A Wild Yearning (29 page)

She cast an apprehensive glance at Nat. "Well, I..."

"You know I don't hold with dancing, Dr. Ty," Nat said. "'Tis the devil's handiwork."

Ty's mouth stretched into a tight smile. He nodded toward the circle of whirling couples that included a flush-faced Elizabeth and a laughing Caleb. "If the reverend perceives no danger in it, I should think your wife's soul is probably safe from corruption." And before Nat could argue further, Ty slipped his arm around Delia and pulled her into the ring of dancers. For a few seconds she moved stiffly, but soon she gave herself over to the joy of the music. Their bodies joined together and parted as they moved through the intricate steps.

He tried to shut his senses off to the look, the feel of her, but it would have been like trying to hold back the sunrise. The wind flicked tendrils of her hair against his neck, sending chills rippling along his skin. There was a damp spot between the hollow of her breasts that fluttered with her panting breaths. She smelled sweetly of rosewater and muskily of woman. He knew how she would look naked and beneath him.

He wanted her naked and beneath him.

She whirled away from him and her expressive mouth laughed, her golden eyes beckoned, beckoned... He thought of the wide, fur-covered bed in the loft back at his cabin. He was hard and empty and hungry for her. Oh God, how he longed to take her home this night and lay her across that big, wide bed.

For a few wild moments, the Abenaki part of him actually contemplated snatching her up, throwing her over his horse, and riding away with her into the wilderness. He would build them a snug little wigwam on the shores of some remote northern lake and fill it with a bed of fragrant balsam. And on that bed he would spend the days and nights loving her like crazy until—

Delia's foot landed on a clump of hawkweed and her ankle twisted beneath her. She staggered sideways, falling, and his arms went out to catch her. His face was so close to hers her breath bathed his cheek, warm and moist and sweet. His chest flattened her breasts and he could feel the vibration of her thundering heart. His rocklike, pulsing sex fit perfectly between the cleft of her legs, and unconsciously he moved his hips, pressing harder.

Her breath caught on a ragged sob.

He raised his head to look down into her face—at the tawny, brimming eyes; the parted, wet lips; the sweet, delicate curve of cheek and jaw... He came within a hair's breadth of crushing his mouth down over hers and to hell with the fact that her husband and all of Merrymeeting were watching.

"Let go of me, Ty...
Please,"
she whispered in a deep-throated appeal.

He released her just as the fiddles screeched to a halt and she fled from him. Ty looked around him as someone tuned up a hornpipe and the others lined up for the next dance. Everyone seemed oblivious to the drama that had been unfolding before their eyes.

That's because nothing really happened,
Ty told himself. But he knew it for a lie.

Everything had happened.

At the sound of the door opening, Delia whipped around, her hand fluttering to her throat.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Nat said.

"I just didn't expect you... so soon." Delia faltered.

Nat avoided her eyes. "It took the girls a while to settle down, but once they got into b-bed, they fell right to sleep."

"It was a long day for them."

Nat's glance drifted around the room, flitting from the calfskin chest to the pine dresser with its earthenware pitcher and basin, to the calico curtains fluttering in the open window. And carefully avoiding the bed in the corner. "Long day for us too," he said.

"Aye..."

The damn bed, Delia thought, filled the room. It was a fine cord bed of painted black ash, with downy quilts and a feather mattress. It looked soft and inviting, and she yearned to stretch out on it in sleep. But first...

A hot flush of nervousness washed over Delia. She stepped closer to the open window where the cool night breeze could bathe her face. It was so quiet she could hear the silky whisper of the cornstalks and the rustle of the pine boughs. In the distance she caught the soft hoot of an owl. There was a tactile quality to the night, a velvety blackness. The heel of a fading moon gave off little light.

Inside, a betty lamp bathed the room with a soft glowing luster. Nat pulled the wick out with the pick to make it burn even brighter. He prowled the room, limping badly, the floppy sea boots he had to wear to fit over his wooden foot slapping loudly against his shins. Delia wondered if his stump got to hurting by the end of the day. A crutch leaned against the wall by the empty hearth. Perhaps he normally removed the wooden foot when he came in from working the fields.

She swallowed, clearing her throat. "Nat? Why don't you take off your foot, if it's paining you?"

He swung around to stare at her, his mouth drawn into a tight line. "The only one ever to see my stump was my wife."

But
I'm
your wife now, she wanted to shout at him. "I only meant it wouldn't bother me to see you footless."

As soon as the words were out, Delia cursed her flapping tongue. But to her surprise Nat actually laughed. It only lasted a second or two and was more of a chuckle than a laugh. But it dissipated some of the tension in the room.

