"Take my word for it, Ariah. Please. It does."
"Very well." Pivoting, she paced back the other way. "Now, I know this is done in bed—people do it in bed, I mean—and I assume they must be at least partially unclothed."
Bartholomew closed his eyes and squirmed in the chair as his overactive imagination conjured up an image of her lying naked in his bed.
"But," Ariah continued, oblivious to his discomfort, "does the woman lie there on her stomach, flat out, with him lying on top of her? Or does she get on her knees with him behind? And where exactly does he put his . . .privates? I thought it must be where I bleed each month because Mana told me that was where the baby would come out, but the image of a man trying to reach there from behind seems terribly awkward, Bartholomew."
When there was no answer, she turned. "Bartholomew?"
He no longer occupied his chair. She found him staring out the far window, beyond the lamplight, one hand braced against the window frame. He appeared tense, agitated. "Have I upset you, Bartholomew? I know I'm a failure as a proper lady, but—"
He tipped his head back and guffawed. The deep husky sound seemed to reach inside to stroke lightly down her spine, over her hipbones to her pelvis. She froze where she was, her teeth worrying her lower lip as she watched him.
"I'm fine." His mirth faded. After a long while he turned to face her, still hidden in the shadows. "Humans are not limited to only one position for reproduction, Ariah." It helped, he realized, to keep the conversation as clinical as possible. "The most common position, however, is lying down, with the man on top and the woman facing him, stomach to stomach rather than back to stomach. And your assumption about the entrance used to enter the woman's body is correct."
Ariah said nothing to this. When several moments of silence had passed, he released his breath and turned back to the dark window, as exhausted as if he had taken on an entire harem alone, satisfying all but himself.
Ariah was recalling her childhood eavesdropping and the revulsion of her mother's friend. "Does it hurt?"
Good hell but she was innocent. How would she react if he told her that it was hurting him like hell right now, that it hurt more not to plant his damned seeds, than if he could. But he knew that wasn't what she was asking. "The first time for a woman can be painful, I'm told, but the discomfort lasts but a few minutes."
"Just the first time?"
"Yes."
"Is it done often, or only when conception is desired?"
Her voice held neither shock nor revulsion. Merely curiosity, and perhaps puzzlement. Was it done often? Bartholomew saw his mouth form a wry smile as the glass cast back his dim reflection. If she were the wife and he the husband, he would never want to leave bed at all. He'd bury himself so deep inside her sweet body that nothing—and nobody—could tear them apart.
It was the wrong thing to think. He had nearly gotten his body under control. Now the hunger, the need that was becoming more desperate every day he spent near her, was approaching overload. He saw himself as a volcano ready to erupt. The whirling flow of heat inside his body made his head reel. His stomach muscles tightened until he could feel them quiver with the effort to contain his emotions. He tried to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, but his palms too were wet, accomplishing nothing.
"Bartholomew?"
His gaze flicked back to meet hers. One night. If he could only have one night with her. Twenty-four hours in which to sate his body and soul. To explore every inch of her; each curve, each plane, each hidden nook and valley that promised such heady treasure, such joy. Surely then he could be happy the rest of his days. Twenty-four hours to fill himself so full of her that when the need arose, he could simply crawl inside himself, find her there waiting for him, and gorge himself once more on the sweetness of her that would always belong to him. Only to him.
"How often depends on the man and wife," he said finally, his voice ragged and hoarse. "It is a pleasurable experience, Ariah, very pleasurable. At least, for most people." Hester invaded his mind, but he quickly blanked her out. "Much too pleasurable to limit it to procreation, and in any case, one instance does not guarantee conception."
"I see."
Her expression was such that he wasn't sure she saw at all, though she seemed content with what he'd told her.
"It's getting late," he said. "You'd best get to bed."
"Yes. Thank you, Bartholomew, for your honesty." A slight frown marred her forehead as she headed toward the ladder. When she passed him, she paused, sending him a bright smile. "Kali nichta," she said, "that's Greek for good night."
"Good night, nymph."
