” She pushes again, her voice nearly a whisper.
She swallows and everything she wanted to keep inside of her tugs, lurches forward at Michaela’s gentle coaxing like spilling her demons to the woman is natural. Like they are actually friends and not two people who are drastically different in every possible way. Her mouth opens before she can stop it. “I do not think I am a very good wife.” She manages to say and then has to swallow past the lump in her throat the truth of it causes. When she looks at Michaela again it doesn’t matter that only moonlight highlighted her eyes, she could still see the bewilderment in them. “I can’t… I don’t…” Infuriatingly, she feels her eyes burn with the sting of tears.
Michaela’s touch goes from soft and coaxing to harder, her fingers squeezing around her forearm with sudden pressure that prickles across Francesca skin at that alarming rate she’s experienced before in their brief touches. “What?” She asks, her eyes soft and round as Francesca stares into them.
Her earnestness eases Francesca usual discomfort around her. “I don’t… feel it.” She glances down at Michaela’s hand that is still gripping her arm. She feels this… but she swallows that truth, the fact of it making the stinging in her eyes worse. “Whatever it is that you are supposed to feel when you are married, I never feel it.” And then she feels embarrassed because she and Michaela are not close enough for this conversation, because Michaela is John’s cousin, not her friend.
Michaela could never be her friend, they are too different, she is too… too…
Shame and embarrassment color her cheeks and she is thankful for the dark because it has to at least lessen the obvious state of things. “What… do you mean?” Michaela asks but her tone sounds suspicious enough to know the answer already,
She huffs and then buries her face in her hands, shaking her head and cutting off any vision she has of the other woman. “Michaela.” She pleads because she doesn’t want to have to say it, not the full truth of it… that she might be completely incapable of her stupid pinnacle, that it is her fault John’s touch feels… nice but only nice, warm but only warm and never come out of a carriage blushing warm.
“Many married women don’t…” She hears Michaela swallow and it has her pulling her head from her hands to take in her expressions again. She isn’t sure what she expects to find on her face, but it isn’t still that soft look of concern that has her eyebrows scrunched. “Most married women I know don’t have marriages like I’ve seen with your family. It is common, to not… well.” Michaela seems embarrassed now even though Francesca was sure nothing embarrassed her. “It certainly doesn’t mean you’re broken or a bad wife, plenty of good wives never experience pleasure.” Michaela frowns at her then and Francesca finds herself answering with her own frown. “And they don’t deserve that. But it is fairly common, how is that a reflection of your character? The Francesca that has blessed Kilmartin castle is kind and smart and fills those cold dreary halls with more beauty in her music than it has ever seen or heard.” Michaela reaches out to brush at her honey-colored hair, taking strands off her cheek and her touch is just as igniting across the light skin on her face as it is on her hand, on her arm. “The staff loves you, even the sheep. You pay attention to everyone’s feelings, and you accommodate me even when I irritate you.” Michaela’s touch across her cheek is still soothing despite the way it makes her ache, an ache she doesn’t understand, an ache she never feels with anyone else. “You are an excellent wife, I could not think of a better one.” She says it with such conviction, the storm in her eyes drowning out Francesca’s insecurities, and even with it her voice is so soft, like she is confessing something forbidden.
Her chest tightens with something hot and wondering, shivering when Michaela’s fingers trail across her jaw and then off her skin entirely, leaving that burning trail to cool in the night air. “How do you know that it is common?” She asks, feeling her ribs ache with her still pounding heart. She curls her fingers into her palm, nails biting skin as they itch… itch again to play… to do something wild like touch Michaela back and see if this time she will be as unsettled by it as Francesca is whenever she is receiving Michaela’s touch.
But Michaela has never shown the same burning reaction before so why would she now? “I have met plenty of women from all over the world that is how, and plenty of them have similar plights… it is not their fault anymore than it is yours. Our society does not teach women our value, especially does not favor our pleasure, it is why many take it in upon themselves for such things.” Michaela’s eyebrows scrunch again as they trail past her shoulder to look out the window, some thought crossing in her mind that she isn’t letting Francesca be privy too.
Francesca does not know why that makes her blush when she is not even sure what she means by it. “Take it upon themselves?”
Michaela’s infuriating smirk returns suddenly and she almost regrets speaking, regrets opening up, regrets forgetting that this is Michaela Stirling and she is… who she is and that’s a privilege that Francesca does not get. “You have not heard of it? Have never tired just… touching yourself when you are alone, just curiously?” Francesca’s blush becomes furious.
