Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the estate of Winston Graham, various publishers including but not limited to Pan Macmillan and the BBC. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction.

Author's Note: Companion piece to Becoming Undone and Upending. Thanks to the gorgeous Nokomis for the beta read!

Please do not archive elsewhere without permission.

They'd been married nearly two weeks.

Demelza had no idea what to expect, having no recollection of her parents' marriage before her mother's death. She'd been too young at eight and overwhelmed with the burden of suddenly having to care for six younger brothers, including a newborn. The most pervasive memory of childhood was of never having enough of anything.

Her husband insisted that they were poorer than church mice with the mine supplying just enough dividends to get by, but she found herself the mistress of a sturdy stone house with two servants, a kitchen maid, and a stable hand. She had a thin gold band on the ring finger of her left hand and two new dresses of good quality hanging in the wardrobe in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs. There was livestock in the barn and a lush green garden where she could spend most of her time now if she chose.

As far as she was concerned, they were rich beyond her wildest imaginings.

The morning of June 24, 1787 had dawned bright and clear with the promise of being a warm day. Ross married her in the old church just after ten that morning with little fanfare. She wore her the deep red dress with fresh picked flowers in her hair. He looked smart in his grey patterned waistcoat and high-collared jacket. Jud and Prudie sat in the last pew as their witnesses.

It wasn't until they'd spoken the words binding them together that she believed Ross would go through with it. Demelza had lived in fear for near on three weeks that he'd come to his senses and see the folly of marrying his kitchen maid; that or her father would appear like a wraith in the night to steal her away.

Neither had come to pass.

She had lied about her age in the church register. She was much closer to sixteen than eighteen, but Ross had insisted the night before, stating that while the rumors had proven to be true only recently he didn't want anyone to think he'd taken advantage of a child. She'd been firmly seventeen going on two months by the last of May. Ross was twenty-seven.

She had also learned his second name was Vennor.

Life continued on as it ever had with the exception now that she was the lady of the house without knowing what it meant. Ross was little to no help to her, leaving her to find her own way while he spent most of his time at Wheal Leisure. Their evenings were spent companionably before the fire in the parlor talking over the events of the day or Ross helping her with her letters.

The one place they could shed the awkwardness of their waking hours was when the last candle had been extinguished for the night and they sought the refuge from the world in the big four poster bed with the grey coverlet, piles of feather pillows, and blue velvet hangings. Their bedroom was still very much Ross's domain even after she'd moved what little belongings she had in there on the day they married. Her sole contribution to the décor was several pottery jars full of fresh flowers.

He liked to watch her get ready for bed, she learned early on.

Sometimes he sat in the comfortable chair by the fire, other times he stretched across the bed, depending on his mood. He was an open book like that to her. Tonight he was broody, distracted, as was his wont when he had much on his mind. He poked up the flames and watched her out of the corner of his eye. Demelza hurried through her evening ritual of bathing away the day's labor with warm water he had poured for her from the kettle into the wash basin.

"Come. Let me do that," he said finally, gesturing for her to hand over the new comb he'd gifted her with as part of her wedding present.

She pulled her knees up under the worn shirt she'd appropriated for a night rail as she settled on the braided rag rug at his feet. Ross gently pulled the comb through her messy red curls, careful not to tear at any knots. He said not a word as he worked. Her eyes drifted closed and she leaned back between his knees, relaxing under his gentle ministrations and she could feel his mood shift, lightening, as he let go the vexations of the day.

"Like that do you?" he asked with a rumbling chuckle when her head fell back against the flat of his stomach.

She purred in complete bliss now that his fingers had found their way into her hair to lightly rub at her scalp.

"I'll endeavor to remember this in the future although I fear you'll grow as lazy at the cat downstairs who's no doubt asleep by the hearth instead of mousing."

Never one to allow an animal to be disparaged, she pulled away and cried: "She's old!"

Tabitha Bethia had been Joshua Poldark's faith companion for years and earned her keep by discouraging mice from taking up residence in kitchen. She was an old cat when Ross had left for America seven years prior and even older when she had attached herself to Demelza when she first came to Nampara.

"I know," Ross said. "I wasn't about to turf her out if that has you worried."

Demelza twisted around until she was up on her knees facing her husband. "I've been thinking-"

He cut her off, stating most seriously, "Always a dangerous proposition, that."

