Amélie finished her wine and, feeling a little lightheaded, sat down on the bed. He remained standing.
“The smokehouse is untouched,” he continued, refilling their glasses. “Queer, isn’t it? I found a side of bacon there, a sack of yams, crabapples, and hard winter pears. Flour, too, though it’s gone all moldy and is full of weevils. There’s some rice, though, and a cone of sugar. I think I can rustle us up a good meal.”
“You?”
“Yes. I’m used to cooking over a campfire and I won’t have trouble with the fireplace below. Why don’t you rest a bit, Amélie, and when supper’s ready I’ll call.”
“But really, Royce, I feel I should do the cooking.”
“Why? I can manage.”
She had never cooked a meal in her life, would not even know how to fire a stove properly. There had always been servants to do it for her. She wondered if Royce, realizing her domestic ineptness, had offered to fix a meal to save her from embarrassment. Certainly he would not have had to make such a thoughtful offer to a woman of his own kind. Farm wives and daughters were skilled at cooking no matter the circumstances. Royce in taking on this chore had somehow emphasized the class difference between them. Or was she simply ascribing to him motives that were not true?
“All right,” Amélie said with a smile. “As long as you don’t serve our poor ox up spitted and roasted.”
When Royce left Amélie went back to the wardrobe. She couldn’t go down to supper in a peignoir. One had to draw the line somewhere. Besides she wanted to dress up. It had been an age since she had worn a proper evening gown or troubled with her toilette. Tonight she felt like it. Perhaps it was the wine; she wasn’t certain.
The difficulty, she soon discovered, was that all but one of the gowns were too small. The dress that did fit was the most daring, cut low, revealing shoulders and bosom, a pale blue costume of brocaded silk adorned with ruched bands of ivory lace. The gown was so full over the petticoats she had taken from the bureau that she needed no hoops. Sitting at the dressing table she brushed her golden hair, twisting it loosely at the back of her neck, curling it around her finger, freeing a strand on each side. She sat gazing at herself in the mirror, thinking that despite everything she did not look much different from the girl who had been married at Arbormalle. But she felt different, very different.
“Amélie? Amélie, supper’s ready.”
He watched as she came down the stairs, his heart in his eyes. The creamy shoulders, the half exposed bosom rising above silk tormented him. She belonged here, he thought, descending a gracefully curved staircase, belonged in this magnificent house, the golden head held high, every inch the aristocrat. How could he aspire to such beauty, to such grace?
“Smells good,” she remarked, putting her arm through his. “What is it?”
“Wait and see.”
He had done well with the supplies he had retrieved from the smokehouse. Bacon slivered in rice, a compote of yams, apples, and pears sweetened with sugar. He had found several bottles of brandy and he filled their glasses with a flourish.
“No coffee,” he apologized. “I do miss it.”
“So do I.” She had drunk real coffee in St. Louis, but since then only chickory. Coffee along the Mississippi had become an unattainable luxury.
She ate hungrily. “Everything is delicious. Bless you, Royce.”
He smiled at her, though her compliment depressed rather than cheered him. Bless you, Royce, the good Samaritan, the kindly, elder male relative.
“Have some brandy.” He was on his feet, reaching over and filling her glass before she could respond.
“You mustn’t, Royce. I’m already a little tipsy.”
“Well, there’s no harm in that.”
The rain hadn’t stopped. They could hear it beating against the windows, pattering on the sills, drumming on the gallery roof.
“I’m glad we found this place,” she said, thinking of the wet, inhospitable night outside, the mired road and dripping trees.
“It’s called Belle Terre. I saw the name carved on the smokehouse door.”
“Belle Terre—beautiful earth,” she translated.
He had lighted candles and her face in their glow was softly outlined, the cheeks flushed, the eyes large, the hair a nimbus of gold.
“Yes, beautiful,” he agreed, gazing at her.
“I feel so much better,” she said. “A bath, fresh clothes, wonderful food. Yes, really. But I’m afraid the wine and brandy have made me sleepy. If you will excuse me?”
“Of course.”