“Lady’s do not do that.” She says with a stutter in her voice, feeling like all of the Ton could pour into this music room in the dark and light their candles to shame her for something that Michaela has only just suggested.
“Why not? Do you not think that men do?” She quirks a challenging eyebrow at her. “It is normal for them but a shame for you? Why? I am sure you’d find out a lot about yourself and your own abilities to feel things if you had the confidence for that exploration, but who would have given it to you?” Michaela cocks her head to the side, dark eyes roaming the features of Francesca’s face suddenly. “You should try it; I am more than sure you’d discover something.”
Cheeks still hot, Francesca stutters out a lame protest. “I would not even know… how to… where to start, and if I can’t feel it with John why would I feel it by myself?” She answers stubbornly, her voice weaker than she’d like it to be. She feels nervous, Penelope had not suggested such a thing when she had spoken to her and she is, seemed like the best person to talk about such things with.
Michaela’s grin is still there but the indignation she normally feels at the tease isn’t, instead something hot is burning its way through her chest and settling in her lower stomach, answering Michaela’s tease with the same fire of her touch instead of the anger she tries desperately to hold onto. “Because you would not be performing. It is just discovery; you would not even need the pressure. Forget about what you are meant to feel and just pay attention to what you do. Sometimes it is not even about reaching the end but just the fun of the journey.”
“Do you… do… that?” Francesca asks, she is not sure she can blush more, but she knows she is listening even more intently, her own eyes devouring any truth or expression that could and does cross the dark features of Michaela’s face.
She does not think Michaela is embarrassed by her question at all but instead looks amused in that way that generally distresses Francesca. That swirl of warmth and enjoyment in her eyes to match her genuine grin. “I definitely have, among other things. I would tell you much of it but seeing how you are a lady, I would not want to offend you with further suggestion.” She is teasing and it should infuriate Francesca as it normally would but instead her mind is conjuring images of a Michaela that enjoys her own touch, and it is… stirring, confusing.
“Are you not a lady yourself?” She says instead of thinking of it too clearly, instead of focusing too minutely on the burning she can feel in her own body at such a thought.
Michaela laughs, a beautiful soft sound that fills the room, something that none of Francesca’s piano keys could replicate. “I’ve done and seen too much to remain a lady, dear Francesca.” When Michaela winks at her, it twists Francesca’s stomach almost pleasantly… but no… not pleasantly, nothing about Michaela is normally pleasant. She is distressing, unsettling, not pleasant. Michaela has a disquieting presence, an uncanny ability to dysregulate her beyond the average person. It is nothing else.
She finds her own lips twitching upward despite the internal reminder, a barely-there laugh escaping her that almost sounds like a scoff. “I cannot believe we are even having this conversation.” She says pressing a cold hand into her own burning cheek. How long has she been blushing?
Michaela’s warmth seems to leave her then as she pulls herself from where she had been sitting beside her on the piano bench. “Do you not feel a bit better at least?” She asks lightly.
The moonlight that encases Michaela when she is standing is more scattered across her chest, showing off her emerald green dress far better than was evident before. One that definitely was not for wearing to bed… meaning she had been out late, as she has done before in Scotland at whatever… gatherings she is allowed at that Francesca is not.
Why can she always find somewhere to go at any hour?
It is a blaring reminder of their differences, all of the standards and expectations that Francesca must meet, Michaela is free of. They do not even seem to weigh her down and it is yet another thing that should remind Francesca that she finds this woman infuriating, though in this moment she cannot seem to summon it. Not after such a conversation. “I… do.” She says truthfully and isn’t sure why it is so hard to admit too.
“It is quite late; we should both do well to try and get some proper sleep. Perhaps you take my advice, perhaps you don’t.” Michaela turns away from her then before she can examine whatever look graces her face though she did see her smile drop as she spoke.
“Goodnight, Michaela.” She says, instead of Ms. Stirling, which she has been prone to do because formality seemed safer with her for some reason.
Michaela hesitates at the door after she pulls it open. The lit candles filtering into the darkness of the room, flickering across all her lovely dark skin. “Goodnight, Francesca.” She answers, instead of Lady Kilmartin.
***
Francesca spends the next three nights overthinking Michaela’s suggestion.
She does not voice it to anyone else because it still feels scandalous and because well… it was private, a private conversation between her and Michaela and she just felt… well no one else deserved to know of it even if she had more questions that she couldn’t find her own answers too.
Like how to even start properly touching yourself?
God she could feel her face flaming already, see it in the mirror as she stared at herself. Here she is, thinking of it. She knew John’s touch, where he would touch her that could be nice, but Michaela told her not to think of John… only herself and nice wasn’t exactly the feeling she was searching for… she was searching for more.
