Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You must let me pay for it,” I protested.

  “You couldn’t afford it, honey. The perfume alone costs a small fortune. I want you to have it—but don’t worry, I’ll make it up. Next time one of those grand matrons comes sashaying in for a new bonnet, I’ll add the cost of the kit to the price of the bonnet. They’ll love it. The more they pay, the happier they are.”

  “You’ve been so kind—”

  “Nonsense. I’ve rarely enjoyed myself so much. What time is it? Four? When’s your man coming back?”

  “Around six.”

  “Well, honey, you rush back to the inn and order a bath. They’ll bring a tub and kettles of hot water up to your room. I’ll send Clarice over with your packages, and she’ll stay to do your hair. She’s my maid, a Creole, been with me ever since New Orleans. Clarice is a wizard when it comes to styling hair, and she’ll have a fit when she sees yours—that color, that texture—” Clara shook her head, a wistful look in her eyes. “Honey, if I were ten years younger, I’d hate your guts.”

  I was moved by the woman’s kindness and generosity. But when I tried to express my gratitude, Clara waved her hand airily, smiling a rueful smile.

  “Ordinarily I’m a raging bitch, but I happened to be in a good mood today. My heart’s not golden, honey, it’s hard as stone. Your man gave you quite a lot of money, remember? You’re leaving the shop flat broke. Do run along now, and good luck.”

  I gave her a sudden hug, unable to resist the impulse. Clara looked surprised, then pleased. Her lusty laughter followed me as I hurried out of the shop.

  Half an hour later I was soaking in a tub of hot water in my room, my hair tied up on top of my head. I had scrubbed myself thoroughly and was luxuriating in the water and suds. Just as I stepped out of the tub to dry off, I heard a timid knock on the door. I wrapped the towel around me and opened the door to see a pair of black slippers, a full maroon silk skirt, and two arms holding a stack of packages that completely concealed the rest of her body.

  “You must be Clarice,” I said. “Just drop the packages on the bed.”

  The girl obeyed and then turned to give me a dazzling smile. Perhaps two or three years older than I, she had dark, luminous black eyes, smooth golden skin and beautifully arranged hair the color of polished teak. Predominately French, the strain of Negro blood gave her a rich, exotic beauty that was most unusual.

  “Madame says tonight is a very special night and that I’m to help you do your hair. It will be a treat for me—such lovely hair.” The girl spoke in a lilting voice with a distinct French accent. “You get into your new petticoat while I go fetch someone to take out this tub.”

  When I opened the first box it was to find an entirely different petticoat from the one I had purchased. I had picked out a simple white shift. This one was beige silk, with half a dozen full skirts festooned with exquisite lace. The message on the card I picked up was simple and direct: “It goes with the dress, honey. I’ll up the price on another bonnet.” When I slipped the sumptuous garment on, it made me feel like a queen.

  After the two servants who returned with Clarice had carried out the tub, water, and kettles, the girl sat down in front of the dressing table and began to comb out my hair. When she left half an hour later, I gazed at myself in the mirror, amazed at the marvels she had wrought. She had pulled my hair back sleekly, shaping it to my skull, and a dozen long, perfectly curled ringlets dangled down in back. I carefully applied dark cinnamon mascara on lashes and brows, tannish-mauve shadow on my lids. I used the rouge sparingly, heightening the color on my high cheekbones, and applied the coral lip rouge just as lightly. We had secretly practiced using makeup when I was in school, and I knew the idea was to subtly emphasize one’s natural coloring.

  Derek Hawke might not notice the makeup, but he was definitely going to notice the perfume, I vowed, using it most generously. After slipping on the new stockings and high-heeled leather shoes, I took out the gown Clara and I had selected. It was topaz-colored silk, with long sleeves and a low-scooped bodice that fitted snugly. The skirt swirled out in glistening folds over the petticoat, pointing up my slender waist. Simple, unadorned with ribbons or ruffles, it was wonderfully elegant, and I knew that we had made a wise choice.

  I felt like a different person as I went down to the lobby to wait for Derek’s return. The happiness I had felt earlier on had been magnified by Madame Clara’s warmth and generosity. I had gone through some bad times, had encountered some terrible people, but it was reassuring to know people like Clara existed in the same world.

