“You were looking for me, you said,” I remarked quietly. “Was there something you wanted?”
We stopped in front of the back steps. A light burned in the kitchen, streaming out on the porch, and I could see his face. It was still expressionless … guarded, as though it required a concentrated effort to conceal any emotion.
“I’m going to Charles Town tomorrow, Marietta. I thought you might like to come with me.”
I was surprised, too surprised to reply, and Hawke waited a moment before continuing. His voice was flat as he did. “You refused any kind of reward for what you did when the copperhead bit me. I thought a trip to Charles Town might suffice. I’m sure there are things you need to buy for the kitchen—sugar, coffee, surely we’re running low of something.”
“I thought you bought all the supplies.”
“Ordinarily I do.”
“I—I don’t know why you’d want to take me. I don’t expect any kind of reward for what I did. I did it because—”
“Look,” he interrupted, and his voice was edged with irritation now, “I’m going, and you can go with me or stay here. It doesn’t matter to me! I simply thought the trip might please you. I’ll be leaving at six o’clock in the morning—I’ll expect breakfast on the table at five-thirty. If you plan to go with me, be ready!”
He marched up the steps, strode across the porch, and opened the back door, letting it slam behind him as he disappeared into the house. I could hear angry footsteps moving through the kitchen and down the hall, and then there was only the sound of the crickets under the steps. That sudden outburst of temperament surprised me, and it pleased me as well. I wondered if that icy wall he had built around him was finally beginning to crack.
VI
The sky was still a murky blue-black when we departed the next morning in the wagon Hawke had used to bring me to Shadow Oaks. He owned no elegant carriage, no jaunty rig, this creaking old farm wagon sufficed for all his needs. After breakfast, he had given orders to Adam and Mattie regarding everything he expected to be done while he was gone. Adam had been concerned about the cotton, venturing the opinion that it should be picked immediately. Hawke told him it could wait until he returned. The weather was hot and dry. There was little chance of rain. A rainstorm, I knew, could destroy the crop, but we would only be gone for three days, arriving back home on the afternoon of the third. He wasn’t really running a risk by putting off the picking for such a short time.
Hawke had not commented when he saw me dressed and ready to accompany him. I wore the best dress I owned, a rusty brown cotton striped with thin gold stripes, but even so, it had been laundered too often and was patched in a number of places. My silk stockings were a pair I had saved from more affluent days, and the brown high-heeled slippers showed signs of age. Hawke wore his work clothes, although I knew he carried finer things in the bag in the back of the wagon.
The sun began to come up as we rode down the rough dirt road, and by the time we passed Magnolia Grove, Maud Simmons’s place, the pink blush of dawn had given way to bright sunlight. Slaves were working in the fields, picking the cotton and dropping it in huge cloth bags they dragged along behind them. In the distance I saw the plantation house, small but lovely with tall white columns supporting a double verandah. On either side grew the tall waxy green trees that gave the place its name, the limbs studded with huge white blossoms that looked even more like wax. Magnolia Grove made Shadow Oaks seem even shabbier in comparison, as did the other plantation houses we passed during the next few hours. In almost every field the slaves were busily picking the cotton, and I was beginning to wonder whether Hawke had been wise to leave at this particular time, weather or no.
The road didn’t get any better. It was uneven, filled with holes, and I was frequently thrown against him. Once I had to grab his arm to keep from tumbling off the seat. There were stretches of road where tall trees grew on either side, their limbs interlocking overhead to form a living green tunnel. The oaks were dripping with the same grayish-green moss that hung from those back at the plantation. Mattie had identified it as Spaniard’s Beard. It was lovely, trailing down over the road in lacy shreds, unlike anything I had ever seen in England.
