Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

“Your hands are cold.”

  “Sorry,” I said, as I kneeled on the bed, facing him. I leaned to kiss him again, but he placed firm hands on my shoulders.

  “Just a moment.”

  I stopped, paralyzed. “Stuart, please don’t tell me no again. I don’t think I could stand it.”

  He shook his head. “I could not tell you no even if I wanted to.” His gaze scanned the room until it settled on the brown jug on the hearth. He retrieved it and brought it to the bed. “I just needed something to calm my nerves.”

  “Your nerves?” I sat back on the bed, breathing heavily, wondering how to ask the question. “Do you mean . . . ?”

  He took a long swig from the jug and then eyed me warily. “I am no novice.” His glance swept over me, and he reached to smooth the hair behind my ear. “I have never had anyone warm my blood the way you do.”

  He removed his shirt and sat again on the edge of the bed. His hand stroked my cheek, his callused fingers rough on my skin. “We should speak of marriage. I do not want to dishonor you, Laura.”

  I allowed the towel to slide from my body and put my finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything else. We’ll think about tomorrow later.”

  I smelled the whiskey on his breath as his fingers gently traced the line of my collarbone, like a blind man committing me to memory. More firmly, his hands, warm and knowing, spanned over my waist.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  His hands stopped. “For what?”

  “For this—for wanting me.”

  He ducked his head, his shoulders shaking.

  “Are you laughing at me, Stuart Elliott?”

  He looked back up, serious again, a strange light in his eyes. “No, Laura. It is just that you certainly know how to surprise a man. Thanking me, indeed.” He leaned over to kiss me and whispered quietly, “Now, let me show you how thankful I am.”

  He stood and untied his waistband from behind then slid his pants over his slim hips. I stared in open admiration at his lean, muscular body, toned from hours in the saddle and the day-to-day work of the plantation. Dark hair covered the small hollow in his chest, and I longed to nestle my head there and hear his heart beating beneath me.

  I reached my hand out to him and he lay beside me, only our breaths separating us. I saw the hesitation in his eyes but stilled the question on his lips with a kiss. He moved on top of me, and the solidness of him anchored me here, to this place. He rose on his arms, then slowly rolled me over.

  Dazed, I complied, feeling the soft pillow against my cheek. His breath burned my neck as he lifted my hair with trembling fingers. “I have always wanted to kiss you here.” His lips pressed against the base of my skull. Small bursts of heat traveled down my spine, searing away the last of my resolve to keep my heart protected from this man. “When you wear your hair up, it is all I can do not to touch you. Here.” He kissed me under my ear, ignoring the tiny explosions going on under my skin. “And here.” His lips traveled lower, to the top of my spine, my resolve now lying in charred ruins along the way.

  I turned into his arms, my mouth eagerly seeking his, my palms desperately searching for his solid flesh. I had been brought from near death, and the journey had been fought for this man, for this moment. I bit him on his neck, tasting the realness of him, and let my head fall back upon the pillow as his lips found mine again. Goose bumps lifted my skin, stretching it tight across my bones.

  His warm breath kissed the hollow between my breasts, his words vibrating against my sensitive skin. “I thought I would die from wanting you.” He closed his eyes, the dark brows knitted in concentration. He opened them again, his gaze piercing me. “And now I might die from losing you.”

  I shook my head, afraid to speak lest I cry. I lifted the quilt over us, creating a pocket of warmth, and pulled him to me. His voice came deep and tremulous in our dark cocoon. “I feel as if I have touched you before, as if my hands and body have loved you forever.” His fingers moved against my skin, then stopped, and I gasped, wanting to beg for more or for mercy, but not finding the place inside me from where words come.

  Sharp teeth bit my earlobe, and I twitched under him. His fingers feathered over my thigh, and I sighed, melting into the pillow as his face pressed against my hair and his breath wrapped around my neck. “I have known your scent all my life, it seems. Why do you think that is, Laura? Have we always been lovers? Not here, but in some other place?”

