Lynette Vinet - Emerald Trilogy 02 (25 page)

She hadn’t expected a white man or such a handsome one. He said nothing further. The silence of the man bothered her, and the way he regarded her, almost as if he were viewing something hideous, caused her to back away.

Did she look so ghastly with her hair all askew and wet, so unfeminine in the long shirt over boy’s
breeches, that
he would be struck dumb? But he perused her so intensely that she found her breath coming in little gasps. The unfathomable silence was broken by Jacques who stood behind her and placed his huge, bronzed hands on her shoulders.

“This is Angelle, Golden Hawk.” His voice was soft but steely, almost as if he sensed the blond giant’s utter disapproval of her.

“Angelle,” the man repeated the name in a tone of disbelief. Finally he moved forward, almost as if in a daze, and placed the day’s catch on the table.

“Ah, my friend, you have done well.” Jacques picked up the fish and examined them. “Nice big trout for supper.” He looked at Golden Hawk. “Angelle has become a good cook.”

“She cooks?” asked Golden Hawk incredulously.

“I have become a very good cook, sir. And if you don’t care to partake of the
meal, that
is your choice.”

She appeared tiny and petite as she stood like an angry tigress before Golden Hawk. A small smile quivered at the corners of his mouth. “You’re also a lady of temper, mademoiselle. I beg your pardon. I eagerly await the evening meal.”

He bowed, baiting her with his formality and left the room before she could think of another retort. Jacques barely suppressed his amusement, and this further annoyed her. Yanking the fish from the table, she took them outside to clean, pleased that Golden Hawk wasn’t lurking about.

The tone of Golden Hawk’s voice, the surprise when he asked if she cooked, still knifed through her. Instinct warned her there was more to his disbelief than met the eye. And what was that name he’d called her when he first saw her?

It dawned on her that the shirt she wore belonged to him. Well, she’d wash it and give it right back. She didn’t wish to take the clothes from Golden Hawk’s back.

As she cleaned the fish, she decided she just wouldn’t think about him at all.
Golden Hawk.
What a ridiculous name!

~ ~ ~

The thick undergrowth of the shoreline shielded him from view, but he saw her quite clearly as she cleaned the fish with that obstinate glint in her eyes he remembered so well. Still, he couldn’t believe it—Allison, his wife, the mother of his children. What in the name of heaven was she doing here?

From Jacques extolling her many virtues, he was aware of his friend’s deep feelings for the woman called Angelle, the woman with amnesia from a canoe accident. But never in a million years had he expected the woman to be Allison. At first he thought Angelle would be a conniving schemer who had tricked the gentle Jacques into believing she had lost her memory, only to secure a home and a man’s protection.

However, what a trick fate had played on him! He left Ireland to free her from himself, knowing she would be safe in Daniel’s arms.

Dear God, what was he to do now?

Allison must return to their children, but how could she if she didn’t remember them? She didn’t even remember him! There was no earthly way he could explain why he had left, and in her present state, she wouldn’t care. He couldn’t even tell her he was her husband and convince her of her true identity. He had freed her once, and he mustn’t snare her again. Allison deserved better than him and his deceptions.

As he stared at her, he grinned. What a woman! Allison Fairfax would never have cleaned smelly fish or worn a pair of breeches and a shapeless shirt. Though he admitted she looked quite fetching in the tight pants with her full breasts bouncing in the loose shirt. He wanted to stride over, take her in his arms and make passionate love to her in the woods. She was still his wife. But he knew he mustn’t touch her, though each night since he’d left Ireland he had thought of her and ached for her. Many times he had wondered if he had made a mistake, but he had known Daniel would care for her.

“Where in the hell is Daniel now?” he mused aloud. Then the thought struck him that Daniel might have been the younger man Jacques mentioned who had been swept away by the current. He prayed not. But who else would have come all this way with Allison?

