Scarlet RIbbons

by Judith E. French

  "Sarah . . . Sarah," he whispered. He pulled away the thin cloth of her bodice, freeing her breasts. "You're so beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."

  His lips brushed the tip of one rosy nipple, and Sarah cried out with joy. Hot, tingling desire set her blood on fire, and she instinctively parted to receive his thrusting member.

  "Not yet," he whispered. "Not yet, darling." He lowered his head to kiss and tenderly suckle first one soft breast and then the other. "I want you to be ready for me," he murmured. "I want to make you very, very happy, Sarah." His fingers traveled up to gently, tantalizingly caress her most secret place. "Tell me when," he begged. 'Tell me when you want me to love you."

  "I need you," she cried. "I need you inside me. Now . . ."

  Forest entered her gently . . . tenderly, and she rose to meet him, giving passion for passion as his thrusts became deeper and more powerful. With each stroke, Sarah took him farther into her willing body . . . letting the fire of their passion ignite and consume them . . . taking him not only into her body but irrevocably into her heart.

  And when it was over, when both had gone beyond the limits of sweet, joyous rapture . . . when the earth had fallen away and left them to drift back into the soft nothingness of total exhaustion, he held her safely in his arms and cradled her with soft, sweet whispers.

  Long after Forest slept, Sarah lay awake staring up into the darkness . . . savoring the wonder of their lovemaking. Finally, as the fiery stars within her bosom faded to glowing embers of joy, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  It was pitch-dark outside when Sarah stirred and opened her eyes. Forest lay beside her, one arm under her, the other pulling a coverlet over them. "You're awake," he said.

  She closed her eyes and snuggled down in the feather tick. She couldn't remember feeling so safe, so contented. She didn't want it to end. She just wanted to lie here and let him watch her with those two— Sarah stiffened and her eyes flew open!

  "What is it?" Forest asked. "What's wrong?"

  "It's another miracle," she cried, scrambling to a sitting position. Forest jumped at the same time, and her elbow struck him over the left eye.

  "Ouch!" he pulled back, rubbing the injury. "What was that about?"

  "Your eye, damn you!"

  "I know it's my eye! You almost put it out!"

  Sarah yanked the coverlet up over her exposed breasts. "I must be a witch," she snapped back. "First I cure your speech and then I restore your missing eye by making love to you."

  Forest's hand went to his face.

  "Is that what you're looking for?" Sarah dangled the black eye patch a few inches from his nose. "I should hang out a sign," she continued. "'Missing limbs and teeth restored'! I'd make my fortune."

  "Now, Sarah . . ." he said, soothingly. "Let me try and—"

  "Get out of this bed!" she insisted. "Get out of this room before I . . . before I . . ." She balled a fist and raised it threateningly.

  Forest slid out of reach. "Peace, woman. Calm down and let me explain."

  "I'll talk to no man bare-arsed, buck naked!" she fumed. "At least have the decency to put your breeches on."

  Forest backed away from the bed and reached for the fallen garment. "You liked me well enough without them a little while ago."

  "That was then. I was too stupid to know any better." Sarah tugged at the front of her bodice, managing to cover one breast. "You lied to me, Abe Forest, or whatever your name is! You've lied to me from the first," she sputtered angrily. "And now you've . . . you've—"

  "Ruined your good name? Stolen your virtue?" He turned his back and yanked up his breeches, nearly maiming himself in the process. He winced and glared back at her. "One thing about making love to a married woman—a man can't be blamed for leading her down the garden path. Do you deny you wanted it as much as I did?"

  "Hell, no," Sarah replied. "That's not what we're fighting about!" She wadded the eye patch up and threw it at him. "You lied to me. You've done nothing but lie. You're a spy, aren't you? You're a damned rebel spy!"

  "God save me from a thinking woman! Of all the asinine, half-cocked ideas I've ever heard, that takes the cake! If I was a rebel spy, I'd be in Philadelphia where I could do some good—not here in this backwater tavern burying horses and washing stale ale mugs."

