The girl returned with a large flagon of milk. “It’s cold. It’s been in the springhouse,” she said. Charity thought she had never tasted anything so good. “There’ll be breakfast later,” the girl added.
She returned once again to pour another bucket of warm water over Charity to rinse her off. and to hand her a large linen towel and a comb. She picked up all of Charity’s clothes from the floor and said, fingering the material of the dark red dress wistfully, “This’ll look real pretty when it’s washed and mended.”
“I hope so,” said Charity, smiling her thanks as she toweled herself. She wished that she had something more tangible to give the girl.
The door closed, the latch clicked, and Charity—the morning now well begun—combed out her long shimmering wet hair and sank with a sigh between the clean sheets of the big bed.
She came out of a deep pleasant sleep to feel something warm against her, a body. To feel hands gently stroking her breasts, sliding down her back and along the curve of her hips. She sighed happily and suddenly jerked awake, opening her mouth to scream.
Instantly a big warm hand was clapped over her mouth.
“You wouldn’t be wanting to wake the whole inn, would you?” murmured Tom’s lazy voice. “Not over a bit of lovemaking!”
Charity made inarticulate sounds against his hand and continued to struggle violently.
“In case you should decide to scream,” muttered Tom, “I should tell you first that one of the king’s men has just come into the inn; he’s drinking ale with the landlord downstairs. It may be he’s never heard of Charity Woodstock, the condemned witch who’s just escaped, or then again maybe he has. He rode in from the north.”
Charity stiffened in horror. If she screamed, if she attracted any attention, she might well be returned to Dynestown to burn!
Cautiously Tom took his hand away from her mouth, but retained his firm grip on her body.
“I thought you’d be sensible,” he said.
Charity struggled grimly in silence.
With ease he turned her toward him and climbed on top of her. Charity looked up at him murderously, her eyes wild, her naked white breasts rising and falling with fear as she fought him.
Tom lifted his head and looked down at her, his long golden hair swinging down so that it lay along her check.
“Is rape the only thing you’re used to, Charity?” he muttered with a frown. “Don’t you ever give yourself fully to a man?”
Her teeth caught in her lower lip and she fought back a groan of rage, but he laughed and held her fast. His golden mustache tickled her face as his mouth closed over hers forcing her lips apart.
Her struggles increased as she felt his hand pry her legs apart, felt his tongue part her lips again insistently, felt his hands move leisurely. He held her arms steady, as one hand slid down her back and caught one cheek of her writhing bottom, holding her still as he thrust deep but gently within her, probing, exploring.
It was different from that other time. She realized that at once and was startled. She was gasping as he took his mouth from hers, whispered soothingly into her ear. Against her will, she felt her body respond to that rhythmic pressure, felt her flesh burn and tingle as his hands caressed her. And then the banked fires within her own self burst loose and she was aflame against him, straining toward him, moaning, thrusting her breasts forward to flatten them against his chest, raising her hips wildly against his, panting with exertion. burning with desire.
When they had finished, she lay panting beside him, raging inwardly that her body could thus betray her, hating herself that she had responded so fully to him and that he had known it, had enjoyed it.
Finally, she said resentfully, “You were supposed to sleep in the other room with Bart! If I hadn’t trusted you, I’d have locked my door!”
“You’d have had a hard time locking the door,” he said, “since the inn has no keys. The keys were all lost long ago, the landlord tells me.” He grinned. “Possibly so he can move about the rooms at night if he wishes, and make a fat purse leaner when he has a mind to. And anyway,” he added, “Bart’s got him a wench to warm his bed. She’s from the kitchen. Mine’s from the parlor.” He chuckled.
He leaned on one elbow and studied her naked body, tracing little patterns with his hand across her stomach. Charity quivered.
“How could anyone think you a witch?” he murmured. “Except a beguiling one. Tell me, how did they happen to charge you with witchcraft?”