His soft reply followed her all the way to her bed. Her head was so full of images conjured by his words that she was in bed before she knew it. He had made everything sound simple and reasonable, even . . .pleasurable. His word. Her hand stole to the vee of her legs. The thought of his naked body stretched out on top of hers, rubbing against her, caused fiery tremors to shudder through her body. She flushed and felt a tingling between her legs. But she never lie naked in a bed with Bartholomew. It was Pritchard Monteer who would be her husband. Bartholomew already had a wife. Hester.
Jealousy stabbed deep. Ariah struggled to cast it out. She had no right to be jealous. No right to feel resentment toward a woman she'd never met. Did he love Hester? Did he enjoy lying with her? An unexpected wetness dampened Ariah's cheek. She wiped it away, rolled onto her stomach and tried to think how enthralled she would be living beside the ocean. How good it would be to have a house of her own. And a husband.
Her marriage to Pritchard would be happy, as her mama's marriage had been with Papa. And someday she and Bartholomew would be together. It was fated to be so, she was certain. Yet the harder she tried to erase the bleakness that had invaded her soul, the more impossible it became.
Beneath her, in the Upham's big bed, Bartholomew listened to her toss and turn, and wondered if the source of her disquiet was the same as his. Lord knew, the cure was simple enough. Bartholomew's body was painfully ready, and he was definitely more than eager. The knowledge that this particular fantasy would never come true brought a tightness to his throat that he had not felt in a very long time.
♥ ♥ ♥
At first Bartholomew thought the noise was only John and Olivia arriving home. It was the sweet hot feel of Ariah curled up tightly against him that told him he was dreaming. Then a devil in black began chasing Ariah, screaming retribution in a foreign tongue.
Bartholomew raced through the night trying to save her, lost in fog so white and solid he could feel it brush past his body. Cold, like ice on his naked skin. John appeared, smiling, talking about cows and roads that vanished into the river. Suddenly the black devil was gone and Ariah was nowhere to be seen. Bartholomew was in his bed, slick with sweat, heart pounding. He glanced around. Everything seemed normal, except for a scraping sound, like boots being cleaned of mud on the metal blade John had attached to the wooden steps outside the door.
Someone was out there.
Bartholomew struggled to fully awaken. He wasn't dreaming anymore, yet he sensed danger. Had Ariah’s uncle tracked her here? Was Xenos trying to take Ariah away? Bartholomew's feet tangled in the covers as he tried to leap from the bed. He had to stop Xenos. He couldn't let her be snatched from him. The man would have to kill him first.
The latch jiggled as it was lifted from outside. A chilly draft wrapped around Bartholomew like ghostly arms as he tumbled out of the warm bed. The intruder was opening the door. Fear prickled Bartholomew's skin. He grabbed up the first thing that came to hand and lunged, half-stumbling, toward the door.
The wooden portal swung inward and a cloak-shrouded form carrying a lantern entered, along with the icy wind. Bartholomew raised his weapon and prepared to crash it down onto the intruder's head.
The hood of the cloak fell back and he found himself staring down at Ariah.
She set the barely-lit lantern on the table and slipped the cloak off her shoul
ders. Her dark-honey hair shone golden in the dim light and her white nightrobe appeared almost yellow. She stepped in front of the lamp to hang up her wrap. The glow penetrating the thin fabric of her gown outlined her figure in exquisite detail. Bartholomew gasped and she glanced up.
"Bartholomew? Is that you?" The light barely reached his corner. She stepped closer. "What are you doing there in the shadows?"
Anger replaced his fear. Before he could ask her what the hell she was doing wandering about in the middle of the night by herself, she looked at his still up-raised hand.
"Why are you holding your boot up like that?"
Her gaze dropped, following the line of his body. Her mouth fell open, and she stared in shock. Bartholomew lowered his arm and saw the boot he held—the lethal weapon he was going to protect her with. His focus widened, taking in his bare feet on the cold puncheon floor—and everything in between.
He was naked. Naked and partially aroused as he was most mornings.
