Columbine (17 page)

Small as she was, she fit so neatly against him, her soft curves especially designed, it seemed, to complement the harder planes and hollows of his own body. Beneath his nose her hair smelled clean, like meadow grass, and he longed to bury his face in it.

He handed her the musket, holding it steady while she found her aim, noticing how smooth and silky pale the skin of her shoulder looked beside the darkened maple of the musket’s butt.

Dianna tried to concentrate on the tree branch that Kit had chosen as her target. Once her father had let her fire one of his small hunting guns, and, to his great amusement, the recoil had landed her on her backside. This musket was heavier and longer, and she dreaded giving Kit one more reason to scorn her.

Feeling his warm breath just below her ear did nothing to help her concentration, nor did the way he guided her aim with one hand gently at her wrist.

She took a deep breath, braced her legs apart and fired.

The gunshot exploded in her ear, the impact throwing her back against Kit. He stood firm, unmoving as she quickly scrambled away from him to peer out into the moonlight. The bark on the bottom of the branch had cracked and splintered, the leaves around it bouncing wildly from the impact. Elated, she spun around to grin at him, clutching the musket like a prize with both hands.

“Why did you not tell me you were a maid?” he asked softly, his eyes hidden in shadow.

Dianna stiffened, her excitement gone in an instant.

“Would it have made any difference to you?”

she demanded, her head high.

“Maid or not, what could I ever hope to be to you beyond one more of your harlots? Another pitiful lass fallen under the spell of the irresistible Kit Sparhawk?”

“Merciful God in Heaven,” murmured Kit to himself in disbelief. This was not what he’d expected, not at all, but when had Dianna ever been predictable?

“Is it because I’m but a woman, a lowly, base creature, you won’t bother to defend yourself?” Her laugh was brittle, the strain of the last weeks catching her at last.

“What of Patience Tucker then, and the babe she’s likely borne you by now? Would you defend her?”

“If you were a man,” said Kit quietly, “I’d call you out for speaking such nonsense.”

Why doesn’t he deny it? thought Dianna wildly. Please, please, tell me I’m wrong She felt the tears welling up behind her eyes and roughly dashed them away.

“And what about Mercy? She’s your daughter, too, isn’t she?”

Dianna was sobbing now, lost in her misery and disillusionment, and blindly she turned toward the house. But’ Kit caught her by the shoulders first, holding her straight before him. Having grown up with four sisters, he was generally unaffected by weeping women, but the desolation in Dianna’s crying shocked him. Had he really hurt her that much?

“Listen to me, Dianna,” he said urgently.

“Listen to me!”

She shook her head and looked down at the grass, letting her tears fall unchecked, as the musket dropped to the ground. His hands slid along her shoulders and up her neck to turn her face up toward his.

“Patience Tucker’s husband was second mate on the Prosperity. When he was lost in the last gale, it fell to me as owner to tell her. I’ve never laid eyes, let alone anything else, on the lass before or since.

As for Lucy Wing—sweet Jesus, Dianna, her husband was one of my closest friends! I know you’re from a different world where such things may not matter, but I would never have done that to Torn if Lucy had tossed herself before me naked as Eve!”

“But Asa says—” “Then Asa lies,” said Kit firmly.

“He never took to Lucy, or to me, either, for the time his son spent with us instead of him, and now he feels the same with Mercy. I love the little minx, aye, but where’s the harm in that?”

Gently he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs, striving to reassure her with his touch as well as words.

“I’ve never claimed to be a saint, sweeting, and there are women enough who can spin pretty tales of Jonathan and me both. But not Lucy, not Patience, and no bastards. I’m not nearly so free with my seed as you believe.”

She blushed at his frankness, though she knew it was no less than she deserved. Through the tears she searched his face, hoping, praying that she could trust him.

He saw the doubt in her eyes and sighed.

“Believe what you will, Dianna, but I swear by all that’s holy and dear to me that that’s the truth.” His voice was deep and low.

“Now why did you not tell me you were a maid?”

“I did not think I had to,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I thought you were different. I thought you would believe me instead of my uncle. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? I was wrong …. ” She spoke without malice, yet her words cut straight to his conscience and to his heart, too.

