“Oh, Aaron,” she sighed. “Near the river?”
“There’s nearly two hundred acres, Maggie. It’s near a lot of things.”
“I love the river,” she told him. “Grovesdale wasn’t far from the river. Sometimes Micah and I would watch the steamboats. I always wanted to ride on one. So did Micah.”
“I own a steamboat.”
“Really?”
“Really,” he said. “I promise you a ride on her someday.”
“Where is it now?”
“On its way to Chattanooga. When it returns, we’ll board her and come downriver to Chickasaw, disembark, and take a buggy ride to Cherokee, and then on to White Orchard.”
It was only a dream, one they would share today, but one that would never become a reality. She would never ride on Aaron’s riverboat or come again to see his plantation. Today was all they would ever have.
“What’s her name, your steamboat?”
“The Chattanooga Belle.”
“The Chattanooga Belle,” she repeated.
Maggie looked out at the world around them seeing that it was mainly farmland, knee-high cotton everywhere. She loved the sight of the growing crops, of the fields, bursting with life. Even knowing that they were moving away, she had planted flower seeds and had been able to see them break through the earth before they left Grovesdale. She had longed to dig up her ma’s red rosebush and bring it with her. Instead, she had picked a rose and pinned it to her dress. Aaron must have loved the land as much as she did if he planned to make his home in the country instead of in town. She wondered how the Widow Arnold would like living so far away from the mainstream of Tuscumbia society.
As they rode along, Maggie could see a scattering of vast woodland areas filled with tall cedars and pines, and hickories, as well as maples and oaks. The red clay earth gave way to richer soil in many places, but the russet dirt was predominant along the path they were traveling. She couldn’t help but think of what a beautifully colored dye could be made from that clay.
In the distance she saw a wagon stopped on the roadside, a short, stocky man standing by the horse.
“Are they in trouble?” Maggie asked.
As they drew nearer, Aaron replied, laughing, “Not anymore.”
Out from behind a thick cluster of bushes a few yards from the road ran three children, the boy hastily buttoning his breeches.
Maggie smiled as she watched the children run toward the big farm wagon where their mother sat on the seat holding a tiny infant in her arms.
“Good morning, Mr. Gibbs,” Aaron called out. “How are you doing?”
“Doing well, Mr. Stone,” the man responded, a warm smile appearing under his reddish-brown mustache. “I don’t think you’ve met Mrs. Gibbs, have you?”
“No sir. I haven’t had the pleasure,” Aaron said, nodding courteously to the pretty, black-haired woman who simply smiled in reply.
“And these are our children,” the proud papa introduced. “My eldest son, Eddie, and my youngest, Walter, there with his mother. The girls are Bessie and Susie.”
“You’ve a fine family, Mr. Gibbs,” Aaron assured the gentleman. “May I introduce Miss Maggie Campbell.”
“Ma’am,” Mr. Gibbs said.
Maggie exchanged a smile with Mrs. Gibbs as her husband helped his offspring into the back of the wagon. Waving good-bye, the wagon’s passengers headed toward Tuscumbia as the buggy’s occupants moved westward toward Cherokee.
“How do you know Mr. Gibbs?” Maggie asked.
“He lives at Barton. He has a big farm there. He runs a gristmill and a cotton gin out toward Mount Mills. He’s one of the most respected men in the area. His wife’s uncle, Dr. Chisholm, is a dentist in Tuscumbia.”
“Do you know everybody in Colbert County?”
“I know everybody of any importance in the whole state, my dear Miss Campbell.”
White Orchard had been built in a broad, fertile area on the northern edge of a two-hundred-acre plantation. The sight of the enormous Greek Revival house took Maggie’s breath away. On a small rise overlooking the Tennessee River, the white mansion, with her six square pillars and a complete upstairs veranda, stood regally against a backdrop of blue sky and green trees. Crepe myrtles and flowering almond bushes grew in profusion, undoubtedly the work of a long-dead gardener.