Her fingers shake as she continues to stare at herself in the mirror, her nightgown flowing down and in this singular moment wishes for something she has never wished for upon meeting Michaela… and that is that she had talked more.
She cannot simply leave her room now and storm down the hallway to find her and demand a more detailed explanation… her face heats further at the thought. How would she even demand more answers from her? What would she even say? Is Michaela even here?
She sighs and looks away from herself, tipping her head back to stare at the ceiling and letting the frustration work itself out of her slowly. Somehow, being wound tightly doesn’t seem like the best place to start for this.
She doesn’t need Michaela’s help, she is smart, she can figure it out.
She shakes out her hands and moves away from the mirror, paces the length of her bed a few rounds before finally sitting at the edge of it. Her heart has started to trip, pressing against her ribcage too fast again and it is so ridiculous of her to be so nervous when there is no one here but herself.
Shame is taught; there is no shame to be had.
She bunches her hands into the material of her nightgown at her knees, clenching her jaw. She closes her eyes because maybe that will help but immediately upon closing her eyes she runs into the same rut that occurs most often, and the image of Michaela rapidly forms behind closed eyelids.
She shoots them open, shaking her head because thinking of Michaela right now is surely not to help either.
She is placing too much weight, too much pressure, around this whole thing… what did Michaela say?
Forget about what you are meant to feel and just pay attention to what you do.
Shivering at the sound of Michaela’s voice in her head she bunches up the material of her nightgown, pulling it to her waist. Her breathing unsteadies, her hands shake against her bare thighs and the curdle of shame starts low in her stomach and travels outward.
How is she not to feel dirty about this?
Michaela has done it, do you think Michaela feels shame? The voice in her head sounds almost snide and she curls her nails into her thighs to try and ground herself. Michaela seems to have the freedom of not having any shame and that is just one of their fundamental differences… so if they are so different why is she trying this at all?
Shaking her head to try and rid more of her thoughts being centered around Michaela, she loosened her grip on her own thighs; the skin underneath having turned pink enough to match the blush on her face. She stares down at herself, at the indent on her own skin and that perplexed feeling returns with force.
Maybe she should just see if Michaela is here and ask her and get it over with.
Yes.
That’s what she’ll do and if she is not here then she will just forget about this whole silly venture in the first place.
She’s probably not here.
Determined, she stands up from her bed, the flowing material of her nightgown dropping back down to her ankles and hiding away her pinkened thighs. She lets long legs carry her to her own door but stops, abruptly turns, and reaches for a candle this time. No need to trance about in the dark, she is simply seeking friendly conversation… yes, friendly.
As she tugs the door open, a shaky breath escapes her, but she beats down her own nerves with a vengeance. Surely, she is allowed to ask Michaela for help when it is her fault this idea has formed to fruition in the first place, her damn suggestion. Surely, she is not out of line for this.
God, then why does she feel so nervous?
It does not take her very long at all to wind up outside of Michaela’s door and she finds that she had approached it much too soon, no time to reconcile with all her nerves. She doesn’t hear anything behind it and thinks maybe this will all be for naught anyway, that there is no reason to be nervous because Michaela is likely not even here.
She knocks with her heart tripping wildly in her chest, skipping, pacing, racing like her brothers do at every family event and then it seizes because the door opens only a couple of seconds after her knock, her knuckles still vibrating with the action.
Shrouded in firelight and the light of Francesca very own candle, Michaela greets her with a look of surprise. Probably because Francesca had gone back to avoiding her as much as humanely possible and now here she was, at her door, getting ready to beg her for her help. She is a fool, isn’t she? In what world does Michaela, who is unburdened by anything, wish to help Francesca with her stupid married woman plights?
“Never mind.” She says suddenly and finds herself ready to flee.
Michaela’s hand shoots out to stop her, grabbing at the wrist of her free hand. “Francesca?” The question in her tone did nothing to alleviate her nerves, in fact, it only made them worse and the fact that Michaela didn’t look like she was planning to be anywhere else tonight. No fancy dresses, no red or pink coloring to her lips, no styled hair. She was free of it all, down in her own nightgown, looking soft and… and…
She swallows. “I, it’s stupid, I’m sorry.” She goes to tug her wrist free, but Michaela’s grip tightens suddenly and then tugs her toward her, further into the threshold of her doorway, much closer to her than maybe the both of them had been anticipating because suddenly Michaela’s touch is gone, her grip lost and she is stepping back just as their body’s brush.
