The pleasure was inside her and outside, within him and between them. It came in waves, and also in a sharp, sudden onslaught. It gripped them, rolled over them, washed them in its wake, before returning with renewed strength.
Effort made their bodies gleam with heat and moisture as they slipped upon each other. Their breaths rasped in their chests. Hot-eyed, they strained, reaching toward a goal neither could bear, quite, to reach.
Merciless magic, white and black, dark and light, Angelica could feel it rising inside, feel its pressure and force. Her muscles ached, her lungs burned, but she could not quite find its release.
Once more, Renold turned with her, pressing her down into the mattress. She took his deep internal invasion, his surging power.
Escape, abrupt and uncontainable. It was a searing completion, a silent inner eruption that mounted upward like the boiling of live steam. Lost in its power, she let it take her while with sobbing breaths she clung to him. Shuddering, racked by paroxysms that bunched his muscles and arched his back, he pressed her down, down into the glory.
Afterward, they held each other, staring into the lamp’s glow with wide, unseeing eyes. Disaster or stupendous success, they did not know which they had found.
Of one thing only were they certain.
They had barely survived it.
Chapter Thirteen
“Voilà, le café!”
The cheerful greeting woke Angelica from a sleep so deep it was like swimming upward through heavy darkness. Opening her eyes required a considerable effort.
It was Estelle who stood holding the tray with its silver coffeepot and basket of napkin-wrapped rolls. There was a wide smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. Placing the tray within reach on the bedside table, the woman bustled around, throwing back the lid of a trunk, drawing out a dressing sacque. She brought the wrap to the bed and leaned to help Angelica slip it around her shoulders as she sat up. And if the maid found it in the least unusual to tend a mistress who was naked under the twisted and rumpled covers, she gave no sign.
Angelica was alone. Renold had gone. She reached out to touch the place where he had lain, but there was no trace of his body heat remaining there.
Estelle looked up from where she stood pouring out a steaming cup of coffee. “The maître has been out and about for some hours. It was he who sent me with your breakfast.”
Angelica removed her hand without undue haste. “Is it so late then?”
“Near noon, Mamzelle. But it’s a gray day out with drizzling rain, and he would not allow you to be awakened earlier.” The maid’s lips curved in a faint smile. “He said you had need of rest.”
Angelica could feel the flush that worked its way up to her hairline. She said with as much composure as she could manage, “That was considerate.”
The maid tilted her head, her round face bland. “Everyone knows you were much upset earlier. They were not surprised.”
The purpose of the comment was to prevent embarrassment when she emerged from the stateroom. It was a thoughtful gesture, even if it added to Angelica’s discomfort now. With an inarticulate murmur, she took the cup the maid offered and buried her face in it
The maid moved away back toward the trunk where she fell on her knees and began searching out a gown for Angelica to wear for the day. Over her shoulder, she said, “It is a fine thing you have done. The maître has need of a woman who will be a real wife to him, who will give him children, a family, all the things that make living good.”
It had been hopeless, of course, to think that Estelle, and probably Tit Jean also, would not know just how things were between Renold and herself. She said with resignation in her voice, “I can’t think why you would say so. He has given no sign of it.”
“Men don’t always know what they need. The maître has been too much alone in his life. He is like a boat floating empty on the river. He requires an anchor, needs to be tied to someone, to be useful to them, before he can be happy.”
Angelica sent a wry smile in Estelle’s direction as she leaned her head back on the pillow. “I wish that might be true.”
“Only wait, you will see,” the maid said comfortably. “So. You are all right about being on board now? You feel well enough to get up?”
Amazingly enough, the constant rumbling and thumping of the engines gave Angelica not a qualm. She was tired, her wrists and ankles were still bruised and sore, and she was aware of some internal tenderness, but she had seldom felt physically better in her life.
“Yes?” Estelle said at her assent “Excellent! Then which will you wear, the blue twill, or the tan d’or velvet?”
The rain still fell when Angelica emerged from her stateroom. She was attired in blue twill, with a small shoulder cape against the dampness and her hair braided and looped and fastened to the crown of her head to defeat the wind on deck. It was her intention to walk on the boiler deck, under the shelter of the Texas deck above, to blow the cobwebs from her brain. If she also wanted to test her courage and new sense of invulnerability to steamboat accidents, it was no one’s business except her own.
The boat was buffeted by a light wind that made its course less than arrow-straight and blew the fogging drizzle under the overhang to wet the decks on the windward side. On the lee, it was possible to stand and watch the misty green shoreline ease past. Smoke from the stacks overhead whipped around the deck, tainting the air with its smell. The rain had increased, slanting down to dent the gliding, metallic gray surface of the river like silver arrows striking a great iron battle shield.
“So here’s where you are hiding? Are you contemplating jumping, or have you developed a sudden passion for what once repelled you?”
Angelica swung at the soft yet caustic tone. She had intended to be serene and self-possessed when she saw Renold again, giving not the least indication that she remembered the night before and the things they had done. It was impossible.
