Forbidden

by Susan Johnson

  "You're back," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face, as though he had indeed returned from the dead for her.

  "I couldn't leave you."

  "I asked the spirits on the other side of the slippery log to send you back." And she had, with a solemn earnestness attuned to a spiritual world of magic and reality so intertwined, she didn't doubt now they'd listened to her plea.

  "Voila ," he murmured, his smile achingly beautiful.

  She sat up then, opening her arms in welcome, her dark liquid eyes still half-lashed and drowsy with sleep.

  "I'm wet," he said, taking her hands in his before she touched him.

  "You're alive," she softly corrected.

  He nodded, gracefully rising and pulling her upright in one fluid movement. Taking her in his arms, they stood body-to-body for a lengthening space of time, savoring their nearness, her face lifted to his, his gaze consumed with the beauty of her smile.

  "You shouldn't have volunteered," she chastised in the convoluted reasoning of a dream recaptured, wanting to rearrange the sequence of the horrendous events. "I'm never allowing you out of my sight again." Her smile defined her raillery, but in a less conciliatory way she meant it.

  "The dynamiting almost went perfectly," he diplomatically, said, the sound of her voice paradise, the feel of her in his arms beyond paltry definition. He smiled, thinking he'd trade this sensation for any golden-tongued articulation, and thinking, too, I'm going to kiss her—for a thousand years or so. His jubilant bliss swept aside theories of relativity. Savoring his anticipatory joy, he understood the word future held new meaning. It was a minute second-by-second, breath-by-breath appreciation of life.

  He would never rush again.

  "Trewayne said you saved him."

  "He fell." The Duc's words were simple, an honorable man doing the expected.

  "I won't let you go underground again."

  His smile lit up his eyes. "I adore your orders. Have I told you that?" He hadn't of course. In the past, he'd either ignored them or circumvented them or allowed her her way with his own special style of gallantry.

  "I mean it, Etienne." She wouldn't ever. "I'm serious."

  "It's like falling off a horse, darling," he murmured, lowering his head, his mouth drifting nearer.

  Daisy's heart began beating in swift and pulsing rhythm, as the small flurry of his warm breath touched her face. "I'm truly serious," she repeated, but her voice had lost its admonishing edge.

  "I'll take you with me." An ambiguity imbued his quiet murmur.

  And with his lips brushing hers, Daisy absorbed both the tremulous sensation and his seductive words. "We'll talk about it," she whispered, not totally beyond reason yet, the cold fear of having almost lost him still starkly real.

  "I have to get these wet clothes off and then we'll talk." His mouth moved lazily over hers, a teasing pressure of anticipation.

  "We should talk first."

  "I'll catch pneumonia." Blatant irony infused his tone.

  "I'll keep you warm."

  "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "Seduction doesn't solve every problem."

  "Really." His crooked grin lifted his brow too.

  "I'm not so easily distracted from a very serious issue."

  He adored her lack of levity, the serious, essential elements ingrained in her character that viewed the world as fixable with either determination or obstinacy or sheer iron will… that resolute energy driving her to accomplish so much for herself and others. That same energy, in the form of her bold assurance, had first attracted him that night at Adelaide's, as had, of course, her obvious and sultry beauty. "I'll have to reassess my methodology then," he said with teasing expediency.

  "That would be wise."

  What he meant didn't involve wisdom—what he had in mind was more fundamental. More basic. Less intellectual. Less talk, he thought with masculine disregard for interpretive topicality, and considerably more touching.

  When he kissed her again short seconds later with a special emphasis on touching, her eyes opened wide in momentary astonishment, and then her lashes fell, a small moan trembled in her throat, instant flame exploded through her senses, and serious issues took flight.

  And the words he murmured in the next moment, as his mouth moved across her cheek in a brushing caress to nuzzle the softness near her ear, had to do with how much he loved her and how he intended to show the extent of his love. Those whispered words melted into her brain, heating her senses and intellect. Some were small instructions for later, others were petting, coaxing words that fired her imagination. And when he reminded her of what the shepherd and shepherdesses had witnessed from their vantage point on the boudoir walls above his barge's harem bed, she was lost.

