Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  That night, when Ariah put away her mending and doused the lamp by her chair, Pritchard tossed his newspaper onto the sofa and followed her up the stairs.

  "Did you know Abraham Lincoln was playing baseball when he got the message that he'd been nominated for President?" he asked as they rounded a corner of the stairwell and climbed the last few steps to the second floor.

  Ariah heaved a silent sigh. The routine had been the same since the night they had sat on her bed, when a harmless discussion had ended in a not so harmless kiss. Every night after that he had managed to get some sort of conversation going so that it seemed perfectly normal for him to follow her right into her room. At first, when she made it obvious she was ready to change into her nightrobe and go to bed, he had nonchalantly kissed her on the cheek and left, closing the door behind him, the perfect gentleman. But after a week, the kiss on the cheek became an embrace and a full kiss on the mouth. It was his right; she was his wife. Yet, no matter how she lectured herself about the necessity of becoming a true wife to Pritchard, she was fast coming to dread bedtime.

  "No, I didn't know Lincoln played baseball."

  "He was one of its biggest supporters, actually."

  "How interesting."

  He followed her into her room. "I was reading in the Headlight-Herald that they're going to allow substitutions of players now, any time during a game."

  "That's nice, Pritchard."

  He sat down on the side of her bed and watched as she poured water into the washbasin. Ariah felt his gaze crawling over her like ants on her flesh. She splashed cold water onto her face and prayed for patience. Pritchard Monteer was her husband. He was a good man, for all his childishness and insensitivity. In her wedding vows, she had promised to obey. No, she had promised more than that: to love, honor and obey.

  If honoring him meant being faithful, she had at least managed that much, in body, if not in heart. The love she had hoped would come in time. Even if she never learned to care for him the way she did his uncle, she still believed that she owed it to Pritchard to honor her wedding vows to the best of her ability.

  And that meant granting him the use of her body.

  Steeling herself to do what she must, she dried her face and turned to him.

  "Pritchard—"

  "Ariah—"

  Having spoken at the same time, they laughed nervously.

  "Ariah," he began again, his young face a study in hope and trepidation. "I hate sleeping alone. Let me stay with you tonight. I promise I won't do anything but hold you. Please?"

  She tried to tell him that he was welcome in her bed and to do more than hold her, but the words would not come. "All right," was all she could squeeze from her throat. Feeling awkward and foolish, she rushed to the dresser and pulled out her nightrobe. "I'll slip into this while you change into your nightshirt . . . in your room."

  "That's great. I'll only be a minute."

  When he was gone, Ariah collapsed onto the bed, the gown clutched to her breasts. What would she do if he broke his word and tried to make love to her? She would let him, of course. It was his right.

  Pritchard returned so quickly, she barely had time to pull her gown down over her hips before the door swung open and he stepped inside. His bare feet, sticking out from under the voluminous nightshirt, were small and narrow. He had been her husband now for over six weeks. Yet she had never seen before how slight his feet were. He shuffled from one to the other as though the floor was exceedingly cold.

  "Either side all right?"

  She blinked in confusion and he motioned to the bed. "Oh, yes, either side is fine."

  He climbed in, leaving her to close the door and put out the lamp. Instead, she stood beside the bed, one hand gripping the front placket of her gown.

  "I-I usually give my hair a hundred strokes."

  Pritchard propped himself on an elbow. "Go ahead. I didn't mean to interrupt your routine."

  At the dresser she pulled the pins from her hair and let it cascade in honeyed waves down her back. She took up her brush and went to work. In the mirror she could see Pritchard watching avidly from the bed, the way Bartholomew had at the Uphams' cabin. She pushed the memories of that other time from her mind and concentrated on counting her strokes, entirely too aware of the growing sensuality on her husband's face. When the hundred strokes became a hundred and twenty and she could no longer delay the inevitable, she put down the brush and went to the bed. Sitting on the edge, she extinguished the lamp. She slid beneath the covers and lay stiffly beside her husband, her back to him. His voice came out of the darkness, breathy with desire, hesitant with fear.