More, the hidden meaning in what he had just said was enough in itself to discompose her. As with steamboats, she had once been afraid of the physical consequences of marriage. She had also once considered that she might have a cool nature. How very foolish she had been.
She laughed, a throaty, knowing sound she hardly recognized. “No,” she said. “And yes, perhaps.”
His smile was brief. “I take it you are as well as you look?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” The glance from under her lashes was not meant to be provocative. Quite.
“I thought I might have taxed you unduly. It isn’t so long since you were injured.”
There was a grim, satirical tone in his voice that troubled her. With heightened color, she answered his suggestion rather than his words. “I seem to have taken no harm.”
“Then possibly it will be as well if you come and convince the others. They seem to think I am an ogre for carrying you aboard. And they aren’t too certain you haven’t been confined to your cabin to conceal bodily damage suffered at my hands.”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t mean it!”
“Can’t I?” he said with a twist of his lips. “Those who know a man best are apt to believe the worst calumny of him.”
He had exaggerated, perhaps, and yet she was greeted with such cries of relief and gladness that she had to wonder. She was also warmed by them, finding it pleasant to think that she had been missed. It seemed that she might one day gain a sense of belonging again. Renold was not the only one in need of a family.
Yet it was Renold who gave her the least confidence in her prospects for the future. Withdrawn, pensive, he took no part in the exclamations and sympathetic comments that made her welcome. His glance, when it happened to turn in her direction, was as impenetrable as a window glass with darkness behind it; it reflected everything but gave no indication of what lay beyond.
The steamboat General Quitman was not the equal of the Queen Kathleen. Even if Angelica had not been able to guess as much from the Spartan nature of her stateroom, a brief sojourn in the m
ain cabin would have made it plain. The open room was utilitarian, with simple oak tables and chairs. The overhead lamps had no embellishments of brass or crystal, but were simple globes shielded by red-painted tin. There were no rugs on the unpolished wooden floors, no draperies at the windows. The posts that supported the ceiling down the long length were plain wood cylinders unburdened with ornamentation or even paint.
Among their fellow passengers, the preference for calico and challis for the ladies and short coats, flat-crowned hats, and shapeless trousers of linsey-woolsey for the men marked them as country farmers or small town tradespeople. These travelers kept to themselves, the men lounging in knots of three or four near the well-used spittoons, and the women gathered in family groups where they talked with their heads close together. Their interest in the elegantly turned out members of Renold’s party was high, judging from their stares, but it was difficult to make direct eye contact.
The noon meal was heralded by the invasive smell of hot oil and overcooked food. The menu recited by the waiters was simple to remember as it was made up of fried items, from fried chicken and fried ham to fried apple pies for dessert. The beverage served was not wine but whiskey that was brought out without ceremony and slammed down in front of the diners in earthenware jugs. That the fare exactly suited the tastes of the majority of the passengers was evident, for they dug in with flying elbows and clashing forks, scarcely waiting to tuck their napkins under their chins.
The steamboat’s captain presided at the head table where Angelica and the others sat. A jovial man of corpulent shape and high color, which suggested he found no fault with the food and drink, his uniform made up for any deficiencies in his boat. Of the finest black broadcloth, it was bedecked with a ludicrous excess of epaulettes, bouillon, stripes, and braiding.
“I see, Madam Harden,” the official said, leaning toward her and putting his hand over hers where it lay on the table, “that you do not partake of the fine beverage there before you. Understandable, perhaps, I’ll warrant you are not used to spirits. If you would care for it, I can supply you with wine from my private stock.”
“You are very kind,” Angelica replied, removing her hand from under his grasp before he could quite close it, “but I couldn’t put you to that trouble.”
“No trouble at all for a lady of your quality. I can’t remember when I’ve had the pleasure of transporting such a fair flower. You must allow me this one gesture.”
“Some gestures have unforeseen consequences,” Renold said. He did not raise his voice from where he sat at the foot of the table, studying the glass of whiskey in his hand. “I have ordered wine for my wife. My manservant will arrive with it shortly.”
The captain reared back in his chair, his face taking on an alarming purple color. “My good man! I intended no impropriety.”
“You intended to create an obligation, and therefore a reason for encroaching,” came the answer in tones of stinging censure. “You have been prevented. My advice is to let it pass.”
“You’re a damned unpleasant fellow!” The captain clearly resented the affront to his dignity, but was as yet uncertain what to do about it
Renold lifted a dangerous gaze. “You have no idea.”
“Please,” Angelica said, looking from one man to the other. “There is no need for this.”
She was given scant attention. The captain’s nostrils flared. Scowling heavily at Renold, he said, “I’ve a good mind to put you off my boat.”
“Try,” Renold recommended succinctly.
Here and there other diners had raised their heads to listen to the exchange. Anxious to avoid anything that might interest them further, Angelica said, “I’m sure the captain meant no disrespect, nor is he likely to address his gallantries to me under your very eyes.”
“Ah, but keeping you under my eyes,” Renold said, turning his acerbic gaze in her direction, “is not always easy.”
“If you are referring to last night, I am at a loss to see how I could have prevented my absence!”
