by Lisa Gregory
"Please. You can't."
"I can." He pointed his forefinger at her. "You, young lady, are going to marry me. I am going to court you the way I should have courted you the first time, until you say yes. Do you understand?"
He opened the front door and walked out. Julia slumped against the wall, stunned.
Chapter 19
The long, searing days of summer slid by, Luke, Micah, and Cal picked the food crops from the garden—green beans, black-eyed peas, squash, tomatoes, onions, watermelons, cantaloupes, beets, cabbage, spinach, mustard greens. It was the time of year when they were overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits, and Sarah was constantly busy canning and preserving. The canning kettle remained on the stove, and the kitchen table was lined with clear Mason jars, waiting for the food that would be stored in them. Whenever Sarah got a chance to sit down, there was always a big stoneware bowl in her lap and she was shelling peas.
Late in July the first hay crop was ready for bailing. In August the com ripened, and not long afterward, the cotton. Harvesting the cotton made their earlier work seem as nothing. They spent all day bent over the plants or creeping along the ground beside them, long tow sacks hooked over their shoulders and dragging the ground behind them. The sun broiled down on their backs, and the sacks grew heavier as they filled up. By the end of the day it was hard to straighten up. Pulling the cotton with gloves on was awkward, but without them the cotton and hard bolls abraded their fingertips until they were raw and sore.
Cotton was their best cash crop, and it was important to pick it as quickly as possible. They didn't want to lose the crop to some summer storm that might come up, but more important, the first loads in to the gins brought better money than did the later ones, when the market was glutted. So Luke hired one of the migrant families of workers that were always around at this time of year, and Sarah donned a shovel-brimmed poke bonnet and joined them in the fields.
Luke, of course, worked the hardest of all. He left early every morning after a quick breakfast and came home late in the evening, usually after Sarah and the children had eaten. After he ate, he would return to the barn to finish his chores and finally come back to the house late to tumble into bed—alone. Sarah knew he worked dawn to dark for the same reason he slept in the empty bedroom. He was doing his best to avoid her. To avoid temptation.
She had proved to herself that he wanted her. He didn't stay away because he didn't desire her, but for precisely the opposite reason. He desired her too much, and he thought it was wrong. He was determined not to seek his pleasure with her if it might cause her future pain. But Sarah was equally determined that they have that pleasure again.
She desperately missed Luke's touch. Sometimes she would awaken from a dream about Luke, her heart pounding in her chest, her skin on fire, desire dampening her thighs, and it would be hours before she could go back to sleep. At those times she thought about going to his room and crawling into bed with him and kissing him until he wanted her as much as she did him. Once she even got as far as his door, but her nerve always failed her. Sarah was afraid that he might reject her again, and she couldn't bear that.
She tried in more subtle ways to entice him—touching the precious perfume behind her ears even on ordinary days, wearing the dresses Luke particularly liked, often unbuttoning them farther down than was proper, brushing against his arm as she set something down at the dinner table. One evening as she was about to get into bed, she spotted a long, fuzzy centipede crawling across the floor, and though Sarah was more than capable of dispatching the creature herself, she fled to Luke's room for help. She was dressed only in her nightgown and she purposely didn't grab her wrapper. It was dark inside Luke's room, and she knew how the light in the hall behind her would outline her form through the thin cotton gown.
When she burst into his room, Luke rose up on his elbow in his bed. The sudden tension in the room was palpable. The moonlight slanted through the open window and fell across Luke, glinting on the pale gold of his hair and touching his naked torso with light. The muscles of his arms bunched. It was so still Sarah could hear his breath rasping in and out of his throat. She thought of the thick, oppressive stillness just before a tornado-carrying storm, of how the air seemed heavy, weighing them to the ground. This was like that moment, waiting, sultry, robbing one of air. Her throat closed up; she couldn't speak. She couldn't even remember why she had come in here.
Luke moved, breaking the moment. "Sarah? What's the matter?"
"What? Oh." She glanced toward her room, suddenly shy. "Uh, there's an awful, ugly bug in my room."