  "Can I hold you?"

  "Yes."

  At once his arms came around her, one under her neck, the other curled over her waist, his hand coming to rest dangerously close to her breast. All along her back, she felt his warmth.

  "Good night, Ariah."

  "Good night."

  For an eternity she lay there, rigid as a board. Though he carefully kept his hips from touching her, the heat coming from that part of his anatomy and the difficulty he was having getting to sleep told her he wanted to do more than hold her. Only when the arm wrapped around her waist became heavy and his breathing slowed to the deep, measured breaths of slumber did she relax and finally drift off to sleep.

  In the morning she awoke to find him gone. Too relieved to question her good luck, she rose swiftly to dress before he could return. When he came home that afternoon, he went straight to the stove and reached for the lid on a pot.

  "Do I smell what I think I smell?"

  "Careful!"

  "Ow!" He dropped the hot lid and stuck his fingers in his mouth.

  "Let me see." She pried his hand away from his mouth to examine the burn, ignoring his whimpers of pain. The skin was red and angry but not as bad as she'd feared.

  "You'll live," she assured him. "Run cold water on them to ease the pain and next time, use a towel to lift the lid."

  Over the sound of the running water, he asked again about the aroma he had noticed as he entered the house.

  "You guessed right," she said. "It's your favorite of Mana's recipes, chicken in brandy cream sauce with beans."

  Pritchard was always especially pleased when she cooked Greek. It meant the meal would be good because she always made sure she did it right. She took out three plates and set them on the table. "I'll call Seamus."

  "He won't like eating this early."

  "He wants to go into town with you."

  "What for?" He turned off the faucet and studied his scalded fingers.

  "I didn't feel it was my place to ask. Is there some problem about him going along?"

  "No, but . . ." He hadn't planned to go tonight; he had planned to seduce his wife.

  "I want you to buy me some gardening gloves," she said over her shoulder as she went to call the old sailor. "And flower seeds."

  "Flower seeds? But Aunt—"

  "I know, Aunt Hester didn't countenance wasting time on something as useless as flowers." Ariah stepped back into the room. "But Hester is gone and I am still here. Will you get the seeds, or not?"

  "Sorry. Of course I will. I guess I still find it hard to believe she's dead."

  Not me, Ariah thought, unable to shove aside her guilty relief at having the woman's querulous presence gone.

  Pritchard wasn't happy about having the old man go along. Though Seamus wasn't likely to follow him around the whole time they were in town, his presence meant that any visit with Nettie would have to be extremely brief. The men would have to return on the same tide so that Seamus could relieve Uncle Bart at midnight.

  Nettie hadn't been at all pleased to hear that Ariah had refused to grant him an annulment. Only his promise to keep trying had smoothed the girl's ruffled feathers. He intended to keep trying, all right, but not for an annulment.

  Waking up this morning with Ariah in his arms, one full breast cupped in his hand, had been almost
as wonderful as the first time he had thrust into Nettie's hot sweet body. In that first moment of wakefulness, he had thought it was Nettie in his arms. If Ariah hadn't pushed his hand away in her sleep as he began to explore her body, he might have made a bad mistake. Reminding himself how hard he had worked to get into Ariah's bed, he had forced himself to leave before temptation overcame him, but that hadn't kept him from wishing she was Nettie so he could satisfy his need then and there.

  Was it Nettie he missed, or only her willing body?

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  At midnight, Seamus shuffled into the lighthouse and set down the lunch tin Ariah had fixed for his four a.m. meal.

  "Evening, Seamus." Bartholomew closed the logbook he had been writing in, and rose from the chair at the desk. "Did you learn anything in town?"

  Seamus took his time answering. He retrieved his corncob pipe from his pocket, filled the bowl and lit the tobacco. Perfect rings of smoke emerged from his mouth as he exhaled. Bartholomew watched the smoke rings drift toward the ceiling, and vanish, knowing it would do no good to rush the old man. Seamus's favorite from Ecclesiastes was ". . . a time to keep silence, and a time to speak . . ."