  Sarah tucked the other breast into her bodice and drew her knees under. "Then why the disguise? Why did you pretend to be half blind? If you aren't a rebel spy, what kind of fey game are you playing—besides scheming your way into my bed?"

  "Sarah, that's not fair and you know it."

  "No! Don't call me that! I'm not Sarah to you anymore. I'm Mistress Turner."

  Forest approached the bed. "If you'd just let me explain."

  "Keep away from me, you . . . you lying whoreson bastard!" She raised a warning fist. "I'll give you a reason to wear an eye patch."

  "I'm sorry, Sarah." He took a step closer. "I'm sorry for what I said about your being married."

  "That's not good enough," she cried. "I know I'm married, you know I'm married. You've known it from the first." She fled to the farthest corner of the bed. "Obediah Turner calls himself my husband, but he's not a husband. He's a rutting boar. He's never treated me like a wife . . . never treated me like a decent man treats a wife." Her eyes filled with tears as her voice broke. "He's a pig, and he . . ."

  The truth hovered on Sarah's lips, but she knew it wasn't safe to tell him that Obediah was dead— that she was really a widow. It was better to let Forest think what he would of her. "Obediah deserves to be cheated on," she said glibly. "I never knew . . . never knew it could be like that between a man and a woman . . . before tonight. I thought you . . ." She dashed away the hateful tears. "I thought you cared for me, but now I know you're a hateful, lying . . . hateful . . . "

  Forest lunged across the bed and caught her wrist. With a cry, she struck out at him with her free hand. He imprisoned her in his arms, and they rolled over and over.

  "Sarah, don't."

  "Damn you! Damn you . . ." she spat out.

  Without warning, one corner of the bed gave way, hitting the floor with a jolt, and they tumbled over the edge. Forest landed flat on his back with Sarah on top of him; his head hit the floor with a crack.

  One look at his stricken face brought a sudden end to Sarah's fury. "Are you all right?"

  Forest moaned and laid back, eyes shut.

  "Are you hurt?" she demanded. "Forest!" She took hold of his shoulders and shook him. "Forest?"

  Strong arms captured her and held her locked in an iron embrace. Forest cautiously opened one eye. "I can't see anything," he lied. "I think I need another treatment."

  Sarah's concern gave way to concealed amusement. "I'll give you a treatment," she threatened softly.

  "I'm sinking fast." He groaned. One hand began to rub the back of her neck in slow, sensuous circles.

  "If I'm to doctor a man," she conceded, "I must have payment. How will you reward me?"

  "I'll think of something," he agreed lazily, pulling her down so close that she could feel his breath on her face. Their lips met and the tension went out of her body. "Sarah, I'm sorry," he said between kisses. "I never . . . never meant . . . never meant to deceive you. I do care for you—I swear."

  The whale oil lamp sputtered and went out as they made love a second and then a third time. And finally, in the witching hours of the night, when both were fully satisfied, Forest went downstairs and came back with a block of wood to put under the corner of the fallen bed.

  "That's a fine way to fix a bed," Sarah said sleepily. She wore nothing but Forest's shirt and the black eye patch, twisted around her hair like an Indian headband.

  "Actually, I was getting used to the mattress on an angle like that," he teased. "It added something, don't you think? I'll repair the broken piece properly tomorrow," he promised as he moved the candlestick to the mantelpiece. He went back downstairs and returned with the remainder of the wine and two of Sarah's biscuits. "I never go
t my dinner," he explained as he handed her a glass of wine. "I'd heat up my stew, but I think the pups ate it."

  Sarah shook her head as he offered her a cold biscuit. "You eat it," she said. The wine was delicious. She finished the glass before she met his eyes.

  Forest brushed biscuit crumbs off the coverlet. "You want to know who I am."

  She nodded. "I think you owe me that."

  He took the empty glass from her hand and set it on the floor beside the bed. He slid in beside her and took her in his arms. She sighed and laid her head against his chest. "Ah, Sarah," he murmured, "it's not a tale I'm proud of." He took a lock of her dark hair and wound it around his finger. "It's true, I'm hiding, but not for the reason you've mentioned."