“It’s beautiful,” Maggie sighed, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. The smell of the earth and river and flowering plants assailed her senses.
“What do you want to see first?” Aaron asked, helping her down from the buggy.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Let me just peek inside, then I’d like to see the pear orchard. We can come back to the house for a complete tour later.”
“I’ll show you the hall and the front parlor first. They’re the only rooms completely finished.”
“All right,” she said, her arm entwined in his as they stepped onto the veranda and entered the house.
They stopped momentarily in the spacious central hall where a crystal chandelier hung overhead and a spiral, hand-carved staircase rose to the second floor.
“There are fourteen big rooms in here,” Aaron bragged. “Can’t you just hear the sound of children filling this house?”
“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. If only she could give him those children and fill this house with her love.
“Come see the parlor,” he coaxed, leading her forward. “The ceiling is sixteen feet high, and the mantel over there is black marble imported from Italy.”
The parlor extended the length of the house, the center broken by two freestanding columns that supported three broad arches.
Maggie had never been in such a huge house. She suddenly felt very out of place.
“What do you think of the room?” Aaron wanted her to like his house.
She looked around, noticing the white velvet carpets embossed in pink flowers. She was afraid to step, afraid her feet would soil their perfection.
“It’s . . . it’s magnificent.” What else could she say? It would be a perfect house for a woman like Eunice Arnold who was used to such splendor.
“Do you like the parlor suite?” he asked. “It’s carved rosewood.”
Maggie’s eyes moved over each elegant piece of furniture upholstered in satin damask. Aaron, standing behind her, put his arm around her body, pulling her back against him. She had to keep reminding herself that this man belonged to another woman, a woman whose presence was already alive in the quality furnishings of the parlor.
“It’s all beautiful,” she said, turning in his arms. “Let’s go outside and walk. I want to see the grounds, especially the orchard.”
He responded to her request by immediately escorting her outside, and, hand in hand, they began walking.
“The man who built this place had a wife with a passion for pear trees, so he planted an entire orchard for her. She named the place.”
“Oh, Aaron, smell the air. Look at the trees and flowers. Everything grows here.”
“Maggie. Maggie. You make me feel so alive.”
“We are alive, Aaron. Feel how alive.” She twirled around and around, the blue sky turning into a mass of blue cotton before her dizzy eyes. Laughing, she fell into Aaron’s strong arms, her lips boldly seeking his. Lifting her from the ground, her feet dangling, he returned her sweet kiss.
“Show me the orchard now,” she said as he set her back down on her feet.
The orchard was only a short distance behind the house, so they walked, Maggie stopping now and then to touch a tree, to listen to a bird, to look at a wildflower, to smell the aroma of country life.
“It’s more beautiful than the house,” she told him as they entered the orchard, tree after tree after tree planted in perfect rows. Like leafy green pyramids, the trees peaked into the clear, blue sky, a few late blossoms scattered among the budding fruit.
“You love the earth, don’t you, Maggie?”
“I’m a country girl, a farmer’s daughter.”
“Th
is place is perfect for you,” Aaron said. “It’s as if it’s been waiting for you.” He had furnished the parlor with Eunice in mind, but it was Maggie’s face, her wide amber eyes, stunned by its elegance, that he would always see there.
“The land perhaps,” she said, “But that house is far too fancy for me.”
“You’re fancier than you think you are.” He pulled her into his arms, his lips brushing her forehead.
“No, I’m not. I’m not fancy at all.”
“Then I don’t want fancy,” he said. “I want you.”
“Aaron?” She pulled backward, trying to free herself from his embrace, but he held her securely within the strength of his arms.
“I’ll stop whenever you say, but please, Maggie, let me love you just a little.” His mouth covered hers, wild and sweet and hungry for loving.
Still capable of rational thought, Maggie did not resist. She told herself that she would never be with him again, never know the feel of his body, the taste of his mouth. Today was all she could have, and she intended to take it.
The kiss continued, growing deeper and harder and hotter. Her arms circled his neck as he lifted her into his arms, and their lips clung together as they looked into each other’s eyes.