He cursed under his breath. Little Dove had been his first wife, but never had he loved her with the same desire and intensity that he loved Allison. The memory of Little Dove’s suffering had been the catalyst behind his leaving Allison in the first place. He had loved both women, and one had died after bearing his stillborn son, while the other had nearly followed suit. He was convinced he was cursed. Allison must be free of him or she too would die.

He knew he should leave her here with Jacques, telling him the truth and asking him to return her to Fairfax Manor. Jacques was friend enough to do that. However, he had been too long without her lovely face and lilting voice. “I’ll wait until she remembers,” he said to himself.

Then he would free her again.

Jacques, with Big Fox in tow, headed into the woods, and Allison was left alone in the cabin. She finished sweeping the floor, then stirred the stew in the huge pot. Glancing in the hazy mirror on the wall, she realized how bedraggled she looked. She hadn’t brushed her hair in a few days, and she was growing tired of the pants and shirt but had no alternative. However, her hair was another matter.

She had seen a brush among Golden Hawk’s possessions. The man hadn’t much in the way of material goods, but the silver glint of the object had caught her eye, and now she ached to use it. But would he object?

After all, she was still a stranger though she cleaned and cooked for him. However, he didn’t sleep inside at night, preferring the moon and stars as his roof, and Jacques had followed suit. The cabin was now all hers after dark. She put her hands on her hips, eyeing the leather bag which contained Golden Hawk’s possessions.

“Well, why not?” she asked herself and opened the bag, rooting through finely sewn shirts for the brush which lay at the bottom. She began to brush her hair. How wonderful it felt to be free of tangles. Her hair fell below her waist in flowing golden waves, and a dimple of delight indented her cheek.

She fingered the brush and felt the thick engraving. The initials P.F. gleamed back at her, and she suddenly realized these stood for Golden Hawk’s name. It seemed odd to think the surly, arrogant man had another name and probably even a family somewhere. Putting the brush back, she touched the shirts with a tenderness which surprised her.

These are his
, she thought, though why she felt so warmhearted mystified her. She didn’t even like Golden Hawk.

“Can’t a man have anything of his own?”

She reddened to see the blond giant standing in the doorway, watching her. “I’m sorry,” she said and placed the bag back in the corner where she had found it. “I used your brush. I apologize for not asking your permission.”

He studied her in silence. He shrugged his shoulders and untied the vest he wore over his bare chest, causing her to avert her eyes.

“You can use whatever you like. It is nice to see your hair fixed so neatly.”

His remark infuriated her. She couldn’t help how she looked in the wilderness.

Somehow she didn’t think Golden Hawk cared one way or the other how she looked. He was always so distant, so cold. She began to think she had committed an unpardonable offense by not drowning and being rescued by Jacques. If only she could remember something of her past—anything! Then she’d go home and leave Golden Hawk to his woodland paradise.

Walking to her pallet, she picked up the shirt which belonged to
him,
the shirt Jacques had dressed her in after the accident. “This is yours. I have no need of it now.”

“You may keep it.”

“No, I insist. I’ve washed it for you. I … I don’t wish to take your charity.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You took Jacques’ charity. I see no difference, Angelle.” He spoke her name slowly, deliberately.

“Take it!”

He took the shirt, but their hands touched and lingered for an instant. Something like recognition flared in her eyes, but she broke away, putting her hand to her forehead.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“It is nothing but a headache which will pass. I get them quite often lately.”

“You must rest,” he said and attempted to lead her to the chair, but she managed to move away, presumably to stir the stew.

“I don’t need your concern, Golden Hawk.”

“As you wish.”

“By the way,” she said over her shoulder as he prepared to leave the room. “What does the P.F. stand for on your brush?”

He stood stock still,
then
looked her in the face. “Paul Flannery.” Then he was gone, leaving her with the impression that she was supposed to make something out of that.

~ ~ ~

“Where’s Jacques?” Allison inquired of Paul soon after finishing the evening meal. Night was descending, and she found it unusual that Jacques hadn’t returned.