“Nay, dear ling not wrong, but wronged,” he said sadly.

“I’ve no right to ever hope for your forgiveness.”

She listened, incredulous, and tentatively touched her fingers to his rough cheek.

“Ah, Kit,” she breathed, her smile fragile and tremulous.

“We are neither of us, I think, quite so good nor quite so bad as we each might fear.”

He caught her hand in his and brushed his lips across her open palm.

“I love you, Dianna Grey,” he said simply, and he realized he had never meant anything more in his life than those words.

“How much I love you!”

“No more than I love you, Kit Sparhawk, my perfect, precious love!” And now, at last, she believed him, and knew, in her heart, she always had.

This time when their lips met, their kiss was at once heated, urgent and wild. Dianna seized at the passion he offered and arched herself into him, opening her mouth fully to his demands. She forgot everything but him as she twined her limbs around his, and swiftly Kit scooped his arms under her knees and carried her into the purple shadows of the beech trees. Collapsing into the rustling leaves, she showered him with kisses, wet and soft, on his face and throat and chest, and tangled her fingers in the lion-like mass of his hair. She lay atop him, her breasts crashed against his chest, her legs slipping apart over his hips, and through their clothes she could feel the heat of him, hard and ready against her belly.

Kit’s hands swept along her length, caressing and stroking her as he drew her even fighter against him.

He kissed her hard, his tongue filling her mouth as he longed to fill her body. She tasted so impossibly sweet that he was sure he could kiss her forever and never tire of her. Hungrily he reached between their bodies and tugged her bodice open, the silky fullness of her breasts spilled over the lacings and into his palms. He cupped them gently, marveling at the softness of her skin as his fingers played across the crests, her nipples swelling and tightening. She moaned into his mouth, wanting more, needing more, and he jerked the rough wool skirt over her hips. He reached to stroke the backs of her thighs, the curves of her hips and buttocks, the little dimples at the base of her spine, and she arched back, gasping, as he caught one rosy nipple between his lips. Convulsively her fingers worked in the muscles of his shoulders, her head thrown back and her haft streaming over her shoulders.

Kit was almost shaking with the force of his desire.

With a groan he separated from her only long enough to unfasten his breeches. He rose to his knees, and she threw her arms around his neck, climbing him, her movements frantic with need. His breathing harsh, Kit shoved her skirts up and found her wet and ready. As his fingers touched her, Dianna gasped raggedly, and then his hands were grasping her thighs and lifting her, her legs wrapping tight around his waist as he slid deep into her. With his hands spread to cradle her, he moved her powerfully against him, and she cried out in wonder. He was a part of her and she a part of him, joined in heart and spirit as surely as they now were joined in flesh, and as together they soared higher and higher, it seemed that their love, like their passion, would be ever boundless.

Afterward they lay together, coupled still, listening to the whirring of the cicadas and the muted calls of night birds as the pounding of their own hearts grew gradually quieter. Dianna wondered if she’d ever move again, so contented was she, and mindless of the wanton way she lay sprawled across Kit with her skirts rocked up and her bodice unlaced. His shirt beneath her cheek was damp with sweat, and she snuggled closer as his fingers twined randomly in her hair.

“I love you, sweeting,” he murmured into the top of her hair. He could not remember feeling so contented, so at peace, as he did now with Dianna.

“I

would keep you here with me all night and let the white-faced cows find us come dawn.”

Dianna giggled at the image and propped herself up on her elbows to study him. His face looked so relaxed, the dark lashes sooty shadows on his cheeks, that she wondered if he were asleep, and she spoke softly in case he was so he would not wake.

“I love you too, Kit, and not even white-faced cattle can change that.”

With his eyes still closed, Kit snorted.

“At least my cows would keep their own counsel, which is a sight more than our good neighbors will be able to manage. I’ll talk to Asa on the morrow and buy you out of that ridiculous indenture, and then—” But Dianna silenced him with her fingers across his lips.

“Hush, love. I want no promises, no plans from you tonight.” No plans, no promises that could be broken along with her heart.

“Knowing you love me is enough.”