“What’s the matter?” She asks kindly, no evidence of her normal teasing smirk once again. It is a lot easier to see her sincerity in an actually lit room. Michaela looks disarmingly gorgeous when she is not dressed up which tightens Francesca’s chest with… anger? Jealousy? Something else? She isn’t sure but she does find it hard to look away from her.
“I need…” She huffs; she is still close enough to Michaela for her breath to lightly brush the loose bunch of curls around her face. Michaela’s eyelashes flutter, whether it is at her proximity or something else she can’t be sure. “Help.” She says quietly, the determination that had brought her here deflates out of her immediately.
She feels so stupid, why can she not just figure this out herself and what right did she have to ask Michaela for her assistance? How would she even help her with this?
Michaela’s eyebrow quirks and she steps back from her, placing more distance between them so that she can no longer feel the heat of her body lingering near her own. She shivers from the cold of the hallway and follows Michaela’s guiding hand as it gestures her inside of her room.
She reaches around Francesca once she is past the threshold, tugging the door closed, their shoulders brushing and making Francesca’s breath stutter, her nerves ticking up. Even the lightest brush of her body has an infuriating effect, that same burning that is always ignited, like the flames in the fireplace, taking pit in her stomach.
“I suppose it is urgent if you came to me in the middle of the night?” Michaela rights herself in front of her, standing up a bit straighter. The well-mannered posture looking the slightest bit silly with her own flowing nightgown. It is of the same cream color as Francesca but for some reason, infuriatingly so, it looks far better on her.
“It-” She bites her lip, unsure of how she is meant to progress this conversation now that she is here, standing in the middle of Michaela’s room, her fireplace blazing warmth into every corner. She looks around, taking in the desk that has lit candles around it, what looks to be a disarray of papers and pencils scattered across the surface… She must have been drawing; she does that sometimes.
When her eyes find Michaela’s again, Michaela is staring at her mouth and something about that twists heavily into her lower stomach. “Yes?” Michaela finally presses, after ripping her gaze away to meet Francesca’s own again.
She feels her face flame suddenly, a shyness she cannot fight taking over her and she looks down at the wood of the floor beneath them. In Kilmartin Castle, most of the ground is covered in stone, often cold enough to make her shiver walking on it with her bare feet. The wood covering of their London home does not hold the same chill.
She hears a soft sigh but resists the urge to look up at her, it doesn’t sound like impatience anyway. “Francesca…” It is coaxing, soft, and she feels herself shudder slightly when Michaela’s fingertips graze against the inside of her wrist. A touch meant to comfort and yet all it does is bring about that confusing fire again.
She sucks in another nervous breath. “I do not know what to do.” She whispers, it is barely audible, maybe even Michaela doesn’t hear it though her touch remains, she says nothing after. The quiet increases between them for so long that Francesca has to look up.
Michaela’s eyes are just staring at her, dark and steady. “You do not know what to do.” She repeats but it doesn’t seem to be a question, she doesn’t seem to be asking for clarification, for Francesca to be clearer. She seems to know.
Francesca’s heart aches with something she cannot name, a heavy feeling settling low in her gut as Michaela’s eyes have seemingly gotten darker, trailing against different features of her face. “I-” She swallows again, her voice breathier than she had expected and Michaela is staring at her mouth again.
“Why did you come to me?” Michaela asks softly, her voice a bit unsteady. It’s not spoken with confusion but with searching, like she is pressing inside of Francesca’s mind and trying to pluck out specific answers, like she wants to unravel every inner thought that could have led to this course of action.
Francesca swallows and Michaela seems to watch the action, the brown of her eyes so dark and intense that it only increases the pressure in her lower stomach, a pulse in her body answering it that she isn’t used too. “Because…” Francesca’s nerves make her hands shake and then she is gripping her own nightgown again, material bunching in between fingers. “Because you said…” She is not sure what logical thought she had that brought her here anymore.
Michaela’s eyes are so mind-numbingly dark, she feels like she is not wearing anything at all when they gaze over her, like she had come to Michaela’s doorstep bare. “I said what?” Michaela asks, almost innocent and that infuriating, irritating, gorgeous grin starts to slowly send plump lips upward.
Immediately, Francesca’s ire alleviates her nerves and the vulnerability that had just been present. “This is not funny, do not laugh at me.” She huffs, and tugs free her wrist once again, how long had Michaela been holding it?
“I am not laughing at you.” Michaela says in what almost sounds like a serious tone, but her smirk remains and therefore Francesca doesn’t believe her.
