#wslowry

"I'll say one thing for the English, you've got brains enough to not make booze illegal." Swiveling round on his stool, he narrowed an eye toward the dance floor.

Tom couldn't help but smile at the American. "Enjoying the scenery?"

"These English gals are a bit stiff for me. But there's an occasional rose among the thorns." He tipped a freshened glass in Sybil's direction before taking a sip. "That's a lovely one there."

"That's my wife, thank you very much."

He spat his drink. "My apologies," he muttered, wiping droplets from his lapels.

"At least you've got good taste."

"So does Sir Walter, it seems."

Tom followed his gaze to the floor where the famed golfer was making a calculated path. Sans plus fours and clubs, the man who'd battled the golf course that day looked primed for another conquest.

Trees be damned, Tom mused, this is my favorite part of Christmas. It had become their own tradition, not consciously (at least not at first), but driven by practicality. Their first year together, they were poor as Church mice and agreed not to exchange gifts. Besides, they had only just learned about the baby. So, they shared a brief dinner with his family and attended Midnight Mass before returning to their small cold flat, tumbling into bed together, warmed by the friction of their skin. And each subsequent year, they shunned the presents and frivolities in favor of each other. After all, from the time he was hired at Downton until their marriage, he anticipated nothing more than the annual Christmas Servants Ball and the rare opportunity to wrap her in his arms. By their fifth year of marriage, his Christmas wish hadn't changed, except now they were permitted more than a simple dance, shy smiles, and chaste glances in the company of her family and his former colleagues.

It had been so long since she carried their son, that intimacy required they re-discover some of their more creative encounters. With patience and concentration, though, they maneuvered into a comfortable, but efficient position. And it was like coming home, instinct leading the way. Sybil's back melted into him, the hair of his chest, his abdomen, and parts lower brushed softly against her skin and sent shivers through her spine as they writhed on their sides. The air of their room was shrouded in a winter chill, cast in by a fresh dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. She freed one hand from his to tug the duvet further up their bodies, but as her fingers reached the hem, he somehow sank further into her (how he managed to do so in this position, she would never know) stroking a spot that conducted a surge of euphoria, a pre-cursor, deep into her core. His hand floated down her arm, disengaging the coverlet from her weakened grasp and drew it around their shoulders.

She remembered her previous pregnancy, the final uncomfortable month or so when her body enlarged rapidly, when daily activities ultimately became a painful chore. Her sexual appetite finally stagnated, postponed until her body returned to normal and adjusted to nurturing a new life. She knew they might still have a few weeks to enjoy one another, but nestled in his arms, their fingers interlaced and gripping frantically as his hips furrowed rhythmically into her, she secretly wish Mother Nature had been kinder to women. To trade one for the other, even if only for a few months, seemed so viciously unfair.

Since their wedding night, he reveled in watching her as she came, somehow controlling both nature and his sanity long enough to see her set free. But just as often, as on this Christmas Eve, he gave into his own desire, sharing each wave with her. Come for me, my darling, he whispered. I'll never let you go. It was the kind of invitation that had she been standing, would have crumpled her to the floor. His intoxicating voice, the soft Irish timbre sweetened this evening by the flavor of whiskey, melted in a soft murmur against her neck. He could feel her body, sheathed warm and clenching around him, willingly respond and he let himself go. Mindful of their child, he clutched her gently, one arm wrapped around her shoulders as he burrowed into her neck, his mouth slack against her, weakly calling her name. Her fingers first dug into his hip and then steered his hand below her swollen middle, in a wordless plea. Her neck arched against him as one nimble finger slipped downward, teasing urgently, and her breath escaped with languid, raspy sounds. The final tremors coursing through them, neither worried about the reverberations from the pale patterned walls or even considered tempering the whimpers or soft moans. Shaking with satisfied fatigue, they finally relaxed, effectively melting into the other.

His warm mouth pressed to her shoulder, he placed a weary hand on her stomach. "Baby's getting bigger."

She laced her fingers with his, savoring the slight movements both above and below. "Along with everything else," she replied softly. "I had almost forgotten how foreign my own body could feel carrying a little person around inside."