  "You can't always win this way," she said in breathless remonstrance, her hands moving already to unbutton the smooth leather of his coat.

  "Next time it's your turn." His hands were sliding under the crimson wool of her sweater, his slender fingers warm, although her skin was warmer, heated, waiting to be touched.,

  "It's my turn this time too," she said with a grin. "You'll be happy you came back from the dead."

  Their eyes met for a moment in the shadowed room, and beneath and above and beyond the teasing, both viewed the extravagant wonder of their love reflected in the confronting glance. Brilliant green held umber depths in a moment of suspended benediction. They had found each other again across the great black abyss, their love restored against odds no gambler would have risked.

  And then Etienne's mouth curved into a wolfish grin, habitual and familiar, less terrifying than the reminders of what they'd almost lost. "How happy?" he softly inquired.

  "Let me show you," she said, her smile dazzling.

  And she did.

  They lay afterward in the sleigh bed he'd purchased for his new home in Montana, the drapes thrown open, the afternoon sun a mellow glow illuminating the room.

  "Welcome home," Daisy murmured, her body warm against his, her smile the young-girl smile he remembered from that first afternoon at Colsec when she'd asked if she could untie the ribbons on her shoes.

  "I think I'm going to stay this time," he quietly replied, everything else in his life insignificant against the fragility of life and the beauty of their love. His deep sense of gratitude for having cheated death tempered the significance of enterprises that in the past had seemed important. There were limits to one's allotted time on earth.

  Daisy understood. "I'll help you raise polo ponies."

  He looked down at her from under the dark fringe of his lashes. "And who will single-handedly orchestrate the court cases?"

  "Some of the others of our twenty-odd lawyers."

  "We're intemperate souls."

  "It's why we get along… so well."

  He smiled. "You can help me sometimes raise polo ponies," he said. "The Braddock-Black empire needs you."

  "And Bourges will require directions occasionally."

  He sighed, accepting the advent of reality in their golden world. "Yes."

  "But we'll still find time for—gratitude." A thankfulness that went beyond the ordinary, she meant, a thankfulness for the second chance they'd been given.

  "Yes," he said again, his bruised and lacerated body a potent reminder. "I'll never forget that." He'd come too close to dying, too close to losing Daisy forever.

  "And we'll start an American branch of the de Vecs."

  His arms tightened around her. "I'll have to buy more land then."

  "Buy a lot." Her chin was resting on his chest, her eyes close and warm and dazzling in their splendor.

  "Are you saying I've a production quota to fulfill?"

  "That's what I'm saying."

  "How nice," he said, pulling her up so her mouth was almost touching his, ignoring the twinge of pain her movement provoked. "Should we being practicing now for—"

  She nodded her head, her tongue coming out to lick his bottom lip. "So you don't lose your touch,"
she whispered.

  For a man who had kept his touch honed to perfection for a very long time, the Duc sensibly replied as if the concept were novel, "What a good idea."

  * * *

  The staff had been absent when Etienne arrived because Louis had assembled them in the kitchen to issue instructions on Miss Daisy's care in the coming days. He wished her treated with the utmost solicitude, she would require privacy for her mourning, and under no circumstances was the Duc's name to be mentioned unless she herself brought it up. Cook was to prepare her tastiest morsels to tempt Miss Daisy's appetite, and everyone was to move about the house as quietly as possible in order not to disturb her sleep. And until further orders from Miss Daisy, she wasn't at home to visitors.

  He took great care preparing his mama's almond milk himself, hoping it would help Daisy sleep through the worst night she'd face in the painful aftermath of the Duc's death. And Cook added her special macaroons to the silver tray.

  Louis was shocked when he knocked some time later and the Duc's voice bade him enter. Years of serving the unconventional and reckless Duc had developed a certain imperturbability, however, and his aplomb was only momentarily shaken.

  Entering the sunny room, his smile lifted the small trim ends of his moustache, although his voice, when he spoke, was temperate. "It's a pleasure to have you back, sir," he said.