Luke smiled and went to get rid of the creature. He tossed the centipede out the window and turned back to her. The lamp was still lit in her room, and they could see each other clearly. They were both intensely aware of how they were dressed. Sarah stared at his naked chest. It had been weeks since that night they had spent together. Luke had lost weight, even more than he usually did in the summer, so that he was all bone and muscle, hard and honed. She knew just how strong he was, just how tough. Excitement sizzled through her.
For a long moment they gazed at each other, and Sarah saw in his eyes how much he wanted her. It started an ache low in her abdomen. She wanted him just as much. Finally, he turned and walked out of her room, his hands clenched at his sides, and leaving Sarah roiling inside with unsatisfied desire.
That was the problem. Every time she tantalized Luke, it tantalized her, too. Each time his eyes lit up with passion, she felt an answering fire inside herself. And whenever he turned away, it left her aching and empty. It had been easier when they had first been married, for then she hadn't known the delights of love. But now she did. She remembered all the ways Luke had touched her and kissed her, the times he had brought her to a heart-stopping peak of pleasure. Erotic images crowded her mind, even in the day, in the midst of the backbreaking work of pulling cotton.
Once, when they were sitting down to lunch in the fields with the others, Luke glanced up at Sarah. She had been dreamily thinking about lying between the cool sheets of their bed with Luke, his mouth and hands roaming her body. Her expression must have revealed where her thoughts were, for a dull red flush swept up Luke's neck and his hand clenched around the peach he was eating. Juice oozed out of the peach onto his palm, and Sarah knew a desire to lick the sweet juice from his palm.
She looked into his eyes. He was thinking the same thing. Sarah reached over without a word and took the peach from his hand. Luke's eyes never left her. She bit into the ripe fruit. The warm juice spurted in her mouth. Luke swallowed, and his hand closed around the sticky moisture in his own palm. He could taste the peach on his tongue, mingled with the sweetness that was uniquely Sarah's. For a moment it was as if their breaths were together, their skin one, their hearts thudding with the same rhythm. He had never wanted her more than he did in that moment.
Abruptly Luke rose and walked away from the rest of them into the trees. Sarah followed him. She caught up with him at the stream, where he was squatting down to wash his hands. He lifted his head at her approach. His eyes were as fierce and bright as a summer sky. "Sarah, no. Go back."
She shook her head. "I want to be with you."
His eyelids closed in a gesture of pain. "You think I don't want to be with you?"
"It seems like it these days. I never see you anymore."
Luke looked back down at the water. "I want to be with you. I miss you. I think all the time of what I want to tell you, of how you'll smile at this or how your eyes'll light up at that."
"Then come back to me." Her words came out fast and low, almost a whisper. She wanted him so much all pride was forgotten. Even the fear that he would reject her seemed as nothing compared to the burgeoning need inside her, if Micah and the children hadn't been sitting so nearby, she thought she would have stripped right there and begged Luke to take her.
"I can't." His voice was tortured. "It kills me to be around you."
His words were like a slap in her f
ace. Luke turned and saw the pain in her eyes, and he leapt to his feet.
"No. Sarah, I didn't mean it like that. I love you. I love being with you. I'm so lonely without you. But when we're together, I want you ten times worse. Just looking at you sets me on fire. I'm afraid I won't be strong enough, that I'll break down like I did before."
"Then—"
"No! I won't. I refuse to make you suffer for my pleasure."
"I won't suffer!"
"You would. I can't risk it. I want you; I've wanted you from the first moment I ever saw you, standing there at your pa's kitchen door. But I love you more than I want you, so I'm not taking you to bed."
"You love me? Truly? How long do you think that will last when you aren't ever with me? When you won't talk to me? How can our love be nourished if we're strangers to each other? Luke! I want my husband back!"
Luke felt as if a dark chasm suddenly yawned at his feet. "I am your husband." His voice sounded desperate, as though he battled with his back to the wall. "I will always be your husband."