  "You're a deserter," she prompted.

  "Aye." His voice was low and strained. "From the Queen's Rangers."

  "But why did you desert?" she asked. "You're not a coward."

  He kissed her hair softly. "I hope not," he said. "I've wondered about that myself!"

  "But you are loyal to the king?"

  "Aye, more out of habit than anything else, I suppose," he lied. "As I suspect you are, little Sarah."

  "That's not true," she protested weakly. "It's right. We are English, and we owe loyalty to the Crown."

  "So I thought, until I was forced to shoot down farmers and half-grown boys . . . until I saw an officer force a frightened woman unwillingly into his bed."

  "That is terribly wrong," she agreed. "But surely that officer was acting against his own orders. You can't blame all the king's troops for the actions of a few evil men." She twisted to look into Forest's face. "The rebels are little better. You saw that the first day you came to King's Landing—"

  Forest shook his head. "No. The problem is more than a few wicked men, Sarah. War is the villain here. Armies, any armies, commit atrocities in wartime. But they usually don't do it in their own country. The point is, Sarah, the British troops look upon us all as the enemy. You may believe you're English, but the English troops don't think so."

  "The Queen's Rangers are colonials, too," she insisted.

  "But they have adopted the opinions of the regular British and Hessian troops. Unless you are blood kin, you are suspected of being the enemy." He sighed heavily. "I killed my sergeant because of that woman, Sarah. I can't go back. I have a price on my head," he lied smoothly.

  A small sound escaped her.

  "A chestnut-haired man is easily recognized. I disguised myself as best I could and looked for a place to hide out the war. I didn't deceive you out of malice. It was to protect my life."

  As I've had to lie to you, she thought, to protect my life and that of my son. Her eyes rose to meet Forest's. "And when you left in August? Where did you go?"

  "My only sister is married to a Quaker near Head of Elk," he lied. "She is all the family I have."

  Sarah's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you certain, Forest? No wife? No brood of children hidden away somewhere?"

  "No. I had a wife and a son before the war, but they are both dead." Forest knew that the easiest lies are those closest to the truth.

  It was important to convince Sarah of this new identity if he were to salvage his mission at King's Landing. So far, she had given him no reason to believe that she suspected the first raid by the Patriot militia was an arranged one—a ruse to place him in her employ and confidence.

  "There is only my sister and her husband and children," he continued glibly. "When I learned of Howe's invasion, I wanted to be certain they were safe." Forest's insides churned. Why was it so hard to lie to Sarah? He was a soldier fulfilling his duty, but the clever words were like dust in his mouth. "Rose's husband, William, is a devout Quaker. He would not take up arms to save his life . . . or the lives of his loved ones."

  "And were they safe?"

  "No. Their farm was burned. I had to take Rose and the little ones to William's people in Philadelphia. William would not leave his land."

  "You were gone a long time," she said.

  Forest glanced away, unable to meet her gaze.

  The truth was that he had spent those weeks fighting the British . . . shooting and being shot at . . . running and hiding when he had to.

  "I wasn't coming back," he said honestly, "but then I worried about you here alone. I guess it's a good thing I did."

  "You should have told me you were a deserter," she whispered. "I wouldn't have turned you in."

  "How could I know that until—"

  "Until now?" She snuggled closer. "There are too many problems outside the room," she said softly. "Can we leave them there until morning?"

  "You said you wanted me to go," he reminded her. "I will if you still want me to. Shall I leave in the morning, Sarah?"

  "No. I want you to stay as long as—" She broke off. "As long as—"

  "As I can." He kissed her on the lips, then leaned over and blew out the candle. "Sleep, sweetheart. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. We can worry about it then."