He got to his feet and she rose unsteadily on hers. He put his hand out to help her and she leaned against his arm for a moment until her head cleared.
“Thank you, Royce.”
She felt his arm tremble and lifted her eyes to his. They were sober, deep, seductive with longing. She did not look away but stared back at him, suddenly conscious of her body, the rise and fall of her breasts, aware of her heart beating under the borrowed stays. In the unsteady light he seemed to tower over her, his tawny hair a lion’s mane, his broad shoulders blocking out the fireplace behind him. He did not seem at all like the Royce she had known these past weeks, but a different man, one she had briefly glimpsed upstairs when he had come upon her after the bath.
“Royce . . . I . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted to say.
One shoulder of her gown had slipped down her upper arm, and his eyes sweeping over the fair skin glimpsed a white breast and shadowed cleavage.
Desire overcame scruples. His arm went about her waist and he crushed her to his chest, bending his head, claiming her mouth. The movement had been so abrupt, the banded steel of his arms across her back so tight, the hard lips so possessive it threw her into dazed breathlessness. She brought clawed hands up in automatic protest and his grip suddenly loosened. He did not release her, however, but buried his lips in her hair, murmuring her name, a throaty growl that unknotted her hands and brought her arms to her sides.
Her conscience told her to deny, to struggle, to resist, but the delicious feeling of surrender was too strong. His solid chest, the muscled arms, the male smell, the aroma of brandy on his breath, the rising hardness she could feel through her belled skirts aroused her, twisting her stomach with desire. She shuddered as his mouth found hers again, tongue and lips exploring. Her arms went up, circling the strong, thick column of his neck. Returning kiss for kiss, her lips drank from his mouth. The heat of their kisses kindled new fires and she surged against him, hungry, wanting more and more. With a groan he swept her off her feet and carried her through the door, slamming it behind with a backward kick of his booted foot. Again she voiced no objection, no word of denial. How could she say no when everything inside shouted yes?
Up they went into shadowed dimness, up into chilling darkness. He stooped and twisted the knob of the bedroom door and they were inside. The hearth glowed redly, casting an eerie light. The warmth still lingered. He held her, breathing hard, his heart hammering. Bending he covered her face with wild kisses, whispering incoherently while she, half swooning, clung to him.
He lowered her with a rustle of silk, his hands fumbling at hooks and eyes, impatiently tearing, pulling at them.
“Let me,” she murmured. “You’ll—oh!—oh!” He was kissing her again, slipping the gown from her shoulders, freeing a breast and lifting it in his large hand, kissing it, licking, teasing it with his tongue.
Exactly how she got out of the remainder of her clothes, she couldn’t remember. She had a vague recollection of stepping from a heap of lawn, petticoats, stockings, and pantalettes, of his sudden, startling nakedness, of being carried to the bed.
But she remembered vividly how he sank down with her still in his arms, turning on his side, his right hand traveling down her body, exploring, touching, sliding over the delicate, cool skin, the velvety hips, the buttocks sleek and firm as apples.
Suddenly he paused, pulling away, his face flushed.
“Forgive
me. I . . .”
But Amélie, drawn up in the vortex of her own urgent need, did not want to forgive. She did not want the diffident, courteous, gentlemanly Royce. She wanted the wild stranger, the mad lover kissing, caressing with tongue and lips. Reaching out she brought his hand to her full, aching breast and his fingers closed around the compact roundness, the point burning his palm. “I can’t,’’ he murmured, but the next moment he was clasping her again, ravaging her mouth, his kisses desperate, his lips finding the cleft between her breasts, searing her flesh, shooting a fever through her veins. He rose over her, gripping her between his knees, pausing to look down at her. Her hands went up, stroking the smooth chest, running across his broad shoulders, down again, tracing the skin with sensitive fingers, down to the stomach, to the tumescent organ that throbbed now with his desire.
“Royce,” she whispered, her arms linking his waist, raising her hips to press her yearning desire against his loins.
“Oh Amélie . . .”
