Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I don’t feel—terribly respectable tonight.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head. The corners of his mouth lifted in another wry smile as he looked at me. I felt a warm, honey-sweet anticipation begin to build inside me, a lovely ache that grew slowly. I moved over to him and touched his cheek and then moved my hand up to smooth back locks of jet black hair. His gray eyes continued to hold mine, lids heavier still, drooping low, the smile curling still on his lips. This was the Derek I dreamed of, the Derek I could love openly and without restraint. The remote stranger was gone.

  “We’ll have a picnic,” I murmured. “Here, in the parlor.”

  “That sounds tempting,” he said.

  “I love you, Derek.”

  “I know. I’m glad. I’m a very lucky man.”

  “You are indeed.”

  He curled his arms loosely around my waist and kissed my throat, my shoulder. I leaned back against his arms, running my palms over his broad back as his lips moved lower, lightly brushing the curve of my bosom.

  “I’d better go get the food,” I said.

  “I suppose you must. I’m mightily hungry.”

  “I intend to take very good care of you.”

  “You always did,” he said, pulling me nearer. “You polished my boots. You washed my shirts. You baked peach pies. Remember the pies?”

  “I remember.”

  “You were a temptress, casting your spell over me, and how I fought it. I wanted a good excuse to whip you. I wanted to despise you. I couldn’t, no matter how I tried.”

  “I know.”

  He drew me even nearer, arms like bands of steel crushing me to him, holding me fast, a willing captive. I stroked his back, running my palms over the smooth broadcloth, tilting my head back so that I could look up into those amorous gray eyes.

  “I never wanted to love you,” he continued. “I couldn’t help myself. I hated women after Alice, despised them, and then you came along—a temptress with flaming copper-red hair and bold blue eyes and far too much spirit for an indentured servant. There were times when I wished I’d never bought you off that auction block, times when I cursed myself for the folly, but the moment I saw you standing there I knew I had to have you.”

  “You said you were merely saving me from Jeff.”

  “There was that,” he admitted, “but that wasn’t the main reason.”

  “You waited—so long to take me.”

  “I wanted to that first night, after the auction. You were under the wagon, terrified of Indians, shivering, and I spread a blanket over you. You finally went to sleep, and I looked at you for a long, long time, wanting you and fighting it desperately. You were my property, bought and paid for, a convicted thief who gave herself such airs, who spoke in a disturbingly refined voice. It took great strength to keep from crawling under the wagon that night.”

  “I never suspected.”

  “You knew I wanted you, witch. You kept provoking me, luring me on, casting your spell until, finally, I couldn’t help myself. You won.”

  “So did you,” I told him. “I—I’d better see about the food now. I’ve a feeling we’ll—continue this later.”

  “You can count on it,” he promised.

  I moved out of his arms and touched his face again and smiled, and then I went back to the tiny kitchen and took out cheese and hard sausage and bread. I sliced the sausage, sliced the cheese and bread, took out delicious-looking jade green grapes and washed them. The ache was still inside, a lovely, tormenting ache that grew lovelier the longer it was denied. He was in a rare mood, and I intended to cherish every moment of it, make every moment memorable. Arranging the food carefully, attractively on a tray, I took out the bottle of white wine, wishing there had been time to chill it, and then I returned to the parlor.

  “You certainly took your time,” he scolded.

  “I wanted everything to be just right.”

  “So did I,” he said.

  He had put out most of the candles. The room was hazy with shadow, and a fire burned low behind the screen. He had spread blankets in front of the hearth, a soft pile of blankets covered with a pale satin counterpane. I was surprised, delighted, too. He smiled a lazy smile, padding toward me on bare feet, wearing only a heavy navy blue satin dressing robe, the sash tied loosely below his waist. I set the tray down, took the bottle over to the bar, and set it down while I looked for glasses. He came up behind me, placed his hands on my shoulders.

  “The wine’s warm,” I said. “We’ll have to drink it that way.”

  “No matter,” he murmured.

  He lifted my hair, kissed the back of my neck. I moved my shoulders in protest.