"You call this being my husband?" Tears filled Sarah's eyes. "Never seeing me? Never touching me? Never even talking to me? How long will this go on? For the rest of our lives?"
Luke turned aside. Her questions pierced him. He had tried not to think about the future, only hanging on day by day. But she, of course, being Sarah, wanted to meet everything head-on. "Sarah, I love you. I can't harm you!"
"You're harming me now! You're killing my heart! Can't you see that?"
"No. Don't say that." He pulled her into his arms and crackled her tenderly against his chest. "I love you. I love you."
Sarah's hands curled into his shirtfront, and she buried her face in his chest. It was wonderful to feel his arms around her. to be held in his strength and love. She luxuriated in the scent of him, in the heavy, secure thump of his heart beneath her face. Like a cat she rubbed her cheek against his shirt.
It was all Luke could do not to groan and shove her hips tightly against him, to rub her crudely against his already stiffening, aching manhood. She was so soft and warm, so willing. Her scent filled his nostrils. He could think of nothing but coming into her and feeling her tight and hot and welcoming around him.
She needed his love and comfort, not his passion. The problem was he wasn't able to separate the two.
Sarah lifted her face. Her eyes glistened with tears, and her lashes were stuck together in starry points. Her lips were lush and red and a little wobbly from her bout of tears. She looked heartbreakingly vulnerable and yet so desirable it made Luke shake inside. She went up to tiptoe, offering her mouth to him. His heart crashed inside his chest; his breath came fast and hard. She was so close; she was everything he'd ever wanted. Her eyes drifted closed. A long shudder ran through Luke, and he kissed her.
Kissing her was like drowning in rose petals and honeysuckle, so sweet and soft that disappearing, even dying, was desirable. He murmured her name against her lips, the sound swallowed by their hungry, seeking mouths. His tongue plunged into her, tasting what it had not had in so long. His fingers dug into her back, pressing her into him. His hands slid slowly down her back to her hips, flattening her against him all the way down. He squeezed her buttocks and lifted her up and into his body, moving her slowly, delicately over his pulsing shaft. Sarah felt the hard thrust of him and smiled, melting like warm butter in his hands. She loved him. She was his. He had every right, every reason. God, he wanted her. He couldn't live without having her
Sarah whimpered softly in her throat, and the sound went through him like a red-hot spear. His mouth widened over hers, as if to consume her, and he began to pull her down to the ground.
"Mommy? Mommy?"
It took a moment for the sound of their daughter's high voice to register with them.
"Mommy?"
Luke froze. He released Sarah and spun away, going over to the stream and crouching down beside it as if in pain, his back to the trees through which Emily was picking her way.
"Over here, sweetie," Sarah called to Emily, surprised that she could even speak. She smoothed at her dress and hair. Thank God it was only Emily, who wouldn't understand the passion that must be written on her flushed face.
Emily hopped out of the trees. "Look at me, Mommy! I'm a bunny! See?" She bounced across to Sarah. Sarah swung the girl up into her arms and kissed her.
"I see. Well, little bunny, we better get back to work, huh?"
Emily grinned sunnily, thinking of the piles of twigs, leaves, and cotton bolls she had been stacking. "Yes. Me help."
"Come along, little Miss Me Help." Sarah set her daughter down on the ground and turned toward Luke.
"Luke?" she began tentatively, unable to stop the catch in her throat at even speaking his name.
He nodded. "I'll be along in a second." He reached down into the stream and splashed cool water on his face. He could hear Sarah walking away with Emily, "Sarah?"
Sarah turned. "Yes?"
He twisted his torso to look at her. His face was drawn and tight. "If you love me, please don't torture me."
Sarah was swept with fierce regret and frustration. Why had Emily had to come along at that moment? She was furious with everything and everyone, including Luke. "All right," she replied, tight-lipped. "If that's what you want."
He wanted to say that it wasn't what he wanted at all, but Sarah gave him no chance to answer, turning and stalking off so fast that Emily's chubby little legs had to run to keep up with her.
