Twice Loved

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Dropping the sacks just inside the door, he looked up when his mother called from overhead.

  “Rye, is that you?”

  He placed a finger over His lips in warning, and Laura bit off the greeting she’d been preparing to call up.

  “It’s me,” he called. “I got some driftwood. Gonna make a fire and lay it around the fireplace to dry out.”

  It was Sunday, and the lower level of the cooperage was abandoned. The damp, windy clouds made the room shadowed and secret. As Laura and Rye stood silently staring at each other, they could hear the sounds of his parents moving back and forth above their heads. Then he dragged their two sacks over to the fireplace and began laying a fire. When it was crackling, he methodically began pulling wet driftwood from the sacks and arranging it in a circle on the dirt floor. When the bags were empty, he took them to the far wall and draped them over a tool bench. Returning to Laura, he silently reached for her slicker, and without a word she let him slip it from her shoulders. He pulled up one of the long shaving horses and positioned it near the hearth, where warmth already spread. The bench was four feet long, widened at one end to form a seat, the opposite end rising like a hunter’s bow, forming the wooden clamp for holding the stave in place with a foot pedal. He swung a leg over and sat down at the wide end, then reached up a hand to Laura in invitation. Her gaze, of its own accord, dropped to his lap when he’d spread his knees wide to straddle the bench. Color flared in her face, and she diverted her gaze to his waiting hand, then placed her own in it, and let him pull her down to sit before him, her body at a right angle to his, with both knees touching only one of his thighs. He touched her face with his fingertips, seeming to search it avidly before kissing first one eyelid, then the other.

  “I’ve missed you,” he whispered so softly it might have been only the hiss of the fire.

  “I’ve missed you, too.” She snuggled against his pea jacket.

  “You didn’t tell Dan, did you?”

  She shook her head, no.

  “When I saw you together, I felt ...” His whisper floundered, but his eyes were stormy, looking down into hers.

  “What ... tell me what you felt.” Her hand lay on his chest. She felt his heart driving hard against it.

  “Jealous,” he admitted, “for the first time ever.”

  “Silly Rye,” she whispered, and kissed his chin. “You never have to be jealous of Dan.”

  They kissed then, but in the middle of it the bracings overhead creaked, startling them apart. Their eyes turned toward the dark beamed ceiling, and they held their breaths. But no further sound came, and their eyes moved once again to each other. The fire was warm now, and Laura wondered why Rye hadn’t removed his jacket. But with the next kiss she understood as he led her hand to the warmth between his open legs, hidden in the shadows behind his heavy garment, should anyone intrude.

  “Laura ...” he begged in a shaky whisper, “can I touch you again?”

  “Not here, Rye. They’ll catch us,” she whispered.

  “No they won’t. They don’t know you’re here with me.” He pulled her into his arms and slid her up firmly against his open legs, and she was immediately tempted.

  “But what if they come?”

  “Shh, just turn around here and lean back against me. We’ll hear them coming, and if they do, go over and sit on the other shaving horse as if we were just warming up by the fire.” He turned her until her back rested against his chest. “Swing your leg over,” he ordered behind her ear.

  Her leg went over the shaving horse and his hand up under her skirts, scarcely hesitating at the button before finding her feminine warmth with one hand and her breast with the other. She squirmed back against him, listening to his harsh breathing beside her ear, grasping his knees as the delight of sexuality kindled again at his touch. But when he touched a strangely sensitive spot, she jerked upright and sucked in a breath, trying to escape.

  “Laura, don’t pull away.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Shh. Charles told me how to do something to you, but you have to sit still while I try it. ”

  “Wh ... what?”

  “Shh ...” he soothed, and again she settled back against him, but stiffly. He murmured softly in her ear, “Be still, Laura-love. Charles says you’ll like it.”

  “No... no, stop, Rye, it ... it ...”

  But her objections died aborning, and she leaned her head back against his shoulder as his touch seemed to rob her of the will to move or speak. Her breasts rose and fell deeply as his caress worked some sort of magic. And in a few short minutes she felt her body quicken with the same sort of rhythmic quaking Rye’s had. Something tightened the tips of her toes, worked its way up the backs of her legs like creeping fire, and a minute later her body was convulsed by a series of inner explosions that stunned her, shook her, and brought a groan to her lips. Then Rye was clamping his free hand over her mouth to stifle the sound while, in the throes of ecstasy, she gripped his knees with her finger.

