Southern Rapture

by Jennifer Blake

  Her candle made no more than a small pool of golden light in the large room. It moved with her as she neared the bed, turning the curtains that swayed at the windows to wavering columns of pale yellow and making the high bed with its mosquito netting look like a draped catafalque. The top sheet was turned back and rumpled. There was no one under it.

  Lettie walked to stand at the foot of the bed, then skirted the end, sliding her left hand along the sheets until she stood beside the pillows.

  She had not wanted to be right. She had not thought she could be. For a single aching moment, she was sorry that she had made the discovery, even wished that there was some way she could undo it. To think that Ranny, with his quiet sensitivity and puckish humor, was a fake pained her more than she could have imagined. The knowledge was like a poison; she felt stunned, numb, and nerveless. She stood, breathing deeply, slowly, trying to control the press of burning tears behind her eyes.

  A voice, deep and quiet, and infinitely soothing, sounded from the window behind her. "Did you want something, Miss Lettie?"

  She swung around in a swirl of skirts, her heart lurching and her eyes widening in disbelief. "Ranny! Where did you come from? I thought—"

  "I couldn't sleep. I stepped outside."

  Her heartbeat was declining, though her knees were still weak with the relief. She felt a strong inclination to laugh out loud. Instead, she pressed her hands together in front of her and took a deep breath. Almost as an afterthought she noticed that he seemed to be wearing only his trousers, as if he slept without a nightshirt and had donned the minimum needed for decency before going outside. She looked away in confusion. Color rose to her cheekbones as she searched for something, anything, to say.

  "You couldn't sleep? But you took laudanum."

  "It doesn't always work. Not anymore. Not for me."

  The laudanum from the opium poppies lost its power if used over a long time unless the dose was increased. Even then there were limits to the amount that could be taken. Apparently Ranny had reached it, not surprising considering how long he had needed it.

  "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I … only came to see if there was anything I could do."

  If Ransom had not heard her voice as she spoke to Lionel when he was halfway down the steps, he would be long gone by now. She was going to drive him madder than she thought he was already. He was becoming quite adept at flinging his clothes off and on for her, though it might have been more useful, more likely to curtail her inconvenient concern, if he had appeared stark naked. But since he had been forced to return, he might as well receive some benefit from it.

  He looked at Lionel, who hovered, grimacing his regret and blamelessness, in the doorway. "It's all right," he said. "Go back to sleep." When the boy had backed out and closed the door, he turned once more to Lettie. His smile coaxing, he said, "Talk to me. That will help."

  It was most unconventional, being alone at this hour in a man's bedchamber. But surely there could be little harm in it.

  "I can talk for a few minutes," she agreed with caution, "but could I get you something first, perhaps a glass of water?"

  "No, thank you."

  "It … might be better—cooler—if we went out on the veranda."

  It might, indeed, be better. Ransom stepped back and held the curtain aside. As she came nearer, passing through the window opening, he took the candle she held from her hand and blew it out.

  Lettie stopped. "Why did you do that?"

  "Draws mosquitoes. The light."

  "Oh, yes, I suppose so." He had reached to set the candle holder on a table and was holding back the curtain. She moved on ahead of him, groping a little in the darkness until her eyes became accustomed to it.

  There was a bank of clouds hiding the moon and a sultry feel to the air. It was possible it would rain by morning. It was not much in the way of conversation; still, in order to restore some sense of normalcy, she said as much.

  "It's possible," he agreed, his tone grave.

  She grasped at the next thought to rise to her mind. "Do you think it would help if I massaged your temples and the back of your neck? I do that for my mother sometimes when her head pains her."

  "If you like." She could do anything she wished if it involved touching him, he thought with certain self-knowledge.

  "If you will sit down then, I'll try."

  "While you stand? No. You take the chair."

  "But I can't reach—"

  "You can like this," he interrupted her as he took her arm and pressed her into the chair. When she was settled, he lowered himself to the floor to sit at her feet. He turned his back to her, clasped his arms around his knees, and waited.

  Even in the dimness she could see that his back was broad and ridged with the shadowed outlines of muscles. She could feel the heat of his body and smell the faint male muskiness of him. She put out her hand involuntarily, then drew it back. She felt a little dizzy, the result of the shock she had had, no doubt. How very strange. His head. He was in pain. That was her purpose here on the veranda and she must remember it. Lifting her hands, she called upon her strength of will and reached out to touch him.

  His hair was silky and thick under her fingers, his skull well-formed, symmetrical. The scar at his temple was a series of ridges around a jagged depression, though the bone under it seemed solid, intact.

  She focused on where she thought his pain must be centered, imagining it in her own brain, trying to think what movement might soothe it. She massaged his temples in slow, firm circles, letting her fingers glide over his hair and stroke back above his ears.

  He gave a soft sigh. She redoubled her efforts, transferring her attention to the back of his neck. She kneaded the taut muscles and tendons there. His skin was warm and supple under her hands. Her palms, flat against him as she followed the line of his neck with her thumbs, tingled with an odd vibrant life.

