Deborah Camp (21 page)

“Zanna?” he asked when she offered not one sound. “Something wrong?”

She lifted a hand, limp and trembling, and laid it against the door frame as if she needed support.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asked, wishing she would say something or move further into the room so he could see her face.

“You said …” Her voice came out squeaky and she cleared her throat and tried again. “You said I would come willingly. I am.”

Her meaning soared through him like a Roman candle. But he sensed her hesitation. He strode across the room and took her in his arms before she could withdraw the offer.

The moonlight beaming through the lacy curtains threw shadowy flowers across Zanna’s bed. The sheets were barely mussed and Grandy figured they’d be nice and cool. When Zanna trembled in his arms, he set her on her feet.

“Don’t be scared, darlin’.”

She shook her head and swallowed hard. Her hair swept across her shoulders and down her back. Grandy slid his hands under the russet curtain and curved them about her neck, using his thumbs to lift her chin. Her lips glistened in the moonlight.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, taking in her flushed skin and the spatter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. “Do you know you’re pretty?”

“Yes,” she said shyly, her lashes falling to conceal her deep green eyes.

“You do?” He chuckled, surprised she’d admit it.

“I’ve been told.”

“I just bet you have, darlin’.” He chuckled again, feeling stupid for not figuring that out for himself. A woman as attractive as Suzanna Hathaway wouldn’t have escaped male attention for long. “I imagine you’ve had your share of suitors.”

“Well, not really. I married young. But marriage doesn’t stop men from spouting their opinions of a woman’s attributes.”

He laughed softly. “The way you talk! Sometimes I
think it’s adorable and sometimes I’d like to stuff a sock in your mouth.” The mention of her mouth drew his gaze to it and made the lower part of his body respond again.

Grandy kissed her gently and hoped for a response. She was as still and chilly as a winter night. Her eyes and lips were tightly shut. Grandy kissed her again, lingering and nudging her stony lips, but she only pressed them together more forbiddingly.

“Zanna, don’t do this,” he whispered, his mouth so close to hers that his lips formed the words against hers. “Relax, darlin’. I’ll make a deal with you. If I hurt you—even a little—all you have to do is say so and I’ll go to my room and leave you alone.”

She opened her eyes and searched his face. “You mean that?”

“I certainly do. You have my word on it.”

After a few moments she gave a tiny nod. “I take you at your word.”

“Good.” He kissed her, sealing the deal. “Open your lips, Sooz. Let me kiss you the way a man was meant to kiss a woman.”

Her lips slackened only a fraction beneath his, so he wet them with his tongue and suckled gently until he felt her resistance begin to ebb. She made a small sound in her throat, and he could tell it wasn’t born of displeasure. He swept her up in his arms again and lowered her to the high bed. The shadowy flowers scampered across her white nightdress, her face, her arms, her toes. She trembled, this time from nervousness, and he lay beside her to calm her, resting one hand alongside her face, cupping it gently while the other found the flat plane of her stomach.

“It’s all right,” he murmured against her temple where her hair formed ringlets. “I’m nervous, too.”

A breeze puffed out the lacy curtains and the flowers waltzed across her. Grandy ducked his head to capture one as it fled across her collarbone. She tasted warm and smelled of new muslin. Her eyes were wide open, staring
up at the moonlit ceiling. Grandy twisted to follow her gaze and saw nothing of interest up there.

“What are you looking at?”

“Looking at?” Her voice came out broken. “N-nothing.”

“Then close your eyes.”

She did. Tightly, like a child afraid to face the night and its imagined demons.

Anger, unfocused and unexpected, blasted through him. He hated the son-of-a-bitch responsible for making Zanna afraid of loving and of being loved. Fayne, he thought. Fayne Hathaway was to blame. Damn him.

Grandy propped his head in one hand and looked at Zanna. Really looked. No longer seeing her through the glaze of his own passionate need, he noticed now that her arms were like splints at her sides and her hands were gathered into tight, trembling fists. Her eyes were still glued shut. Her lips were glistening, but could have been carved from marble. Her legs were stiff and pressed together. She was waiting, not to be made love to, but to be used.

Get it over with!
her body screamed at him.