His arms tightened around her, praying she was right. How could love sUrVive when life itself seemed so fragile? One by one, he kissed her fingertips and she shivered with delight.

“But cows or no, we cannot truly stay all night, can we?” she asked wistfully, though she knew the answer.

“Nay, there’s no help for it, my love.” He opened his eyes and smiled, his teeth blue-white in the moonlight, and Dianna thought she’d never seen such a beautiful man. Carefully he plucked a leaf from her hair.

“Come, I’ll play your lady’s maid and help set you to rights.”

They dressed slowly, pausing often to kiss and caress each other, and by the time they headed toward Plumstead, the only light left in the house came from the little lantern in the sickroom, As they walked through the tall meadow grass, already heavy with dew, Kit laughed ruefully and stopped to pick up the musket they’d left behind.

“Here’s proof enough how I can think of nothing beyond you,” he said, shaking his head.

“The whole country in alarm, and here I leave musket, powder and bahs for any savage to find.”

Although he tried to make light of it, the gun was a sharp reminder of ah they’d been able to forget in each other’s arms. Irretrievably, the mood was gone, and each felt the loss sorely. Mindful of the two men on watch at the house, they walked self-consciously, as close as they could without actually touching. As they drew closer, one of the guards run toward them, waving.

Kit frowned, fearing the worst.

“What in blazes—” “Colonel Sparhawk, sir,” the man said quickly, tugging on his hath rim before he impatiently mined to Dianna.

“Where ye been hiding yerself, lass? Mistress Holcomb’s been raisin’ the devil tryin’ to find ye! That ruddy Frenchman o’yours is dyin’!”

l’eeling at the Frenchman’s cot, Dianna noticed the change at once. She had never seen anyone die before, but there was no mistaking the man’s condition now. He’d seemed to shrink into himself somehow, his breathing slow and labored, and beneath the white bandage his skin was waxy and oddly translucent. Already he looked more like a corpse than a man.

“He’ll not see another dawn, lass,” said Hester as she rested her hand on Dianna’s shoulder.

“Ye’ve done all ye can for him, but it be th’ Lord decides these things, not us.”

“How can he die?” said Dianna unevenly.

“I

never even learned his name.”

From the doorway, Kit heard the catch in her voice, and he yearned to comfort her. He felt no jealousy for the Frenchman now, only a terrible sense of waste. He’d seen it so often, too often, Kit thought wearily, one more man’s life cut short before its time.

But at the sound of her voice, the Frenchman moaned and strained upward toward her, and with obvious effort his eyes half opened.

“Ah, Solange, you are here.”

“Dormez, mon ami,” said Dianna as she touched her hand to the dying man’s cheek, his skin hot and brittle.

“Tell Fran9is I saw him, Solange,” he rasped in French.

“He tried to hide, the swine, but I marked his face, and I tell you now!”

Dianna drew closer, aware of the significance of the man’s words, and aware, too, that his time was short.

“Ou est Frangis, mon ami?” Where was he?

“He waited in the trees … but I saw him. I saw Robillard, damn him, the coward!”

At Robillard’s name, Kit leaped forward.

“What did he say, Dianna?” he demanded urgently.

“God in Heaven, if Robillard’s filthy hand is in this—” Dianna’s eyes never left the Frenchman’s wasted face.

“He said he saw Robillard hiding in the tree’s when the others attacked him.”

Kit leaned over her shoulder.

“Ask him who the others were!”

But as Kit spoke the Frenchman slipped back, and Dianna watched the last bit of life drain from his face.

“Au revoir, mon ami pauvre,” she said as Hester closed the man’s eyes for the final time.

“Au revoir! “

They buried the Frenchman the next morning; with the summer’s heat, there was no reason to delay.

Dianna and Kit were his only mourners. Some, like Hester, stayed away because the man had been French and a Papist, but most were simply too busy leaving Plumstead to bother with a stranger’s burial.

At dawn Kit had told the families in his keeping that they could return to theft homes, that as much as he could guess, the danger was past for now. Still, he sent soldiers from the Northfield garrison along with each wagon and warned the men to keep watch for trouble. Now that Kit knew the attacks had come from Robillard, not Indians alone, he knew it was up to him to make some sort of move.