"And I had almost forgotten how beautiful you were like this."

"How beautiful we are like this," she corrected, fighting a contagious yawn.

He hummed his approval, the gentle vibrations tickling her skin. "Go to sleep, love," he whispered. His fingers brushed her cheeks, urging her eyes to close and he waited, each breath longer and deeper than the next, until she grew heavy in his arms. He burrowed his face into her neck, his hand resting protectively above their child, and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

--”Remember the Children”, chapter 4 of “Home” by wslowry

The afternoon sun had already reached its summit and guided them westward through the untamed peaks of the Pennines. Sybil leaned into her husband's side, the car's engine reverberating between the stone walls framing the road. She decided then that she was perfectly satisfied to enjoy the ride, wherever they might go. But I do wonder what's got into him.

They rarely made a fuss of their anniversary. Other than their move into Downton Cottage, a surprise Tom had arranged for their fifth, they struggled to even schedule a quiet meal when that first week of June arrived each year. Besides, she thought as they rattled over the LNER railway tracks at Appleby, it seems silly to celebrate just one day. After all, their marriage had been a collection of milestones: their first meeting, the first time they linked hands on Downton's lawn, his declaration of love at the nursing school in York, each political debate that emboldened their passion, Bring me the matches!, that burning first kiss, and that truncated trip to...

"Tom!" Sybil gasped. "Are we going to Gretna Green?"

"Go on and say it, love," he blushed. "I'm a romantic fool."

She erupted with laughter. "But you're my romantic fool," she said, kissing his reddened cheek. Slipping her arms in his, she snuggled closer and sighed with utter contentment as the road led on, retracing their failed sprint to the altar so many years ago.

It was one hundred and ten miles from Downton to Gretna Green and they'd no reason to hasten their journey. Between their roadside stops and Tom's deliberate pace – he refused to push more than forty-five miles per hour – the trip had taken the better part of the day. Beyond Carlisle, they headed north at Kingstown and the landscape flattened into lush green fields as they motored through the northernmost reaches of Cumbria. Tom was starting to feel the miles in his back not to mention his backside. The bridge arching over the River Sark and the prominent sign Scotland on the far side was a welcome relief.

As they puttered over the river, Sybil pulled another of Matthew's travel books, one Tom had kept tucked away until she'd guessed their destination. This one was on the lowlands of Scotland. "Gretna Green, now little more than a prosaic railway station, is a mile or so beyond Gretna Junction. The old blacksmith's shop and two small inns call for no further comment." She giggled. "That doesn't sound too promising."

"As long as the sheets are clean, I'll not complain."

A few days before, he'd called the Swan Inn to arrange their accommodations and was surprised to discover that the same old couple still owned it. The innkeeper's wife, a short rotund woman who could barely prop her elbows on the counter, greeted them with a flippant "Aren't you too old for a runaway marriage?"

"I like to think I'm not too old for anything," Sybil laughed as Tom signed the registry. "Age is just a number."

"My bones would disagree." Tom stretched his back, groaned in relief when something cracked.

"We're already married," Sybil told the woman, "Tomorrow's our anniversary."

"Returning to the scene of the crime then?"

"In a way," Tom replied, offering no further comment as he took the key and led Sybil to their room.

At dinner that evening, as the little stone fireplace spluttered behind them, Sybil nearly choked on her tea as Tom announced his plans. "Marry you? Tomorrow?"

"And why not?" When she flashed her wedding ring, he pulled it to his lips.

"You've gone utterly mad!"

"I never asked you properly the first time," he reminded her, twiddling her fingers. "Sybil Branson, will you marry me...again?"

--from chapter 24 of “Home” by wslowry

Tom: "What else would you call a lowly Irishman seducing a lady of the manor?"

By the wonderful wslowry, author of the amazing "Home" series

Written for Pointless Things for the Sybil x Tom Valentine Exchange

Prompt: Returned to Downton for Lord Grantham's birthday celebration, Tom and Sybil find themselves in an impossibly embarrassing situation, and little Sybbie is their only hope. (Rated T)