Charleston was free of the British military and had been since Sir Peter Parker had been driven out in ’76. Commerce flourished and Continental flags hung bravely from many a portside window. The dock was crowded with merchants, seamen, housewives, and peddlers. Slaves moved freely among the open-air stalls with market baskets on their dark arms, and the lyrical cry of “Fresh shrimp! Fresh shrimp!” echoed along the streets.
Dogs scrapped and barked, chasing ragged children of every color and size and being chased in turn. Pigeons and seagulls fought over scraps of fish and produce. Garrett even noticed a small speckled pig rooting along the ditch beside the road.
“Look yonder,” Noah said.
On the cross street was a vacant lot wedged between an ordinary and a sailmaker’s shop. There, in the muddy strip of sand and crushed oyster shell, stood a rough platform. A slave auction was in progress. A young black man with manacles on his wrists turned around to show off his physique for the prospective buyers.
“. . . prime field hand,” the auctioneer proclaimed. “Broke to field work. No bad habits. Will work indigo or rice.”
Noah flushed. “That’s hard to take, no matter how many times I’ve seen it, or how far I am from that platform. It tears a man to see his own kind bought and sold like livestock.”
Garrett nodded. “My own grandfather worked the cane fields on Jamaica. He was bound but as much a slave as that man. I can still remember the whip scars on his back.”
“No,” Noah replied. “Not like that man. A white man has a term to serve. Most black men have to die to find freedom.”
“My grandfather killed to get his. He told me he cut the throat of an overseer and fled the islands aboard a pirate vessel.”
“Not the old man? Perry Faulkner?”
“The same. He always said his mother was an Irish bond servant in the governor’s palace on Jamaica. Her name was Keavy. And when she got herself with child by some bigwig, her mistress was so angry that she sent her to the cane fields. She died of snakebite there when my grandfather was seven. She never told him who his father was. Don’t you remember he used to tease us that he was a royal governor’s woods colt?”
“No, I guess I forgot that. But you spent more time with your grandsire than I did. My mother wanted me to stay in the kitchen and not bother the white folk.”
Garrett too his friend’s arm. “Come on. There’s no good to be done here, and a lot of harm.”
“Will it be the same—if we win independence from the Brits?” Noah asked. “Will there be any freedom for my people?”
“We can hope so.”
“Hope.” Noah frowned. “It’s a word that will wear thin after many generations.”
“It’s your country, same as mine,” Garrett said.
“Maybe. Or maybe we’re just like the Israelites, and we don’t have a country at all.”
That evening Garrett invited Caroline to dine with him at the Fox and Hound Tavern, a better sort of establishment near the residential section of Charleston. He wished now that he’d used what money he had to rent them a private room here. Instead, he’d been practical. She was at the widow’s, and he, Noah, and Eli, were staying in the loft over a black tradesman’s shop.
If they’d had lodging here together as man and wife, he knew they’d be sleeping together by now. Noah’s snoring was poor exchange for Caroline’s head on his pillow or her soft curves molded against him.
Since he’d missed his chance to bed her, he at least wanted to treat her to one nice meal before they boarded the ship for Jamaica. Shipboard accommodations would be little better than those they had now. Caroline and Amanda and the baby would share a cabin with two elderly sisters, and he and the Walker brothers would make do with hammocks in the fo’c’sle. Tonight was their last chance to be alone together for weeks, and he meant to make the best of it.
“I’m sorry I can’t provide you with the sort of travel you’re used to,” he said to Caroline formally, “but I brought every penny with me I could scrape up. Prices have risen beyond belief since the war began.” He couldn’t keep his gaze off her. Her huge eyes were framed with sooty dark lashes, and her lips begged to be kissed.
“It’s not your fault. It’s that rotten cousin of mine. I couldn’t put my hands on much money either. If worse comes to worst, we can sell my personal jewelry.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
They were seated at a small table in the corner of the parlor reserved for families, away from the raucous clamor of the public room. It was close to nine o’clock, and the weather outside had become even more miserable. The slow drizzle had become a downpour, and rivers of water ran through the streets.
