The Windflower

by Laura London

  She went with him, her footsteps passive as a dreamer.

  It seemed quite unnecessary to tell him. Nevertheless Merry said, “I’ve never met anyone like you in my life.”

  “Probably not,” he said. “Would you like to sit in this wagon?”

  His question was a baseless courtesy, because before she could answer him, before she was able to see a wagon, he had slid his arms under her knees and shoulders and tossed her effortlessly inside to land on a thick pad of dry straw and sawdust.

  The wagon had high sides, but it was open to the sky like a tumbril, its air spiced with dish timber. Gray moonlight picked out neat stacks of wooden ware: nest boxes, dumb-bettys, washtubs, sets of plates and bowls made of white ash and wrapped in jute strings.

  As he joined her Merry knelt and, bracing the heels of her hands on the high, jagged grain of the wagon’s sides, peeked through an oval knothole. The light spots were closer now, on the beach, and in their acid-yellow flare Merry could see a line of heavily armed men, moving swiftly toward the tavern.

  She turned to Devon, sitting at his ease against a wagon rib. His knees were drawn up and his wrists balanced there, the hands lightly clasped. If he had been sleeping, he could hardly have looked more relaxed. In a desperate voice Merry said, “My—my husband is still inside.”

  “Which was he, the freckled boy with the puppets? They won’t hurt him or his partner.”

  Whether or not it was the truth, she had no choice but to accept his word. There was nothing now that she could do for Jason and Carl, and nothing she could do for Sally. Sick with anxiety, she watched the pirates closing on the tavern, faces blankly purposeful, some bare-chested with muscles rippling, some bedecked in fine clothes that must be loot from some rich man’s plundered vessel, the tailored velvet jackets slit at the seams to fit over heavy biceps, the inset lace ruffles stained and lifeless. Hardly a face was unscarred, and one stout, bare-skulled fellow was missing both his ears. They carried enough weapons for three times their number: a shining, clattering inventory of axes, daggers, and pistols hung thick on them like so many pans on a tinker’s cart.

  Without planning to she began to count the pirates as they went into the tavern, her lips moving like a schoolchild’s.

  Diverted, he watched her. “How many are there, then?”

  Merry turned to his voice, to look with serious, credulous eyes at his stirring countenance. “Reade must be still in his cups.”

  “Quick, aren’t you?” he observed. “I am being honest with you, sweetheart. Your friends are safe. Morgan’s after a different man.”

  “The man who tried to talk to him?” Merry asked through a dry throat. “He—is he also a pirate?”

  “Yes. He’s been poaching in Morgan’s territory. It was tolerable, until he started to fly Morgan’s flag. Things like that make Morgan a little irritable. It may enhance his reputation for being everywhere at once, but it adds nothing to his pocketbook.”

  From inside the tavern came a terrible shriek, cut off abruptly in the middle.

  Devon said calmly, “Morgan doesn’t like screaming.”

  “What are they doing to him?” she whispered.

  “They’re only frightening him. He’ll survive. Tell me, who are you?”

  She had spent so much time in the last few months asking herself that question that it shocked her when he said it, as though a live recoil of her own thoughts had snapped back into her mind. He was the only being outside herself who had ever asked her who she was. Everyone else had always assumed. Who was she? It mattered little that she couldn’t tell him the truth, because she had no answer that satisfied herself.

  “I—am nobody.” It had slipped out, before she could stop it.

  He accepted it without a blink. “Is that your name or your avocation?”

  “It’s both,” she said and looked away from him.

  “I see.” He settled back against the side of the wagon. “Have you always been nobody, or did you become nobody when you married Mr. Nobody? Do you like being nobody?”

  She was alarmed to find herself beginning to smile and hoped he didn’t see. “I only meant I wasn’t anyone.”

  “Oh, well, you didn’t have to tell me that. I knew the minute I saw you that you weren’t just anyone. Did your husband send you outside because I was staring at you? I suppose he has quite a problem with that sort of thing. Is that why he makes you pin pillows under your skirt?”

