Wilde, Jennifer (15 page)

"Cassie
ill?" he inquired. This was the first time I had brought him his lunch
since the day I had baked the peach pie.

"She's
busy at the house, polishing the parlor furniture. I didn't want to interrupt
her. so I decided to bring you your lunch myself."

"You're
not working her too hard?"

"Indeed
I'm not," I said coldly.

Hawke
didn't like my tone, but he made no comment, taking the basket from me. He
smelled of sweat and soil. His wide, beautifully shaped mouth was set in a
stern line. Why did I have to visualize those generously curved lips parting,
spreading to cover my own? Why should the very sight of him cause my pulse to
race when I had every reason to loathe him? Hawke leaned on his hoe, idly
gazing at me, and I had the feeling he knew full well the effect he had on me,
no matter how I tried to conceal it.

"I
see you wore a hat this time," he remarked.

"As
ordered."

"You've
never worn that dress before."

"You
disapprove of it?"

"I
couldn't
care less what you wear as long as you do your work. You look like a waterfront
whore, but that hardly matters—" He shrugged his shoulders to indicate his
indifference.

"That's
what you think I am," I said acidly. "You never believed what I told
you about my background. You've always thought I was a common criminal,
a—"

"It
matters to you what I think?" he asked.

"Not
in the least, Mr. Hawke."

He
arched one eyebrow, his lips curling at the corners in faint amusement.
"Perhaps you wish I'd gone ahead and let Jeff Rawlins have you. That kind
of life might have suited you much better."

"I'm
sure you think so," I replied.

"I
think you'd be a superb whore," he said idly. "You'd make a grand
mistress, too, no doubt, a beautiful plaything for some man with more money
than sense. Is that what you expected me to do with you—make you my mistress?
You're a fetching wench—you're well aware of that, of course. Mirrors don't lie—but
I paid good money for a housekeeper and cook, not some red-haired hussy to
wrestle with in bed."

I
could feel my cheeks burning. I longed to fly at him with claws unsheathed.
Hawke seemed to read my mind, and he was clearly amused, had been deliberately
baiting me. The anger seethed through me, and when I spoke my voice trembled.

"I
consider myself fortunate that you haven't—haven't made demands on me. Not many
men would have such scruples."

"Scruples?
I've very few of those, I assure you. I do have good sense, though—sense enough
not to bed some wench just because she's got a body designed by the devil and
eyes like blue fire, a wench who's plainly all to amenable to a nice,
long—"

I
swung my hand back and slapped him across the face with all the strength I
could muster. I hit out instinctively, without thinking, and was almost as
startled as he was. Hawke let out a shocked cry, dropping the hoe. The side of
his face turned a bright, burning pink. My hand stung painfully, and I gasped,
horrified at what I had done. He stared at me, stunned, and then his eyes
burned with anger and his mouth became a hard, tight line as he balled his fist
and delivered a powerful blow that sent me reeling back against the plants. I
fell to the ground, green stalks crushing under me, and the sky seemed to turn
from blue to black as pain exploded inside my head.

Half-conscious,
I stared up at him. He loomed over me, his legs wide apart, both hands balled
into fists now, and I knew he would probably kill me. My head seemed to spin;
my jaw was on fire, and I was seeing him through a wet, misty veil that wavered
and blurred outlines and caused everything to tilt and topple: the tall green
plants standing tall all around me, the man, tilting crazily, the sky above him
blue now, spinning like my head. I sobbed, forcing myself to rise up on one
elbow, and it was then that I heard the hiss and saw the rope uncoiling and saw
it fly through the air and attach itself to Hawke's thigh.

Derek
Hawke screamed. Then he took the rope in his hand and hurled it to the ground
where it writhed and spat and coiled itself to strike again. I realized with
horror that it was not a rope, but a snake, one of the deadly copperheads
Mattie had warned me about. Hawke seized the hoe and struck at the snake, and
its tail seemed to fly straight up in the air, its head still rooted to the
ground by the hoe. It thrashed and flailed, and Hawke jammed the heel of his
boot on the hoe, crushing the metal into the ground, and the horrible flailing
finally stopped as the snake's head was severed from its body.