"Bartholomew!" Her gaze darted up to meet his, only to fall once more to his exposed body. "Is that your privates? Is that what you put inside . . .?”
She glided closer, sending his pulse soaring and more blood rushing to his loins.
"Oh." One hand moved to cover her mouth as she watched his body react to the fresh stimuli. She looked up at his face. "You're not at all like a mallard."
Bartholomew wanted to laugh. To cry. He wanted to throw himself down a hole. He wanted to pick her up and haul her off to bed. But he did nothing. His entire body seemed to have turned to granite.
Ariah passed her glance over him, starting with his wide shoulders with their rippling muscles, the dark carpet of hair on his chest, his taut abdomen that inescapably led her gaze back to the apex of his legs. He was beautiful, and so potently masculine. Simply looking at him caused heat to curl deep inside her. One tentative finger reached out to stroke the satiny hardness. It jumped. She let out a soft cry of wonder and reached for him again.
Bartholomew snatched her hand away with a hard jerk that did the opposite of what he had intended and brought her smack up against him. He let out a groan and held her away with his hands on her arms. "It's sweet torture when you touch me like that," he said, wincing as his voice cracked.
"But—" She tried to free her arm, wanting to touch him again, to explore the heat, the incredibly smooth texture, the strength and power she had sensed just beneath the taut skin.
"No," he said. "Don't move, just stay still and let me breathe."
He needed to get control, of himself. The situation was everything he could have dreamed of: the empty house, him, her, only her thin gown to keep their bare flesh from coming together, and a bed waiting nearby. His body begged for him to act. His conscience railed for him to wait. Hoping his agony didn't show in his voice, he pushed her toward the ladder to the loft. "Go up to bed, Ariah. I'll take care of the lantern."
She resisted for a moment. "Bartholomew—"
"Go, we'll talk tomorrow."
Ariah didn't want to wait until tomorrow. Nor did she want to talk. Her body was feverish and full of urges she didn't understand. She ached and didn't know why. But she knew Bartholomew could explain. Knew instinctively that he could ease her agitation. She tried to make out his expression in the dim light. His face was dark, intense, forbidding. He looked in pain. Caused by her?
Swallowing the lump that formed suddenly in her throat, she turned to the ladder. With her foot on the first rung she paused, hoping he would call her back. When he didn't, she chanced a look over her shoulder. He hadn't moved, just stood there watching her, his face as hard and inscrutable as the worn wood beneath her hands.
"Go on," he said.
After one long last look at him, she did as he told her.
Alone again, Bartholomew turned to the wall, pressing his face into the rough, peeled log, welcoming the pain that obliterated at least part of his agony.
Chapter Ten
The following day was fraught with tension. When his porridge was lumpier than usual, Bartholomew cursed and slammed the bowl down on the table so hard the salt cellar bounced up and landed in his mush.
"Good hell, woman." He leaped to his feet and snatched up a towel to wipe off the mess that splashed onto his hand. "A child could make porridge in his sleep. Why can't you do it wide awake?"
Ariah had jumped at the banging of the bowl behind her back where she stood at the stove. At his angry bellow, the basket of freshly gathered eggs she had been sorting so she could scramble the two largest for him, fumbled from her hands and plummeted to the floor. Eggshells and gooey clear liquid splattered onto her skirt. She glared at him as she knelt to mop up the mess. "Who says I'm awake? I hardly slept a wink last night."
"And you're blaming me for that, I suppose?"
Her eyes stung with unwonted tears. She lowered her head and busied her hands with the rag she was using to sop up the eggs. "If the noose fits, hang yourself with it."
Bartholomew clenched his hands, torn between shaking her witless and kissing her until she fainted from lack of air. "All you have to do is pay attention to the one thing you're doing, instead of trying to cook, read that confounded book of yours and mend your skirt at the same time."
Ariah stood up so suddenly she swayed with dizziness. He reached out to steady her and she slapped his hand away. "I have better things to do with my time than stand around watching porridge thicken."