  Finally, the old man spoke, "Seems we was right to suspect the lad. Hennifee says the young cock's building a harem, all right. Girl on the far end of the slough, name o' Nettie."

  ♥ ♥ ♥

  Bartholomew stood on the beach and stared at the frothing sea, jade green in the bright morning sunlight. He tried not to think of Ariah. An impossible task. Would he ever be free of her hold on his heart? On his soul? A part of him prayed not, because with her inside him he was at least alive. Even so, it hurt. It hurt to have and at the same time, not have her.

  His nymph.

  She had cast a spell over him, fed him a love potion more potent than wine, administered by the mere curving of her lips. How could a smile be so powerful? To make a life that had, until she came along, seemed unworthy of the effort to keep it alive, suddenly blossom with glory and joy and promise. As though, as he had so often wished, he was being reborn.

  She was a song in his soul that never ceased to sing. Awake or asleep, at work or at leisure, her love whispered in his heart. Like the sigh of the sea in a shell long stolen from the watery depths of its birth. Like the echo of a lover's flute on a windswept bluff, devoid of tears or sorrow or pain. Like the stirrings of hope.

  As the wind lifted the thick hair off his forehead, and rainbow-hued sea foam coolly kissed his naked toes, it came to him that until he freed himself from the bewitching allure of his intoxicating nymph, he would be like the pebbles on the beach, dragged willy nilly by the undertow, and spat back onto the shore, impotent and alone. The thought left him feeling helpless and dejected.

  Overhead, a gull hovered, its wings dipping negligibly to one side and the other, as it played the wind like the air holes of a flute, creating a song of lazy grace and summer sunshine. The wind switched direction. The gull plunged for a heart-wrenching instant before a few indolent flaps of its wings halted its fall. A moment later, catching another updraft, it soared high above the surging tide, effortlessly, the way Bartholomew wished he could leave behind the moorings of his beleaguered soul.

  As if to argue the ramblings of Bartholomew's mind, the gull gave a keen, melancholy cry. At the same moment, his scalp prickled with awareness. His body tingled and a strange, irrational frisson fingered his spine in a symphony of hope. He spun about. There, on the rise behind him, stood the quintessence of his dream.

  Ariah.

  Their eyes met across the windblown distance, and his soul awakened.

  Ariah hesitated at the lip of the low bluff, enthralled by the sight of Bartholomew on the hard, flat beach below. His hair was longer than usual and brushed against his collar as the breeze riffled the dark strands. Excitement tingled low in her abdomen. Had she known he would be there, she would have honored his solitude. Fortunately, his presence was a surprise, like a pearl in a clam shell, and she felt no compunction to retreat.

  Though separated by sixty yards or more, the air between them sizzled with emotions left naked by the astonishment of their unexpected encounter. Joy. Need.

  Desire.

  A warmth beyond the sun's ability flooded Ariah as her feet carried her down the slope toward the man below. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, to wrap herself about him and beg him to keep her there forever. Unfamiliar shyness held her back. So much had happened in the weeks since he had brought her there. She was Mrs. Pritchard Monteer now and Bartholomew was a widower. Hester's death had been hard on him. He had all but made himself a recluse at the station and for all Ariah knew, might not welcome her company today.

  A sudden, unnatural hush descended as Bartholomew watched her descend the narrow path. All the world waited as breathlessly as he did. Even his heart seemed to have stopped beating.

  So beautiful she was, his nymph. Her hair lifted and fanned out around her delicate face like strands of sunshine trailing upon the wind. Her skirt whipped above her ankles, awarding him a tantalizing view unhampered by the petticoats she had had sense enough to abandon for her long hike to the beach.

  She came to a halt in front of him, half a dozen feet away, her eyes as bright as sun sparkles on the sea. Slowly, her lushly defined mouth spread into a smile as she stared up at him. Not the smile of startling, heart stopping radiance that he had fallen in love with, but one more subdued, less assured.

  "I needed the sea today," she said simply.