  “I’ll drop the glasses,” I said.

  “Forget the glasses.”

  “You’re hungry.”

  “It can wait,” he told me.

  He turned me around and kissed me lazily, slowly, savoring my lips as a connoisseur might savor the finest, rarest wine, firm, warm lips parting my own. I knocked one of the glasses over. I clung to him, the heavy satin slippery beneath my fingers. He kissed me again, again, again, and the ache grew, spreading slowly throughout me, becoming almost unendurable. He led me away from the bar, his robe rustling with a soft, silken rustle, his bare feet making gentle thuds on the carpet. I felt weak, powerless, without will, and he led me toward the center of the room as he might lead an invalid. He paused, holding my arms, looking at me with sleepy, sensuous eyes.

  “Your cheeks are flushed,” he observed.

  “It’s terribly warm. The fire—”

  “You’re wearing too many clothes,” he informed me.

  He smiled and stepped behind me and began to unfasten the invisible hooks in back of my dress. I felt the bodice loosen, the beige silk gradually slipping from my breasts, falling forward, my breasts straining against the fragile white silk bodice of the petticoat beneath. He caught hold of the beige silk sleeves, slowly pulling them down my arms, so slowly, bending down to push the frock all the way to the floor. I stepped out of the circle of silk, shivering, and he stood in front of me now and, smiling lazily, hooked his thumbs in the thin straps of my petticoat, tugging at them. I felt the silk sliding over my breasts, cool and tormenting against my swollen nipples, and then my breasts were free and he bent down to kiss them.

  I caught hold of his hair, tugging at it, unable to endure the torment now, unable to prolong it any longer. He kissed the swollen pink nipples and pushed the petticoat down, half a dozen skirts billowing, fluttering like frail petals. My eyes were closed, my head thrown back, my hair spilling behind me in a cascade of copper-red waves. He finished undressing me, kissing me here, there, kissing me again, finally lifting me up into his arms and carrying me over to the pallet in front of the hearth, lowering me onto the satin counterpane. The satin was cool and smooth and slippery beneath me, and I could feel the warmth of the fire on my skin. He stood over me with legs spread wide, looking down at me with his hands resting on his thighs.

  “Beautiful,” he said huskily.

  “For you.”

  “It should always be like this.”

  “Always,” I whispered.

  I was adrift on a sea of sensations, the satin cool beneath my buttocks, the warmth of the flames on my skin, the warmth inside growing, tingling, my bones aching as though I were bound with velvet cords and being stretched on a velvet rack, the pain of physical need merging with the pleasure of anticipation. I could hear the soft crackle of the fire, a symphony of snapping pops as wood and bark were devoured, and I could hear the rustle of satin as I shifted my position, sliding on the slippery cloth. I could smell wood burning, and I could smell skin. I could smell desire, too, my own, his.

  I looked up at him, seeing his calves, the skirt of his robe, his chest, all at a peculiar angle, the small roll of flesh beneath his jaw, the tip of his nose, his brow, covered now with unruly jet locks, his eyes like dark gray smoke, filled with desire. He rubbed his thighs, fingers sliding over th
e navy blue satin, and he smiled and caught hold of the two ends of the sash, slowly untying the loose knot. He parted the heavy folds and shrugged his shoulders and the robe fell to the floor behind him with a soft swoosh. In the firelight his body was bronze, tall, lean, superbly muscled.

  “Now,” he said.

  Planting a knee on either side of my thighs, he bent his head down, his eyes darker now, gleaming with desire, his lips parted, wide, pink, drawing nearer my own, covering them. I closed my eyes and flung my arms around him, and he gradually lowered himself, my body a cushion for his, his weight crushing me, pinioning me to the pallet, welcome, so welcome, hard muscle covered with smooth, warm skin, his mouth holding my own captive, smothering the scream that swelled in my throat as he entered and we became one and the age-old dance began.