She huffs. “Forget it then.” She snaps but as she twists to reach for the door, instead it is a gasp that escapes her when Michaela tugs her away from it and back into her orbit, up against her. It is not just a brush this time, instead she can feel the contours of Michaela’s body mold to her own and she nearly loses her grip on the candle she is still holding.
“You come to me in the middle of the night begging for a touch you do not understand?” Michaela quirks an eyebrow at her, but her infuriating smirk is gone. Michaela’s touch feels everywhere, even though she is not presently doing very much of it. She is not even holding Francesca to her; she has only pulled her against her, but her arms are loose at her sides, and it is Francesca that is doing more of the leaning into her personal space out of the two of them.
She rights herself, her breath coming out in unstable puffs, she goes to speak but Michaela’s touch grazes against her fingers as she takes the candle that she is holding away from her and into her own hand. She leans back into her space again, back against her body that Francesca had just been trying to escape from, in order to place the candle on the dresser by the door and then she frees Francesca by pulling back entirely.
She swore she could feel Michaela’s heart racing just as hard, pressing up against her own when they had been touching but she still could not find the words to speak. She thinks she might want to beg her for help and yet run as far away from her as possible. Everything in her feels dysregulated, her heart not being the only thing aching, the pulse in her neck feels fast, and there is one between her legs that has made itself known, vicious and vibrant and unexpected.
She means to speak; to tell Michaela she has no right to… act this way, to make her feel… so many damn things she doesn’t understand but nothing actually comes out. She can’t find any words and to her horror it reminds her of the early days of their meeting, before Francesca had decided that it was clearly Michaela’s attitude that she didn’t like that caused her such impairment, before she had decided they were too different to ever be friends.
She is suddenly blushing furiously and if she could pull herself from the frozen mystified place she’s fallen into, she’d have the right to turn tail and run, to be far too embarrassed to deal with this any longer. But Michaela must take mercy on her in some way, her own posture relaxing. “I can help you.” She says, breaking a silence that had somehow sounded louder than any conversation they’ve ever had with each other.
Her acquiescence feels a bit like a balm on a wound. It doesn’t eliminate her nerves entirely, doesn’t eliminate everything else that is raging through her body at their overly intimate proximity, but it does ease something and she finds the next breath she takes in to be far less painful. “You… will?” She asks hesitantly, her voice is low and throaty, shaking along with her hands that she has bunched back into her nightgown.
She watches Michaela’s eyelashes flutter. “I will, I gave you the idea after all.” She wants to exclaim; exactly! but manages not too.
Michaela turns away from her then and walks further into her room, toward her bed. Francesca only watches her, her nerves ticking up. She feels her body wanting to press forward, to follow her but the shame and fear is starting to turn in her gut again, overpowering her desire to listen to any baser instinct.
All her baser instincts are telling her to do anyway is follow Michaela anywhere, even into flames.
“Come.” Michaela says, her voice soft and quiet and yet somehow still sounding loud enough to jar Francesca into movement. “I will show you some things, will even let you keep them for studying if you like.” Michaela doesn’t sit on her bed, but tugs open a drawer on the nightstand beside it.
Confused but too nervous to ask, she hovers at the end of Michaela’s bed, her eyes dipping to it. What will Michaela have her do? What will she show her? Will the bed be required for it?
“You do not need to look like a scared little lamb, you’re safe in this den… for now.” Michaela smirks over her shoulder at her, teasing, something familiar that regulates Francesca better.
She wishes it to make her mad, to irritate her, but it doesn’t. She is simply too nervous, and the lightness of her tone only seems to actually grant her some ease. “There are studies for such things?” She says after a moment, finding her voice after what feels like a century.
It feels jarring to speak for some reason, her voice is barely loud enough to contend with the crackling of the fireplace and yet it still feels like it carries through the room, bouncing off the walls making her far too aware of her own voice. When Michaela turns to her, with her hands full of a large black book of some kind, papers sticking out of it, she feels her nerves ease further. Studying… like with actual books? She can do that, if that is a way to learn of this kind of touch, she can absolutely do that.
Michaela’s eyes glance at her own bed and there’s a bit of a tick in her jaw that Francesca thinks is nerves but then she brushes that thought off because she cannot remember the last time she saw Michaela truly nervous about anything in all the time she has known her. “We’ll sit by the fireplace.” Michaela brushes past her. She is not wearing that perfume that normally distracts Francesca but her more natural scent seems to be just as enticing, and she is breathing it in before she really thinks better of it.
