The Beloved One

by Danelle Harmon

  I realise now that I no longer love you. You have ruined my life with the baby, I have lost the respect and the trust of our neighbours, and I have no sympathy for the self-pitying letter you wrote after your ridiculous accident at Concord. You are not the man I thought you were.

  In short, I intend to pick up the pieces and try to make the most of what I have left, and I commend you to do the same; however, do not make things even more unpleasant for either of us by trying to contact me again.

  Juliet Paige

  Amy lowered the letter.

  And then she looked at Charles.

  He sat beside her, his hair catching the last rays of the dying sun, his lashes throwing shadows across cheeks that had drained of blood. His face was frighteningly still. His fingers were interlocked in a sort of double fist, the knuckles showing white; instinctively, she reached out to touch them.

  They were trembling.

  "I'm so sorry," she whispered, wishing with all her heart that she could take this pain from him. "About the baby, about Juliet . . ." She squeezed his hand. "You deserve so much better than this . . . "

  His throat was working. He blinked in that painfully slow, studied way he had and pulled himself to his feet, where he stood swaying a bit, his gaze fixed on a horizon he could not see.

  "You're a fine man, and if Juliet can't see that, then she's not worthy of you . . ."

  He stood there, just staring emptily out over the darkening water.

  "Please, Charles, say something — you're frightening me."

  He looked down at her then, blinked, and for a moment, she almost thought he could see her, so true, so deep, was his gaze. There were tears in his eyes. He smiled, gently —

  And then, as though he could see exactly where he was going, he began to walk toward the riverbank.

  "Charles?"

  And straight into the water.

  "Charles!"

  She leaped to her feet, grabbed up her skirts, and charged after him. "Charles, no! No!"

  He waded right up to his knees in the salty outgoing tide, up to his thighs, staggering now, one arm thrown out for balance, the other hand pressed to his eyes in a futile attempt to hold back the tears. Amy plunged in after him and made a desperate grab for his arm. He gave one raw, choking sob, and then half fell, half threw himself into the current, which quickly caught him and began to sweep him downriver.

  "Charles!" Amy screamed. "Charles!"

  Terror gripped her. Heedless of modesty, Amy tore off everything but her stays and shift, leaped onto the pier and pounded down its length as fast as she could run.

  "Charles!"

  Without breaking stride, she flung herself off the pier and far out into the river, where the current ran faster than it did near shore and would carry her down to him with utmost speed. Fighting her way to the surface, kicking furiously to speed her progress, Amy angled out away from shore. Already the current was carrying her down toward the blond head.

  Please, dear God, let me get to him in time . . . he's lost everything, he doesn't know what he's doing — please, God, he deserves better than this!

  The river bore her steadily down on him, frightening her with the immense power of hundreds of tons of water all around her. Salt stung her eyes. Her skin ached with cold. And now she was coming up to him, now he was thirty feet away . . . fifteen . . . closer in to shore than she was and not at the mercy of as much current. Please, God, don't let it sweep me past him! She struck out against the flow, swimming diagonally toward shore, crying, shouting, flinging out an arm in a desperate attempt to reach him. Her fingers hooked in his collar. Held. The rest of her body swept past him, so that she was caught on him like a boat at its mooring.

  Both of them were going downriver now.

  "Damn you, Amy, leave me be!" he shouted hoarsely.

  "I won't let you die!"

  "Damn you I want to die!"

  "You can't die, because suicide is the same as throwing God's gift of life right back in His face, and I can't let you do that, Charles, I can't —"

  She cried out as his shirt tore and she was swept away from him.

  "Amy!"

  The current caught her. Gamely, she tried to fight it, snatched at the mooring line of a schooner as she was carried past, and missed. Beneath her was some thirty feet of water, and whirling, sucking tornadoes of current that were all going downriver with her.

  "Amy!" he roared, striking blindly out towards her. "Amy, call to me, keep calling so that I know where you are!"

  "Charles!"