“He’s visiting his grandmother tonight. The tribe isn’t very far from here, and she’s the only family he has left.”

“You mean he won’t return tonight?” She attempted to hide her dismay, but as she cleared the dishes, she nervously dropped a spoon which Paul immediately picked up from the floor. He handed it to her, a sly grin on his face.

“We’ll be alone together, all night.” His voice was whispery soft, and his lips so near to her ear that shivers ran up her spine.

Her heart hammered and her mouth suddenly went dry, but she managed to meet his stare which challenged her to reply. “I’m not afraid of you, Golden Hawk—or Paul—or whatever you call yourself.”

“I’m glad of that, but am I safe from you? I don’t want to wake up during the night and find you prowling about as I sleep. You might ravish me, and I’d be helpless to stop you.”

She drew back in astonishment,
then
realized he was teasing. Moving away, she took the utensils to the wooden wash tub and immersed them in water. “I assure you, your virtue is safe with me.”

“How disappointing.”

“Jacques seems to be lonely,” she said, changing the subject. “I think he needs a wife.”

“Maybe, but not every woman would be able to adjust to the wilderness.”

“I have.”

His smile slowly dissolved. “Do you plan to become Madame Jacques Tall Tree?”

She turned away from the wash tub in surprise. “Me? I really hadn’t thought about it, but he is a kind and good man. He really would be an excellent husband, and the woman he marries will be quite lucky to have him. He
does
need a wife and children. I sense he misses his own family, especially his mother and sister.”

The words tumbled out before she was even aware she had uttered them. How could she have forgotten that Paul had been married to Jacques’ sister?

The sorrow on his face was so great that she couldn’t think of adequate words to heal his suffering. “I’m sorry about your wife. Jacques told me how much you loved her. At least, you have your memories of her. That’s more than I have.”

He grabbed her arms.
“Memories!
I wish I could forget sometimes. Perhaps you’re lucky not to remember the pain one person can inflict on another. Rejoice at the opportunity you have to start over again, but if you can’t, then dig deep down for your memories. Or are they too painful for you? Maybe
you
don’t want to remember.”

“But I do! I want to know who I am.”

He released her, and she ran out of the cabin into the encroaching darkness of the night. She stopped by the shoreline of the lake just as the last remnants of the setting sun slipped silently beneath the horizon.

She washed her face and hands with the clean lake water, and after a half hour’s time, when it was so dark she could barely see, she made her way back to the cabin in dread. But he wasn’t there when she entered. It was only after hearing a slight noise outside did she see his figure illumined by a fire he must have made to drive away the night chill. She watched him from the window as he sat there, deep in thought, and her heart went out to him. How would she ever apologize for her reckless words?

Allison turned away and went to her pallet. Pulling back the fur covers, she was surprised to find Paul’s shirt and the silver engraved hairbrush. Cradling them in her arms, she settled herself and went to sleep, somehow aware that in some way he had apologized to her.

~ ~ ~

Allison stirred in her sleep as the rumbling thunder grew closer. Soon, the steady beat of rain upon the roof caused her to come fully awake. She opened her eyes and saw Paul standing over her, watching her intently, seeming to take in every inch of her body.

She sat up and clutched at the covers, drawing them up to her neck. “What are you doing in here?”

“Escaping the rain.”
He moved closer to the fire, and she noticed his hair was wet and his clothes were soaked.

“But you can’t sleep in here.”

He eyed her quizzically.
“Why not?
It’s my cabin—or would you rather I catch my death outside?”

“It isn’t proper,” she lamely said though that wasn’t the reason she didn’t want to share the cabin. Jacques had slept only a few feet from her for weeks, and she’d never thought anything about that.

“Are you afraid to be alone with me?”

She hated how he could always read her mind.
“Of course not.”