  "Some people are harder to kill than others," the Duc said from the comfort of his bed, his grin wide.

  "How very fortunate, Monsieur le Duc, for us all."

  "Daisy tells me you'd agreed to stay on." Etienne held Daisy's hand in his, the covers pulled up to her shoulders. Undeterred by his own nudity, he reclined against the pillows, partially covered by a sheet.

  "I was pleased to, sir."

  "I'm glad. We need you, Louis. Soon you'll have another de Vec to raise up properly." Louis had been Etienne's father's valet until his death and took charge of Etienne when he became Duc. Louis had taught him much.

  "I'm looking forward, sir, to the undertaking."

  "And Daisy tells me she has plans to burden you with further charges as well, so be forewarned."

  Far from being embarrassed with Etienne's teasing familiarity, Daisy experienced a warm glow of contentment knowing he was pleased enough to speak openly about their plans for a family.

  "Whatever Miss Daisy wishes, sir," Louis replied with a quiet formality. "I am at her service. For you, Miss Daisy," he said, placing the small silver tray with the pot of warm almond milk and cookies on the nightstand. "I thought you might need some fortification after your ordeal. Would you like some too, sir? The milk will strengthen and soothe after your hardships. It's very healthy, as you know."

  Glancing at Daisy, Etienne noted her eyes were sparkling with laughter.

  "You can't have mine," she said.

  The Duc struggled to keep his voice steady. "I'll require some of my own then, Louis." Only the supremest act of will kept his mouth from twitching into a grin.

  "Very good, sir." Ten generations of ducal valets echoed in the tranquility of Louis's voice. "Would you like macaroons as well?"

  "Yes, Louis, macaroons too." There was pleasure in making decisions of such a trivial nature.

  In the interim, while Louis prepared the Duc's glass of almond milk, Daisy called her parents. Hazard and Trey had just received the news on their return to the mine.

  "You owe us drinks at Skala's," Trey sportively reminded the Duc when he got on the phone to detail his survival.

  Blaze and Empress were ecstatic. A miracle had occurred, they all agreed.

  And when Louis returned with Etienne's milk, he was directed to take any further calls.

  "We don't wish to be disturbed," Etienne said.

  "Would you like dinner later, sir?"

  "Much later."

  "Yes, sir."

  Cook was informed without inflection or insinuation that the Duc and Miss Daisy would be dining very late that evening. "I suggest you take a nap, Mrs. Devisment, now while you can." No one understood the subtleties of Etienne's moods better than Louis.

  The merits of warm almond milk were tested in a variety of spontaneous revelations that afternoon. Nonscientific experiments. But gratifying. An empirical demonstration of almond milk's potential as an aphrodisiac.

  The Doucet at-home gowns were taken from their boxes and used for the purpose for which they'd been designed—shameless and brazen adjuncts to heated passion. The Duc's leather chair was tested for both its design possibilities and its palpably sleek texture on naked skin. The velvet couch had been purchased for a variety of reasons, one of which was self-evident and conspicuous for its comfort. Even a man as large as the Duc was easily accommodated in an unreserved variety of carnal positions.

  And much, much later, lying in each other's arms in the shambles of the bed, they contemplated the rich intensity of their feelings. Heated, sweat-sheened, their breath still irregular, their hearts warm with contentment, they smiled at each other in silent communication. The white silk coverlet trailed on the floor, the sheets were in tangled disarray at the foot of the bed, the cadence of their breathing fitful and erratic, the only sound in the fire-lit silence of the room.

  "You haven't… lost your touch," Daisy panted, finding enough breath to speak first, gazing up at Etienne from where she lay in the curve of his arm, her dark hair like a black river of silk in the moonlight.

  Half turning so his lean muscled body touched hers down its long length, he smiled from very close range, his celebrated smile sending tingles down her spine. "Well, thank you, ma'am," he said, still breathing hard, his heated body sleek with sweat, his smile angelic. "We… try."

