Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I … I just wanted to say … goodbye.”

  “I’m only gonna be gone a few hours, wench.”

  “I know, but …”

  “You’ll miss me?”

  I nodded, and he put his other arm around me, lowering his mouth over mine. He kissed me, firm, moist lips caressing mine, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, savoring each second, sad, hating myself, sorry when he drew back and released me.

  “There’ll be more when I get back,” he promised.

  “Goodbye, Jeff.” The words were barely audible.

  He left then, and I stood there staring at the door he had closed behind him, bracing myself, trying to hold back the tears. I finally sat down on the bed, leaning against one of the heavy posts, too weak to do anything just yet. I kept remembering. I remembered the waterfall and our riotous bath together and the explosive bout that followed, the achingly tender lovemaking that followed that. I remembered the cave and my fear and the way he had held me, so very gently, stroking my hair, his lips brushing my temple every now and then. There had been so many good moments, and against my will I had grown very fond of him, fond of him in a special way that had nothing to do with real love, the kind I still felt for Derek, even after all that had happened.

  It was nothing short of incredible. Jeff was a rogue, however amiable, and he planned to sell me to a brothel, however reluctantly, and I was the one who felt guilty because I was planning to flee while I had the chance. Where was my spirit? Where was the will to survive and succeed? I stood up, thrusting all tender thoughts out of my mind. He was in love with me, but he still intended to take me to New Orleans, and I was fond of him, but I couldn’t let that prevent my doing what I had to do. He would be disappointed and angry and hurt, but … but to hell with him! The man was a white slaver. He probably didn’t love me at all. I had probably imagined the whole thing. How could he love me and still plan to take me to New Orleans?

  I was filled with determination now, that hard core tightening inside, all tender feeling and emotions vanished. He said there were boats leaving every day for New Orleans. There would probably be one leaving this afternoon, and I would be on it. I had planned to stow away at first, but now I could pay my fare. He had lied about the money, had told Derek eighteen hundred pounds was all he had to his name, and just a few minutes ago he had peeled bills off a large wad. How many other things had he lied about? It served him right to lose me. I would go to New Orleans, and then I would take another boat as soon as I could. Perhaps I would go to Paris or … or Spain. Great ships left New Orleans all the time, I knew, and I would take the first one available and leave this raw, sprawling land full of hazard and unrest. If there wasn’t enough money to pay my fare, I could earn it easily enough. New Orleans was full of wealthy men.

  I took the pack out. I didn’t bother to count the money. I placed the whole roll in my skirt pocket, slung the pack back into the wardrobe, and slammed the door shut. Resolution gave way to anger, and that was good. It strengthened my resolve, made this all the easier. How dare he treat me with such affection when he planned to deposit me in a brothel! He was sly and deceitful and I had allowed myself to be taken in by his charm. It had made the journey much easier, but the journey was over now and it was time to face reality.

  How to get down to the docks without him seeing me? I didn’t dare step out the front door and walk through town. He might be anywhere, just down the street, in one of the shops, anywhere. I stepped to the window again and looked down at the gardens. They stretched to the very edge of the bluff, and a steep, rocky incline would spill down to the stretch of land below. Perhaps I could climb down the incline. It might be dangerous, but I couldn’t possibly risk getting down to the docks any other way. If the incline were too steep here, I would simply walk along the bluff until I found a spot where descent would be possible.

  I left the room. Coming up, I had noticed a flight of stairs at the end of the hall, obviously backstairs used by the servants. I moved down them and found myself in a small back foyer, one door leading into the kitchens, another leading out into the gardens in back. My anger had dissolved. I was nervous now, and there was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach. I stepped outside and strolled as calmly as possible to the foot of the gardens and peered down. Directly below, there was a grassy strip, then a narrow dirt road, then more grass leading to the muddy bank of the river. The incline was steep but not impossibly so. It was perhaps a hundred feet down to the land below, and there were heavy vines growing down over the rocks. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but I felt sure I could make it down without too great a risk.