"Oh, Ross," she frowned when he could no longer hold back a rumbling chuckle, "I never know when you be teasing me."

"Forgive me, pray continue." He grasped her hand in his, pressing a kiss to the palm then nuzzling his cheek against it.

"I'd like the mine office out of the library."

"Why?"

"All those boots are trampling my garden."

"I will inform them to be mindful."

"They be traipsing mud in on the floors too."

"I'll have to confer with Captain Henshawe."

"Ross," she said, defeated, and pulled back from him, "say no if that's what you mean."

He thwarted her withdrawal by tugging her into his lap so he could bury his face in her neck to nibble at the bare skin exposed by the too large shirt slipping from her shoulder.

"Did I say no?"

It took a moment for her to regain her train of thought when his hand slipped between her thighs, a flood of wet heat rushed to greet his questing fingers, and she said a little breathlessly, "You make it that hard to think."

Whispered against her ear, he was almost menacing in saying: "I don't want you to be able to think."

Before she realized what was happening, Demelza was laid upon the bed, her long legs dangling over the edge where Ross stood between them. He was watching her with intensely dark eyes that made her stomach quiver in anticipation for something she didn't quite understand, all she knew was it caused her breath quicken.

"No," he commanded her when she started to try to squirm away. Dark, broody Ross had returned. She'd never seen him like this, at least not with her since they had been wed, and definitely not in their sanctuary.

He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor and knelt before her. Work roughened fingers gingerly traced the line of her leg from the arch of her foot to the knee where he lingered a moment before pressing a hot kiss to the tender flesh. The prickling of his beard caused an explosion of goose bumps across her skin whenever his mouth trailed.

"Judas!" she moaned when he nuzzled his nose in the wet red curls at the apex of her thighs and inhaled deeply. Her fingers sought purchase in his dark hair, desperately seeking an anchor as she writhed madly, making a mess of the bed clothes.

She mewled and begged against the rising tide of pleasure as he teased her most secret of places with his tongue and mouth, his hands holding her hips firmly in place. Never in her life could she have imagined such a thing could be done to a person, and she found she couldn't be bothered to feel ashamed in liking those things far more than a woman of decent standing should.

He released her only after she was left trembling on the bed and wanting more. She watched with passion drugged eyes as he kicked off his boots and undid the buttons on his pants, unconsciously licking her lips. The sight of him, cock standing hard and proud, knowing it was she who did that to him made her near delirious with want.

Disappointment followed when he did not kiss his way up her body as he liked to do when he joined her on the bed, instead he stalked over her like a predator about to pounce on cornered prey. Gone was the tenderness and gentle consideration that was the hallmark of their encounters until now, only to be replace with something more atramentous and with purpose. She was not frightened because all of her trust was placed in her husband.

"Ross," she breathed out when he pinned her to the bed with his long body, and she welcomed him with open arms and legs.

His only response was to capture a wrist and pull her arm up over her head as he loomed over her, darkened eyes focused on her mouth. All she could do was gasp when the tip of his cock brushed against the place she needed him most. "Ross, please."

The kiss came without warning, his tongue plundering her mouth as he pushed into her with one swift, deliberate thrust until he was completely buried to the hilt, her legs spreading wider to accommodate him. She could taste where his mouth had been, tangy and slightly salty, as he ravished her with kisses until she was unable to form a single thought beyond him.

The world ceased to exist when he caught her eyes with his and he began to move with deliberation, taking his time, pulling back slowly only to plunge deep again.

There was nothing left betwixt or between, no beginning, no end, him or her, just them as one.

She urged him on, harder, faster, she begged. He obliged, releasing her wrist to brace his hands on the mattress, raising up so he could drive into her with hard, sharp thrusts, almost as if he was trying to tear her asunder. Her legs wrapped around his hips to hold him tight, not wanting to surrender how it felt to have him inside of her urgent and frantic with need, the pleasure coiling sinuously in the pit of her stomach, building into a tempest that threatened to shatter her into a thousand little pieces when the storm broke.

"Look me at me," Ross snarled and she felt the first twitch of what was to come. He had felt it too. "I want to see you!"

"I can't, oh, Judas! Ross!" she cried.