The candle on their table caught a draft from the thick-paned casement window and flickered, casting golden ribbons of light across Caroline’s face. She wore her hair simply tonight, gathered at the nape of her neck with a black silk ribbon so that her thick curls tumbled down the back of her green wool riding coat. Perched jauntily on her head was a black beaver cocked hat with the corners turned up. Her riding jacket was a dark forest-green over a paler green waistcoat and white linen shirt with a ruffled cravat. Beneath the hem of the coat, her matching wool riding skirt hung in thick folds.
“You look as though you’re about to ride to hounds rather than take ship,” Garrett teased as he filled her wineglass for the third time.
She laughed softly, and he noticed how her eyes shone. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” she answered. “When you buy secondhand, you are lucky to find clothes that fit. We won’t be here long enough to have clothing made—even if we did have the money to pay for the seamstress.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like the look.” He placed his hand over hers and caressed her skin with slow, circular strokes. She made no move to pull away. Instead, she leaned closer to him and smiled invitingly. He lifted her hand and brushed her knuckles with feather-light kisses.
She laughed and removed her fingers from his grasp. “You’re on your very best behavior tonight, Garrett Faulkner. I want to know why.”
“Must I have an ulterior motive?”
“Always.” Her smile softened the accusation.
“As long as we’re in this together, we might as well be friends.” The words sounded good, but they were a lie. He knew it as soon as they fell from his lips. He didn’t want to be her friend; he wanted more.
She nodded. “I agree.”
A serving girl came, carried away the dirty plates, and returned to ask, “Will ye have a sweet? We’ve apple pie, rice pudding, and gingerbread. The gingerbread’s four days old, though. Still good, Missus says, but a little dry to my taste. I’d recommend the pie.”
“We’ll take your advice,” Garrett said, wishing she’d go away and leave them alone.
“Pie or rice pudding?”
Caroline laughed. “We’ll each have a slice of pie.” She sipped at her pewter goblet of wine and watched as the girl hurried away. “The Widow Gordon serves rice with every meal.”
Her knee rested against his under the table. “At least we’re too far south for snow,” he said, making light conversation. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the small expanse of throat that showed above her cravat. “You are very beautiful tonight.”
She smiled. A tiny drop of wine lingered on her lower lip, and he had the strongest urge to lick it away. “You don’t have to say that,” she replied huskily. “I’ve already married you.”
“Do you regret it?” He leaned forward involuntarily. His pulse was racing like an untried boy’s. Damn, but she was exciting. He smiled back at her and let his gaze slide over the first silver button on her waistcoat to the rise and fall of her bosom. What would it feel like to unbutton that vest? he wondered. To untie her cravat and part her linen shirt so that he could see the curve of her breasts?
“I thought I would, but I don’t.” Her voice was low and breathy, as if she had been running.
Garrett’s coat seemed overly warm despite the
chill in the air and the rain beating against the windows. He glanced around and realized with surprise that he and Caroline were alone in the room. He’d not even noticed when the family at the round center table had finished their meal and left.
“. . . an unusual arrangement,” Caroline said.
“What? I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—”
“I said that ours is an unusual arrangement.”
Her cinnamon-brown eyes were locked with his. Her sensual lips were slightly parted so that he could see a hint of her white, even teeth. It never ceased to amaze him what good teeth colonial women had. In England, most girls began to lose their teeth long before they reached Caroline’s age.
She toyed with a button on her waistcoat. “The oysters were very good,” she said. “And the venison.”
She was eating him with her eyes. He moistened his lips and tried to decide what she smelled like tonight. Lavender and something else. . . vanilla. He wondered if her skin would taste salty or sweet.
“Apple pie.” The maid dropped two plates noisily on the table. “Anything else ye be wantin’?”
“Another bottle of wine,” he said.