  The lobby was deserted, as dusty and depressing as ever, but I didn’t notice its shabbiness now. I was filled with a glow of anticipation, eager for Derek to see me, eager to see the reaction he had when he saw the splendid transformation Clara and Clarice had made possible.

  As I waited, I wondered about the “business” he was attending to today. I doubted seriously that it had anything to do with Shadow Oaks, else he wouldn’t have been dressed so grandly. Did it have something to do with the lawyer back in England? As I had done many times before, I thought about those revealing phrases he had sobbed out in his delirium: “It’ll be settled, I told her … Hawkehouse will be yours and you’ll have a title and riches …” I knew so little about him, nothing about his past. Why had he left England? Why had he bought a run-down plantation in Carolina and then worked like a slave himself to make it successful? Maud claimed he had very little money in the bank, and he must have made thousands. Was he sending it to England, hoping to gain something in return? Had Hawke been cheated out of an inheritance? That would explain his bitterness, his grim determination to succeed.

  Lost in thought, I hadn’t heard anyone enter the lobby, but I suddenly felt a pair of eyes staring at me, just as I had felt them last night down in the taproom. I turned around, uneasy, and the uneasiness increased when I saw Jason Barnett leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, his brown-flecked green eyes full of devilment. A ray of sunlight burnished his short-clipped gold hair, making it gleam darkly, and his face took on an even more wolfish look as his lips spread in a wide grin.

  “Seems like this is my lucky day,” he remarked. “Yes, indeed. Who’d a-thought it after I lost a pile in that card game earlier this afternoon? You waitin’ for me, wench?”

  “I’m waiting for Mr. Hawke,” I said coldly.

  “‘Mr. Hawke,’ is it? Aren’t we grand and formal. Me, though, I like a wench with class. You got that, gal. Don’t know how Hawke ever lucked across you. Shame I wuzn’t at that auction.”

  I turned away haughtily, refusing to reply. Jason Barnett moved over to me with a lithe, stealthy grace. He stood in front of me, grinning, and though he wasn’t at all good-looking, not with those sharp features, that too-wide mouth, there was something about him that was intriguing. I gazed at him with cool, level eyes, praying he’d leave before Derek arrived.

  “Feel like havin’ a little fun, wench?” he inquired.

  “Go away, Mr. Barnett.”

  “Hey, that ain’t no way to be. Me, I can show you a real good time. Dozens-a women’ll testify to that. I got stamina, real lastin’ power. They all squirm and squeal with delight. You look like you could use a treat—”

  “I think you’re disgusting!”

  “Do you now? That’s interesting. Reckon I’m gonna have to take you up to my room and show you what a nice chap I can be. Hawke may not like it, but I couldn’t care less about him. You’re somethin’, wench—”

  He took hold of my wrist and began to lead me toward the stairs. When I tried to pull free, Barnett chuckled, jerked my arm and pulled me against him, wrapping his free arm tightly around my waist. Panic welled up inside of me. My heart began to pound. The more I struggled, the tighter he held me, grinning all the while.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Frisky, ain’t you? I like a woman with spirit, makes it more excitin’. You hold yourself pretty high, don’t you? Carry yourself like a regular lady.
Hell, you’re a convict, an indentured servant. Why, you ain’t one bit better’n a nigger gal, even if your skin is white.”

  The arm wrapped around my waist forced me up against him. His face was inches from my own, and his mouth seemed wider than ever as he parted his lips and leaned down to kiss me. I tried to pull away, but he gripped my chin in a tight clamp and forced me to meet his lips with my own. The boy kissed me ardently, thoroughly, bending me at the waist and forcing me to lean back as his mouth worked greedily. When he finally raised his head, the grin still played on his lips.

  “Still wanna argue? You liked that, wench. You liked it a lot, and that’s just a small sample. I’m gonna show you what it’s all about, and when we’re through, know what you’re gonna do? You’re gonna beg Hawke to sell you to me—”

  “You’re vile!”