Luke looked back down at the water. Now Sarah was angry with him. He cursed slowly and viciously. He stood and paced alongside the stream, kicking a rock into the water. He felt as if he might explode. Why in the hell couldn't he control himself? Why in the hell wouldn't Sarah understand? And why in the hell did everything always have to be so difficult? So goddamned impossible!
Sarah worked through the afternoon on a wave of fury, pointedly avoiding even looking at her husband. If that's the way he wanted it, then fine! That's the way it would be. Let Luke keep his precious nobility, his wonderful sacrifice. Let him be a martyr and a saint. He'd find out when it was too late that he had mined both their lives. But she wouldn't throw herself at his feet again.
Anger carried her through the afternoon, but by the time she returned to the house and fed the children, her anger had dissipated. When Luke came in and sat down to his solitary supper, she had difficulty leaving him alone in chilly silence as she had intended to do. He kept casting little sideways glances at her, guilty, uncomfortable looks that reminded her of a boy who knows he's in Dutch and can't figure out how to squirm out of it. It was infuriating to find that it worked on her, as it always did. She had never been able to maintain a decent anger with Luke for any length of time. Especially not now, with those dark smudges beneath his eyes and the lines of weariness on his too thin face.
As always, Luke expected too much of himself. He would work himself into the ground trying to escape the desire inside him. He would condemn and restrain himself beyond reason because there lived inside him the conviction that he was bad, that somehow he was always at fault. He put her on a pedestal, but he was ready to flay himself over every transgression.
Sarah sighed and sat down across from him at the table. She laid her hand across his. She could feel the tension vibrating in him. He was a man on the edge. It occurred to her that she could go to him tonight, dressed in her gown with her hair down, and he would pull her into his arms, unable to resist the temptation.
But she also knew how he would feel afterward, how he would blame himself for giving in. Luke never punished others, only himself, and he would put himself through hell for sleeping with her. She couldn't do that to him, no matter how hard it was to stay away. She refused to damage Luke's self-respect. All she could do was wait and hope that eventually he would realize that he wasn't responsible for her pain and would come willingly to her bed.
❧
Dovie looked across the table at Micah. She was getting used to
seeing him there. She had lost count of how many Sundays he had had dinner with them.
She knew she ought to put a stop to it. She was drifting into dangerous territory. She was reaching the point where she approached Sundays with anticipation, even excitement. She looked forward to seeing Micah again, eager to engage once more in their lazy, sexy verbal sparring.
And that was risky. Micah Harrison was a traveling man. He wouldn't stay here long; he wouldn't put down roots. He wasn't the kind of man a woman like her should be interested in—or fall in love with.
Dovie shook that thought from her mind. She stood up. "Would you like any more coffee?" She looked at Micah, and he nodded, his eyes sliding down her like a caress. Dovie's voice was a little breathless as she turned toward Lurleen. "Mama?"
"No, sugar. I'm goin' over to Bessie's. She be steady havin' that ache in her back, and I better see how she doin'. I done told her, she got no business liftin' them heavy things like she do. But when did that woman ever listen to sense?"
"She must be like her sister," Dovie remarked, a smile touching her lips.
Lurleen laughed and shot her daughter a mockingly stem look. "Don't you go talkin' 'bout your mama like that."
"Yes, ma'am." Dovie's smile grew.
Micah watched her. He liked to see Dovie's smile. It was something rare and wonderful. It softened her face and touched her dark brown eyes with a faint gold. He thought about her smiling a lot, imagined her looking at him like that, only softer—and hotter.
Lurleen called a cheerful good-bye to them and left. Dovie brought a pot of coffee back from the kitchen. She leaned around Micah to refill his cup, so close he could smell her scent. Micah thought about turning and pressing his face against her, drinking in the sweet musky odor, reveling in the softness.
Dovie stepped back, setting the pot down on the table where Micah could reach it should he want it again. She sat down across from him. He got the message. She had seen the look in his face, and she wanted to make sure that there was a table between them.