His gaze rested a moment on her breasts, which rose and fell noticeably with her indignation. He clenched his jaws so that a muscle stood out before he said with biting irony, “Permit me to suggest intelligence and attention to unlocked doors.”
Deborah made a small gasping sound. A frown gathered between her fair brows as she stared from Angelica to her half-brother. On her far side, Michel tilted his head. “Here, now!” he said. “That’s hardly fair, and you know it.”
Renold turned his head slowly to meet this new defense. “I know, my friend, that your interest in my darling wife’s welfare is only a cut above the captain’s. I am giving you the advantage of supposing that at least a small portion of your interference is motivated by sympathy.”
“Why should she need sympathy, unless she stands in danger from you?” Michel demanded.
“I thought we had settled that,” Renold replied, “or would you care to inspect her for bruises?”
Michel’s pleasantly handsome face took on a look of serious affront. “You know—”
“I know that you have the presumption to disapprove of my conduct while knowing full well the reasons and goals. You might remember, however, that my concessions in the name of friendship are not infinite.”
Michel made a movement as if he meant to rise. Deborah reached out to touch his wrist below his sleeve with the tips of her fingers. A stillness came over Michel’s face, though he did not turn in the direction of Renold’s half-sister. He was quiet for long seconds while he held Renold’s hard gaze. Finally, he said, “We will discuss this later.”
“Unproductive and unnecessary,” Renold said. “Also unlikely.”
Michel’s lips tightened, but he made no response. Tit Jean arrived then with two bottles of the wine they had brought with them, a welcome distraction. Her voice brisk, Deborah put a question to Angelica which changed the subject and created some degree of normality. The incident was allowed to pass.
However, the repercussions from it lingered. One direct result was that Michel remained near Angelica’s side for the remainder of the afternoon, therefore was nearby when the steamboat stopped at the wood yard. It may also have been responsible for the fact that he offered his escort when she expressed a desire to leave the boat long enough to stretch her legs. Certainly it was in a spirit of leftover defiance that she accepted.
The wood yard was a thriving enterprise, still something less than impressive. Run by a man and his two older sons, it consisted of a four-square log house surrounded by open ground dotted with the stomps of trees felled to stoke the steamboats that passed. The wood, dragged now from farther afield by a pair of skinny oxen, was stacked in long ricks near the bluff above the water. At the cabin’s door was a slattern of a woman who sat piecing quilt scraps while keeping an eye on the half-dozen ragged children playing in the mud and misting rain.
An air of impermanence hung over the place, showing in the rough door through which daylight must shine when it was closed, the sagging shutters that took the place of window glass, and the absence of such niceties as steps, porches, or curtains. When all the trees within a reasonable distance of the river were gone, the owner of the wood yard would leave also.
The woman in the doorway sat staring at Angelica and Michel as if they were beings from another world. It was not often, perhaps, that someone got off the boat, much less strolled the track leading up from the water. Angelica, nodding in her direction with a brief smile, wondered about the life the woman led, if she was happy in her rough existence or sometimes longed for something better, if she loved her husband or was merely resigned to her lot.
Love. How very strange it was, how hard to recognize, to capture and hold. It was possible to feel it and accept it in any given moment. Yet, short seconds later, anger and hurt could banish the warm generosity and singing heart of loving and leave emptiness in its place.
She had thought she loved Renold last night. She had been so certain that only love could
make her feel such wondrous pleasure, that only love could engender the incredible tenderness and ardor she had discovered in her marriage bed. Today, she was plagued with doubt. Was it possible the pain caused by his distance and anger was also a measure of love? It might, but there was no way to be sure of that, either.
Angelica paused to stand huddled into the rain cape she had borrowed from Deborah, looking back down the muddy slope she and Michel had climbed from the river’s edge. The deckhands were loading wood at a leisurely pace; there was no great hurry about returning.
Above them, the leaden sky hovered close. The rain spattered with soft, tapping sounds against the cape’s hood. It also made her skirts hang limp and heavy so the hem brushed in the mud, though she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Beside her, Michel pulled his hat lower over his eyes and adjusted the collar of his coat, which was waterproofed with gutta-percha. The fidgeting was a sign, perhaps, of his discomfort when making remarks of a personal nature, for his tones were gruff when he spoke. “You must not take too much notice of Renold. He has a fiendish tongue on him at times, but he doesn’t mean half what he says.”
“You think not?” she said with more than a little skepticism.
“I don’t mean to suggest that he makes idle threats — far from it.” He looked away from her out over the river. “Nevertheless, I think Renold sometimes savages people when the person he’s most enraged with is himself.”
She gave him a small smile. “You’re a very forgiving man.”
“Not at all,” he said with a shake of his head that sent collected raindrops flying from his hat brim. “In fact, I wanted to smash his face back there at the table.” A wry laugh shook him. “Not that it’s likely I could unless I caught him off guard. But I’m doing my best to make allowances, first because I know he has the grandfather of all hangovers today, and secondly because I can see his jealousy is eating him alive.”
Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) Page 20