  She tried to speak his name behind his palm, but he held her prisoner in a world so exquisite, her body was shattered with delight. The undulations grew, peaked, and were suddenly stilled.

  She became foggily aware of a dim pain and realized Rye’s teeth had clamped on her shoulder. She fell back into a panting near swoon, her limbs overcome by a tiredness such as she’d never imagined.

  “Rye ...” But his hand was still over her mouth. She reached to free her lips and whispered, “Rye ... oh, Rye, what did you do?”

  His voice shook. “Charles says ...” He swallowed. “Charles says that’s what you do if you don’t want to have babies. Did you like it?”

  “At first no, but then ...” She pressed a kiss on his callused fingers. “Oh, then,” she crooned, quite unable to express her new, soaring discovery.

  “What was it like?”

  “Like ... like I was in both heaven and hell at once.” But at the mention of hell, Laura sobered and straightened. Her voice became edged with guilt. “It’s a sin, though, Rye. It’s ... it’s what they call fornication, isn’t it? I never knew what it meant before when—”

  “Laura—” He swung her around by the shoulders, taking her jaw in both hands, rubbing her cheeks with his thumbs. “Laura, we have to wait three years before we can get married.”

  Her brown eyes met his blue ones with a new understanding. “Yes, I know.”

  She knew also that morality weighed little against this newfound heaven-hell, for they had found a way ... together. And they would be man and wife, just as they had pretended to be as children, when Rye had stalked off to sea with a kiss good-bye. Only there would be no good-byes after they were married, just hellos each morning, noon, and night.

  And so they told themselves as they bounded through that wild, wicked, wonderful spring, pleasuring each other countless times without fulfilling the act of love. In the old boathouse, out in the dory, on the borders of Gibbs Pond within sweet groves of Virginia creeper, and in the stands of beech trees that grew in the protected shallows of the hilly heath-lands, which became their playground.

  They fled to privacy each chance they got, scattering herds of grazing sheep as they raced, laughing, across hilly pastures—carefree nymphs learning more and more about love as each day passed, running through the salt air of summer, bound for more of each other, yet never quite getting enough.

  Chapter 7

  THE SAME MEMORIES had been plaguing Rye Dalton in the cooperage on Water Street; Laura was rarely absent from his thoughts. After the meeting with her in the orchard, he threw himself into his work with reckless zeal, pressing his body to limits he had no right to expect of it as two weeks passed, and then three, and he heard nothing from her.

  But she was there before him even while he shaved away with a drawknife or hunched his shoulders over the howel or cranked the windlass about the resisting staves of a barrel to draw them in tight. She was there before him, her face beckoning, body bending. He saw h
er features in the grain of wood, imagined the outline of her breasts as he ran his fingers delicately along the bowed edge of a stave. When he wound the ropes of the windlass around the flaring barrel staves to cinch them together for banding with a hoop, he imagined her waist being tightly cinched by lacings, knowing it was Dan who did that daily.

  And it was all he could do to keep from flinging the windlass aside and marching up the hill to claim her. But she had asked him for time, and though he wondered how much she would need, he’d do her bidding in the hope that she’d eventually come to a decision in his favor.

  There was, for Rye, a modicum of contentment in being back at the cooperage again, toiling beside his father, bending to labor in the sweet-scented confines of the place where he’d grown up.

  On foggy days there was always a fragrant blaze in the fireplace, with never an end of wood scraps to supply it. Josiah, when he finished a cedar pail, would set the tailings aside and dole them into the fire prudently, just often enough to provide a steady fragrance that wafted through the air like incense, to mingle with his pipe smoke.

  On sunny days the wide double doors were thrown open to the street and the scent of lilacs drifted in to accent the aromas of wood, both wet and dry. There was a steady passing of townspeople, many of whom stepped inside for a brief greeting and to welcome Rye back. Everyone knew of the curious situation to which he had returned, yet not a soul mentioned it; they only watched and waited to see what would come of it.