  “Don’t get too frisky,” he warned. “I like a little spirit, but there’s a limit. I can get mighty ugly if I want to, and you wouldn’t like that.”

  I lifted my foot and kicked his shin with all the force I could muster. Barnett cried out. His eyes widened in shock. His mouth fell open. He released me abruptly, so abruptly that I fell back against the wall at the foot of the stairs. When he reached down to rub his shin, I tried to slip past him, but he seized my wrist again, clamping his fingers around it in a tight, wiry grip I found impossible to break.

  “No you don’t, wench,” he said, pulling me toward him. “Come along now ’fore I have to get rough.”

  What happened then happened so quickly that it was difficult to follow. Barnett pulled me toward the steps, a wide grin of anticipation on his lips, his eyes alight with excitement, and then he gave a startled cry and I saw a large hand gripping his hair, the fingers tugging at the dark gold locks and pulling him away from the stairs. Barnett let go of me, his arms waving in the air as he stumbled backwards. It was Derek, of course. Neither of us had heard him enter the lobby. He whirled the boy around and delivered a blow across his jaw that sent Barnett reeling across the room. He crashed against the counter with a loud bang and sank to his knees, completely stunned. Derek stood over him, legs wide apart, fists clenched at his side, ready to strike again if necessary.

  “If you so much as touch her again, I’ll kill you,” he said, and his voice was calm, frighteningly calm. “If you so much as look like you want to, I’ll kill you. Do you understand, boy?”

  Still on his knees, Barnett shook his head to clear it and groaned, rubbing his jaw, wincing at the pain. He staggered to his feet, leaning back against the counter and looking up at Hawke with the eyes of a petulant little boy who has been unjustly punished.

  “I just wanted a bit-a fun,” he whined, all his bravado gone now. “I don’t know why ya had to hit me! Hell, she ain’t nothin’ but an indentured wench—”

  Derek’s hands unclenched and flew to the boy’s throat, gripping it with a brutal force that caused his shoulder muscles to bunch up beneath the navy blue jacket. Barnett gasped and made gurgling noises, eyes wide with fright. Although I couldn’t see Derek’s face, I knew it must be as cold and expressionless as his voice.

  “I said I’d kill you, boy, and I meant it—”

  His fingers tightened even more, and he shook the boy as a terrier might shake a mouse. Barnett’s face turned a bright pink, his eyes beginning to protrude. Derek shoved him back until he was leaning over the counter, his feet barely touching the floor, his body like that of a limp rag doll. Horrified, I leaned against the wall, my throat dry, my pulses racing. I was afraid he was actually going to choke the boy to death then and there. I tried to call out, to plead with him to let go, but no sound would come.

  “All I’d have to do would be squeeze just a tiny bit more,” Hawke informed Barnett, ever so calmly. “That’s all it would take. Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

  Barnett was panic-stricken. His face was a deep plum color now, his eyes about to pop out of his head, yet he managed to nod. Derek released him. Barnett slid to the floor, coughing and gasping. Unruffled, looking as though he might have just exchanged a few friendly words, Hawke turned and strolled toward the stairs.

  “Come along, Marietta,” he said.

  He started up the narrow wooden staircase, and I followed, turning once to look back at Barnett, who was on his hands and knees, still making spluttering noises. Hawke strolled down the hall, moved past the door of his room, and opened the door to mine. I was trembling inside, still badly shaken by what had happened. The expression on his face as he held the door open for me was not at all reassuring. Although his features were composed, his gray eyes flat, I could sense the anger that possessed him.

  My topaz silk skirts rustled with the sound of dry leaves as I stepped into the room. I stood by the bed, clasping my hands together, desperately trying to still the trembling. Hawke closed the door and stood looking at me, silent, and although a flood of words rushed up in my throat, I couldn’t speak, either. That glorious exhilaration I had felt throughout the afternoon had vanished completely. I felt helpless, guilty of some dreadful crime even though I had done nothing to encourage Barnett. I knew full well what Hawke was thinking. I knew it would be futile to try to convince him of my innocence.

  “I see you got your new dress,” he remarked.