“I won’t hurt you, Maggie mine,” he reassured her as he knelt, lowering her to the ground beneath a large pear tree.
She could feel the grass and leaves covering the hard earth beneath her, and she gloried into the feel of his big body hovering over her. He rolled her to her side as he lowered himself beside her.
“You’re so beautiful.”
“So are you,” she whispered, her fingers touching his face, stroking his thick eyebrows.
One finger moved lovingly down the length of his nose, slowly circling his full lips, stopping to slip inside as his mouth opened. The moment his lips closed around her finger, Maggie began to ache with longing, and, when he began gently sucking, a tingling sensation burst within her.
She looked at his handsome face, so hard and strong, his deep green eyes smoldering with desire. She ran her hand down his throat to the open collar of his linen shirt, her fingers plucking at the dark golden hair she found there. He took her hand, showing her that he wanted her to unbutton his shirt. She obeyed. His sweat-dampened chest begged for her touch, the swirls of masculine hair beckoning for her fingers.
“Touch me,” he pleaded, his eyes devouring her.
Her hand rested on his hard chest. His breathing quickened when her slender fingers glided through his hair. Maggie loved the feel of him. She wanted to go on touching him forever. She wanted to know how he would taste. He smelled of sweat and tobacco and sunshine. When her lips touched his naked chest, she heard a tortured groan erupt from within him, and then suddenly, she found herself flat on her back, a hungry, aroused giant leaning over her.
His mouth took hers with a feverish urgency that had her emitting tiny sounds of pleasure. His mouth felt so right, as if it had been created for the sole purpose of kissing her. The memory of his other kisses flooded her brain heating her with demanding need.
His tongue touched hers, coaxing a response. She could feel the wild beating of their hearts as his chest pressed down on her breasts. Wantonly she began to explore his mouth, imitating his caresses.
Aaron’s body was trembling when he ended the kiss. He gazed down at her beautiful face. He had never seen a woman as exquisite as Maggie Campbell with her fiery red hair falling about her shoulders and her yellow cat-eyes staring up into his with such yearning.
His big hand slowly unbuttoned the bodice of her faded blue dress, untied the ribbons of her cotton chemise, and pushed it apart to reveal the high, round mounds of her breasts. The nipples, still hidden beneath the chemise, strained against the muslin. Aaron lowered his head, taking her into his mouth. Maggie jerked convulsively, mewing like a hungry animal as he suckled harder, his hand coming up to clasp the other breast.
Wild with need and impatient with the barrier of her clothing Aaron ripped the chemise apart, exposing Maggie’s breasts fully to his view. Her chest rose and fell with the force of her ragged breathing tantalizing him beyond endurance. Both of his big hands reached out, covering her firm flesh, and Maggie moaned.
He buried his head between her breasts, his mouth seeking and finding one jutting pink diamond as his hands moved under her hips and pulled her into the urgency of his lower body. The taste of her warm sweetness was driving him wild.
“Oh, Maggie, you taste like heaven.”
She couldn’t reply. Feeling helpless against her own womanly urges, she simply lay there letting him derive his own pleasure while giving her such delicious enjoyment. She was so lost in a sensual haze that the thought of right or wrong had left her mind. All that mattered was loving this man and being loved by him.
“I want to love you,” he groaned against her neck as his fingers replaced his lips on her body. “I’ve never wanted anything so much.”
His lips joined hers, hot and hard and demanding, his body rubbing rhythmically against hers as she squirmed beneath him. She wanted something, needed something that she knew instinctively he could give her. She put her arms around him, her hands clutching the tense muscles of his back, fingernails raking his flesh, urging him on.
Aaron had bedded women for years, had known passion and fulfillment, but nothing as all consuming as this crazed desire he felt for his wild Maggie. If only Eunice could set him afire this way. If only she inspired such lust. If only she responded to him so amorously. How would he ever be able to settle for a timid, lukewarm relationship with the woman he planned to marry after knowing ecstasy with Maggie? Once he had bedded her, he’d never be able to give her up.