Dropping down he plunged into her, his hard masculinity driving again and again with sensual compulsion, sending ever widening ripples of rapture through her willing body. He gave one last thrust and his shuddering climax came a moment before her own flight into the blinding light of fulfillment.
Chapter
❖ 22 ❖
She lay by his side, silent, wordless, dreamily empty. Outside the chill rain continued to patter and tap with a hollow sound. But inside the glowing red embers on the hearth radiated warmth. The war, prison, pain, hunger, bloodshed were all a horrible dream. Only this was real. She was alive, the sap of youth flowing in her veins, a breathing, whole woman who still could savor joy.
“I love you, Amélie.” Royce’s voice was soft. “I’ve loved you for a long time. Did you know?”
“No,” she said honestly.
“It’s true. Do you remember that first night in the snow—plodding on so bravely with me? I thought, what courage! And when we got to that farmhouse and I saw you—”
“In a faint?” She smiled.
“Even in a faint, white as a sheet, you were beautiful. I took one look and knew I was doomed.” He stretched his neck and kissed her tenderly.
“Is that the way you feel now? Doomed?”
“Blessed,” he corrected. “If nothing good ever happens to me again, I'll recall that I was once blessed.”
“Oh, Royce!” She squeezed his hand, nestling closer.
She was glad Royce didn’t ask if she loved him, grateful that he demanded no return declaration. For if he had, what could she say? She did not know if she loved him, did not know if she could ever love any man again, not after Damon. She was fond of Royce. They had shared so much, were of one mind about so many things. And his restraint in view of his recent confession increased her respect for him. He was a good man, tender, passionate, strong. He made her feel safe. He had banished so many tormenting shadows by taking her into the circle of his arms and giving her sanctuary there. But was it love? She wasn’t sure.
Amélie listened to the rain as it continued to fall, drubbing monotonously on the roof, splashing and gurgling in the gutters, dripping from the gallery rail. Through the jalousies she could smell the river, the damp, mossy earth, the wet tree trunks. She felt wakeful, not at all sleepy now.
“Royce?” she whispered. He was asleep, his chest, as she touched it, lightly rising and falling with his steady breath.
Amélie nibbled softly at his ear.
“What . . .?” He awoke with a start.
She took a stronger bite.
“You devil!” He slid his arm under her waist and hoisted her over him. “Tease,” he growled.
“Am I?” Leaning on her hands, looking down at him, her long, disheveled hair brushed his bare chest.
“Yes, oh, yes!”
He pulled her down, finding her mouth, smothering her with hungry kisses that left her breathless once more. She could feel him rising again, his organ hard against her thighs. Lifting his knee, he nudged her legs apart so that she straddled him.
His penetration was so gentle she hardly felt it and she pressed against him, the heat of his skin making her own flesh burn. She brought her mouth to his, kissing the mobile lips, passing to the stubbled chin, the straight nose.
“Amélie,'’ he murmured, “I love you, I love you. . .
He was moving now, holding her buttocks, guiding her response to his thrusts. Slowly, then more insistently, going deeper and deeper, the erotic friction piled sensation on sensation, stimulating the gathering storm in her belly. And now she was fully aroused, her nails digging into his arms, sweat beading her brow, undulating, rocking, as he drove harder, grasping, clutching, their heartbeats mingling as he plunged her into the final ecstatic transport.
Amélie fell asleep in his arms and did not open her eyes again until morning. Snuggling deep under the covers, arching her back, expecting to feel the comfort of Royce's warm body, she was surprised to find only tangled blankets.
“Royce?”
Apparently he had gone out for his clothes were missing. Sighing, she pushed the pillow higher under her head, listening to the drip-drip of water as it plopped from roof to gallery. The rain had let up but the gray clouds still boiled over the treetops in the distance. It would be heavenly, she thought, if they could stay put at Belle Terre for a few days. She was so tired of always hurrying, of the urgent need to keep on the move, tired of constantly looking over her shoulder, not knowing if they were being followed, whether someone had recognized them, never sure where they would spend the next night. To draw breath, to rest here, was what she—and Royce—desperately needed.