Derek Hawke was in an uncommunicative mood. He had not spoken to me since we left the house. I wondered if he was still angry with me because I hadn’t burst into paeans of joy when he told me about the trip. On three occasions he had to steer the wagon over to the side of the road so that the carriages coming from the opposite direction could pass. Each time the occupants stared openly, and I knew that it wouldn’t take long for word to get around that Hawke was on his way to Charles Town with his indentured wench at his side. I felt sure that all his neighbors already believed I was his bedmate, and I felt just as sure that Hawke couldn’t have cared less what they thought. I knew from what Maud had told me that he was adamantly independent, a man unconcerned with the opinions of others.
Around one o’clock, when the sun was high, he pulled the wagon off onto a grassy slope beneath some oak trees. We got out of the wagon, and I took down the basket of food I had prepared before we left. While I spread a cloth and took out the food, Hawke stretched out on the grass, on his back, his hands behind his head. He still hadn’t spoken to me, and I was determined not to be the first to break the silence. Lolling there on the grass like that, he looked like some indolent pasha, lids drooping heavily, wide lips slightly parted. I longed to throw the iced tea in his face. Instead, I poured it into the glasses I had brought along.
“It’s ready?” he asked idly.
“It’s ready.” My voice was crisp.
“Hand me a drumstick.”
“You’re just going to lie there and let me—”
“Right,” he drawled.
He rolled over on his side and propped himself up on one elbow, taking the drumstick in his other hand. I waited on him like an Oriental handmaiden, doing everything short of dropping grapes in his opened mouth, and Hawke enjoyed every moment of it. Although I was fuming inside, I had to admit that I preferred this lazy, languorous Hawke to the tight-lipped, stony-faced man who had been sitting beside me all morning. I realized anew that I didn’t really know him at all. Behind that icy wall he ordinarily kept around him dwelled a creature of mercurial temperament, capable of many moods. The Hawke stretched out beside me now was a superb sensual animal. He gazed at me with slumbrous eyes, as though he were contemplating long hours of unhurried lovemaking here on the grass, beneath the boughs of the oaks.
“Are you finished?” I asked.
Hawke nodded, his dark gray eyes continuing in that disturbing fashion.
“Then I suppose we’d better be going,” I remarked.
“There’s no hurry. Charles Town’s only three or four hours away. We have plenty of time.”
The sun slanted through the boughs overhead in wavering yellow rays swirling with dust motes, and the long grayish moss trailing down swayed slowly to and fro. I packed the things away, nervous, my hands trembling, and his eyes never left me. I knew full well what he was contemplating. It was there in his eyes. Derek Hawke wanted me. I was no longer merely his chattel. I was a woman, warm flesh, capable of satisfying the craving that plainly throbbed within him.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said.
I folded the cloth and placed it on top of the basket, not looking at him.
“A woman like you could drive a man to distraction—if he let her, if he was fool enough.”
I turned then and looked him full in the face, sitting there with my legs folded under me, my hands in my lap. I sat very still, waiting, my pulses racing, the back of my throat tight and dry. I longed for him to reach out to me, and yet I was frightened, too, frightened by the sheer intensity of feeling.
Both of us heard the horse hooves and rumbling wheels at the same time. Hawke scowled, and the heady aura of sensuality vanished abruptly. He climbed to his feet in one quick movement, shoving his hand against the front of his breeche
s at the same time. He stepped over to the horses and began to fiddle angrily with the harness, and I stood up and carried the basket over to the wagon, placing it inside just as the carriage drove past. The man driving it waved. Hawke nodded curtly.
“Get in the wagon!” he said sharply. “We’ve wasted enough time.”
He was seething with anger, his face stern and stormy, lips set in a tight line. He was angry with himself because he had almost been a “fool,” angry with me because I was the temptress who had almost made him abandon his good judgment. He blamed me, I knew, even though I had done nothing to stir that urgent lust that had swelled within him. It was unfair, terribly unfair, and I resented his anger, though I dared not say or do anything that might make it worse. I climbed into the wagon with as much dignity as possible, and Hawke swung himself up beside me and took the reins in his hands.