In the silence that had followed Nat's laughter, his eyes flickered over to the bed. "Frolics make a break from the work, but there's always double the chores to do the next day. We should be getting our rest."

"Aye..." Delia squeaked.

He crossed the distance to stand before her.

His big hands encircled her arms. He stared down into her face, his expression grim now. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers.

There was no commingling of tongues, no open mouths. He barely moved his lips. Yet Delia's throat spasmed as if she would gag. She stood it as long as she could before twisting her head aside and fighting to keep from choking. She couldn't look at Nat, but she heard him heave a sigh. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief, as if he, too, had wanted only for the kiss to be over.

He reached in back of her, pulling the shutters closed and slipping the latch in place. In silence, he turned away from her and began to undress.

Delia supposed that she, too, would have to remove her clothes, but she couldn't move. Nat had discarded his coat and waistcoat when they first came home. Now he pulled his shirt-tail from the waistband of his breeches, untied his kerchief, and drew the shirt over his head. His chest was smooth and hairless and very white, his muscles flaccid and ropy. A small paunch sagged around his middle.

As he hung his shirt on a wall peg, he felt Delia's eyes on him and looked up. His flushed face darkened even more. "Is something the matter?"

Delia jerked as if he'd shouted at her. She brought her hands up to the front of her short gown, but they were shaking so uncontrollably she couldn't manage the buttons.

He gestured weakly at the door. "Perhaps I'll just step out for a minute."

Delia nodded dumbly and after Nat had left the room, her eyes squeezed shut in relief.

She hurried to undress. There were four pegs on the wall. Two were in use with Nat's things; two were empty. Mary used to hang her clothes on them, Delia thought, her chest tight with repressed tears. What, she wondered, had Nat done with all of Mary's things?

Besides the new short gown and petticoat, Anne had also made Delia a nightrail for her wedding night. The yoke and cuffs were embroidered with eyelet lace that Anne had found in her scrap box. Delia paused only a few seconds to admire the nightrail before pulling it on. She ran a brush rapidly through her hair and then slipped into bed. The sheets were smooth beneath her bare legs, but cool, and she shivered. She debated turning off the lamp on the calfskin chest beside the bed, finally deciding Nat might prefer it left on.

Nat was so long in returning that Delia had almost drifted into sleep. She turned over drowsily at the sound of the door opening, then tensed as he entered. He hesitated in the doorway before coming toward the bed. Their eyes met, then pulled nervously apart. He wet the corner of his mouth with his tongue.

She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers. She hoped he would just do... what he had to do without any more kisses. She shut her mind to the memory of another mouth— warmer, firmer lips and probing, thrusting tongue...

Nat extinguished the lamp and the room plunged into darkness.

The mattress sagged as he dropped down on it. He sat with his back to her. Delia heard clunking sounds as his big boots came off, then the mattress moved again and there was a rustle of clothing as he pulled down his breeches. She could see the shadow of his shape, bent over, and realized he was removing his wooden foot. She heard the flap of leather slapping on wood and then the creak of the ankle hinge. Did all married couples undress in the dark? she wondered. It seemed strange to her suddenly to realize that she wouldn't be able to see Nat's face while he made love to her. But then, she thought gratefully, he wouldn't be able to see hers.

A draft of cool air washed over Delia as Nat pulled the covers back, getting into bed. She lay stiff and tried to keep from trembling. Yet when his hand reached across the space between them and touched her breast, she jumped.

He moved closer. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her almost roughly against him. Delia's leg rolled, falling inadvertently against his loins. For the briefest second her knee pressed against his small and flaccid sex, before she straightened with a jerk, and he twisted away from her.

Sliding his legs off the bed, he sat up, keeping his back to her. During all this neither had made a sound and Delia suddenly became aware of the noisy rasping of her own breathing.

"I can't do it," Nat said.

She swallowed around the enormous lump in her throat.

"I'm sorry, Delia... but I just can't do it. She's only been dead three months, my Mary." He spoke away from her, into the darkness, his voice thick with pain. "We were married for ten years. Ten years we slept together in this bed. Every night but for the births of our girls and the times I went to Wells for muster days. She is—
was
—the only woman I've ever... It's nothing against you, Delia, but I just can't..."

"Nat, please. I understand." She pushed herself half upright, leaning back against the pillow.

He twisted his head to look at her. It was too dark for Delia to make out the expression on his face. "This afternoon when I saw you coming down the stairs and later watching you dance, you looked so pretty. I thought maybe..." His voice trailed off. She felt him shrug. "But even the thought of... It makes me feel so guilty. To think of touching another woman. I know she's dead, I
know
it, but I can't help feeling I would be betraying her..."