Caroline took a morsel of pie. “Delicious.” She took another portion on her three-pronged fork and held it up for him to sample. Laughing, he nibbled at the crumbling crust.
“You’re dropping it, sloppy,” she teased, catching the bit of apple in midair and pushing it between his lips.
His hand closed around hers and she dropped the fork. He brought her fingers to his lips and tasted them. “Sweeter than the pie,” he murmured. He heard her quick intake of breath and felt a tremor run through her.
“Garrett.”
No one had ever said his name quite like that before.
“Garrett, don’t.”
There was no strength in her protest. He turned her hand and kissed the pulse of her wrist. She made a little sound in her throat, and he nipped gently at her skin.
“Please . . . don’t . . .”
“Just a kiss,” he bargained. “A kiss of peace between husband and wife.” He looked into her eyes and saw her indecision. Before she could speak, he leaned across the table and kissed her lower lip.
“Oh, Garrett,” she moaned.
He rose and went to her, pulling her into his arms and kissing her again. Not sweet and slow, but hard and searing. She gave a sigh and slipped her arms around his neck. Her head went back, and the cocked hat tumbled to the floor. He kissed her right ear and whispered her name.
“Oh,” she said. She lifted her face and met his next kiss with parted lips, opening for his tongue as naturally as a flower opens to the rain.
He ran his fingers into the mass of hair at the back of her neck and fumbled with the silk ribbon, pulling it loose, and letting her glorious tresses fall like a curtain of dark wine silk.
“Garrett . . . Garrett,” she whispered.
He kissed her throat, nibbling and tasting her. She molded herself against him and dug her fingers into his coat. “I want you,” he said.
“Yes, yes,” she whispered.
The cravat followed the cocked hat and the silk ribbon. He traced the curve of her back with his hand, and the heat grew within him until his loins ached with wanting. “Why do you have so many damned clothes on?” he demanded.
Her back was against the table, and he had her jacket off. She was laughing and crying and kissing him all at the same time. “Not here,” she said. “The maid. We can’t—”
His breath was coming in hard, deep gasps as he looked around. To the left, by the fireplace, were two steps and a low board and batten door. “There,” he said. Dragging her after him, he crossed the room and fumbled with the wooden handle.
The door swung open to reveal narrow, curving steps leading to the second floor. “In here,” he said. He ducked his head and stepped into the stairwell.
Still laughing, she followed him.
Chapter 11
Caroline buried her face in Garrett’s chest and clung to him as they stood together in the tiny enclosure. Liquid heat swirled around her as he whispered her name over and over again. Her hands were tangled in his hair, sliding through the silky length and feeling the strong curve of his neck. Eagerly, she ran her tongue over his bare skin, tasting the clean salt of him, reveling in the sensations of his skin on her lips.
She did not know or care if it was the wine or a more potent stimulant that intoxicated her. She felt as though her blood were on fire; she could not get enough of him or of the kisses that drove her wild with wanting.
Garrett pulled the door closed and began to undo the buttons on her waistcoat. “How many of these things are there?” he demanded. She laughed and pulled loose his shirt, boldly sliding her hands up under his garments and feeling the taut, smooth planes of his belly.
“You little minx,” he gasped as she reached higher to explore the contours of his wide chest and run her nails lightly over his nipples until they rose to hard nubs under her fingertips.
Caroline knew she was behaving like a wanton, but she didn’t care. With each breath, she drew in more of his virile, male scent, and with each moment that passed she shed more of her inhibitions. Never had Wesley or any other man excited her like this. Her body trembled like a willow in the winter wind; her mind whirled with thoughts too daring to be put into words.
And all the while the heat between her legs grew hotter . . .
Her breasts felt heavy and swollen. They strained against the confines of her corset until she could hardly draw breath. Her nipples were so sensitive that she could feel the texture of the linen covering against her throbbing skin.
Touch me, she pleaded silently. I want you to touch me.