  I had no words to offer, so I pulled him toward me, showing him my answer while the lonely moon rose in the sky, and battles raged and lives were lost on the other side of our horizon. And outside our warm cocoon, with the flames crackling in the fireplace, the answers to questions that could not be easily answered waited in the dark corners of the room.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ’Tis all a Chequer-board of nights and Days

  Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays;

  Hither and thither moves, and mates and slays,

  And one by one back in the closet lays.

  —OMAR KHAYYAM

  I drowsily opened an eye. From the dim light in the cabin I realized it was late afternoon, the slanting sunlight from the windows reaching out silent fingers toward the bed. My head nestled on Stuart’s arm; our legs entangled, his rhythmic breathing the only sound.

  I shifted my head slightly to admire his profile: the straight nose; the high, broad cheekbones. In sleep he was beautiful, reminiscent of a marble effigy I had seen on an old tomb on a visit to England. I shivered. Embers glowed in the fireplace, but I resisted the impulse to leave the comfort and slow, steady heat of Stuart’s arms to restart the fire.

  A deep rumbling began in Stuart’s chest and I raised my head to see if he had awakened. His eyes remained closed, but his head twitched on the pillow, his eyebrows furrowed together. His muscles stiffened under me as he wrestled with the demons in his dream.

  He bolted upright in bed, a warrior’s cry on his lips, the sound echoing off the rafters. His broad shoulders shone with perspiration as he bent forward, his head in his hands. “Oh, God,” he whispered, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

  I couldn’t see the assaults of men in blue and gray, rifles lifted, bodies falling. Nor hear the blasts of angry artillery as it blew bits of horses and men across a battlefield. But I could see the tension in his back and the desolation in his eyes, and I knew Stuart did see.

  He startled when I touched him but quickly drew me to him and buried his face in my hair. “Laura.” His voice was muffled but the tone of affirmation in his voice clear.

  I lifted my head to look in his eyes. “I’m here, Stuart.” I smoothed the hair back from his forehead and then rested my hands on his neck. His pulse skipped and raced under my fingers, and I knew his battles were still raging. “I’m here,” I said again as I leaned forward to kiss his neck. He tasted of warm sleep and salt, and I kissed him again.

  He took my head in both hands. “Yes, Laura, now. But will you always be?”

  “Isn’t now enough?”

  The pressure of his hands on my head increased. “No.”

  The fear and desperation of his dream filled his eyes, the eyes of a soldier. They were foreign to me, and I felt a flash of alarm.

  “You’re hurting me. Please let go.”

  He began shaking, and the pressure eased as he removed his hands, staring at them as if they didn’t belong to him. “Forgive me. This war dehumanizes us.”

  “I know.” I grabbed his hands and turned them over to kiss each roughened palm. I had felt how gentle his hands could be. Wanting to erase the haunting images in his mind’s eye, I held his shoulders and pulled him down on the pillow once more.

  His gentleness was gone this time, his lips hard on mine, his body rough and demanding. His lovemaking left me feeling like a shattered and fallen star, splintering down toward earth, then coming to re
st on the barren winter grass.

  * * *

  The last sliver of light disappeared from the floor, leaving only the dim glow of dusk from the windows illuminating the room. Slipping on his pants, Stuart walked across the room to rekindle the fire and then returned to the bed with me.

  I rubbed my hand against his cheek. “You shaved.”

  “I was ordered to.” His cheek creased as he smiled.

  “I didn’t order you. I’m much more subtle than that.”

  “Subtle, hmm? I do not think I noticed that about you.”

  I elbowed him in the ribs, making him grunt.

  “Why hasn’t Zeke come back?” My fingers were busy entangling themselves in the black thickness of his hair, brushing it off his forehead.

  “He will not be back for a while—he might even spend the night in the woods.” Stuart cocked an eyebrow. “He knows. He always knows things that are not always apparent to others.”

  “Won’t he and the others be scandalized?”