  As though awakened by her voice, sound returned. Waves crashed upon the shore, gulls cried overhead, a crow cawed in the trees on the bluff, all unduly loud after the eternity of silence that preceded them. Blood pulsed in Bartholomew's veins and his heart surged. He knew she was waiting for him to reply, but he couldn’t. His throat had closed up on him.

  The air seemed to shimmy around the two of them, tense, expectant. All he could think was how desperately he loved her. All he could do was stare at her, as though she might vanish like morning mist if he were to do more.

  Apollo came bounding out of the trees above them. The dog raced full-bore down the slope and leaped repeatedly at Ariah. She backed away, swatting half-heartedly at him while Bartholomew chuckled. It was as if the dog were trying to herd her into Bartholomew's arms, a notion the man minded not a whit. His arms fairly ached to hold her.

  "Down, you naughty dog," she scolded, laughing.

  Apollo jumped at Bartholomew and laved his face with a swipe of his tongue before running off after a red-beaked oyster-catcher standing at the edge of the surf.

  The moment fractured the tension between the man and the woman. Together, they watched the dog scurry out of the way of a wave as the bird took to the air. When Bartholomew glanced back at Ariah, her gaze was on him, her forget-me-not blue eyes filled with a longing that she banished at once with a flick of her stubby lashes.

  "Do you want to be alone?" she asked.

  "No."

  His tone was so sharp it caused her to jerk her gaze back up to meet his.

  "You needed the sea today," he said softly. "I needed you."

  Her old smile flashed to life, as radiant as a summer sunset. "I'm here."

  A period of awkwardness followed, each afraid to speak what lay heavy on the mind and unable to find another subject to fill the gap. Apollo had left sandy paw prints on his shirt. Ariah longed to brush them away, but although he'd said he needed her, he'd made no move toward her, leaving her feeling as uncertain as before. She tore her gaze away and glanced about the deserted beach.

  "I thought to look for seashells," she said.

  "Have you found any agates yet?" He turned and walked toward a section of the beach that was littered with rocks. Ariah fell in beside him.

  "What are agates?"

  He paused to gaze down at her, his perfectly sculpted mouth solemn, his eyes as dark and deep as the sea.

  "Stones as translucent as your skin and almost as beautiful as your eyes," he sa
id huskily.

  She blushed. "You take my breath away when you say things like that."

  There were other, better, ways he would like to take her breath away, but he did not confess them. "I said nothing that isn't true."

  "Oh, Bartholomew, you’ll turn my head," She swayed toward him, needing to touch him, but resisted. Flinging herself away from him, she studied the sand. "Help me find a pretty shell. Or one of your agates."

  Hunting shells was the last thing he wanted to do with her, and although he reminded himself she was Pritchard's wife now, the admonition did little good in light of what he had recently learned about the boy. Just the same, he followed her meekly enough as she headed down the beach.

  "Wait." She sat down and removed her shoes and stockings, then stood and wriggled her toes in the sand. Her feet were small and slender, like her frame. "The sand isn't as warm as I expected, but it feels wonderful just the same."

  Leaving her footgear where it lay she raced toward the water. A shallow incoming wave met her, its edges scalloped with sea foam. Laughing, she danced away. Apollo bounded over to join in the fun. When the water receded, Ariah darted after it, the dog at her side. With her skirts held high she allowed the next wave to catch her, swirling and foaming about her ankles.

  Bartholomew grinned. She was a nimble sea sprite, as enticing as a Lorelei. Childlike in her play, all woman in her allure.

  "Come on." She waved for him to join her.

  Like a truant school boy eager to cast off everyday cares, he rolled his trousers to his knees, and tossed aside his shirt and shoes. Wearing only the shortened trousers, he sprinted toward Ariah. She fled, giggling, water splashing in her wake, her skirt hem at mid-thigh. Gulls scattered as he pounded after her, Apollo barking at his heels.

  Suddenly, she stopped, her attention captured by something on the bluff. Bartholomew all but ran over her. It seemed only natural to catch her in his arms.

  "Look, a waterfall." She pointed to a trickle of water that tumbled down the sandstone wall. It streamed across the sand at their feet and into the ocean.