He chuckled, and she heard him stripping out of the wet clothes but didn’t dare peep at him as she wished to do. She was certain he’d notice and laugh at her. Suddenly she felt a tug at the covers, and with mounting horror she opened her eyes to discover Paul slipping beside her. “What—!”

“My clothes are wet, and the furs are drenched. I have no other place to sleep. You wouldn’t turn a desperate man away from the warmth of your body, now would you?” His naked thigh touched hers, and her face blazed hotter than the flickering flames in the hearth. She couldn’t deny him the warmth of his own cabin. “I suppose not,” she said.

“I don’t think you trust me.”

“Should I?”

Before she could protest, he encircled her in his arms, covering her mouth with a kiss which devastated and shook her to her very soul. In long, languid strokes, he caressed her hips, her thighs, pulling her closer and fusing her to him.

At first, she moaned in protest, but her passion grew under his touch and she found herself responding, melding into him. His hands moved beneath her shirt, seeking her soft flesh, moving along her rib cage to her warm, full breasts. She felt him lifting her shirt and watched his golden head descend to devour a nipple. Tenderly he licked and suckled. Her moans increased, and from the recesses of her mind she knew that the sensations of desire flowing through her seemed right, almost a coming home.

Her fingers splayed against the downy softness of his broad chest, and she felt the beating of his heart beneath her palm. She wanted him desperately, but she didn’t understand why. They seemed to be forever at odds. She disliked his arrogance and his teasing. Yet now, her senses were aflame with desire.

His powerful torso pushed on top of her, grounding against her with a primitiveness which took her breath away. “I want … I want,” she didn’t know what she wanted, couldn’t really remember what it was she was supposed to ask for.

Paul knew very well what she wanted, but unbidden, the memory of the first time they made love in the forest drifted back to him. She had been so young, so trusting, never really questioning his motives—such an easy prey. But now, he loved her to distraction, and she didn’t know it. He couldn’t tell her she was his wife because of the pain it could inflict. When her memory returned, perhaps she’d understand what he was about to do. He hoped she’d realize that if he took her willing, soft body, he would be enslaved, never able to let her go.

Mentally he braced himself, knowing he must hurt her. “Why, you are a hot little one, Angelle. My first inclinations about you were correct. You’re a temptress, out to ensnare a man.”

She blinked, baffled, as the desire in her eyes slowly disintegrated. “What … what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I’ll gladly, willingly make love to you. What man wouldn’t? But why do you desire me? Jacques sings your praises all the time. Now, he would be an easy mark—or perhaps the challenge excites you.” He twisted a thick blonde curl around his finger. “I wonder if you were ever one of the girls in Madame Piquet’s brothel in
Montreal?
”

She sputtered in rage. “What a vile thing to say to me!”

“Ah, such anger is most becoming. Do you know that your eyes are quite blue when you’re angry?”

Allison shook furiously. “You’re playing games with me. From the beginning I knew you weren’t to be trusted. I must be mad to have thrown myself into your arms. You’re a mongrel cur!”

She rolled away and stood up, her shirt rising in delicious abandon above her breasts, her hair a tangled mass of spun gold. She ran heedlessly towards the door but stopped when she opened it. The rain poured down in furious sheets and the ground was drenched. There was no way for her to leave the safety of the cabin.

“Seems like we’re marooned together, my love.”

Slamming the door, she settled herself into a corner, covering herself with a pelt. “I detest you,” she growled, but her voice caught in her throat and she couldn’t continue.

He watched her wipe a tear away and was filled with pain for having intentionally hurt her so deeply.

~ ~ ~

Sometime later Allison was roused from sleep by Paul’s voice echoing through the cabin. She opened her eyes to observe him, sitting bolt upright, staring at the door which apparently had swung open from the storm. It creaked on its hinges as it swung back and forth, buffeted by the strong wind.

At first she thought he was talking in his sleep, disturbed by the baying wind and the rushing onslaught of rain. “Father,” he repeated over and over.