His aching arousal began to subside as he realized he’d made a big mistake. He had no business being in her bed. She had not come to him willingly, but only because she felt she owed it to him. Zanna wasn’t a woman to be taken. She had to be earned and he hadn’t earned her—yet.

I’m in need, he thought wryly. But I’m not that needy, darlin’.

“Zanna?”

Her lashes moved to let him know she’d heard.

“I’m going back to my own room now.”

One emerald eye opened. “You’re finished?”

“Honey, I haven’t even got started good,” he said, laughing a little.

“Then … why?”

He rolled off the bed and to his feet. “Because I promised I wouldn’t hurt you and if I stay any longer I’ll do just that. And you’ll let me because you
expect
pain.” He shook his head as he started for the door. “But not from me, darlin’.” He glanced over his shoulder to deliver a smile that reached through the darkness to her. “Not from me.”

“This swing is just like the one my grandma had on her porch in Savannah,” Grandy said, sprawling in it and rocking back and forth. The chains complained as loudly as a rusty hinge. He listened to the familiar sound, glad that he’d repaired the swing and suspended it once again from its rightful place at one end of the porch, “How long has it been since it was taken down?”

“Years,” Zanna said, settled comfortably in her rocker. “It broke with me in it. I was about twelve.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“No, only scared. But Fayne said he wouldn’t put it back up. He didn’t want me to be tempted. Next time, he said, I might crack my head open or break something.”

“Did you call him Fayne back then?”

“No.” She stopped rocking. “I called him Mr. Hathaway until after our marriage.”

“That must have been strange.”

“What?”

“Marrying someone so much older. Someone more like your father than your lover.”

She started rocking again, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes cold and lonely.

Grandy sat up and patted the wooden slats next to him. “Zanna, come here and swing with me.”

She turned wide eyes on him. “No.”

“Come on,” he said, motioning for her. “It’s fun. Wheee!” He kicked hard, sending the swing back and forth in a wild arc.

Zanna laughed. “You fool.”

“Come on, Zanna. Take a ride.”

She fought with herself for a few moments, then relented. She sat flush against the side arm and gripped the rusty chain in one hand. Grandy captained a lazy pace.
Baaack and forth. Baaack and forth
. Zanna’s head lolled, in time with the swing’s motion.

“You looked mighty pretty this morning at church,” Grandy said, recalling her butterscotch dress and lemony hat. She’d changed afterward into a simple house dress of dusty rose. It had a sweetheart neckline that flattered her swanlike throat and high, round breasts. “You look mighty pretty right this minute.”

She brushed a hand down her skirt. “In this old thing? Why, I feed chickens and slop hogs in this dress.”

“Lucky chickens. Lucky hogs.”

She glanced at him, then blushed. “You’re acting foolish today. What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Just being honest. Speaking my mind. Is there something wrong with that?”

“I suppose not,” she said, clasping her hands around one knee.

“I suppose not,” he said, clasping his hands around one knee.

“Stop that.” She poked an elbow into his ribs. “You’re always making fun of me.”

He sobered, slanting one knee across the swing and sitting sideways to face her. “Tell me about boarding school. Did you miss this place?”

“Oh, yes. I hated being away from Primrose, but I loved school. I loved to learn. On weekends and holidays I came home. Daddy would take me riding to the far reaches of Primrose.”

“Did Fayne go with you?”

“No.” She looked away. Why did he keep mentioning Fayne?

“When did Fayne start paying attention to you?”

“I don’t know what …” She saw the meaning in his
eyes. “Oh, you mean in
that
way. I was sixteen.” She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the discomfort she’d experienced then. “He started staring at me. Smiling at me. Complimenting me on my wardrobe.” She felt Grandy’s awkwardness and shifted to face him. “I didn’t mean to imply … that is, Fayne’s way wasn’t your way. Fayne smothered me with words.”

“That’s a strange way to put it.”

“It’s true. I was so young. I didn’t know how to respond or how to handle him. Papa explained Fayne’s behavior to me, but I still didn’t quite understand. I was dumb about men and women and the activities behind closed doors.”

“You still are.”

His words stung her and she knew her eyes flashed with anger. “Not
as
dumb,” she defended herself. “And perhaps I know more than you believe I do.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged, clearly unconvinced.