  I took a deep breath, frightened, trying to quell my fear. There were bound to be a lot of footholds, and I could hold on to the vines. I had to do it. I simply couldn’t risk going through town, not knowing where Jeff might be. I sat down, dangling my legs over the edge, and then I turned, inching my way down, grabbing hold of one of the vines as my feet touched a narrow ledge of rock. I was over now, clinging to the face of the cliff, and it was insanity, sheer insanity. I realized that immediately. The wind whipped at my hair and tossed my skirts about my legs. I was terrified, but I forced myself to move down, finding another ledge, holding to the vine. I made the mistake of looking down. The land seemed far, far below, and I knew I would be killed if I fell. Insanity! I closed my eyes, leaning against the rock as my heart pounded away.

  Several moments passed before I was able to ease myself down further. My right foot found a root jutting out of the rock. My left foot dangled out in space, but I had a firm grip on the vine. As I lowered myself, the weight of my body caused the root to tear loose. I slipped a good ten feet, would have fallen had I not been clinging to the vine. My feet banged down on another ledge, not a foot wide, and I paused, catching my breath. Staring out, I could see the river. A large boat moved slowly past and I could barely make out the tiny figures standing on deck. They must have been startled to see a woman in a red dress flattened against the face of the rock, clinging desperately to a vine as the wind ripped at hair and skirts.

  I peered down, saw another foothold a few feet below, to my left. I let go of the vine I had been holding and caught hold of another, moving down slowly, touching the jutting rock with my right foot. Little by little I descended, and when I paused again I saw that I was halfway down. It wasn’t so difficult, I told myself. I was lying, but I didn’t dare give way to the sheer panic that threatened to demolish me. Gripping the root with both hands, I started to move down some more, and suddenly there was a ripping noise, a shower of dirt, and the vine swung out into space and sailed to the ground. I tottered for a moment. This was it! I was going to fall! Then a great gust of wind struck me, flattening me against the rock. My fingers gripped the rock, but there was nothing to hold on to. I was poised on a tiny ridge or rock no more than eight inches wide, and as soon as the wind died down I was going to tumble over backwards.

  Wild, disconnected images flashed through my mind, the kind a drowning man is supposed to see just before he goes under for the last time. My mother was laughing, serving ale, basking in the admiration of the men at the inn, and I reached for a mug, which turned into a wineglass, and then I was sitting before the fireplace, elegantly clad, demure, smiling as my father told me about the wonderful plans he had for me. The image blurred, dissolved, and I saw the house on Montagu Square, saw Lord Mallory leering at me, handsome, demonic, destructive, and his face disappeared and I was in that dank, dreadful cell, in shackles. Angie grinned, perky, defiant, showing me how to pick the lock on the shackles, and then Derek was in bed, delirious with fever after the snakebite, and I touched his cheek and he was storming across the yard toward me and I was holding a basket of apricots and they spilled and Jeff and I were riding through the dense green and brown forest.

  The wind died down. Abruptly. The images had flashed and flickered in a matter of seconds. The wind was gone and I hadn’t fallen. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another thick vine spilling down pe
rhaps two yards to my right. If I could gradually edge over, catch hold of the vine … I prayed for strength, and after a while it came and I began to inch over toward the vine, cautiously, and then the ridge gave out and I could move no farther. I reached for the vine. My fingers were inches away from it. I would have to swing over and catch hold of it. I couldn’t. If I missed, if I failed to get a firm purchase, I would fall. Panic swept over me, and there was one dreadful moment when I didn’t care, when I knew I was going to fall crashing to the ground and simply didn’t care. Not caring, I lunged for the vine and caught hold of it with both hands. I swung out into space and my hands slipped down the vine and then I swung back toward the rock and landed on a wide ridge several feet below.