  “Yes. I bought it from the most unusual woman. She—”

  “You bought make-up, too, I see, and perfume. You did your hair. I’m wondering why you didn’t have a sign made up while you were at it—Tail For Sale in bold block letters.”

  “That’s not fair—”

  “Barnett’s not to blame, of course. He only did what any red-blooded youth would have done. When it’s there and all too obviously available, a man reaches for it.”

  “I came down to the lobby to wait for you. I wanted to surprise you. I thought you’d be—”

  “It’s a lovely dress, Marietta. Take it off.”

  I stared at him in dismay, startled by his words. His mouth was set in a grim line, and those dark gray eyes were filled now with a brutal determination that filled me with apprehension.

  “What—what do you intend to do?” I whispered.

  “What you’ve wanted me to do all along. Take off the dress!”

  “Derek. I—not like this. Please. Not like—”

  “Do you want me to remove it for you? I’ll probably tear it to shreds in the process.”

  Reaching around in back, I unfastened the dress and slipped the bodice down. He stood a few feet away, watching, eyes growing darker, one corner of his mouth turning up. My hands trembled. The topaz silk crackled as I pushed the gown over my legs and stepped out of it. The curtains had been drawn over the window. The room was dim, a shadowy blue-gray. I folded the dress carefully and put it away in the drawer of the dressing table, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed to remove my shoes and stockings.

  Derek took off his stock and tossed it on the chair, pulled off his jacket and waistcoat and dropped them on top of the stock. The full sleeves of his white silk shirt billowed. He watched me slip off my shoes and peel off the stockings, his eyes half concealed by heavily drooping lids. I let the stockings flutter to the floor like silken shadows and stood up, my bosom heaving, breasts straining against the thin cloth that imprisoned them. I could feel his anger, seething still, not the least diminished by the sheer lust building steadily. Tears spilled down my cheeks because it shouldn’t be this way, so deliberate, so unfeeling, his anger driving him to do what passion should have prompted.

  “Come here,” he said. His voice was deep, husky.

  “Derek—”

  “I said come here!”

  I shook my head, backing away from him until my legs touched the side of the bed. Hawke moved over to me in three brisk strides and caught hold of my shoulders, his fingers gripping tightly, hurting me, and when I refused to look up at him he seized my curls with his left hand and tugged at them, forcing my head to tilt back, forcing me to look up at that handsome face now stamped strongly with desire
. Then he kissed me, a hard unyielding kiss, as he would kiss a whore. I was rigid in his arms, unable to respond, and after a while he drew back, looking into my eyes with fierce intensity.

  “You wanted this,” he said, his voice a throaty growl.

  “Not—like—this—”

  “You want romance? You want compliments and gallantry? You want me to say I love you? What kind of fool do you take me for? You’re no fine lady. You’re a wench from the prison ship, bought and paid for at a public auction!”

  “I’m a human being! I—I have feelings—”

  “You’ve wanted me to do this from the first—teasing me, tormenting me, trying to make me forget my—trying to—” He cut himself short, a savage frown creasing his brow. “Look at you! Painted up like a whore, smelling like a whore, hoping you could trap me!”

  He kissed me again, ardently, his lips firm, moist, warm, forcing my own to open so that his tongue could plunge and probe. One arm curled around my shoulders, the other wrapped tightly around my waist, he held me against him, his thighs molded against mine, my breasts crushed against his chest. I trembled all over, trying not to feel, willing myself to keep those buds of sensation tightly furled, but it was futile; flesh and blood responded while my mind cried out that it was wrong, that it must not happen this way, in anger, without tenderness. He moved his mouth away from mine and buried his lips in the hollow of my throat.

  “No,” I whispered. “Derek, please, you must—”

  “You’ve been waiting for this and, by God, so have I!”

  He caught hold of the straps of my petticoat and jerked them down, causing my breasts to pop out of their silken prison. They were swollen, the nipples pulsating pink buds that grew larger, tighter, as his hands closed over them, squeezing so fiercely that I gasped. He shoved me back onto the bed. The springs creaked violently. Caught up in the frenzy of his lust, he made a deep, growling noise and then he whipped up the skirts of my petticoat, jerked down the top of his breeches and fell upon me.