We rode mile after mile in silence. An hour passed, and then another, and though the seething anger had vanished, he had never been more remote. Back there on the side of the road I had seen a relaxed, lazy male animal, and once or twice before I had sensed a curious vulnerability about this steely, unapproachable man who sat beside me on the wagon seat. I wondered what he had been like before he had thrown up his protective shell. Had there been openness and warmth and charm? Would I ever know the real Derek Hawke?
I loved him, and he knew that now. When I had turned to him there on the grass, waiting, waiting for that awesome moment to pass, for him to reach out to me, I had been unable to conceal the emotions inside. I knew that my love had shone clearly in my eyes, and I knew that he had seen it and recognized it for what it was. I had vowed he would never know, yet I hadn’t been able to help myself. In that instant before the sound of the approaching carriage shattered the mood completely, my eyes had been filled with longing for him, with love, and though he had given no sign, Hawke had seen.
For better or worse, he knew, and while the knowledge was a weapon he could use against me to inflict deep hurt, I didn’t care. I had fallen in love with Derek Hawke against my will, against all reason, and I knew in my heart that I would never love another man. A strange destiny had brought us together, and though destiny might separate us, there would never again be this beautiful and tormenting emotion that was now as much a part of me as the blood coursing through my veins. He was the one fate had decreed I love, the only one who would ever be able to stir this feeling that quickened and glowed like some radiance caught inside of me.
Another hour passed. I began to smell the salty tang in the air and knew we were nearing the coast. The road was wider, less rough than before, and the wagon moved at a leisurely pace. There were many more carriages and wagons and, as we drew nearer the city, fine houses and tall tropical trees I couldn’t identify. We arrived in Charles Town around six o’clock in the afternoon. It was much larger than the port that had been my first sight of America. America might be a vast wilderness, but Charles Town had an air of Old World charm and a curious sophistication that was immediately apparent. The cobbled streets were lined with shops displaying fine wares. In the distance I could see the masts of the ships docked along the waterfront.
Hawke left the wagon at the stables and led me down the street to the inn, one of a row of beautifully constructed buildings already showing signs of age and the damp sea air. A raggedly dressed black boy followed with our bags, setting them down when we entered the inn and grinning broadly when Hawke handed him a coin. The proprietor bustled forward to greet us. A plump, jovial soul, he seemed surprised when Hawke asked for separate rooms. Scooping up our bags, he led us up the narrow staircase to the second floor and down the hall, chatting exuberantly about the various cargoes currently being unloaded on the docks.
My room was small, with a low, beamed ceiling and creamy plaster walls. The double bed was covered with a patchwork quilt, and there was also a wing-backed chair and a dressing table with murky silver-blue mirror hanging on the wall above it. The single window looked out over the harbor, and a door connected the room with the one adjoining it. I could hear Hawke moving about, putting his things away. Although the proprietor had observed his request for separate rooms, he had seen fit to make any kind of dalliance easily and tactfully accomplished were Hawke to feel so inclined.
I was standing at the window, immersed in thought, when the door between the two rooms opened and Hawke stepped inside.
“You haven’t unpacked,” he remarked.
“Not yet. It’ll only take a minute or so. I … didn’t bring much.”
“You look tired,” he said. His voice was without emotion. He might have been speaking to a total stranger.
“It was a long trip. I suppose I am a bit weary.”
“I suggest you rest for a while, and then I’ll take you to dinner. There’s a particularly nice restaurant down by the wharf. You’ll need to change into something a bit less tattered.”
“I haven’t anything else,” I replied. “This is my best dress. The other one I brought is even—” I hesitated, feeling miserable.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m … really not hungry.”
“Nonsense. We’ll eat in the taproom downstairs. It’s noisy and rowdy, but the clothes you’re wearing will do. I won’t change, either. You get some rest. We’ll go down around eight.”