She shakes herself out of it, following her and away from the bed, her eyes catching on the red canopy for only a moment. The further she gets from the bed the better she thinks, no need to be nervous with books and a fireplace. Michaela takes a seat on the couch and looks up at her with fire dancing in her eyes, her lips upturned in her usual soft amused smile. Francesca doesn’t feel as she usually does though while looking at her. All of the tension in her body pulses to life, her mind already remembering the warmth of being pressed up against her.
How can she be daydreaming of something that only just happened?
Why is she daydreaming of something that just happened?
“Are you to sit?” Michaela does that distracting thing where she tilts her head to the side at her, amusement still swirling in the pits of her brown eyes, the flames lighting them to an appealing degree, her voice effectively cutting through Francesca’s unsettling thoughts.
Francesca feels like this room is a little too warm with the roar of the fireplace, but she keeps it to herself and slowly places herself at the other end of the couch, a good enough distance away from Michaela that she can’t feel the heat of her body. The other woman grins at her and places the items in her lap on the cushion between them. “Take a gander, Lady Kilmartin.” She doesn’t know why Michaela saying her title bothers her so much in this moment, ticks at the surface of her skin… maybe because the only time Michaela ever says it is when she is teasing her or when she is answering Francesca’s indifference with her own.
But they are not much in a situation for either thing and so the title feels misplaced, she’d prefer it if she keeps saying her name, her actual name in that soft way she’s been doing, it helps with her anxiety.
Her nerves return but only slight as she grazes her fingers against the pages of the book. It is not a book to study but a binder and when she opens it, she gasps without meaning too, peering over the material with interest she can’t entirely mask. She forgets to be ashamed. “You draw such things?” Because it is undoubtedly Michaela’s art style. She has seen it several times now even though Michaela is so private about it, her own nosiness has permitted her some glances.
Enough glances that she would know Michaela’s art style anywhere.
“This is very private, so I suspect you understand I do not wish you to show this to anyone else. Not your sister, or Penelope.” Michaela’s jaw ticks slightly when she mentions the redhead. She has been doing that lately and Francesca still has not figured out why Michaela has such discontent about the other woman. She is friendly to her of course, maybe friendly enough for no one to truly notice that anything is amiss, but she is decidedly less warm than she has seen Michaela be with basically anyone else.
It had started not long after Francesca had expressed just how beautiful Penelope was, so maybe it is just a matter of Michaela not being immune to the clutches of jealousy like the rest of them, perhaps she too finds Penelope as beautiful as Francesca always has and she finds ire in it where Francesca has only ever found awe. “Trust me, I am not inclined to share this conversation with anyone let alone your work which you are already private about.” She expresses honestly and lets her eyes examine an image that is far too inappropriate for her to nearly have her nose against it.
The lady in her wants to look away, to retreat from something so obviously sexual and explicit. It is not appropriate for her to be taking in such things, not proper. But the inner part of her that has been frustrated with her lack of progress, frustrated with her own lack of feeling, gazes in wonderment, her own fingers trailing after dark marks that crafted such a masterpiece.
This drawing is of a woman, not anyone she’s seen before so who knows where Michaela would have found the reference, she is always traveling as it is. She is bare and confident in her bareness as she lounges across a couch. Long strands of dark hair tip to the floor, her head tilted back while her fingers have settled between her own legs. Her thighs parted enough for Francesca to see some of what she is doing, Michaela’s skill with drawing helps that further, the details around something so intimate leave little to the imagination that Francesca could not conjure up herself.
She has two of her fingers, disappearing inside of herself, the art detailed enough to show the wetness dripping around her fingers and out of her, stained on her thighs that are spread open. Francesca feels another answering pulse between her legs staring at her in such an intimate act. The woman’s other hand is up, plucking at a harden nipple, her back is also arched, like she’s straining into her own touch. Her stomach looks soft and round and Francesca’s fingers itch over the drawing again to trail down the contours of it.
She wonders what it would feel like to touch her like this, if she existed outside such lines. The thought should be jarring and yet it is not the first time something like it has crossed Francesca’s mind, so she pays the shame it’s meant to summon little attention, letting her file each intimate detail of this woman, wanton to her own touch, away for safe keeping.
Something hot and needy travels down Francesca’s spine then and she adjusts in her seat as she takes in every detail she can see. John has touched her like this before… sort of, with his fingers anyway. But it did not feel the way this woman looks… it felt… fine, nice, sometimes uncomfortable.
But it never felt like... this.
An annoyed huff escapes her then, all of the fascination, of the hot pulsing and curiosity such an image inflicted on her mind and body evaporated away and she shuts the binder despite realizing there is probably more to see. “Too much?” She looks at Michaela when she speaks, almost having forgotten she was there.