Tentatively she reached out and touched him on the shoulder. "There's nothing that says we have to do it right away."

His breath came out in a loud sigh. "No, no. There's nothing that says... that. And, besides, with you being a virgin, you'll need more time anyway. Until we get to know each other better," he added hopefully.

Delia blessed the darkness that he couldn't see her face. It hadn't occurred to her that he would expect her to be a virgin. She almost laughed hysterically—he had gone from believing her a whore to thinking her a virgin!
Oh, Lord above us, Delia, how d' ye get yersel' into these predicaments?

"Delia?"

She released a fluttery breath. "Aye, that's what we need, Nat. Time to get to know each other better."

Relief made Nat laugh nervously. The mattress shifted as he stood up. Gripping the bedpost for balance, he hopped over to the crutch by the hearth. He secured it beneath his armpit and turned back toward the bed. "Delia...?"

Her throat made a loud clicking noise as she swallowed. "Nat, there's no need for you to—"

"Delia... I think for the time being I'll bed down elsewhere. There's a shakedown in the linter. I can spread it out at night and roll it back up during the day. Truth to tell, my Mary always accused me of snoring loud enough to wake the d-dead. You'll get more rest with the b-bed all to yourself."

He lifted his shirt and breeches off the wall peg, tucking them beneath the arm he had braced on the crutch. He paused with his hand on the door latch. "You did look pretty this afternoon, Delia. I felt proud to be standing up with you, to be taking you to wife."

"Th-thank you, Nat."

The door opened, throwing a glowing red light from the keeping room fire onto the bed, then it shut behind him.

Delia slid back down beneath the quilts. Rolling over, she buried her face in the pillow. Her throat clutched on a sob, but she fought it down. She felt so alone. She wanted to be held, touched, loved. But not by Nat, not by just any man.

He didn't love her.

That's what he told himself. Yet if he didn't love her, why was he skulking out here in the dark, staring at the open window of the room where she would soon lay in the arms of her new husband?

He leaned against a stone wall built of the rocks that Nat Parkes had laboriously cleared from his fields. Ty could feel the roughness of the stone through the thin material of his shirt. The night was cool, but he was sweating. There was a tightness to his chest and his muscles were so tense they ached.

He straightened suddenly as she came into view, silhouetted against the yellow light of the window. She was alone, staring out into the night and, though he knew it was impossible, Ty imagined she could see him standing beside the wall beneath the trees. He leaned forward, yearning to call out to her.

Then Nat appeared and took her in his arms.

The sight of Nat plundering her sweet mouth caused Ty to whirl around and slam his fist on top of the wall, again and again, until the skin broke and splatters of dark blood appeared on the stone. The yellow light winked out and Ty heard the shutters clatter closed. His head fell back, his eyelids clenched tightly shut, and the cords of his neck stood out like ropes. His fist throbbed with pain. He wanted to howl, to scream the Abenaki cry of war and death.

He pushed himself away from the wall and trotted back into the forest. He was afraid of what he might do, of what he
wanted
to do, which was to burst into Nat's house and snatch Delia out of her bridal bed, to carry her off with him. To make her his again and again until he was cured of her, until the hunger was satiated, the obsession satisfied.

He made no sound as he ran through the wilderness. But he was dangerously oblivious to his surroundings. The image of Delia in Nat's arms, of their mouths locked together in passion, consumed his mind.

He broke into the clearing where his cabin stood beside a bend in the river. The sound of the rushing water was no louder than his own pounding pulse. He tossed his head back and looked up at the fading sliver of a moon. For a moment the moon blurred and he had to blink.

One morning three days later, Nat Parkes and his two daughters sat at the board table in the keeping room finishing up their breakfast. The house was filled with the aroma of burned beans, for Delia had scorched the porridge.

Nat thumbed through the worn, dogeared pages of his almanac. "This hot, dry spell we've been having isn't due to last long," he said. "And August is supposed to be a wet one this year. We'd best start to get the hay in today."

Delia walked around the table with the voider, clearing it of the breakfast dishes. She took away Tildy's porringer to reveal a ring of thick bread crusts. She hurriedly tried to scoop them into the voider, but she wasn't quick enough.

"Tildy, finish your bread," Nat said sternly.

Tildy's lower lip trembled. "But, Papa, it's too hard!"

"Ma's bread was always nice and soft," Meg stated predictably. She sneered at Delia.

Delia had made the bread the evening before, putting it in the oven to bake overnight, banking the fire with ashes to keep it hot. She had been proud of her efforts—until this morning when she had taken the somewhat blackened loaves out of the oven and bitten into a piece of the tough, crusty bread. It was almost inedible.