  Oh no, oh please God, no!

  She tried to swim diagonally back toward shore, to work with the current instead of against it, but it was too strong for her. It pulled her long braid from its pins and out past her fast-moving body; it dragged at her tiring legs and arms, bore her along like a leaf on the wind. She saw marshlands slipping past, a moored sloop, and envisioned herself being carried straight out past the mouth of the river and into the sea, never to be found, never to be seen again. Oh, God help me, please God, help!

  "Charles!"

  "Keep calling me, Amy, for God's sake keep calling!"

  "Charles! Charles!"

  She clawed her way around to face him, and there he was, ten feet away . . . five . . . an arm's length . . . reaching blindly out for her, his face a mask of desperation and terror that he would lose her. Amy, crying out, lunged toward him. Their fingers met, were ripped apart once more. "Charles!" And then his hand lashed out and seized hers in a grip that nearly broke every bone in her wrist with the force with which he claimed her.

  Together they struggled toward shore. Amy's strength was all but gone. Her lungs were heaving, her skin felt brittle with cold, salt water blinded her. But the grip Charles had on her wrist would've anchored any one of the boats that they were slipping past. A powerful swimmer, he angled straight across the swift outgoing tide and brought them safely toward shore.

  And then there was mud beneath their feet, then grass, and he had her in his arms and against his chest as he waded out of the river, water streaming from his loose hair.

  "Damn you for a little fool!" he rasped, staggering up onto the bank with her. And then, on a harsh, anguished sob, "What the hell do you think you were doing?"

  His voice broke and Amy had no time to answer him, for his mouth came crashing down on hers and she was tumbling down to the soft bank.

  "Charles!"

  He buried his face in her shoulder, great, racking sobs convulsing his body. "Christ, to think I nearly just lost you as well . . . I need you so badly . . . you're the only one left to me . . . I don't know what I'm doing, I don't want to live anymore, I have nothing left to live for, I cannot go on —"

  "Stop it!"

  "I cannot fight this anymore, I just don't have it in me, it's too much, just too much . . ."

  "Yes you can!"

  She pulled his head down and wrapped her arms fiercely around the back of his neck. He struggled for the briefest of moments; then, with a harsh sound of defeat, he drove his mouth against hers, his hand plunging into the sleek wet hair behind her ear, his lips crushing hers with the desperation of the damned. Amy's head fell backwards, into grass and sand. She felt his weight come down alongside of and atop her, pressing her further into the damp earth, and now water was running out of his hair, down his cheeks, around and into their open, searching mouths. She tasted salt, and the tears of his anguish; felt the heat of his hand through her stays and the drenched cotton shift, and gasped as splinters of delight shot through her blood, bursting out in all directions, centering in a spot between her legs until she began to pant and writhe beneath him.

  He tore his face away, his breathing as harsh as hers, his expression anguished.

  "Dear God, what am I doing?"

  She locked her arms around his shoulders as he tried to move away, fearing he'd throw himself straight back into the river. "Charles, please! I can't let you go!"

  "You must, I need you — I want you — I fear my
despair, I fear my need, I fear the control they have over me and my intentions . . . But oh, God, I need you . . . I want you . . ."

  "I want you too, Charles."

  "You don't know what you want, you don't know what you ask!"

  "I love you, Charles. I love you."

  He gave a harsh sob, and then his mouth was against hers once more, kissing her hard and deep, his tongue thrusting into her mouth and plundering it ruthlessly. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and then he was tearing his face away, only to drag fervent kisses down the salty, chilled skin of her jaw, her throat, the point of her collarbone. He had her stays unlaced, the soaked, boned garment ripped open before she knew what he was about, and now she felt his broad hand warming her flesh, cupping her breast, his mouth and tongue hot against her skin, moving lower and lower before finally fastening over her nipple and drawing both it and the gauzy wet shift up into his mouth. He suckled her hard. Amy arched upwards, a moan tearing from her throat as sensation exploded inside her. She drove her hands into his wet hair, holding him close, pushing herself wantonly into him. In seconds her skin was on fire, her insides a boiling cauldron, her breathing raw and raspy. And now his other hand was peeling the wet clinging cotton from her legs, driving between her thighs, caressing them up the inside and splaying fingers into the soft mound of curls between them, already slick with desire for him.