He left the room, closing the door behind him. I unpacked my bag and, as there was no wardrobe, placed my things in the drawer of the dressing table. Taking off my dress, I gave it a thorough brushing, discovering a new tear in the skirt as I did so. I took out my sewing kit and mended the tear as well as I could. Then I sat down at the dressing table and washed my face with water from the pitcher. This accomplished, I brushed my hair until it gleamed with rich coppery highlights, all the while studying my reflection with blue eyes dark with speculation.
His manner had been cool and curt, yes, but there had been no sign of the anger that had been there earlier. He had even been … considerate, decreeing that we would eat in the taproom because I didn’t have anything suitable to wear to a decent restaurant. He had noticed that I was tired, had told me to rest. Was I reading too much into it? Was I being wildly foolish to hope that he still might drop that icy reserve and let himself be “fool enough” to do what he had been ready to do this afternoon? This trip to Charles Town was my “reward” for saving his life, he claimed, but Derek Hawke never did anything on impulse. He had wanted me with him, had wanted my company. That was a very good sign indeed.
True to his word, he hadn’t changed clothes when he came to take me down to the tap room, although he had cleaned his brown knee boots. He looked exceedingly rugged and strong in the clinging tan breeches and somewhat tattered white shirt with its wide, full sleeves gathered at the wrist. I noticed the barmaid looking at him with frank appraisal as she led us to a table in the corner of the room. Although she was an attractive wench with sultry brown eyes and dark golden hair that fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curly locks, Hawke hardly noticed her. He seemed preoccupied, ordering our meal tersely and then settling back in his chair, immersed in thought and ignoring me completely.
The taproom smelled of beer and sweaty bodies and cigar smoke. Sawdust was scattered over the rough wooden floor and the rumble of hearty male voices, loud and exuberant, was frequently augmented by bursts of raucous laughter. I glanced around curiously. Even though it was in the basement of the inn, and though there was no dart board, the place was not too unlike the Red Lion back in Cornwall where I had sometimes helped my mother serve the customers so many years ago. A number of brawny sailors crowded around the tables, exchanging tales with drunken glee, and several elegantly dressed young blades lounged about looking lordly and ready for mischief. I saw one of them seize the barmaid and give her an ardent, clumsy kiss, plunging his hand into the top of her low-cut white blouse. The girl pulled away from him and slapped his hand, then moved away from the table with hips swaying provocatively. The yo
ung man grinned appreciatively, banging his pewter mug on top of the table.
Several minutes passed, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Hawke was still immersed in thought, apparently unaware that I was sitting across the table from him, and I had the distinct impression that someone was staring at me. I could actually feel a pair of eyes directed at me with such intensity that it was almost like physical contact, most unsettling. I turned to see a young man sitting at a table across the room. He didn’t bother to look away when our eyes met. He kept right on staring with eyes that boldly challenged, their message unmistakable. Surely not more than twenty, he had a lean, wolfish face with a sharp, jutting nose and wide lips that were frankly sensual. His dark brows were peaked, his dark-gold hair clipped in short, uneven locks. Those gleaming green-brown eyes were hypnotic, holding my own, making it impossible for me to turn away.
“You’re staring,” Hawke said sharply. “Stop it at once!”
“I—I didn’t mean—”
“He’s trouble, bad trouble.”
“You know him?”
“All too well. Jason Barnett. I believe I mentioned his name yesterday. The boy’s a notorious womanizer. What he can’t get with his wily ways or his father’s money, he takes by force. No woman’s safe around him.”
I turned to look at the youth again.
“I told you not to stare!”
“I—I’m sorry. I was just—”
“Damn! He’s coming over here. If there’s anything I don’t need, it’s a run-in with a surly young devil like Barnett. I shouldn’t have brought you down here! I should have known you couldn’t keep your eyes off the men.”
“That’s not fair,” I protested. “I felt him staring at me, and I merely—”
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