Everything seemed to stop the moment their eyes met, feral and dangerous, in the shadowy golden light of the fire. Her fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders and she arched hard against him, greedily wanting all he would give. She clung to him, engulfed in in a maelstrom of emotion and sensation, radiating out from her very core like a molten fire in her veins that would surely turn her to ash. He followed quickly, spilling his seed deep inside of her with one last thrust, her name on his lips when his head dropped to her shoulder.

They lay entwined, both too leaden to move, the world slowly resumed functioning around them: the low popping of a knot of wood in the fire grate, the flutter of the curtains at the open window, a creaking somewhere in the house.

Later when reasoning had become possible again and sleep was still far off, Demelza wondered how it could be that Ross could make her feel like she had died and gone to heaven then he was the one who had brought her back to life.

"I am sorry," came her husband's soft voice from beside her sometime later. She'd thought him asleep and he her. He reached for her, cupping her cheek and lightly brushing his thumb across her swollen and bruised lips. "I hurt you."

"No, Ross!" She wriggled around until she was face to face with him, placing her hand on his chest over his heart and stretching up to kiss him. "No." She kissed him again.

"You're not used to such… I used you badly. You're a lady."

"I'm not. I'm your wife."

"It makes no difference."

"It does to me." Truth be told, Demelza could feel a bit of achy soreness starting to settle in her back and thighs, much like after their first night together, her body unaccustomed to such use. She did not mind. "I liked it," she admitted.

His brows drew together when he considered her and she thought him most handsome at that moment with a rankish curl falling across his forehead. "You liked that I used you like a common trull?" he queried.

She insisted: "Maybe not the trull, but I am common."

"You are anything but common, Demelza. I will not hear otherwise." His hand cupped her bottom and pulled her into alignment with him.

Her fingers played in the still damp hair at the nape of his neck. "Should I not enjoy my husband's attentions then?"

"Probably not as much as you're admitting to."

"Shall I stop?"

"No!"

"Then I won't."

"That's settled."

"But you're not are you, Ross?" Demelza hedged.

She could sense his worry, feel his unease. Even though they had not been married long, she knew his moods after the last four years watching him go about the difficult business of mending his tattered life. She could tell his mood by the set of his mouth or furrow of his brow and just sometimes she thought she could almost see it trying to obscure him from the world.

"No," Ross said after a long while, then he brushed his lips against her hair and he breathed in. "You're sorry you've married such a morose man."

"Oh, no, Ross, never!" Demelza wasn't quite sure what the morose meant, but whatever it was she wasn't in the least sorry she wed him. She was quite adamant about that.

"Moody and peculiar."

"You were earlier when we first came to bed, then you weren't." She traced her fingers along his jaw, fascinated with the shape of his strong features. "Something changed though. Tell me."

"Demelza," he warned.

"I want to understand, to help."

He idly stroked the curve of her lower back, making her skin tingle with his touch. "You're so young and sweet."

"We were talking... It's the mine isn't it? Tell me!"

It all came spilling out of him: cursing the damned seemingly impenetrable iron stone; his frustration at having nothing to show his investors in a week's time; the trepidation at having to ask for further investment.

She listened to her husband and offered her words of encouragement when she could. It seemed to help him by unburdening his soul to her. In that at least she was successful.

"Then I was angry at myself for bringing those rough men into the house - our house," he went on to tell her.

"They're just miners. I've dealt with that sort my whole life." She couldn't see what all of the fuss was about since that had been the way of things since Ross reopened Wheal Leisure. It was her garden that was the most concern.

"I've seen the way they look at you, Demelza. It was one thing when you were my servant, but now-"

"I'm your wife," she finished for him.

Her heart skipped a bit at the thought that he didn't like other men being around her, admiring her, thinking things about her.

He was jealous.

Her husband. Tall, proud, handsome Ross. The man who married his serving wench was jealous of other men. Over her. She could scarcely believe it.

"It isn't proper," he stated in a tone that brokered there would be no arguing.

"I'll endeavor to hide myself away when you have business to attend in the library in the future." She kissed him to seal the promise. "Will that satisfy you?"

"For now," he answered with barely stifled yawn. "Turn over so I can curl you in my arms."

Not knowing what he was about, she obediently did as she was told, allowing him to fit his front to her back and to wrap his arms protectively around her. They were a perfect fit together. It did not take long for him to drift off to sleep or her to follow, feeling safe and warm and cherished.

Much to her surprised amusement, the mine office was relocated to an old wooden shed up on the cliffs adjacent to the engine house the following week.