A bird flew onto the railing of the gallery, a crested kingfisher, fluttering and fluffing its wings. The worm in its beak made Amélie think of breakfast.
I should be getting up, she thought guiltily. I can't let Royce wait on me all the time. She went to the wardrobe and selected a muslin dress, a little tight across the bosom but far more suitable than the brocaded silk she had worn the night before.
Downstairs a small blaze was going in the dining room fireplace. Beside it stood a stack of wood. Amélie, determined to make their morning meal, found bacon on the sideboard and a frying pan on a stool next to the hearth. By the time Royce came in she had bacon sizzling in the pan, though she had scorched three fingers in the process. Royce had brought a bucket of fresh water from the well.
“The river seems to be rising,” he said. “But I don’t think it’s cause for worry.”
However, when they awoke the following morning the overflow had advanced to the drive. The cotton fields below the natural ridges and levees were already covered by a brown lake. Royce moved the ox from the barn to a small knoll at the back of the house, staking it out with a bucket of water and an armful of hay. To the house he brought a great load of wood, several empty washtubs to catch the rain, and all the stores he could scrounge from the smokehouse and slave cabins.
“The river won’t rise any further,” he assured Amélie. “And if we have a few rainless days it might even recede. It’s too early in the season for flooding.”
But it began to rain again in the afternoon and by nightfall the water was lapping at the doorstep. Still Royce was cheerfully optimistic. They were high and dry, weren’t they? Plenty of firewood, food, and water. Nevertheless he decided to have a look around. Finding a pair of hip boots and an oiled cape in one of the cupboards he went out. Strangely enough, Amélie was not the least apprehensive about the Mississippi’s rampaging spate. Belle Terre was built well. It had withstood a fire and she could see no reason why it couldn’t withstand a flood.
Royce came back an hour later, dragging a skiff behind him.
“Just as a precaution,” he said. He grinned, holding up a net in which flipped an enormous trout. “We can have him for supper.”
They remained three days at the house, three days in which the rain came down and the muddied waters rose higher and higher. The flow crept through the crack
s under the front door, inching over the sills of the tall windows on the bottom floor, covering the carpets, lapping at the clawed legs of sofas and chairs, at the tables and the grandfather clock in the hall. Bringing with it the odor of decaying vegetation, it climbed step after step of the elegant staircase, pausing midway.
Royce and Amélie retreated to the bedroom upstairs where they could look out and see the tops of drowned willows and mulberry trees and how the water was slowly scaling the trunks of the great oaks along the drive. Royce tried to reach the ox and cut the poor animal loose but the current was too strong and an hour later they watched helplessly as the poor animal, bawling pitifully, swept past. The churning flood rolled on, taking slave cabins, uprooted trees, and tangled branches with terrified wildlife perched in them. An outhouse, its door flapping, bobbing tin tubs, an upended cart, a drowned dog, wooden barrels, whisky jugs, lumber, logs, all swirled and eddied and floated by, carried along by the swollen river.
Royce and Amélie made the bedroom a refuge. They had brought up the firewood, drinking water, their store of food, and the last of the brandy. From their safe nest they watched the flood, a man and woman marooned on an island. Cut off from the world they rarely spoke of it. They cooked and ate and made love. Wicked, profane, exultant love. They came together on the bed, on the chaise lounge, on the hearth rug, wherever the heat of the moment brought them, two earthy lovers, Adam and Eve, not yet expelled from Paradise.
Time lost its meaning. The pocket watch Royce had managed to carry through war and imprisonment had been lost when he had gone out in the heavy, gusty rain to move the ox. The painted Terry clock on the mantel that Royce had set the first morning ran down, and neither of them bothered to wind it again. Day melded into night and night into day, the hours passing into each other in a strange, idyllic dream. There was a sampler on the wall, painstakingly and not too expertly feather-stitched in green, joy cometh in the morning it announced, quoting from the Old Testament. How appropriate, Amélie thought, as if this room, this place, this time had been waiting for her.
Honor's Fury Page 27