  The old man asked no questions either, but Josiah was shrewd enough to note the growing restlessness that made Rye jumpy and distracted. Tolerance was not Rye’s long suit, and his father wondered how long it would take before things came to a head.

  It was early June, a sparkling day of flawless blue sky and warm sun, when the old man took a midmorning break, shuffling to the open doorway to puff at his pipe and flex his back. “Takin’ that boy long enough to get back with them hoops,” Josiah commented in his rich New England drawl. He spoke of his brother’s boy, Chad Dalton, his newest apprentice, who was off to the smithy to fetch a pair of hoops. But now that Rye was back, the lad slacked off at times, taking advantage of his Uncle Josiah’s good mood.

  Rye didn’t even look up, which scarcely surprised Josiah. His son was standing at the fixed blade of a five-foot-long jointer plane, drawing the edge of a stave across it. It took keen judgment, a steady hand, and your eyes on your work to shape every edge identical. No, it didn’t bother Josiah that Rye didn’t look up; what bothered him was that he didn’t even seem to hear.

  "Said it’s takin’ that boy long enough to get back with them hoops!” Josiah repeated louder.

  At last Rye’s hands stilled and he glanced up, frowning. "I heard you, old man, or is it y’r ears goin’ bad?”

  “Not a thing wrong with m’ ears. Just don’t like talkin’ to m’self.”

  “Boy’s probably rollin’ those hoops the opposite direction from Gordon’s smithy—you know a boy and a hoop.” Again Rye set to planing.

  “Had in mind t’ send him after some fresh oranges from the square—just come in from Sicily. Time he gets here, oranges’ll be rottin’ in the noon sun.” Even from here Josiah could hear the calls of the vendors on Main Street Square, where the daily market was in full swing.

  “Go get ’em yourself. Do y’ good t’ take a walk and get out of here for a few minutes.”

  Josiah, his back still to the cooperage, puffed his pipe and watched ladies pass with baskets over their arms. “Knees’re a little stiff today—can’t imagine why m’ rheumatism’s actin’ up on a clear day like this.” He scanned the flawless blue skies. “Must be foul weather blowin’ in.”

  Behind him, Rye measured the shaped length of wood with a stave gauge. Ignoring the old man’s hint, he studied it critically, found it to his liking, and took up a finished stave to compare the two. Finding them perfectly matched, he tossed them onto a completed stack and chose another rough-hewn piece to begin edging.

  In the doorway, Josiah slipped his fingers between waistband and shirt back, rocked back on his heels, and complained to the azure sky, “Ayup! Sure could go for a fresh orange about now.” A loud clatter sounded behind him as Rye flung the board down. Josiah smiled to himself.

  “All right, if y’ want me t’ run to the damn market for your oranges, why don’t y’ just say so?”

  Now Josiah turned his squint-eye back to his son. “Gittin’ a little twitchy lately, ain’t cha?”

  Rye ignored him as he clumped across the cooperage and brushed around the older man with irritation in every step.

  “Looks t’ me like it’s you needs gettin’ outa here for a while, not me.”

  “I’m going! I’m going!” Rye barked.

  When he stomped off up the street, Josiah smiled again, puffed his pipe, and muttered, “Ayup, y’ sure are, boy—to-hell-in-a-rowboat crazy, and drivin’ me right with y’.”

  Rye Dalton made an impressive sight storming along the cobbled street in close-fitting tan breeches and a drop-shouldered shirt of white cotton with wide sleeves gathered full at the wrist. The open collar left a deep vee of exposed skin behind the buttonless garment, and coarse gold hairs sparkled there against his dark flesh. Around his neck a red bandana was tied sailor fashion, the habit adopted from his shipmates and continued now, for the bandana was convenient for swabbing his temples when he sweated in the cooperage.

  It was a warm morning, filled with the sounds of exuberant gulls and the grinding of wheels along the streets as Rye jumped around the tail of a passing wagon and leaped to the new, cobbled sidewalk. The wind ruffled his sunstreaked hair, whipped his full sleeves as he strode, long-legged and angry, toward Market Square.