  Blushing violently, Merry said, “It wasn’t a very good idea.”

  “Oh, no, I think it was a very good idea. Tell him from me, it worked while it lasted. You look cold. Would you like to get into my jacket?”

  Rattled, and bewildered by his seeming non sequitur, she blurted out, “Oh, no, if you take off your jacket, you’ll have—”

  “Nothing on underneath,” he finished cheerfully. “I’m afraid that was the idea. Does your husband sleep in a nightshirt?”

  Merry accidentally conjured up an image of Jason, her pretend husband, in a nightshirt, the white linen flapping around his knees like a scarecrow. How in the world did people manage in marriage?

  “Well, of course,” she answered, too innocent to catch his drift. “What else would he sleep in?”

  He slanted a look at her and put his hand to her chin, stroking her bottom lip with his thumb. “Are you sure,” he said, “that you’re married?”

  Merry looked into the lazy eyes and wondered what he would do if he knew that her brother and cousin inside the tavern were officers in the American military, there on what amounted to a mission of espionage, and what he would do if he knew that she could herself draw a sketch of him that would make him a marked man, perhaps even bring him to the gallows. Fear lent conviction to her answer.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure.”

  He traced a fingertip over her cheekbone. “Happily?”

  Another trap yawned at her feet. It was a dangerous game; she was a pitifully inept player, and a debilitating, strain-induced fatigue had well nigh nibbled away the last of her wits.

  “Hap—I don’t know. No, I mean yes. Yes, of course I am. Whenever you meet people, do you ask them so many questions?”

  “Sometimes,” he said softly. “I’m rather an inquisitive person. Are you?”

  He was so close, so very close to her, and she could feel his breath like a cool caress on her cheek, between the silky play of his fingers.

  “I-I-I don’t know” was all she could produce.

  He put his other hand to her other cheek, cradling her head. The stars above seemed to her to begin a slow whirl and to brighten and pulsate.

  “Are you curious now?” he whispered.

  “N-no.” It was a half-truth.

  “Why are you afraid?” he asked in a gentle way. “Does your husband hurt you?”

  More than ever Merry was taken beyond her depth, for the things she knew about marital intimacy could have been written in longhand on the head of a thimble. Improvisation and “I don’t know”s nearly exhausted, Merry said nothing and sat listening to the sound of her panicked heartbeat, as, gently, he laid his lips on hers, touching her with the sweetly probing eroticism of an experienced lover, and then drew away. He put his fingers to her lips, and under their subtle, clever pressure her lips parted slightly as his mouth returned to hers, stroking the soft openness. One long, slender finger played in the wisps of hair at the side of her head and traced the outline of her ear, pausing to toy with the sensitive earlobe, and then his broad hand lifted her hair from the back of her head, as if to encompass and steady the spinning sensations she was feeling there. Then he turned her head from side to side, dragging his lips across hers.

  Merry had never known there could be such a thing as physical desire and was more than unprepared for the pounding sweetness of his kiss. It was a new world, velvet black and golden, every physical sensation she had previously experienced a pale ghost of this new overwhelming thing. When his lips touched her cheek, they left a trail of fever, and her skin
seemed to melt under his fingers, as though they were entering her body.

  She made a small, involuntary whimper, and he stroked her shoulder reassuringly, dropping his hand to her waist and pressing her close to him, her shivering small body warming against the satin of his bare skin. She began to sway under the powerful feelings he stirred in her, and he steadied her with his open hands, his arms around her, his palms flat on her back, and then his mouth came down again upon hers, insistent and urgent. He slipped his hands down until they were cupping her buttocks and lifted her to him with a firm pressure, and the cloth that separated her wanting skin from his could not impede the tingling flow of desire that caused her to move instinctively against him, the innocent wish to be crushed seamlessly against his body growing, blotting out all else, until she began to feel frightened by its powerful pull.

  “Please. Oh, please,” she gasped, her mouth moving against his.

  “Yes?” he answered in a slow voice. “What would you like?”