“My Cousin Matthew raped me,” said Charity bitterly. “And Aunt Temperance, to cover up his crime and secure my inheritance charged me with witchcraft. At my trial, they all testified against me.”
“I see.” His fingers moved lower along her stomach, gently stroking the triangle of gleaming pale gold hair that grew there. “So I take it I’m the second man in your life?”
She turned and looked him full in the face. “No,” she said honestly, “you’re the first. Matthew was an animal.”
She thought he looked pleased.
“Well,” he said. “Two people so made for each other should take advantage of it, don’t you think?” And rolled over on her again so that she gasped at his sudden weight. She felt a flare of passion as his lips trailed down her throat and across her bosom to nestle in the valley between her breasts, then slowly, deliberately to climb those small soft hills and nuzzle their pink summits. Under his touch she felt desire racing along her body tinglingly, felt her arms open and her legs seem to spread themselves wide of their own volition, to allow him to enter her gently. She shivered in his arms, reaching a crescendo of passion that shook and surprised her.
With a sigh, Tom flung himself off her and fell asleep almost at once. She looked at his lean muscular shoulder, at his gleaming tawny gold hair that mingled with her own on the pillow, at his newly trimmed Van Dyke beard that gave him a devilish look, at the whole naked length of him that lay sprawled beside her, one buttock touching the soft curve of her hip as she lay on her back. She looked at him, troubled, and asked herself if what she felt was love?
Did she love Tom Blade that her body could respond so fiercely to his lovemaking?
CHAPTER 6
Exhausted, Charity slept deeply and woke ravenous and very troubled about the events of the night before. Tom was gone when she woke and she dressed hastily, nervously sure of what would happen if he came in and found her still lying in bed. Her dress, newly laundered, smelled sweet and clean and had been neatly mended.
She took a long time combing her hair. The very thought of last night, of how she had given herself to Tom with such abandon, made her blush. She frowned. Undoubtedly he had come to the wrong conclusions about her—a misconception that must be erased. She was not a tavern wench, his for a tumble. Last night he had taken an unfair advantage, but he must be made to understand that she was her own woman and did not belong to him or any man.
Of course, she had found as much delight in the warmth of his arms as he had found in hers but, for the moment, that was beside the point.
She must set matters straight.
Tossing aside the comb, she was about to go downstairs when the door opened and the little maid who had brought her her bath last night came in with a breakfast tray.
“There be king’s men downstairs,” she whispered. “Tom, he said to stay where you are.”
And then Charity understood. This out-of-the-way inn was Tom’s headquarters. Not only the landlord, but the help knew what he did for a living. She found that thought strangely relaxing and sat down to eat the large bowl of porridge and the venison on the pewter trencher.
“Have you known Tom long?” she asked the maid, who seemed determined to hover.
The girl shook her head. “He be not long in these parts,” she said. “But,” she dimpled, “he do be a fine gentleman!”
“Yes,” said Charity with a sigh. “He is that—in his way.”
His “way” was what occupied her mind right now, his way with women and es
pecially with her. She sat there, remembering the naked length of him sprawled on the bed beside her, one arm flung carelessly across her quivering stomach.
“He said to tell you, when you'd finished eating, to slip down the back stairs, there's a path I’m to show you—so’s you can meet him by the river.”
Charity’s heart quickened. By the river. Fighting against the impulse to jump up and go to him, she forced herself to chew slowly, drank a second flagon of milk in leisurely fashion and then, smoothing her skirts, she got up and followed her eager little guide downstairs and through a back door.
“That be the path.” The little maid pointed into a thick grove of trees. “Just keep goin’, the river be not so far.”
The primrose path, thought Charity giddily, walking down a wildflower-sprinkled lane into deep shade between tall old trees that had been here before the first settlers landed.
She had her arguments all marshalled when she found herself standing on the grassy river bank, watching the cool sparkling water surge by, reflecting the blue of the sky. She sighed, feeling oddly disappointed. Tom wasn’t there after all, there was some mistake.