  She opened her arms to him in the darkness.

  ~~~

  The sun was high when Sarah scrambled from the bed and pulled on her wrinkled skirt and bodice. The linen bib lay half under the bed; it would need to be stitched up before she could wear it again. Hopping on first one foot and then the other, she pulled on her stockings and recovered her kidskin slippers.

  She paused to glance into the tiny cracked mirror on the wall. Her hair was a tangled mess. Smiling, she descended the stairs, crossed the public room, and entered the kitchen.

  A fire crackled on the hearth; the table was wiped clean, with no sign of last night's abandoned meal. Flirt whined a greeting, and the pups circled Sarah's ankles and nipped at her stockings.

  She opened the back door and looked out. There was no sign of Forest anywhere. Gratefully, she hurried across the yard to her cabin and proceeded to change her clothes and make herself presentable.

  When she returned to the kitchen, he was sitting at the table. Clean dishes and mugs were set for breakfast for two, but there was no food in sight.

  "Good morning," she said, blushing.

  He rose and came to her, taking her in his arms and giving her a sound kiss. "Good morning, puss," he said with a grin. "I thought you were going to sleep the day away. I'm starving."

  She laughed. "You could have started breakfast."

  "I prefer your cooking, Sarah." He was clean-shaven, and he'd changed to a decent buckskin shirt and breeches. His auburn hair was damp and tied back with a black silk ribbon. The eye patch was back in place, but covering the wrong eye.

  She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of letting him know she'd noticed. "Where did you get those clothes?" she asked. They fitted him so well that she knew they must be his.

  "In the saddlebags with the wine. When you brought me your husband's things the other night, I didn't want to hurt your feelings, so I wore them, but I really prefer my own."

  "What else do you have in those miraculous saddlebags?" she teased. He was grinning at her like a little boy, as though he had done something wonderful. And he has, she thought. He makes me laugh. He's changed my life in ways he'll never know. She reached up and moved the eye patch from one eye to cover the other. "You'd better keep your disguise straight," she said without cracking a smile.

  "Hmmmph." He sniffed, adjusting the patch. "I'm not telling you what I have in my bags. You'll have to wait and see." He kissed her again and went back to his place at the table. "There are fish fillets in that frying pan," he hinted, "but I think they'd taste better fried." He leered at her wickedly. "Unless you'd rather do something other than eat breakfast."

  Sarah chuckled. Ignoring a strong temptation to accept his proposition, she tied an apron over her homespun skirt. "We'll eat," she said firmly. "Now that the corn's in, I have other work for you." She averted her eyes to keep Forest from reading the longing there.

  He groaned loudly. "You're a hard woman, Sarah Turner."

  Am I? I suppose I am, she th
ought as she knelt in front of the brick hearth. I never wanted to be hard, but I've had to be. She glanced back at Forest and her heartbeat quickened. I've never felt like this about a man before. I never dreamed I could. Whatever happened between them would be fleeting pleasure. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun would come up tomorrow morning. But I'll take what I can get, she thought. I'll take the joy and treasure it.

  Forest's good mood continued through breakfast. He teased her as he devoured the fried fish and eggs and ate stack after stack of her hotcakes smothered in wild strawberry jam.

  Sarah could have been eating sawdust. She tasted nothing, was aware of nothing but the laughing man across the table from her . . . the man who had made her a woman after so many years of being a wife.

  "These are the best I've ever eaten," Forest remarked as he finished the last mouthful of hotcake. "At least, I think so. I'd be certain if you'd give me a few more."

  Sarah laughed. "More? Any more and you'll burst."

  "Would you deny a starving man?"

  "You don't look like a starving man to me." She rose to her feet and started to walk toward the hearth. "There's enough batter left for— Oh!" Sarah gasped as Forest caught her around the waist and pulled her into his lap.

  "Mmmm," he said, burying his face in her neck. "You smell better than the breakfast. Maybe I'll just—"

  "Let me go," she protested weakly. "I thought you wanted—" He kissed her, and she slipped her arms around his neck. "We'll get no work done this morning this way," she murmured.

  Forest ran the tip of his tongue along her full lower lip. "The color of strawberries," he said, "and as sweet." He leered at her and chuckled lecherously. "Then again, maybe I'll just spread a little of that jam on—"

  "Forest!" She slid off his lap and retreated to a safe distance. "You're—"

  "Insatiable?" He looked hurt. "For wanting jam on my biscuit?" His twinkling eyes narrowed. "What did you think I meant, Sarah?"