  "Oh, God, Amy, please forgive me —"

  His fingers plunged inside her. Amy gasped and bucked upwards, his name falling from her lips, her fingernails digging into his back. A raw, burning ache radiated out from where his hand was . . . from where his mouth was, gathering in a fierce, smoldering coil at the apex of her legs. She both fought it and strained toward it, not understanding it but knowing only that she must have it. Oh, heaven wasn't up in the sky; heaven was the feel of this man kissing her breast; heaven was his hand stroking her between her open thighs; heaven was the feel of his hot mouth against her nipple; his body against her own, the confession that he needed her —

  Heaven was Charles.

  And then she gave a muffled cry as his thumb, which had been stroking her so intimately down there, hit something she hadn't known existed and her senses began to splinter into a thousand pieces of glass. "Charles!" she half-gasped, half-sobbed, and then, as his fingers kept stroking, stroking, stroking, "Charles — Charles!"

  "God help me," he rasped, and as she convulsed with pleasure, he fumbled with his wet breeches, groaned, and moved to cover her. Something hard stabbed at the inside of her thighs, at the hot and magical place he'd just shown her she had, and now his shoulders were blocking out the sunset, the red and orange clouds behind him, and he was moving into her, moving inside of her, filling her so full and stretching her so wide, that she thought she would faint with the feel of it. Wondrous pleasure. Hot, seething delight! She ought to stop him, she knew that she could, but no, no, oh please God no, this felt too good, this felt too right, and if she could give him no other gift than her love, if she alone could at least make him forget what the army, what Lucien, and most of all, what his heartless fiancée had done to him, then God help her she would, she would, she would, she would —

  He thrust himself deeply inside her, ripping a cry of surprise and pain from her lips. The world stopped. She clung to him, tears in her eyes, her legs wrapped around his straining loins. And then, slowly, he began to move his hips, to push himself deeper and deeper inside of her, until the pain dulled and became pleasure once more, until his breathing quickened and grew hoarse, until his lips came down on hers, kissing her desperately even as she flung out a hand and he found it and their fingers interlocked of their own accord, gripping, squeezing, knuckles whitening. Now he was thrusting, now he was pulling out, now repeating it, doing it again, each long, slow surge growing more rapid, more powerful, than the one before —

  "Oh, Amy —"

  "Charles, don't stop, please don't stop!"

  "I can't — God help me, I can't —"

  With a cry, he gave one last thrust, and she felt his seed warming and pulsing against the walls of her womb, even as she felt her own muscles contracting and convulsing around him with a force that left her gasping. He pulled back slowly, and thrust ahead once more before he collapsed, still deep inside her, bringing his mouth down upon hers in a final, tender kiss.

  A moment later she felt his mighty shoulders shaking with grief for all he had lost — and wordlessly, Amy put her arms around him.

  Holding him.

  Just holding him.

  There was nothing that either of them could say.

  Chapter 13

  He pushed away from her, finally, and got to his feet. His back was toward her as he buttoned his breeches. The silence, which before had been appropriate, now became awkward. Uncomfortable.

  Unpleasant.

  They had to walk upriver to retrieve Amy's clothes. She crossed her neckerchief around her neck and shoulders, filling in the bare skin, the swell of her breasts above the shift's neckline. She tied on her underpetticoats. Laced her wet stays over her equally wet shift. Donned her over petticoats, tied on her apron, slipped her arms into her open short-gown, and finally looked at Charles. He was standing a little distance away, staring emptily out over the darkening river. One look at his face convinced her that it wasn't a good time to talk to him. Instead, she picked up his walking stick, pressed it into his hand, and retrieved her nearly-forgotten packages.

