Wilde, Jennifer

by Love's Tender Fury

  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.

  I was an object, a receptacle for his lust. He hadn't even bothered to undress. I fought. I tried to throw him off. I fought Derek Hawke, and then I fought myself, fought the sensations exploding inside me with unbelievable ecstasy. Though he thrust inside me, brutally, as if inflicting a harsh punishment, I flung my arms around him and held him even closer and clutched at the white silk covering his back. Then, there was nothing but need and he cried my name and kissed me once more, holding me tightly, shuddering, and I knew that the conquest, however made, was not his but mine.

  CHAPTER 12

  I had drawn back the curtains and opened the windows earlier, and the room was deliciously cool with night air and filled with moonlight that streamed in in wavering rays, intensifying the blue-black shadows that coated the walls. I could see the murky-silver blue of the mirror, and Derek's white silk shirt rested on top of the chair like a weary ghost, his tall black boots standing on the floor and drooping limply. He was naked beside me, fast asleep, his chest rising and falling. I had removed my petticoat, another ghost spilling out of the half-opened drawer.

  The moonlight seemed thinner, silver gradually fading to a pale milky white, and it seemed the shadows stirred, black velvet melting into a softer, lighter shade, more blue now than black. Had we been in the country, the first cock would begin to crow shortly, and in the east faint golden stains would begin to touch the ashy gray horizon as the moon retired and stars twinkled off one by one. I had awakened a few minutes earlier, filled with a marvelous languor that glowed inside and warmed my whole body. Naked, I welcomed the cool breeze that chilled my skin. All the bedcovers had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Afraid I might wake him up, I made no effort to pull them back up over us. It would be time to get up soon enough.

  Derek moaned in his sleep, an irritated frown creasing his brow. He turned on his side, facing me, throwing his left leg over both mine and wrapping his arm around my waist. His skin was satin smooth, warm, and he smelled of sweat. I stroked his arm, moving my palm up his hard muscles, sliding it over the curve of his shoulder. He moaned again and pulled me closer, shifting position, resting his head heavily on my shoulder and breast, his half-open mouth moist against my skin. I lifted my right hand and stroked his hair, thick, soft, like coarse silk. He stirred again, neither asleep nor awake, and I could feel him growing taut, pulsating with warmth.

  Sleepily, he opened his eyes. I touched his mouth with my fingertips. He caught hold of my shoulders and pulled me over to him. Still half-asleep, he kissed me, a long, lingering kiss wonderfully tender, so
unlike that ardent plunder a few hours ago. I smoothed my palms over the curve of his shoulders and down his back, resting them on his flat buttocks as they lifted and he reached down to catch hold of mine.

  He had had me before. Brutally, with no thought for my comfort or pleasure, he had taken me and given nothing. He made love to me now. He might never say the words, might, with morning, be as cool and remote as ever he had been, but words were not necessary. His body, his being expressed everything with painstaking tenderness. He gave of himself and sensations swirled and skin seemed to shred slowly like silken webs tearing and his mouth covered mine as the cry rose up in my throat, trapping the cry inside me as love rushed up to meet the outpouring of our passion. I shuddered, as did he, and he fell limp on top of me, asleep soon, eventually rolling over to sprawl beside me in heavy, blissful slumber.

  I had washed and dressed in my old clothes by the time the first yellow rays of morning sunlight floated through the window. Derek was still sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep. I left the room quietly and went downstairs to find the lobby deserted. After a brief search, I finally found the kitchen in back of the inn. The cook had just gotten out of bed and shuffled about sleepily, mumbling to herself as she lighted the stove and put a pot of coffee on to brew. Fat and grumpy, her black skin glistening, she grumbled irritably when I told her I needed breakfast for two, looked incredulous and overcome when I said I would help her prepare it.

  "Land sakes, chile, ain't you an angel. Jest let me have my coffee an' we'll whip up th' best breakfast you ever seen."

  She was as good as her word. The breakfast that I carried up on an enormous wooden tray twenty minutes later looked and smelled incredibly delicious. I smiled to myself, filled with a shimmering happiness that seemed to sing inside me. Balancing the tray carefully, I opened the door to find the room ablaze with sunlight. The bed was empty. Derek was gone, as were his clothes he had discarded during the night. I set the tray down on the dressing table just as the connecting door opened. He had already washed and shaved and was dressed in his old clothes.