Hawke
dropped the hoe, gripping his thigh. I climbed quickly to my feet, my own pain
forgotten as I saw the look on his face. My heart was beating rapidly, and my
head was still reeling. Hawke sobbed. His cheekbones were the color of chalk.
He seemed about to fall face down. I stumbled forward, seizing his arm.

"What
can I do! Derek! What can I—"

"God!
Oh, God! The knife! Quick, the knife—"

"I—I
don't—"

"It's
folded up in my pocket. The left pocket. Get it! For God's sake, Marietta, get
it quickly!"

I
jammed my hand into his pocket and pulled out the long bone-handled knife with
its blade folded up. Hawke gasped and almost fell on top of me, throwing his
arms around me for support. I staggered under his weight, holding him, more
frightened than I had ever been in my life. He clung to me. his eyes
half-crazed with fear and shock and pain. I think he passed out for a moment,
his head falling on my shoulders, his body limp, and then he raised his head
and looked into my eyes and tried to speak coherently.

"You—you'll
have to cut—to cut my leg where it bit. —Do you understand? You'll have to cut
and then—the venom—you'll have to suck the venom out of—"

I
nodded, and he let go of me and tried to stand up straight, weaving to and fro.
He finally steadied himself, and I dropped to my knees and opened the knife,
the blade glittering in the sunlight. Gripping the back of his leg with one
hand, I cut away the threadbare tan cloth and exposed the already-swelling
flesh of his thigh with the fang marks two tiny dots, the skin around them puffed
up, turning yellow and brown and violet. Hawke staggered and almost fell.

"Do
it! Quickly!"

"I
couldn't.
I knew I couldn't. I stared at the discolored flesh and shook my head and knew
I could never drive the knife into it! Never! But then he let out such an
agonized groan that I bit my lower lip and sliced the swelling flesh and blood
spurted, flowing down his leg. He staggered again and grabbed hold of my
shoulders to brace himself, and I put my mouth to the wound and sucked and spit
out the blood and sucked again and again, knowing his life depended on it. His
hands gripped my shoulders tightly, violently, bruising the flesh, and I was
showered with the sweat that poured from his body. When finally I was through,
he sighed and loosened his grip and I stood up and he wrapped his arms around
my neck, holding on to me like an impassioned lover, dazed, almost unconscious.

"You—you're
still bleeding. I should tie up the—"

"Let
it bleed. The house. You must get—Mattie has herbs—a poultice. She'll know
what—"

I
managed to turn him around so that he was at my side, one arm still crooked
around my neck, the forearm pressed against my throat; I held on to his forearm
and wrapped my other arm around his waist and we started forward, both of us
stumbling. I could never make it. He was much too heavy, and I was supporting
almost his full weight. I tripped and fell on one knee, bringing him down with
me, and his arm gripped my throat, half-strangling me. I managed to get back
up, and somehow we moved down the rows of tall green plants, both of us
perspiring heavily, clothing drenched, skin gleaming wetly. He was in a
delirium now, had no idea where he was or what had happened. I called upon all
my strength and forced myself to move and forced him to move along with me.
Blood still streamed from his leg, but that was good, I knew, for it probably
contained the deadly venom, but he was growing weaker and weaker by the minute,
and if he bled too much he might... I stumbled forward, holding him tightly,
dragging him with me, and then we were in sight of the oak trees and I called
out.

Adam
came rushing along the rows of cotton, several other slaves behind him.
"Snake," I whispered hoarsely. "Copperhead." That was all I
needed to say. Adam snapped orders, commanding one of the slaves to fetch
Mattie, commanding another to rush to the cookhouse and start water boiling
immediately. Then he gathered Hawke up in his arms, cradling him against his
massive chest, and hurried toward the line of oak trees. I staggered along
behind him, under the trees, across the yard, through the back door and into
the kitchen.