  The music of our lovemaking was loud and lovely, and both of us were caught up in the rhythm, moving together, flesh parting to welcome flesh, flesh stroking, caressing, filling, and beautiful new sensations began to blossom, tight buds opening in soft explosions of pleasure that grew steadily more intense, emotion and feeling heightening each sensation, giving it shape and meaning. We danced together in perfect union, movement matching movement, and tenderness turned to fury by degrees, and by degrees the dance turned into combat, fierce combat. Fury possessed him, possessed me, and together we trembled on the brink of an abyss, struggling, straining, tottering, falling finally and hurtling into a void of shattering oblivion.

  I held him close, savoring the splendor, and later, much later, he got up to put another piece of wood on the fire, poking at it until the flames began to lick the wood. I sat up, wrapping the satin counterpane around me, and he sighed heavily and pulled on his dressing robe, lazy, lethargic, his face seeming to sag just a little, faint mauve shadows under his eyes. He fetched the tray of food, bringing it back over to the pallet, sitting heavily beside me. He ate bread and sausage and cheese and I took a few grapes, not really hungry, replete. I lay back, gathering the counterpane over my breasts, watching him eat.

  “Full?” I asked when he set the tray aside.

  He nodded, still lazy, still lethargic. I lifted one arm and smoothed damp locks from his brow. The fire was popping anew, flames devouring the wood. The candles had almost burned down, light weak now, flickering, the room almost dark. One candle spluttered out, then another. Walls that had been washed in hazy gold light were spread with blue-gray shadow. Soon there was no light but the light of the fire. Derek was silent, lost in thought.

  “This is lovely,” I said. “I feel—so warm, so safe.”

  “You are safe, Marietta.”

  “Those dreadful men. Your cousin—”

  “My cousin hired them, I feel sure. I feel sure he hired them to do away with me so that he could inherit. No doubt he felt that if something happened to me in America, there would be no inquiry. He wouldn’t dare attempt anything in England, and we’re leaving for England tomorrow night.”

  I was startled, so startled I could hardly speak. “What—what do you mean?” I finally asked.

  “Departure date for The Blue Elephant has been moved up,” he told me. “It leaves tomorrow night, at midnight. The bids were opened today and mine was highest. Everything is settled.”

  “I can hardly believe it.”

  “I can hardly believe it myself,” he replied. “It’s been extremely aggravating, extremely frustrating. I’ve been under a great deal of strain during these past weeks. I’ve taken it out on you.”

  “I understood—most of the time.”

  He stared at the fire, lost in thought again. His handsome face was half in shadow, chin, mouth and nose barely visible, broad cheekbones polished with firelight, eyes very dark, very grave, eyebrows straight and serious. His jet black hair was still slightly damp, beginning to dry in feathery puffs. I put my hand on his shoulder, stroked the back of his neck. He didn’t seem to notice, staring at the flames without seeing them.

  “Don’t leave me,” I said quietly.

  He turned to look at me, surprised. “Leave you?”

  “Don’t—don’t shut me out. Don’t put that wall up around you again.”

  “What wall?”

  “You’re not even aware of it, are you?”

  “Apparently not,” he replied.

  “You shut me out, Derek. There are times when I feel I’m absolutely alone, even though you’re beside me. You retreat into yourself. You leave me and I can’t reach you.”

  “I’m sorry, Marietta. I wish I could be the man you seem to want.”

  “You are the man I want. I’m just so glad we’re actually leaving. I’m glad we’re finally going to England. I’ll feel so much better after we’re married.”

  “That’s been bothering you, hasn’t it?”

  “It has. I admit it. I haven’t had much security in my life, Derek. A wedding ring will make all the difference.”

  “A ring matters so much?”

  When I didn’t answer, he sighed and pulled me roughly into his arms, cradling me against his chest, looking down into my eyes, and then he shook his head in exasperation that was only pretense. He smiled and pulled his signet ring off and, taking my hand, slipped it onto my finger. It was much too large, of course, much too loose, but I folded my finger back over it, deeply touched, so touched I found it difficult to hold back the tears.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “You wanted a ring, you’ve got one. It’ll have to do until you get a gold one. You’ll have to tie some string around it to make it stay on properly. If you lose it, I fully intend to choke you to death.”