“I’ll never be able to give you up when I marry Eunice.” The words were a mere whisper against her swollen lips, Aaron unaware that he had spoken.
When his mouth sought hers again, she turned her head, avoiding his kiss. He felt the tenseness in her body and sensed her withdrawal.
“Maggie?” Dear God, had he given voice to his thoughts? Had she heard him?
“Please, Maggie.”
“Let me go!” she hissed. “Get off of me now.” The pain was almost more than she could bear. She had yielded to this man, forgetting that he intended to wed another. She felt dirty and ashamed.
Aaron rolled to his side, releasing her. He lay there watching her get up and rearrange her clothing, buttoning her dress and brushing away the grass and leaves clinging to her skirt. He was having a difficult time calming his raging senses, his aching male body.
Maggie left him lying under the trees in the pear orchard while she ran back to the house. Finding the buggy, she jumped in and motioned the horse to a fast pace.
Aaron came around the side of the mansion just in time to see the buggy going out of view, far up the country road. Realizing that she could easily get lost this far away from town, he rushed to the stables, hoping to find one of his horses inside instead of in the pasture.
Maggie had no idea where she was going. She simply had to get away from Aaron Stone. She loved him, but she hated him. He wanted her, perhaps even loved her, but not enough to give up his dream of marrying the Widow Arnold in order to gain respectability. He had no right to think that he could use them, expecting their love and devotion when he would be cheating them both. How could she have been so stupid? She had come so close to ruining her own life and destroying any chance for a good future for Micah and Jude. She had to get away from Aaron and stay away from him. He was far too dangerous to ever be alone with again.
When Aaron finally caught up with Maggie, he saw that she had stopped the buggy near the covered bridge crossing Buzzard Roost Creek. She was sitting there with her head in her hands, her body jerking with sobs. The sound of her crying tore at his heart. He had never wanted to hurt her, but he had. He had allowed his own selfish passion to overwhelm his sense of morality. Maggie Campbell was an innocent young girl who loved too well, too honestly. He knew now that t
hey had no choice. Their only hope was to stay away from one another.
Maggie looked up when she saw Aaron stop the big palomino and dismount. They looked at each other, her eyes red and puffy from crying, his crazed with worry and regret. He hitched his horse to the back of the buggy and climbed up to sit beside her.
“I’ll take you home,” he said, grasping the reins.
“We can’t be friends,” she told him.
“I know.”
“You mustn’t ever try to see me again.”
Chapter 8
Maggie hoped that she could slip in the back way, through the kitchen, and find Auntie Gem before facing Mathilda Gower. She knew her aunt would be furious because she had supposedly spent the day caring for a sick servant when she had so much unfinished sewing to do.
She did not want to talk to anyone, but knew that the old black woman would have to be her contact to Daisy. She could not return to the Coleman house and risk seeing Aaron again.
The buggy ride back to Tuscumbia had been a slow torment, both of them silent the entire trip. When they arrived at the Colemans’, Aaron tried to talk to her, to apologize, but she left quickly, refusing to listen. What had happened today had happened, and there was nothing she could do to change it. If there had been any doubt as to whether she could ever pass for a lady, her actions at White Orchard had ended them. She had acted like a trollop, allowing the immoral instincts of her body to get the better of her. At first, she had felt dirty and ashamed, but now she realized that those feelings were a result of Aaron’s treatment of her and not from any regret at her own wanton actions. She loved Aaron Stone and had wanted to express that love in the most natural way.
“There she is,” Mathilda said, her fat body blocking the hallway as Maggie approached. “About time you got home.”
“I’m sorry I was gone so long,” Maggie said sincerely. “I sent a messenger.”
“You sent a lie!” Dark and enormous, his gray eyes icy cold, Wesley Peterson stood behind his mother.
“What?” Maggie could see that mother and son had no intention of letting her pass.
The Right Wife Page 12