  It had been too much, all of it, for her previously unawakened body. Lifting trembling fingers to her swelling, burning lips, Merry forced herself to speak. “I’m not what you think. I don’t know what you think I know.”

  The starlight lent a sharp outline to the otherworldly beauty of his face, and yet, as clearly as she saw him, it was difficult to tell what he made of her words. After a minute he reached up a careful hand to stroke a drift of hair from her forehead, cupped her shaking fingers in his own, and tried to still them.

  “You really are afraid, aren’t you? Come here.” He folded her tenderly in his arms and brought her head down to his shoulder.

  Had she wished to push herself away from him, there would not have been the strength in her spent limbs. Her cheek lay against the heated, porous leather of his jacket, and through the calico gown that covered her breast, she felt his chest, moving only slightly as he breathed. Dear Lord, what if he should start to question her again? What if he guessed her lies?

  From behind the wagon came the light sound of running footsteps, and then Sally called out, muted but urgent, “Merry? Merry! Are you here?”

  Relief hit Merry like a blow because her need was desperate, but shame followed swiftly and hit more painfully. She should have felt nothing, nothing except distress to find Sally near her danger.

  Sally, not seeing her immediately, began to cast about in a panic, and then to race for the tavern, as if to go back in. She had nearly reached the light when Devon vaulted lightly over the side of the wagon and stopped her, clamping his hand over her mouth and saying, “Hush! She’s safe. But she won’t be and neither will you if you run yelling into the tavern.”

  She fought his grasp and muttered something Merry couldn’t distinguish through his muffling hand.

  “After you promise not to scream,” he said, “I’ll let you go. Do you understand?”

  Under his hand she jerked her head in a hard nod, and as soon as he had freed her mouth, Sally cried, “Where is she? Where is she? What have you done with her?”

  Calling her cousin’s name, Merry struggled to scale over the wagon’s side, her legs twisting clumsily in her skirts. She might have fallen if Devon hadn’t stepped to catch her around the waist and eased her way to the sand. For a moment Merry’s legs shivered under her and nearly buckled, and then with a cry she ran into Sally’s wide-flung arms. As from a distance she heard her own voice begging, “Help me, Sally.”

  Merry put back her head to look into her cousin’s face and saw that Sally was glaring fiercely at the blond pirate.

  “Don’t!” Sally said to him in a savagely angry voice that sounded as if it was strangling in her throat. “You’ve got to let her go! She’s so young. If anything happened—she’d never recover from it. In the name of pity…”

  Devon had settled back against the wagon, long legs crossed, arms casually folded at his chest, and his shining golden hair caressed by a black breeze. He was watching Sally in an intent way without seeming to be listening to what she said.

  He took his time before speaking, and when he did, his tone was dangerously mild. “I wonder if it would be worth my time to discover what two young women of obvious breeding are doing in a low-life tavern.”

  “The puppets,” said Sally, too quickly.

  “Ah. Itinerant puppeteers. The common folk.” His beautiful mouth curved into a smile that quit before reaching his eyes. “And yet little Venus here has hands softer than an infant. She’s never been within a furlong of a scrub bucket. As for yourself, Miss Sally, no matter what silly disguises you adopt, your speech and manners belong to a lady.”

  His tone robbed the words of any shade of a compliment, and there was a calm conviction in the indifferent voice that showed that it would be futile to argue. A threat rolled in the sea air, as thick and sizzling as hot oil over coal.

  In a cool voice that made Merry pink with admiration, Sally said, “It’s unwise to put too much stock in these superficial judgments, sir. Your speech, for example, marks you as a gentleman, while your manners suit…”

  “The gutter?” he supplied, his smile widening a fraction. “And they get much worse than this. It’s a good thing for you to think about.”

  It was too much, even for Sally. “The devil take you, sir. We don’t know anything that would interest you!”

  “How do you know what would interest me?” he asked her smoothly, inclining his head. “I’m willing to believe you haven’t been foolish enough to tell Venus much. But you, Sally—it’s what’s in your mind that intrigues me.”