“Nevertheless, I was a good wife.”

“No doubt.”

“I was!” she said hotly.

“Okay. I believe you!” He held up his hands in surrender, then stretched one arm along the back of the swing. “What’s your idea of being a good wife?”

Zanna eyed his outstretched arm behind her and scooted away from it to the edge of the swing. “I helped with the chores. I obeyed my husband. I stayed home and made no trouble for him or for anyone.”

“Good Lord!” He jumped up from the swing, setting it in motion and overbalancing its passenger so that she fell back with a gasp. “That doesn’t sound like a wife. You were a slave, honey, and you didn’t even know it.”

She righted herself, sitting straight and proper. “And what do you think a wife should do?”

“Whatever makes her feel good.”

His answer confounded her. Zanna could only stare at him, her mouth slightly ajar.

“A wife is simply a woman who has sworn to love one
man. That’s it. Other than loving him with all her heart and soul and keeping that love alive, she is free to be whatever else she wants to be. Being a wife doesn’t mean you suddenly become as dumb as a stump and as useful as a room rug or a bed blanket.” He bent over her, gripping her upper arms and pulling her close until he was nose to nose with her. “Zanna, get those stupid ideas out of your mind. You’re too smart to keep believing such hog slop. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, girl, so use it! Do you really think men and women rush to the altar just so they can play master and slave? Do you think women all over this country pine for lives like that?”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Yes, you have. You’ve wondered about it. You’ve wondered if you’re just peculiar because you didn’t like the married life. Other women you’ve talked to seem to like it just fine, don’t they?”

“Y-yes,” she admitted, afraid of revealing anything more to him. Could he read her mind? Was he some kind of wizard?

“Those other women aren’t pulling your leg, honey. Darnella and Lilimae aren’t shoveling cow patties when they giggle and moan about old Elmer and Stubby. Darnella and Lilimae
like
being bedded. Hell, honey, most women look forward to the sun a-settin’ and the night stakin’ its claim. That’s the time for lazy lovin’, sweetheart.”

His eyes had become slumberous. His hands slipped up and down her arms. Zanna felt his heat, his wanting.

“You don’t buy it, do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

He sat on the swing again, close to her. “How can you believe something you’ve never known … never felt?” He smiled in the face of her confusion. “End of sermon. Sermons should be reserved for church.” He looked out at the yard where a couple of chickens pecked in the dirt.
“Tell me about you and your pappy. Where did y’all ride when you came home to Primrose?”

“We usually rode to the south pond where we’d have a picnic. I loved those picnics.”

“A picnic …” He brightened. “Let’s have one today.”

“What?”

“A picnic! We’ll pack some food and saddle the horses and ride to the south pond. We’ll have a picnic. Just you and me. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Well, I don’t know …”

“Come on, Zanna.” He captured her hand and held it as if it were a fragile bird. “Please? I’ll bring along my harmonica and serenade you.”

She dimpled. “Very well. Shall we fry a chicken?”

“Yes, we shall.” He pressed a forefinger to her nose when she frowned. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. I’ll whip up a batch of potato salad. You can try your hand at baking cookies.”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He held her gaze as tenderly as he held her hand. “You can do anything you want to do, Zanna. Believe me?”

She nodded, lost in the possibilities she saw in his eyes.

“We couldn’t ask for a more perfect day,” Zanna said, throwing back her head to look up at the brilliant blue above her and to take in a great lungful of air that was so alive with scents it made her dizzy. Prairie grass, primroses, honeysuckle, and the faint aroma of the stock pond several yards away made each breath a bouquet.

Grandy had spread the blanket and Zanna had decorated it with the variety of food they’d packed. They’d fallen upon the feast like starving beggars, laughing at their own gluttony. After the meal, Grandy had dozed while Zanna had packed away the remains and strolled around the pond where a few monstrous carp teased the murky surface.
Grandy had roused and called her back to the blanket. Now she sat contented, happy to be in his company on such a splendid day. It was a miracle, really, that she’d grown so fond of him since she’d initially despised every moment she’d had to endure in his proximity. But life had taken on a miraculous bent ever since she’d gone into Scyene to rescue the new prisoner from the gallows.