There was a tiny sound behind her, a hand was clapped over her mouth and she was drawn backward to the ground to the sound of muffled laughter—Tom’s laughter.
“I was lying in wait for my prey,” he grinned as he turned her over, gasping, and took his hand from her mouth. “And pretty prey she is!”
“I’m not your prey,” said Charity firmly, striving for some dignity.
“Ah, now that’s no tone to take with a man who stole away and let you sleep, lying there like Venus with your nipples sending out a challenge!”
“Tom,” said Charity, trying to struggle up and failing, “this won’t do. I mean, you have a misconception about me. I’m not the sort of girl who—”
He lifted his eyes to heaven. “Don’t finish it,” he groaned. “I have heard it before. You don’t make love with every man you meet. Sure, it’s glad I am to hear it! But don’t insult me by suggesting I’m like ‘every man you meet’. I’m not! I’m Tom Blade, a man of parts if I do say so.” He grinned at her meaningfully. “At least, there’ve been wenches who’ve said so!”
“I mean, this can’t go on,” she protested, her breath coming faster, her mouth very close to his own. “Just because last night you got carried away—”
“Carried away, was I?” He pulled her over on top of him and looked up into her flushed face. “Sure, I wasn’t the only one that was carried away!”
His hand slid down her back, finding where her buttocks parted through the thin material and casually moving about, making her squirm in his embrace. “Tell me I was the only one carried away!” he challenged as she tried unsuccessfully to pull away from him. She sputtered as he rolled her over so that she lay quiescent beside him for the moment. He began undoing her bodice.
She grasped his wrist. “That’s what I mean,” she said sternly. “That won’t do, Tom!”
“Oh?” His eyes were blue and innocent. “What won’t do? Is this what won’t do?” Expertly he managed to undo the upper part of her bodice, gave the drawstring of her chemise a tug and gently freed one bare breast, examining it with interest. “Is this what you mean won’t do?” He gave the bare nipple a caress that left her quivering.
“Tom!”
“Oh, but I must understand,” he said earnestly, liberating her other breast from its restraint. “This is what you mean, isn’t it?” He bent his tawny head and caressed that nipple with his tongue as he rolled the other one lightly between his fingers.
“Tom!” Moaning in spite of herself, she tried to push him away. “Tom, stop!”
“Ah, then there’s more to understand? More that won’t do?” He managed as he spoke to undo the rest of her bodice and lifting one of her arms, suddenly slid her dress off the other arm and down around her waist, and as suddenly pressed his lips against her stomach below her breasts and trailed his mouth down to her navel as she gasped and struggled, feeling little tingles of desire fan out from the pressure of his lips. He gave her a last squeeze and as she exhaled she felt her dress leave her other arm and in spite of all her protests and struggles, dress, petticoats and chemise slid down over her wriggling bare hips until she lay naked and panting on the grass.
“A lovely sight,” he commended, eyes shining. “Now is this what we were talking about?” He tickled her stomach so that she involuntarily laughed. “Ah, that’s the right attitude,” he said gaily. “Be happy! Live!” And as she gasped from being tickled he suddenly entered her and she quivered as she felt his manhood plunging deep within her, softly tunneling. Weakness came over her and she stopped struggling and shivered in his arms, her own slender arms twining around him, stroking his neck, his hair, his back, murmuring brokenly against his chest.
When he had finished, he lay there beside her and for a time they were silent, listening to the soft murmur of the river drifting by, looking up at a patterned leafy roof above their heads. Then he stood up, arrow-straight in his nakedness, and swung back his tawny hair, his expression still roguish. She stirred languidly. From somewhere he produced a feather and leaning over, dragged it lightly across her lower stomach so that her muscles contracted with a gasp.
“Tom!” She sat up, laughing, as he continued to tickle her, grasping unsuccessfully for the feather—and then threw her arms convulsively around his knees so that he staggered and went over backwards into the river with a great splash.