Dark cheeks are riddled with Michaela’s own deep blush, only noticeable by the firelight that dances across her skin. She has rarely seen Michaela embarrassed or shy enough to blush over something and she finds it almost more fascinating than Michaela’s drawing. She looks far prettier than any drawing ever could actually, and then Francesca blinks because… why had she thought that at this very moment?
“No.” She says, her voice tangling out of her in a frustrated sort of displeasure.
Michaela seems amused by this, doing that attractive head tilt of hers once again. “No?”
“I have been touched like this… it doesn’t-” She swallows, feeling the slight embarrassment of sharing something so intimate with Michaela of all people, with Michaela who is her husband’s cousin… Again, what is she thinking coming to her for this?
“There is a difference.” She watches Michaela’s hand flip the binder open again, the drawing revealing itself and catching Francesca’s eye in a way she cannot help. The woman in it is painfully beautiful, her pleasure not just something to be envied but admired. “She is not performing for anyone; she is in her own body with no eyes and no one else’s touch to demand anything of her. The only thing she is thinking about is that which makes her feel even better.” Michaela’s voice is a low rasp that does nothing to alleviate hot twisting in her gut, another shift alerts her to her own wetness she can feel dampening her underclothes.
“She is not alone though, you are there.” Francesca says observantly, suddenly curious as to how this woman found comfort enough in Michaela’s presence to allow her to draw such an intimate moment. She must not know of shame either, perhaps she is free of it the same way Michaela is… a yearning cracks open her chest then, maybe her own jealousy, a wish to be so free of shame and expectation that she could find her own pleasure with an artist’s eye on her and not be scared of it.
“I…” Michaela’s voice is the one to shake this time. “I was.” Her voice is still low and raspy but now it is also almost shy.
“Do you do this often? Watch lady’s touch themselves so that you may draw it?” She asks, instead of the thousands of other questions she should be asking to solve the very thing she originally came here for.
She came here for help in finding that damn pinnacle… so why is she suddenly more interested in Michaela’s work than anything else? “I…” Michaela blushes deeper than, for once, out of the two of them, she is the flustered one. She shuts the binder a bit forcefully. “That is not what you came here to know.” She watches Michaela’s blush tapper off, her jaw clenches in an unfairly attractive move to show irritation… irritation?
What had Francesca done but ask her about herself for once?
“Are you to shame me for it?” Her voice has hardened. She has heard Michaela take this tone with her a few times, mostly after Francesca has pressed into her too consistently with her own indifference. It is so very rare that it stuns her for a moment, not having expected it.
This time, Francesca has summoned no indifference… for God sakes she is even here at her mercy. Annoyed with the sudden turn of her attitude, she sits up straighter. “You told me there is nothing to be ashamed of? Should I be shaming you for it? Did you lie?” The question is the easiest thing she has said to her all night.
Michaela frowns at her then, her gaze trails off to the fire and then her tension eases, her shoulders relaxing backwards into the cushion of her side of the couch. “No.” She says quietly. “I am sorry I am… just used to a certain kind of reaction when people find out.” Her voice has lost that rasp that does hot things to Francesca’s stomach, replaced with uncertainty instead.
“That you draw women intimately?” Francesca asks with confusion because is that not common of artists? She knows Benedict draws men and women in all sorts of states and he has never received a negative word of it.
Michaela sighs. “Sure.” She watches her, that confusion still sitting quietly in her head as one of Michaela’s palms trail down her own face in an act that almost looks like stress. “There is more work in there Francesca, perhaps it will give you the ideas or answers you are looking for. Just, do not look at them anywhere but in private.”
“You are in the room with these women while they do this, yes?” Francesca finds herself asking as she picks the binder up, folding long fingers over it. She wants to open it again and flip through more of Michaela’s artwork, see more of what she could have possibly drawn, things that are most certainly scandalous, but she is an artist and that is what artists do.
“Yes.” Michaela says quietly, her blush returning but she doesn’t look at Francesca.
She bites her lip, her mouth opening before she can think better of it. “Do you direct them? Do any of them… need help?” At such a question Michaela whips her head to Francesca, a wide-eyed look entering her eyes that makes her feel a bit nervous again, that shame prying up from the pit of her stomach with cold inky fingers.
Firelit brown eyes blink at her rapidly, her chest suddenly rising and falling too quickly to be healthy. “What exactly are you saying to me right now, Francesca?” The rasp is back but so is an inflection of uncertainty. Francesca’s body does not seem to care about uncertainty and finds interest in that low tone, in the soft curve of her own name as it leaves plump lips.