"Upstairs,
Adam," I said. "In his bedroom. Cassie, is—"

"Mattie
done got the news. She's gatherin' her herbs already, fixin' to make that
poultice. You better sit down, Miz Marietta. You look awful, face all white
like a ghost. I'll—"

"I've
got to go upstairs with Adam. I have to stay with him. He might die, and—"

"Don't
you worry now," Cassie said gently. "Mattie knows what to do. Them
snakes has bit lotsa folks, an' Mattie's herbs always works. She'll have that
poultice ready in no time. Th' master ain't gonna die."

I
hurried out of the kitchen and down the hall after Adam, following him up the
stairs and into the bedroom. I yanked the counterpane and top sheet down to the
foot of the bed, and Adam tenderly placed his master on the bed. Hawke groaned,
unconscious now. I told Adam to go fetch some cloths and a bowl of water, and
as he left the room I sat down on the side of the bed, took hold of Hawke's
shoulders and, lifting him up into a sitting position, pulled his shirt off him
and tossed it on the floor. He gave a loud groan as I eased him back against
the pillows and smoothed the damp hair away from his forehead.

He
opened his eyes and looked up at me, and I knew he didn't know who I was, knew
that he wasn't seeing me at all. I stroked his forehead and rested my hand against
that lean, smooth cheek I had slapped so viciously such a short time ago. He
tried to say something, but no words would come and his eyes filled with panic.

"It's
going to be all right," I said softly. "Everything is going to be all
right—"

Adam
returned with the water and cloths, Cassie entering the room behind him, and I
told Adam he'd have to help me remove Hawke's boots and breeches. Adam nodded.
Hawke cried out as the tall black man started pulling off his boots. He flung
his arm out, hitting me across the side of my neck, almost knocking me off the
bed.

"I
reckon you'd better hold him down, Miz Marietta," Adam told me in his
husky growl. "It's gonna hurt him, gettin' this boot off, and he ain't
gonna like it a bit."

I
leaned over Hawke and placed my hands on his shoulders as Adam tugged at the
boot. Hawke fought viciously, trying to throw me off, but he was too weak to do
so now, and he finally passed out as first one boot, then the other dropped to
the floor. Removing his breeches was much easier. When he was naked, I dipped a
cloth into the water and began to bathe his face. His leg was still swollen and
discolored, but not nearly so much as it had been before. Blood seeped out of
the wound in tiny trickles. He was still now, unconscious, breathing heavily. I
bathed his shoulders and chest, and when I dipped a fresh cloth into the cool water
and applied it to his wound, he showed no reaction at all. Adam and Cassie
stood silently on the other side of the bed, both looking grave and worried.
Cassie rested against her husband, and Adam curled his arm around her
shoulders, holding her close.

I
had just finished bathing him when Mattie came bustling into the room, moving
quite briskly for a woman her size. She carried a platter covered with what
looked like mud, still steaming with heat, filling the air with a pungent odor.
I moved away from the bed and watched her cake the mixture over his wound. I
was in a daze myself now, and I seemed to be seeing everything through a
shimmering haze. My body ached painfully. My jaw was sore. I was praying,
praying that he would be all right, and I was crying, too, hardly aware of the
tears slipping down my cheeks.

"There,"
Mattie said, applying a final pat of the muddy goo. "I'll just bind it up
with a clean rag an' he'll be right as rain in no time. Lucky you wuz there tuh
suck th' venom out, Miz Marietta. If you hadn't of, he'd-a died for sure."

"Is—is
he going to be all right?"

"Oh,
he'll have a fever for a day or so. He'll toss an' turn and carry on, an' he'll
sweat like a pig, but when that fever breaks, he'll be mendin' licketysplit, be
back out workin' hisself to death in three or four days. You don't worry none
now, yuh hear?"

"I
was so—so frightened."

"Reckon
you wuz, gal, reckon you wuz. You lookin' plumb sickly yoreself. I want you to
go wash yourself an' change them clothes and take a nap 'fore you fall in your
tracks."

"I—I'll
have to stay with him. He might—"