  The vine held. It was strong, sturdy. I moved on down, finding footholds to my left, to my right, and I was calm now, concentrating, fear gone at last. My feet touched the ground. I let go of the vine and stepped back and looked up at the cliff looming in front of me. I had to tilt my head back in order to see the top. I knew I was mad to have attempted to climb down it in the first place. I was down now. That was all that mattered. I shoved long, tangled locks of auburn hair away from my cheeks, brushed the dirt and dust from my red skirt. It must have taken me almost half an hour, but I had made it. I had an impulse to burst into gales of laughter, an impulse I curbed immediately. There was no time for hysterics, no time to dwell on what I had done. I turned and started walking up the road in the direction of the docks.

  The ramshackle buildings up ahead were all clustered together as though for support, and they looked even more sordid close up. I heard riotious laughter and bawdy music. Someone was banging on a piano. Someone was singing, off key. Even now, in the middle of the afternoon, Natchez-under-the-hill was alive with activity. I could imagine what it must be like when nighttime came. I passed three taverns and a two-story brown frame building with a wide verandah in front. Brightly clad women were sitting on the verandah, drinking, laughing, and more women leaned out of the windows upstairs. They called out to me. I hurried on, trying to ignore the lascivious remarks, the lewd suggestions.

  A man staggered out of a tavern, clutching a half-empty bottle. He saw me and let out a great whoop, staggering down the steps, stumbling toward me, waving the bottle. He was big and burly, his brown hair growing down to his shoulders. I quickened my step, but he soon caught up with me, grabbing my shoulder, whirling me around. I was furious, hot flashes of anger preempting the alarm I might have felt otherwise. The man chuckled, his breath reeking of alcohol, and as he tried to pull me toward him I gave him a mighty shove. Drunk, already finding it difficult to maintain his balance, he toppled over backwards with a cry of dismay.

  The girls on the verandah cheered. Amazed at what I had done, I moved on, shaken now, feeling the alarm I hadn’t felt before. Keeping my eyes in front of me, I passed the rest of the buildings, ignoring the catcalls, the boisterous hoots, and a few moments later Natchez-under-the-hill was behind me, the docks ahead. Three huge ships and at least a dozen smaller craft were bobbing on the water, brawny men moving up and down gangplanks, loading and unloading. The docks were crowded with boxes, barrels, coils of rope, men scurrying about, others barking orders. So brisk was the activity that no one paid me the least attention. The men were much too busy to greet my arrival with any show of interest.

  I paused beside a stack of boxes, wondering how I should go about getting a berth. I finally stopped one of the men hurrying past and asked him if one of the ships would be leaving for New Orleans this afternoon. He nodded, pointing to the largest ship, the Royal Star. Men were pushing barrows down the gangplank filled with what looked like pink brick. As I drew nearer, I saw that it was indeed brick, a soft, delicate pink like faded roses. Other men were loading the brick into a large wagon, and as I watched, another wagon, already loaded, pulled away from the docks and started up the gradually sloping road that led to the town above. The four horses strained mightily as the driver cracked his whip in the air.

  A large, heavyset blond man seemed to be in charge of unloading the Royal Star. He stood back with his arms folded across his chest, watching the activity with a severe expression. He thundered at one of the workmen who lost control of a barrow and nearly dumped the lovely pink brick into the water. The offending man grimaced, steadied the barrow, and rolled it on down the gangplank and over to the wagon. The heavyset man frowned, highly displeased. I wondered if he was the captain of the ship. If so, he could probably arrange a berth for me. As I approached, he looked up, observing me with cold steel-blue eyes.

  Something in those eyes made me hesitate. He was a formidable figure, exuding power and authority, easily dominating the scene even though he stood perfectly still. He had incredible presence, presence so strong it was alarming. Powerfully built, he was elegantly attired in highly polished black knee boots, snug gray trousers, and a loosely fitting white silk shirt. His features were blunt, the jaw square, cheekbones broad and flat, and there was a knot of flesh on his nose that made him look belligerent. His hair was a pale yellow-blond, cut short, a monk-like fringe falling across his jutting forehead. Probably in his mid-forties, I thought as I came closer to him.

  “You want something, woman?”