  * * *

  FOOTNOTES

  1 . Lyda Burton Conley, of Kansas City, was the first Native American woman lawyer in the United States. Admitted to the Kansas bar in 1910, she'd begun studying law in 1904 in order to represent herself and the Wyandotte tribe in a lawsuit against the United States government. The Wyandotte tribe had settled in Kansas in the midnineteenth century and were nearly wiped out by a smallpox epidemic that killed Conley's mother and three hundred others in 1844. The victims were interred at Huron Park in separate burial grounds that the U.S. Secretary of the Interior had authorized razed in 1904 to make way for a commercial development project. Lyda and her sister Lena, outraged that the sanctity of the burial grounds would be violated in such a cavalier manner, built a hut on the grounds, close to the graves of their parents, loaded their guns and sent word out that the first man to turn a sod over one of the graves would either turn another for the Conley sisters or have some other person perform a like service for himself. Armed with a musket and standing watch in the shack, Lyda Burton Conley studied for the bar examinations and prepared research for her upcoming litigation. For nearly six years, the rightful ownership of the cemetery remained in doubt. The case eventually went to the U.S. Supreme Court where not unexpectedly, the Court refused to interfere with the decision of Congress and the Department of the Interior. But while the Con-ley sisters lost the case, they won the battle, for their actions had brought so much attention to the proposed land deal that in 1912, the House Indian Affairs Committee reported a bill prohibiting removal of the cemetery.

  2 . There actually was a Judge Nott who expressed this sentiment to Belva A. Lockwood, a Washington, D.C. attorney during the Raines case in c. 1875 when she was attempting to plead a case in a federal court. She was denied admittance, the substitute male lawyer lost the case, allowing her the opportunity to appeal and argue the case before the United States Supreme Court. She was however also denied the right to practice in the Supreme Court.

  The opinion of the Supreme Court in the Lockwood denial is typical of the arguments used at the time to bar women from the courts:

  "By the uniform practice of the court, from its organization to the present time, and by the fair construction of its rule, none but men are admitted to practice before it as attorneys and counselors. This is in accordance
with immemorial usage in England, and the law and practice in all the States until within a recent period; and the Court does not feel called upon to make a change, until such change is required by statute, or a more extended practice in the highest courts of the States… As this Court knows no English precedent for the admission of women to the bar, it declines to admit, unless there shall be a more extended public opinion or special legislation."

  As for the argument made by the Court that women in England could not practice law, Myra Bradwell, an Illinois woman trained as a lawyer who published the Chicago Legal News, noted in one of her editorials: "According to our Canadian and English brothers it would be cruel to allow a woman to 'embark upon the rough and troubled sea of actual legal practice,' but not to allow her to govern all England with Canada and other dependencies thrown in. Our brothers will get used to it and then it will not seem any worse to them to have women practicing in the courts than it does to have a queen rule over them." (Queen Victoria reigned 1837-1901.)

  Realizing federal legislation would be required, Belva Lock-wood drafted a bill specifically providing for admission of women to the federal courts and persuaded Representative Benjamin F. Butler to submit it. The first and second bills she drafted never got to the floor of the House, but in 1878, the House passed Bill No. 1077, which gave women attorneys access to the federal courts. After another year of buttonholing senators in the corridors of the Capitol, the "Lockwood" bill passed the Senate in 1879 after three years of extensive lobbying, and President Rutherford B. Hayes signed it into law.

  3 . This speech is excerpted from a longer opinion of a Judge Edward Ryan of the Wisconsin Supreme Court in 1875 in denying Lavinia Goodell admission to the state bar. Since law practice on the county level often didn't require admission to a state or territorial bar, women lawyers were able to practice locally. But the admission of women to state bars became a state-by-state struggle. Belle Babb Mansfield has the distinction of being the first woman in the United States to be formally admitted to the bar. In June 1869, Iowa allowed her admittance. The following year the Iowa State Legislature ensured the admission of women to the profession by removing the restrictive gender language in its admissions statute. Over the next five decades, women were slowly allowed equal rights to practice as attorneys, Delaware having the dubious distinction of being the last state to admit women to its bar in 1923. Montana's first woman lawyer, Ella Knowles Haskell, was admitted to the bar in 1889.