"Yes, the same way you have better things to do than grind the coffee until it's the proper consistency, or roast it first as you're supposed to do."
She looked at him blankly. "I'm supposed to roast it?"
Bartholomew stared back at her, his face like black thunder, terrifying and beautiful at the same time.
"Is there anything you do know how to do?" he asked.
Ariah had no argument; he was right in everything he said. Her mouth quivered. "I'm very good at identifying birds."
The urge to laugh at her inane statement fled as he watched tears pool at the corners of her eyes, and spill over. Damn! He slammed a fist on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes and stalked toward her. He couldn't bear to see her cry. She flinched when he drew near. The black anger fled his face as guilt lacerated his heart. His voice softened. "I'm not going to hit you. Come here."
He drew her into his arms, cursing himself for losing his patience. It wasn't her fault that his need for her was chewing him to bits more efficiently than the coffee grinder did beans, or that he couldn't sleep anymore, could barely force himself to eat. His control had been stretched to its limits and then some. With his every nerve was jangled, he found himself white-knuckled more often than not in his effort to keep his hands off her.
Why hadn't he insisted she take the train to Yamhill and then the stage? Because I had no idea she'd turn out to be the most precious creature I'd ever laid eyes on. But he had known within five minutes of meeting her. He should have put her on the train that very moment. It was his weakness that had created this disaster. Now he had taken out his mounting frustration on her and she was soaking his shirtfront with tears. His arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry, nymph, I'm sorry. Please stop crying."
Desperate to please him in any way she could, she made a heroic attempt to stem the flow. After a few hiccupping sobs, she succeeded. He stroked her back and buried his face in her hair. Lily of the valley pervaded his senses, along with the warmth of her body and the softness of her breasts pressed against him. His body reacted with vigor.
"Oh hell!" Bartholomew thrust her away. "There's only one cure for this."
Painfully aware that what he was about to do was not the only cure, but simply the only one available to him, he wheeled toward the door and snatched up his coat and rifle. A few brief seconds later he was gone.
Ariah listened to the crunch of his boots in the frosted mud and the mutter of his curses as he headed for the barn, and vowed to grind tonight's coffee as fine as flour. She'd fix him the best dinner she could come
up with—Greek food, the one thing she did know how to cook, or as close to Greek as she could manage with what the Upham’s had in store—and she'd make certain nothing was undercooked or burned because of her damnable lack of domestic aptitude.
Her resolve firm, she hurried to the rocker where she had left Dr. Chase's book. Making herself comfortable in Olivia's chair, she thumbed through the recipes in the cooking section, searching for instructions on baking an apple pie, remembering his mentioning to Effie that it was his favorite.
Through a misty rain that was half sleet, Bartholomew rode to the washed-out bridge where he held a shouted conversation with two men on the far side that had come from Trask House to investigate the damage. Tomorrow a crew would begin cutting trees for the new bridge. If they waited for the rain to cease, it might take weeks. He wasn't the only one needing to get through. He promised to do what he could on his end to help, and departed.
Now, riding up the track to the house, he watched the smoke curl up from the chimney and tried to quell the eager churning in his gut at the thought of seeing Ariah. She was there, framed in the open doorway, waving to him. His heart did a backflip. His pulse doubled. He paused long enough to tell her he would be in as soon as he'd taken care of his horse. She called back that supper would be ready when he finished. He saluted and rode on.
The 18,000 candlepower lamp of the Cape Meares light could not have outshone her smile. It seared its way straight into his heart, making him feel lighter than he had all day. He tried to ensure his control with a severe lecture about the danger of letting himself forget that Ariah Scott belonged to Pritchard, and would never be his.
"Got a deer liver for you," he announced as he stepped inside with a hide-wrapped packet. “The rest of the deer is hanging in the barn.”
Ariah hurried over. "Look at you, you're soaked and covered with mud. Here, let me help."
"What's that I smell?" He leaned close, grinning while she hung up his coat. "It's certainly not burnt bacon."
"No, it certainly is not."
Forever Mine Page 11