  His voice was deep, guttural, his manner definitely harsh. I realized I must look frightful, my hair all atangle, my dress streaked with dirt, my face probably dirty, too. I had come from Natchez-under-the-hill, and he probably thought I was a harlot come to ply my trade. A man like this would be utterly disdainful of such women, consider them dirt beneath his feet. He stared at me with those hard blue eyes, looking as though he’d just as soon knock me down as not, and it was a moment before I could bring myself to speak.

  “I—I want to go to New Orleans,” I stammered.

  My accent surprised him. One of those heavy brown brows lifted.

  “Where are you from?” He didn’t ask. He demanded to know.

  “I really don’t … think that’s any of your affair,” I retorted.

  “Answer me, woman!”

  “Or what?” I asked defiantly.

  “Or you’ll wish you had,” he threatened.

  “I suggest you go straight to hell,” I said calmly.

  His brows drew together. His mouth tightened. He wasn’t used to back talk, that was quite clear. He was used to snapping orders, having them obeyed immediately. His size, his strength made him a ntaural bully, and I sensed a streak of cruelty in the curl of his mouth, in the hard, steady glare of those intense blue eyes.

  “You’re new around here,” he said. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  “I arrived in Natchez this morning, as a matter of fact.”

  “And you want to go to New Orleans. On this ship.”

  “I understand it’s leaving soon.”

  “As soon as these incompetents finish unloading.”

  “Are—are you the captain?”

  “I own the ship. The captain’s my employee.”

  “Then you can arrange passage for me.”

  “If I wanted to, yes.”

  Although his manner was still sullen, that first angry disdain was missing now. Those eyes seemed to assess me, taking in every detail, and he was extremely interested. No longer intimidated, I could feel my cheeks begin to color. I wanted to shove him over backwards just as I had shoved the pathetic drunk who had run after me on the road a few minutes before. I knew that my eyes must be flashing as I spoke.

  “I can pay,” I snapped. “I can pay whatever you ask. I need to leave Natchez … as soon as possible.”

  “Before Rawlins finds you, you mean.”

  “How—”

  “You’re not one of the whores from under-the-hill, and you’re damned sure not one of the good women from town. I heard Rawlins had arrived, heard he had a stunning wench with him.”

  “News travels fast,” I said bitterly.

  “In a community like this it does. So you want me to help you get away? Where did you get the mone
y you’re so eager to pay me? The women Rawlins bring down the Trace don’t have money.”

  “I—”

  “You stole it,” he said. “Even if I were inclined to help you, it’s too late now, I’m afraid.”

  He was peering over my shoulder. I turned to see Jeff strolling toward us, his manner as jaunty as ever. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me standing here on the docks with this surly giant. He acted as though it were perfectly natural, as though we had arranged to meet here. He gave me a friendly nod, nodded at the man with less warmth.

  “Schnieder,” he said.

  “Rawlins. I was expecting you.”

  “Heard you were unloading building material. They say two shiploads of lumber arrived ’fore I started up the Trace to Carolina. Hear you brung in a fancy architect from New Orleans. Your house must be comin’ along right well. Nice-lookin’ brick, unusual pink.”

  “I’m going to call the place Roseclay.”

  “Nice name. Bit fancy, perhaps, but then I imagine the house is gonna be somethin’ to behold.”

  Helmut Schnieder did not reply. The two men disliked each other intensely. That had been obvious from the first. Although Jeff’s remarks had been spoken casually, there had been a suggestion of mockery. Schnieder seemed to be holding himself in tight control, looked as though he’d like nothing more than to knock Jeff flat with one mighty blow. The air seemed to seethe with animosity. Jeff turned to me ever so casually.

  “You ready to go back to the inn now, Marietta?”

  Schnieder spoke up before I could reply. “How much did you pay for her, Rawlins?”

  “Plenty.”

  “I’ll double it.”

  “’Fraid she’s not for sale, Schnieder.”

  “Name your price,” the German said. “My money’s as good as any whoremonger’s. Better. I’ll pay in cash, any price you name.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Schnieder, but what I said still goes. ’Sides, what you need with another woman? I hear you got a whole house full of whores under-the-hill, hear you own the place.”