He lifted her chin and kissed her mouth. Again, the fiery sensations spiraled through her. She could not get enough of him. His tongue was like velvet, his lips as smooth as satin and as hard as his growing desire. His loins were a furnace, and their heat warmed her through the layers of clothing that separated them.
“Oh, Garrett,” she repeated, wanting to say his name. “Garrett . . . Garrett. I’ve wanted you to kiss me like this—to take me to your bed.”
“You have the strangest way of telling a man so,” he teased, tugging at the lacing on her shirtfront. He kissed her long and hard, then pushed her gently back against the steeply curving stairs. He parted her linen shirt and pressed his face into the rise of her breasts above her corset.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “That’s nice.” Her own hands found the buttons at his waistband and she began to undo them as waves of heat radiated up from the pit of her stomach.
“Witch,” he teased. Tremors of pleasure rippled through her as Garrett nuzzled the valley between her breasts.
Then she touched hot swollen flesh, and her knees went weak. She sat down on the stairs, suddenly unable to stand under her own power.
“Don’t stop,” he said huskily. “Keep touching me.”
His hand guided hers down the length of him. She could not hold back a sharp intake of breath that registered her surprise. Garrett was not an overly large man . . . but here, here in his most intimate parts . . . She felt her cheeks grow warm.
“That’s for you,” he whispered.
Fear seized her and she began to tremble. What was she doing? She’d been a wife, but she’d never behaved like—
“Touch me,” he commanded.
She had no power to disobey him as he straddled her on his knees and kissed her throat and ear, and filled her mouth with his thrusting tongue. The intensity of her own response shook her to her core. The fire was more than she could bear. Only he could drown the heat. She wanted him here and now, and damn the consequences.
Her corset was so tight she couldn’t breathe. She brought his hand to her aching breast. “Touch me,” she said. She ached for his kiss . . . for the tug of his mouth on her nipples. Unbidden, memories of her dream rose in her mind and she felt herself go wet with desire.
“I want to
suck your breasts,” he said. “I want to kiss them, and bite them, and fill my mouth with them.
“Mmm,” she sighed.
“Shall I do that, Caroline? Do you want me to suck your breasts until your nipples grow hard and throbbing?” he asked.
She could not speak. Instead, she caught his hand and brought it to the knot that bound her corset lacing. The silk cord snapped under his strong pull and one breast slipped free.
“My little wife,” he murmured. “Let me taste your sweetness.”
She shivered as his warm, wet tongue encircled her nipple. Then he kissed the tip, slowly . . . and she gave herself up to the madness that surged through her body.
“Sweeter than honey.” He groaned. His lips tugged at her nipple until she tossed her head and moaned with ecstasy. Only then did he draw the swollen bud into his mouth and suckle with increasing passion.
Her other breast ached for the same caresses. With a little cry of joy, she guided him to kiss, and lick, and nibble at that one too, until she lost all sense of time and place and thought only of Garrett and his hot mouth on her bare skin.
Somehow, one of his hands was on her knee, sidling up the inside of her leg. She laughed and moved her own fingers down to savor again the hot power of his swollen sex.
“Woman,” he gasped. “You’ll unman me.”
She encircled the smooth, tight head with her fingertips, and he gave a low groan of pleasure. “Shall I stop?” she asked softly.
“Witchling.” He raised his head and leaned forward to kiss her full on the mouth.
Their tongues touched, withdrew, and touched again. He was velvet and oak. He tasted of wine and apple pie, and his hard body pressing hers was the sweetest weight she had ever felt.
She gasped with surprise as cool night air brushed her legs as he pushed her skirt up around her thighs. She could not lay still. Throbbing hunger made her squirm under his touch . . . made her shudder at his intimate caresses.
Then he crouched down and planted a feather-light kiss on the underside of her knee. She gasped and dug her fingers into his heavily muscled arm. His ensuing laughter was honey to her soul. He kissed her again . . . higher. His fingers stroked her, sliding nearer and nearer to the source of her exquisite sensitivity.
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