  “Not Zeke, and I doubt anyone else would find out. I think that the citizens of Roswell are too busy worrying about their next meal to worry about who is going around unchaperoned.”

  “But it’s freezing outside. It’s making me feel incredibly guilty.”

  “Zeke prefers to sleep outside. He once told me that the stars were the eyes of those not yet born. He takes great comfort in sleeping under them.”

  I smiled, resting my head on his shoulder. “That’s beautiful. I’d like to think it was true.” I thought of the eyes of my parents, not yet born, watching over me.

  I ran my finger over a scar on his chest that I had noticed earlier. It was about the size of a quarter, but it must have been deep, because the skin was purpled and puckered. “What’s this?”

  His hand rested over mine. “William. He shot me with an arrow when we were boys. It was an accident.”

  From what I had heard of William, I somehow doubted it.

  He turned to me and touched his lips to mine. “They are the color of moss, I think.”

  I looked at him questioningly.

  “Your eyes. It will always be your eyes that I will think about when I am away from you.”

  I held a finger to his lips. “Don’t. Don’t talk about us not being together.”

  “Then stay, Laura. We could—”

  “Sh,” I said, and leaned forward to kiss him and silence the next words from his lips. Words that I expected to be my undoing.

  A booming shot filled the room, echoing from the nearby woods. Stuart had scrambled from the bed and pulled on his shirt by the time I realized it had been the sound of a shotgun.

  “Wouldn’t that be Zeke hunting?” I was reluctant to move from the comfort of the quilt.

  Looking down to button his shirt, his reply was muffled. “Most likely. But he said he was checking traps. He would only use his gun if he ran into trouble. I had best make sure he is all right.”

  “What kind of trouble?” I wrapped the quilt around me and walked over to him as he buttoned up his coat and buckled his belt over it.

  “If a catamount became interested in Zeke’s trap, there might be a fight. Zeke could probably take care of it, but I would like to make sure.”

  He avoided my eyes as he settled his hat on his head. I grabbed his elbow as he reached for the rifle. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Pulling a sidearm from its holster, he handed it to me. “Do you know how to use this?”

  Reluctant to touch it, I stepped back. “Why would I need that?”

  He opened the gun, checked it for ammunition, then snapped it shut. “These are uncertain times. I cannot leave you here unprotected.”

  I straightened my spine. “Then you had better show me how to use that thing.”

  It was the first gun I’d ever held, and I found this Colt Navy to be surprisingly light. Stuart showed me how to cock the hammer and quickly moved aside as I pointed the gun at him. “Watch where you aim that. It has an easy trigger.”

  He took the gun from me, released the hammer, and laid it on the table. “I want you to keep the door latched and only open it when you hear our voices. Do you understand?”

  I nodded, feeling numb. He wrapped his arms around me. “It is probably nothing. I just want to make sure.”

  I reached my arms around his neck, letting the quilt fall, and kissed him solidly.

  “We will talk when I get back.” Stooping, he picked up the quilt and handed it to me. “And you might want to get dressed, just in case Zeke gets back before I do. Not that I think he will be surprised, but he is my grandfather.”

  “Be careful.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said softly, and let himself out the door.

  Drops of rain spotted the wood planks of the porch, blown by a strong wind. I latched the door and stood there briefly, my hands flat on the hardwood, and whispered a little prayer.

  The cabin suddenly seemed vast and empty. I walked over to the fire to stoke it, making the wood pop and crackle, the homey scent of pine filling the room. I found a clean nightgown Julia must have sent with the soap, and I slipped it over my head and began to wait.

  The thick silence of the evening woods filled the air with a palpable heaviness. A discernible feeling of expectation lingered on the darkened windowsills. I peered out into the emptiness and saw only my reflection, my eyes wide. The wind battered the small cabin, the rain falling heavier as the night progressed.

  I paced the room until my gaze rested on the full bookshelves. I pulled out Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, smiling to myself as I thought of Zeke reading about the French Revolution.