  Sally lifted her chin in brave defiance and snapped, “It’ll take longer than you’ve got to beat it out of me.”

  “Without a doubt. I wouldn’t waste my time beating you, dear, because you have already shown me a quicker course.” Almost gently he said, “How much would you let me do to Venus before you started answering my questions?”

  The shaft hit home with lethal accuracy. Over her head Merry heard Sally’s horrified cry, and Merry felt her legs grow cold and seem to recede from her body.

  More than a minute passed before he said, “You’re a clever girl, Sally, but you’re an amateur.” He uncoiled from the wagon and slowly crossed to them. “Give me your hand.”

  As Merry watched, Sally obeyed him warily. From his own right hand Devon slid a heavy diamond signet and dropped the ring into Sally’s palm, curling her fingers around it with his own.

  “Give this to the man you’ll find at the stables, watching the horses. Tell him to hitch your team.”

  In stunned thanksgiving Merry’s eyelids drooped closed, and she heard Sally’s awed whisper.

  “You’re letting us go?”

  Devon’s hand fell on the back of Merry’s head, slid caressingly under her curls, and stroked slowly over the line of skin behind her ear.

  “One has a certain reluctance to maim anything so lovely,” he said. “I’ve a feeling, my brave Sally, that you wouldn’t recover any better than she would. I wouldn’t be so nice a second time. You know that, don’t you? And if it had been another man…”

  “Yes,” said Sally quietly. “I know.”

  “If you value her so much, you won’t risk her again next time.” His fingers traced the satiny skin on Merry’s neck.

  “Go to the stables,” he said, turning. “I’ll send out your men.”

  Like Lot’s wife Merry watched in rigid silence as he moved toward the tavern, the faint light touching the smooth, sensual roll of his hips, the graceful shoulders, the moon-kissed hair. He entered the tavern and pulled the door closed behind him, leaving them safe among the sand and the surf and the stars.

  Sally’s legs slowly buckled, and she sank to sit on the wet grit, ducking her head down to her knees, and with bent wrists laid her palms on the back of her head. She laughed for a long time, half-hysterically, and when finally she stopped laughing, she said, “Dear God, what a man.” She looked at Merry, her cheeks wet with the tears of her laughter, and said, in a calmer voice, “We’re
lucky to be alive, the way we botched that one. He kissed you, didn’t he? I guessed it. You look that upset, no more.”

  In a voice that shook, Merry said, “If you had heard me, Sally… I was a whimpering ninny. I should have fought him.”

  Sally chuckled tensely. “Fought? Him? What would you want to do a thing like that for? Merry, when a man like that kisses you… Never mind, don’t blame yourself.”

  Merry lowered herself to the sand and put an arm around her cousin’s back. “Why do you think he let us go? Doesn’t he suspect who we are?”

  “I have no idea what he suspects, honey. But I think that he was afraid he would have to kill us if he found out. Who in the world could that man be?”

  “I heard one of the pirates call him… Devon.”

  “Devon? Devon… Are you sure that’s what it was? Devon! Heavenly days! You don’t suppose—”

  “What?”

  Sally smiled. “Oh, never mind. It’s impossible. A ridiculous thought. Come with me, and let’s hurry before he changes his mind.”

  Chapter 4

  August passed like a dancer, graceful and sweating. Frog song thrilled from the reed grass, raccoons hunted among the ripened cornstalks, and turtles slumbered away the afternoons on gray rocks comforted by the sun.

  At Merry’s home the cook boiled the rutabagas Merry had drawn, and served them in a lamb pie on the fourth Tuesday of the month. An owl with long downy ears took up residence in an old squirrel’s nest inside the walnut tree that overlooked the garden, and Aunt April was pleased because it would keep the mole population down. Henry Cork went to the Quaker meeting house and preached violently and at length about the Holy Virgin and the Catholic saints until the Quakers were driven from their own building.

  And the unicorn came often. Merry could feel it when she came to her room at night, waiting in the twilight behind the dark folds of the curtains.