  Farmers were selling fresh flowers and butter from bigwheeled wooden carts. Fishermen peddled fresh cod, herring, and oysters while butchers kept fresh meat covered with heavy wet cloths in the backs of drays. At one end of the square, an auctioneer called out his gibberish as furniture and household items went up for sale.

  Rye scanned the vendors until he spotted the bright splashes of citrus fruits—limes, lemons, and oranges piled in pyramids on the wagons, creating a tempting array of colors. The scent was heavenly, the fruit always coveted, for it was available only seasonally.

  Rye took a long-legged step off the curb and took up a shiny-skinned orange, his mouth watering as he grudgingly admitted the old man was right—the fruit was tempting, and it was good to get out into the fresh air and activity of the market. There was a steady mingling of voices, the sharp staccato of the auctioneer, the indolent calls of wagon owners, and the musical hum of shoppers exchanging pleasantries, while over it all the gulls interjected their demands for scraps of fish, crumbs of bread, or anything else they might scavenge.

  Rye squeezed the orange, selected another, and put it to his nose to sniff its pungent fruitiness, telling himself he’d be mellower to the old man; it wasn’t Josiah’s fault that Rye was in this damnable predicament. The old man had been more than patient with him during the past couple of weeks when Rye’s temper flared or he became brooding and silent. He smiled now, in resolution, making his selections from the pyramid of fruit. He had chosen three flawless oranges when a voice at his elbow purred, “Why, Mr. Dalton, you out doing the daily marketing?”

  “Miss Hussey ... good morning,” he greeted, turning at the sound of her voice. She peered up at him from beneath the crescent of a lavender bonnet brim, a becoming smile on her face.

  “Aye, the old man had a cravin’ and thinks I’m still an apprentice in kneepants.” He laughed indulgently.

  She laughed, too, and turned to the selection of oranges for herself. “My mother sent me out for the same reason.”

  “I have t’ admit they’re temptin’. I can’t wait t’ peel one m’self.” He grinned mischievously and angled her a glance. “’Course, don’t tell the old man that or he’ll have me runnin’ down here every mornin’ like a housemaid.”

  “If you had a wife
, Mr. Dalton, you wouldn’t have to worry about running to the market for oranges.”

  “I have a wife, Miss Hussey, but it doesn’t seem t’ do me much good.”

  It was out before he could stop it, but immediately he was sorry, for he’d brought a most unbecoming blush to DeLaine Hussey’s cheeks, and he could see she was at a loss for something to say. She quickly became intense about her selection of oranges and refused to meet his eyes. He touched her hand briefly. “I apologize, Miss Hussey. Five years at sea, and I forget m’ manners. I’ve made y’ uncomfortable. That was a most indulgent thing for me t’ say.”

  “It’s true nevertheless. The whole town’s wondering what she means to do about it, though, living up there in your house with your best friend ...” But she stammered to a halt, her eyes widening in surprise as she stared at the woman and boy who’d quietly appeared on the other side of the wagon.

  Rye noticed Laura a second too late, but immediately withdrew his hand from DeLaine Hussey’s. Next to her overblown dressiness, Laura was a vision of feminine simplicity, standing in the sun with the brim of a becoming yellow bonnet angling over her face, a large satin bow caught just below one ear. Her dress was narrow-waisted, but she wore no billowing hoops today, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was pinched up in stays—she was thin enough that he could not tell by looking.

  She held the hand of the boy tightly, and while Rye stared at Laura, he forgot everything but the welcome sight of her. Suddenly seeming to remember the presence of the other woman, he stepped back as if to acknowledge her, but before he could, Laura smiled and said, “Hello, Miss Hussey. It’s nice to see you again.”

  In a pig’s eyes, Laura thought all the while she beamed at the woman. She was very conscious that Rye’s hand had been on DeLaine’s.

  “Hello,” DeLaine replied shortly, a sour expression on her face.

  “Hello, Rye,” Laura said then, turning her bonnet brim up to him, hoping DeLaine Hussey could not tell the way her heart suddenly flew to her throat at the sight of him, tall and handsome and looking good enough to eat right along with those three oranges he held in his wide-spread palm. The sun tinted his blue eyes bluer and glanced off the narrow slit of exposed chest, turning it to rich gold behind the white shirt.