  Ranny leaned into her movements, absorbing them. To the comments she thought to make, he gave answers that grew briefer as the minutes passed. He leaned his head back, rolling it on his neck, as she returned her attention to his temples once more. Just as she thought he was near somnolence, he sighed and reached up to catch her hand. He turned it to place a kiss in the palm.

  "Miracle fingers. It's better, much better."

  Lettie's shoulders ached from her sustained movements and the awkward position she had held as she leaned forward to reach him. She did not regard it as long as it had been useful. "I'm glad."

  Ransom was not nearly as torpid as he pretended to be. It simply seemed best that she cease her ministrations before he could become addicted to them. He had been enjoying her touch far too much. It gave rise to all sorts of impulses, most of which would shock and enrage her if she ever learned of them. There was one, however, that seemed innocent enough to receive at least a hearing. And it might also serve to give her thoughts a new direction, to put to rout her obvious suspicions.

  "Miss Lettie?"

  "Yes, Ranny?"

  The calf of her leg was pressed against his side. Lettie could feel the rise and fall of his breathing and the firm contours of the muscles that covered his ribs. She should move away, but for the moment she could not bring herself to make the effort.

  "Do you like me?"

  "What a question! Of course I do."

  "Sally Anne likes the colonel."

  "I suppose she may."

  There was something in his voice that made her wary, though she could not put a name to it. She wished that she could see his face, could look for the sparkle of humor that she had come to recognize as preceding one of his practical jokes. He still sat with his back to her as he stared out through the veranda railing.

  "I saw her kiss him."

  "Did you now?" she said with some severity. "You shouldn't spy on them."

  "I didn't. I just saw them under the magnolia tree."

  "Anyway, it's none of your business."

  "No. But Aunt Em says it's bad to drink from the
same glass as other people. Kissing looks worse."

  Lettie's voice quivered with amusement. "I daresay it may look that way."

  "Have you ever done it?"

  "Really, I don't think—"

  "Did you?"

  "I may have, once or twice."

  "Did you like it?"

  It was a moment before she answered, and then her tone was flat, compressed. "It was … bearable."

  He winced in the darkness but refused to abandon the line he had taken. "Would I like it?"

  "Ranny! I have no idea."

  "Would you kiss me? To see?"

  The request was so humble, if also a bit pressing, that she could not be insulted. His interest, she thought, was more academic than salacious. She had brought the situation, one in which he could put such a question to her, on her own self. There was no one else to blame.

  She asked, "Are you sure you want to do that?"

  "I'm sure," he said, turning to face her and rising to one knee. "Don't you want to?"

  His voice held a timbre that was unconsciously seductive. She felt a frisson move along her nerves, coming to rest with a flutter in her throat. What could it hurt, after all? "I don't suppose I mind."

  A small surge of pure triumph brought Ransom to his feet. He made no sudden move, however, but reached to take her hand and draw her up to stand in front of him. He did not release her, only lifted her hand instead to place it on his shoulder while he circled her waist with his arm. He felt no resistance, no fear or strain. He could have groaned when he thought of the difference between this time and that in the corncrib. It could not be erased, but it might be mended at least in part. But even if it was not, it was good to know that he had not completely destroyed her trust, good also to know that poor Ranny held no terror, no disgust, for her.

  He was so near. His hold was light, yet commanding. The strength of the shoulder under her hand seemed to promise difficulty in evading what was to come should she change her mind. She had no wish to do that. There was inside her an unexpected stir of anticipation. Her heart began to race and she stared up at him, her eyes shadowed in the darkness and her lips parted.

  He bent his head. His mouth touched hers, gently molding to its smooth contours. It was heated, beguiling in its sweetness. He moved his lips infinitesimally upon hers, as if in wonder at their soft yet resilient fragility. The touch was tentative, without force, yet firm.

  Lettie swayed closer, wanting, expecting him to deepen the kiss. He remained passive yet kept the contact, as though entranced by the sensation. It came to her that he did not know what to do. She lifted her hand to the back of his head, threading her fingers through the thick waves. Greatly daring, she brushed his mouth with hers, then allowed the tip of her tongue to flit over the warm surfaces of his lips. He seemed to stiffen with surprise before, as if obeying some natural impulse, he followed her lead, meeting her tongue with his own, advancing, retreating, inviting her direction.

  The sense of being in control, of being the instigator, was heady, enthralling. It made her feel both gratified and delightfully wicked. Swift and turbulent desire raced along her veins, invading her mind, her senses, and destroying thought. With a soft murmur in her throat, she pressed against him. Her breasts brushed his chest, the nipples hardening, as she invaded his mouth and encouraged him to do the same in return.

  His arms closed around her. He tangled his fingers in the soft knot of hair at her nape, then swept his hand down her back, past the narrow turn of her waist to clutch the curve of her hip and to hold her against the lower part of his body. Through the layers of her skirts she felt the firm rigidity of him.

  Lettie was recalled to herself with wrenching abruptness. This was Ranny. She gave a low cry as she dragged her mouth from his. Pushing away from him, she stood, aghast, clasping her arms across her chest. Her lips throbbed, and in her brain burned a single refrain. How could she? How could she?

  "Miss Lettie?" His whisper was agonized.