  He was still standing there, stone-faced, silent.

  "Charles?"

  He didn't answer.

  "Charles, what is the matter?"

  "I should be shot for what I have just done to you."

  "What do you mean?"

  He just shook his head, then turned away. Amy, wondering at his change in attitude and wanting only to comfort him, touched his shoulder, but he flinched as if she'd burned him with the end of a poker. It was then that Amy realized the significance of what they had done — a realization that grew all the more sobering when she happened to glance up and see the distant spire of Sylvanus's church rising above the trees and glowing white against the darkening sky.

  Would God be angry with her for what she had done? Was she a sinner, no better than her mother and the man who had sired her? But if she had sinned, why had it felt so right? Why hadn't these feelings of apprehension and uneasiness affected her when she'd been about to commit the act, instead of now?

  She felt her soaked shift and stays pressing against her body, the sea-salt drying on her skin, and a strange rawness between her legs. Her braid had come unpinned and now hung down her back in a long wet rope. Her lips felt swollen, her nipples still throbbed, and she knew she must look a sight.

  Reality closed in, and with it, fear. Would everyone in Newburyport suspect? Would they point and snicker and whisper behind her back that she was no better than her mother? And what would happen when they got back to the house?

  "Come, I'd best get you home," Charles ground out.

  Side by side, but not daring to touch one another, they walked back toward the road in silence.

  "Charles —"

  "I do not wish to talk about it, Amy."

  "But I just want to ask you a question . . ."

  "Go on then."

  "Do you think that when we get home, everyone will . . . will know? That it'll be written all over my face? That . . ." she glanced down ". . .they'll be able to tell?"

  "No."

  "Are you certain?"

  "Yes."

  "But when a woman gives herself to a man, don't you think people can take one look at her and know what she's done?"

  "No."

  "But —"

  "Amy, please."

  She paused, staring up at him in mounting confusion. A few moments ago he'd held her as though he'd never let her go. Now, he only wanted to get away from her. What had changed?

  "Charles, will you please tell me what is wrong?"

  He, too, came to a stop, but didn't turn aroun
d. "I am a disgrace," he snarled. "To my family, to my rank, to myself. I cannot forgive myself for what I just allowed to happen between us."

  "For what you just allowed?" She gave an incredulous little laugh. "I was as much a party to it as you were." She blushed. "Besides, I thought . . . that you enjoyed it."

  "Enjoyed it? Not only have I ruined one young woman and got her with child, I have just ruined a second and God knows, maybe got her with child as well! What the hell difference does it make whether or not I enjoyed it? I behaved abominably! I am disgusted and ashamed of myself!"

  "You were upset, I offered comfort, you took it. Besides, I wanted to do what we did."

  "No, Amy, you're too innocent to know what you want. It was a mistake."

  "It was not a mistake."

  "It was," he bit out, through clenched teeth.

  Amy lifted her chin, her eyes flashing with anger. "You really do enjoy torturing yourself, don't you?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "What happened between us was beautiful. You made me feel loved and special and needed, and that's a feeling I've never had. Right now, everything inside of me is still singing with joy and it feels good. It feels wonderful. But you, all you want to do is ruin it. All you want to do is stand there and torture yourself with guilt and hold yourself up to some impossible standard of perfection that no one on God's earth can possibly hope to reach, let alone maintain. Well, Charles, I won't let you take this away from me. I like feeling good. I liked what we just did. You can regret it all you want, but I'm not going to." She shoved a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "In fact, it will become my most treasured memory."

  "You're too young, and too naive, to know what you're saying."

  "And you're too caught up in your quest for self-perfection to appreciate something good when it comes your way."

  "And what if you're pregnant? Is that something good? I seem to be quite adept at impregnating virgins. It will be interesting to see if you're so cheerful if, a month or so from now, you find yourself kissing a chamberpot and wondering where your missing menses have gone."

  "I'll worry about that when the time comes."