She jumped up and, standing above him on the bank, saw him dive under and disappear. As she bent over and looked for him nervously, searching the green water, hoping he had not drowned or been pulled into some deep hole by the current, a hand snaked up out of the water, seized her ankle, and sent her flying from the bank into the stream, to land in the cold water with an equally loud splash.
Charity could swim. As the water closed over her head, she darted away from him, knifing through the water, and he pursued her, leaping after her like a trout. Grasping her around her naked waist, he pulled her underwater with him. They came up, gasping, near the bank, and Tom looked into her wet-lashed eyes and said solemnly, “D’you think it’s possible to make love under water?”
And at Charity’s squealing “No!” he seized her slippery arm and glided her smooth wet body toward him.
“We must try,” he said chidingly. “How else will we know what’s possible?”
He thrust his bare leg between hers, but the water made her light and she floated away from him. He tried again, but Charity tore free and swam rapidly away. He came after her with strong strokes, catching her by a flailing foot and almost drowning her. She came up gasping, her hair hanging in long wet mermaid streamers down her back, and splashed water in his face.
He pounced on her but the water was too much for him. The more he strove, the more he was kept from entering her, and at last, laughing, he let her go and they swam companionably back to shore to dry themselves in the summer air. They lay wet and exhausted on the grass for a while.
When they were dry, their bodies warm and toasting in the sun, and only her long pale hair wet, still falling in long gleaming gold ribbons about her, he turned and held her more tenderly in his arms and made love to her slowly, gently.
Charity felt a warmth that was not the sun's creeping over her, singing through all her veins. She responded to him wildly, so that even he was surprised, and afterward she lay trembling, hardly daring to look at him.
When she did turn and look, he had his clothes on and was considering her soberly.
“You’re too much woman, Charity,” he said. “I don’t deserve you.”
With that cryptic remark, he seemed about to leave, so, she sprang up and dressed hastily. Together they walked back to the inn, holding hands, swinging their arms together, Tom stooping occasionally to pick a wildflower to put in her coiled wet hair.
Neither of them saw Bart scowling at them from the bushes, his hot eyes running the length of Cha
rity’s softly rounded figure.
Life was idyllic at the inn. The weather was lovely—warm days, cool nights. Light breezes ruffled the leaves that were changing from green to brilliant yellow and red and gold, and brought them rustling down. The days were clear but the horizon was dulled by a gentle, blue-gray haze, which Tom told her was called “Indian Summer.”
Tom never mentioned marriage, and she never asked him if he were already married. She was too afraid of the answer he might give her, for she had found a streak of frankness in his wild nature, an honesty that sometimes surprised her.
As they ate their meals—wild turkey or venison or squirrel or fresh fish from the river—she smiled on him gently. He was her lover and she loved him. She no longer fought him when he made love to her, but responded as passionately as he could have wished.
In its way, it was a honeymoon, but it was to end abruptly.
CHAPTER 7
One day Charity, about to enter the common room of the inn, heard a conversation not meant for her ears. After the first words, she stopped tensely and listened.
“Guess who’s back,” said Bart grimly. “Gert. I seen her strollin’ by. And I hear tell she’s had a baby.”
“Yours or mine?” asked Tom, concerned.
“Hers. Seems she’s taken a dislike to men, consigned them all to the devil—especially us.”
“She has her reasons,” sighed Tom. “We should do something to help her.”
“Why?” demanded Bart truculently. “Weren’t there plenty of country lads around these parts that laid with her as well as us?”
“True, but you can never be sure,” murmured Tom. “I’ve a few gold pieces to spare. How about you?”
With a surly look, Bart parted with a couple and Tom added them to a store in a small leather pouch. “I’ll give this to the landlord for Gert,” he said. “She’s his kin. It’ll reach her sure.”
He got up, presumably to find the landlord, and Charity—realizing they hadn’t seen her—slunk away, her heart beating double-time.
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