  "Please—please don't worry," she said, gaining some control of her shaking voice on the second try. "It's all right, really. I think I had better go in now."

  "Must you?"

  "It would be best."

  Best for him, necessary for her. She swung away from him. She had only gone a few steps when he called after her.

  "Miss Lettie?"

  She paused without turning her head. "Yes?"

  "I could drink from your glass."

  The trace of insouciance in his voice was welcome. He had not been hurt. She gave a small choke of laughter that had the sound of incipient tears. "Thank you, Ranny."

  "No, Miss Lettie," he answered. "Thank you."

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  10

  The hall was a thousand miles long. By the time Lettie reached her bedchamber and stepped inside, she was gasping on a sob. She ran to her bed, went up the bed steps, and flung herself on the mattress to bury her head in her arms. Hot tears squeezed from between her lashes and dropped with small plopping sounds on the coverlet as shame for what she had just done washed over her.

  To make love to a man like Ranny was the same as seducing a young boy. To take advantage of him, to rouse the base male desires inside him that he could not be expected to understand or control fully was the act of a conscienceless wanton. That he had begun it was no excuse. The responsibility for the way it had ended was hers.

  Wanton. Harlot. Jezebel.

  She deserved all those names and more. She wished she could turn back the clock, could have this past hour to live over again. She would not betray herself in such a way if given a half a chance.

  But perhaps it was better to know what she was really like. She could be on her guard against it.

  It was so much worse than she could ever have imagined. She had thought she was depraved for being able to feel vivid carnal pleasure in the arms of a thief and murderer like the Thorn. That she had come near to the same emotions in that brief kiss exchanged with Ranny marked her as beyond redemption.

  To think that if she had never left Boston she might never have suspected it. She must guard her secret well. No one must know how easily she could be led astray, God help her.

  There was one who knew, however, one from whom she could not hide her nature. That one was the Thorn.

  The Thorn, a man of disguises, a man who might be walking among them all every day. A man who might have looked at her a hundred times and smiled, thinking of how she had responded to him, knowing what she was like. She writhed in misery at the very idea.

  She must take care. No one must have the opportunity to point a finger at her. She would be as modest and circumspect as she had been taught to be. And never must she be alone with a man. Not even one like Ranny. Especially Ranny.

  It was not, as it happened, an easy vow to keep. Splendora, it seemed, was always full of men. Like an invasionary force, they progressed from the veranda to the hall sitting room and parlor, and on into the dining room where Mama Tass fed them with fried chicken and beaten biscuits, baked ham and cow peas and her special lemon pie. Their numbers increased like the hordes of Tartary, but there were always the regulars, Johnny Reeden and Martin Eden and, of course, Thomas Ward. Men could not be avoided, and in any case, as Lettie discovered, trying only drew attention to her. All that was left Was to be pleasant but remote, to set herself at a distance by her coolness.

  There came a Sunday when the only guests, other than Sally Anne and Peter who could not be counted in that category, were the regulars plus O'Connor, who had arrived late. The afternoon was hot and airless. It had not rained in nearly three weeks, not since the deluge when Lettie had visited her brother's grave. The burning sun had siphoned away the moisture, usually so abundant, until the leaves on the trees hung limply, the flowers in Aunt Em's garden drooped, and the grass and weeds had begun to take on a parched appearance. The last of the magnolia blossoms had turned copper-brown, and the petals on the roses on the arbor over the gate had shattered, littering
the ground underneath like pale pink snow. The illusion should have been cooling but only seemed to make the heat worse.

  They sat on the veranda hoping, for the most part in vain, for a breath of air. The ladies plied their fans and encouraged the gentlemen not only to remove their coats and cravats but also to open the necks of their shirts and roll up their sleeves. Even so, they wiped perspiration from their brows and waved whatever they could find, from handkerchiefs to hats to sheets of newspaper, before their faces.

  "Is it this hot very often?" Colonel Ward asked with a sigh.

  Johnny snorted. "You think this is hot, just wait until summer's really here."

  "It gets worse?"

  "I should say. Why, compared to August, this is a cool spell."

  Martin sent Johnny a look of weary disgust. "It's hotter than hell's hinges, as my old granddad used to say. Don't let him fool you."

  It was, indeed, a scorching day. The floor of the veranda, even with its canvas cover, was so hot where the sun struck it on one end that it was impossible to stand on it with bare feet. They all knew this for a fact because Lionel and Peter had tried, hopping and yelping, until told to desist. They had wanted to see if it was really possible to fry an egg there, after Johnny had been unwise enough to utter the old saw, but Sally Anne had vetoed that suggestion with such heat-induced annoyance that the two boys had retreated to the dense shade under the magnolia where they showed every sign of preparing to take a nap. Lettie wished that she could join them since it appeared cooler there. Like Thomas, she felt the heat more than those who had been bred to it.

  Thomas wiped a bead of sweat trickling down his nose. "How do you all stand this for three months?"

  Aunt Em looked at him with sympathy in her faded blue eyes despite the mockery of her lifted brows. "You all?"

  He grinned at her, unrepentant. "Isn't that correct usage?"

  "No, indeed. If you're going to try to talk like a Southerner, at least say 'y'all.'"