“Well, that…” She groans slightly and flops the binder back onto the cushion between them. “I have been touched like that, and it has felt… fine but not… not like she felt. What if I touch myself like that and do it wrong and it is only just fine… fine.” She spits the last part with such annoyance, every ounce of frustration escaping her in the little amount of syllables there are in her words. “You know how to do it; can’t you just show me?” And when had she come up with this idea? Somewhere in the span of staring at such explicit artwork and reconciling with Michaela’s association of it.
If she could do that for these women, could she not do it for her?
“Show you?” Michaela asks, her voice incredulous.
“Just tell me if I am doing it wrong?” She tries to reason but she thinks maybe she has lost her own desired plot. She is not even sure what she is asking for… to be drawn? To be studied? To be watched? To feel free… shameless… beautiful…
Maybe she just wants things to make sense for once and if she truly is broken in some way, then she won’t be alone when they find that out and she won’t be with John who will surely feel that disappointment even if he says he wouldn’t.
Michaela stands from the couch. “You do not even know what you are asking me for.” Her voice sounds ragged, almost… pained? But why would such a request cause her pain, surely… if it is too much it would be as simple as saying so, as simple as she doesn’t want too, even if it would leave Francesca disappointed with no more answers to her questions.
“I just thought-” She shakes her head because she is not even entirely sure what she is thinking. “It is fine. Keep this.” She taps the binder but stands as well, resignation surfacing through her. “I do not think I am actually even capable of it.” She says a truth she has already spoken. “It would be a waste of time anyway.” Her voice is utterly dejected, she can hear it even as she tries to maintain it, tries to reign it in so that Michaela doesn’t take pity on her.
She is clearly uncomfortable, she doesn’t wish to make any of it worse, this conversation has already gotten away from her. “Francesca.” Michaela’s voice sounds a little desperate, filling the room with sudden need that Francesca doesn’t know what is, but she finds herself looking up at her, meeting the storm inside of her eyes as if she wishes to figure it out.
They are as dark as they had been at the door again though they look at her with such heat. It spreads that tingle through her, an answering pulse in her body that she had felt looking at the drawing and had felt when Michaela’s body had pressed into her own and had felt again at the low tone of Michaela’s voice. “I’m sorry.” She says, soft, and the shame curls itself around her heart because Michaela looks winded, almost wild, and she has never seen her look that way before.
Michaela has always been put together, has always had an annoying ability of looking as if nothing uneased her. But she stands across from Francesca now, hand digging into the arm of the couch like she needs to support her weight, looking frantic. “Just try with the drawings first and if… if it does not work, come back.” Her voice is low and breathy, rasping into the room in a way that almost sounds strangled.
Francesca nods but cannot seem to remove her eyes from the breathless image that Michaela presents. In the firelight, with ragged breathing, her chest heaving like she has been running across oceans to stand right here across from Francesca on this very night, she thinks… she won’t come back even if it doesn’t work… something about Michaela looks too wild all of the sudden, too barely restrained.
She feels like there is something tangling between them in the room, something heavy, that same licking fire that Michaela causes with her touch feels all around her now, settling into every nerve ending she has. She takes the binder with shaky hands.
She thinks… she won’t come back.
“Goodnight.” She manages and rounds the opposite direction of the couch, avoiding Michaela’s possible touch, any brush of her skin, any meeting of her eyes.
Michaela speaks again when she is at her door, a soft answer of “Goodnight” in return that feels just as strangled out of her as her own breath.
She had not meant for it but now that she had seen Michaela like that, she was unsure of everything she had ever learned of her. She felt the inexplicable urge to find out any button she could press to return Michaela to such an unsteady state in the future, so that she might match all the dysregulated feelings Francesca has been burdened with since their meeting, even if the thought is… unkind? It doesn’t feel unkind, no it feels like something else, something desperate, something like the same yearning she had just experienced with her jealousy of the woman in that drawing.
She thinks she wants it so that she might look as she does now, chest rising and falling a bit too rapidly, covered in firelight and looking… for all the world… like the most beautiful person to ever exist. No drawing could ever compare, no matter how explicit, to this Michaela, breathless, in firelight. If Francesca had Michaela’s talent… this is what she would draw... She’d have no need to ever draw anything else.
Blinking herself back to reality she turns again and tugs the door open, shutting out whatever has happened between them the moment she steps into the hall. The binder she tucks safely into her arms, but she is sure it is pointless to even have it.
She will not return, even though she knows she will fail… no, something is too dangerous about returning even if she can’t quite pinpoint what that is. The room had felt too big, Michaela had looked… too…
She won’t come back… she won’t.