  Propping myself up in the bed, I placed the gun on the bedside table within easy reach and began to read. My eyelids grew heavy as the fire burned low, and I quickly fell asleep.

  The gray tones of dawn sent a tentative light into the darkened cabin. The fire had long since gone out, explaining the numbing cold that permeated the room. I sat up abruptly, the heavy book sliding off my lap. I had no idea how long I had been asleep.

  I crept out of bed. The early light lent a muted quality to the colors of the room, as if I were still dreaming. But the sharp poke of the table corner told me I was indeed wide-awake.

  Gnawing worry invaded the morning peacefulness. The men had not returned, and I had no idea what to do next. I walked to the window, my footsteps sounding oddly muffled. Peering out, I was met by thick, swirling puffs of fog. I leaned my forehead against the glass but could see only the hulking shadows of trees near the house.

  A shout in the distance made me jump. It had definitely been a male voice. I sprang to the door, unlatched it, and opened it wide.

  The crisp smell of morning and wet pine straw greeted me as I stood on the porch and strained my eyes to see beyond the steps. I took a few hesitant steps before stopping, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at attention, a primordial sign of warning. The soft whinnying of a horse came from nearby. “Stuart?” I called.

  A footfall came from behind me. “Turn around slowly.”

  Despite the frigid morning, sweat ran under my armpits. I turned to face the double barrel of a rifle not two inches from my face. I could not see them through the thick mist, but I felt two dark eyes boring into me.

  “Why are you doing this, Pamela? I’ve never done anything to you.” I amazed myself with my calmness. Inside, my stomach churned with terror.

  “I am afraid I must disagree.” She nudged me in the arm with the barrel. “Let us go inside. We have a little talking to do.”

  She followed me into the cabin, closing and latching the door behind me. “Sit down.”

  I allowed myself to drop into the rocker, not taking my eye off the rifle. I had seen the gun before in this cabin. I knew it was Zeke’s.

 
; “Where’s Zeke?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  Without turning her back to me, she examined every detail in the room, her eyes registering surprise as she took in the well-stocked bookshelves. Her gaze drifted to the tousled bed. “Ah. So you have seduced Stuart. I warned him, but he would not listen. Just like a man. I have found that the best way to deal with a man is to eliminate him—just like Julia’s father.” She chuckled lightly.

  “Where is Zeke?” I repeated, refusing to be goaded.

  Pamela hooked a chair leg with her foot and dragged it out from under the table to sit. “Somewhere in the woods.” She paused to give me a wide grin. “With a bullet in him. And I hit him in the head with the butt of my rifle for good measure.”

  “Why?” I started to stand up, but her rifle motioned me back. “What has he ever done to you?”

  “He helped you. That makes him my enemy.”

  My mouth went dry and I could almost hear my heart thumping. “I don’t understand.”

  Her look softened slightly as she raised a quizzical smile. “Do you really not know who I am?”

  I shook my head, then forced myself to ask the next question. “Where’s Stuart?” I clung to the chair like a lifeboat. No matter how much I wanted to get up and run, I knew just as strongly that Pamela would have no problem with shooting me before I reached the door. She had already tried to kill me once before.

  “He is alive—for now. I find that keeping the two of you alive would be a most prudent move on my part. You are far more useful to me living. Right now, anyway.”

  I tried to reason with her. “Pamela, I think you are a very sick woman. I know you didn’t mean to hurt Zeke—or me. Perhaps there are doctors who can help you. Just put down the gun so there are no more accidents.”

  She stared at me, amazement spreading across her face. “I know who you are. Do you not know who I am?”

  Where is Stuart? I glanced at the window, white wisps of fog still stroking the glass. “I know you’re a spy for the Confederates, if that’s what you mean. But I am not a Yankee spy, as you probably think. I don’t think I’m even capable of choosing sides in this conflict.” I kept talking, hoping it would buy me time until Stuart returned.