  “I won’t lose it.”

  “I’m not going to leave you,” he said. “In fact, I have something quite different in mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think a celebration is in order.”

  “We’ll drink the wine.”

  He lowered me back onto the pallet, shifting position so that he was leaning over me, his lips inches from my own.

  “Later,” he murmured.

  I didn’t argue.

  Eight

  The trunks had all been packed and sent on ahead to the ship, and the apartment looked strangely barren with all our personal effects removed. Derek had settled everything with the stout, stern-faced woman who had leased it to us, and she had come by earlier to inspect for damage, her dark black hair worn in a severe bun, her crisp blue skirts crackling as she examined each room with shrewd black eyes. Declaring herself satisfied, she reminded us to put out the candles when we left and then bustled away, counting the money Derek had given her.

  The ormolu clock on the mantle struck the half hour. It was ten-thirty now, and the carriage would be arriving out front at any minute now. I was nervous, eager to be off, but Derek was utterly calm, almost chilly. His face was expressionless, his manner remote. Those wonderful hours of intimacy we had shared last night might never have been, and had the ring not been on my finger I might almost believe I had imagined them. I had wound a piece of twine around it on the underside, and it fit snugly now. I looked at it, remembering, and I told myself that last night had been merely a foretaste of what was to come once we were in England, settled in Hawkehouse, all strain removed.

  “Don’t fret so,” he told me. “We’ve plenty of time. It only takes a few minutes to drive down to the docks.”

  “I’m not fretting. I’m just nervous. I can’t help it.”

  I had been nervous all day long, plagued by a vague apprehension I couldn’t clearly define. Derek had assured me there was no more danger, but I wouldn’t feel completely secure until the boat had pulled away from the dock and we were actually on our way. Packing had been an ordeal, and I had done most of it by myself. Derek had had to attend to some last minute business, leaving me alone for several hours during the middle of the afternoon. I had insisted he take the pistol with him. Grimacing irritably, he had lifted the skirt of his frock coat to reveal the butt
. After he returned and after the trunks had been sent on to the ship, we had dined with Stephen Howard at his hotel. I had found it difficult to be civil, impossible to eat, had been so nervous I had had to suppress an urge to run screaming out of the dining room, and that hadn’t improved Derek’s mood at all.

  “I do wish the carriage would get here,” I said.

  “It’ll be here. I ordered it for ten-thirty.”

  “It’s past that. What if we’re late?”

  “We’re not going to be late, Marietta.”

  I found his calm infuriating. He stood beside the mantle with arms across his chest, his gray eyes betraying not the least sign of emotion. He was wearing polished black boots, fine black breeches with frock coat to match, and his waistcoat was a rich, dark maroon. He was so handsome, so remote, so insufferably cool. I realized in all fairness that today had been as much a strain for him as for me. Once we were on board he would relax.

  I stepped over to the mirror to make a final examination. I had brushed my hair until it shone with deep copper highlights, and it fell to my shoulders in rich, heavy waves. My gown was a sumptuous turquoise brocade with narrow royal blue stripes. The puffed sleeves fell off the shoulder, the neckline was modestly low, and the skirt belled out from the snug waist to spread over half a dozen royal blue underskirts. It was one of Lucille’s loveliest creations, not too formal for traveling, the kind of gown a lady would wear for casual entertaining in her stateroom.

  “Do I look all right?” I inquired.

  “You look fine, Marietta.”

  “Perhaps I should have worn the magenta satin.”

  “When we get to our stateroom you can change. You can change several times if you like. You can put on and take off every bloody gown you own.”

  “You needn’t be so hateful,” I snapped.

  “I don’t intend to fight with you,” he said dryly.

  “I don’t want to fight. I just want the carriage to get here so we can be on our way. All day long I’ve felt like I was going to jump out of my skin.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “You could have given me a little comfort instead of being so distant and cold.”