Wilde, Jennifer (17 page)

Again
I nodded. Hawke sipped his coffee, found it too hot, and scowled, setting the
cup back down.

"I'm
surprised you didn't let me die," he remarked. "If I remember correctly,
I'd just clipped you across the jaw rather forcefully. Yes, I see you have a
slight bruise. Lucky for you the snake struck when it did. I had every
intention of giving you a very sound beating."

"You—you
were delirious afterwards," I said. "You don't remember anything
about the past two days?"

"Not
a bloody thing," he admitted.

"And—the
other night?"

"Is
there something I should remember?"

"You—you
were rather violent, right before your fever broke. After that you—slept
soundly."

"Violent?
Did I hurt you?" His voice was dry, indifferent.

"You
tried to strangle me."

"Indeed?
Well, I see you survived the attack. I intend to give Mattie a large supply of
snuff as a reward for what she did. What would you like?"

I
gazed at him, a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. It was a moment before
I could reply.

"Nothing,"
I said.

Hawke
arched his brow again, surprised. "No?"

"Nothing
at all," I whispered.

And
then
I turned and left the room, quickly, before the emotions welling up inside
could give me away.

I
fetched a bar of soap and a huge towel and left the house, starting toward the
creek on the other side of the west fields. July was gone, and it was late
August now, six weeks since Hawke had been bitten by the copperhead. Although
it was already after seven o'clock, the sun was still a blazing yellow ball,
and the heat was as intense as ever. As I strolled through the fields the
cotton was like snow, popping out of the pods, almost ready to be picked.

It
was a long walk to the creek, almost a mile and a half, for after leaving the
fields I had to pass through the thinly wooded area beyond, but I didn't mind
the walk, tired as I was. I felt hot and sticky, coated all over with grime
after a day of heavy housecleaning. I had taken all of the rugs out back and
beaten them with a long paddle. Then, I had scrubbed all the floors before
bringing the rugs back in. I wanted a thorough bath, the kind I couldn't get in
the tin tub I had to haul into the kitchen and fill with water. Hawke had
retired to his study immediately after dinner, and there was little chance he
would miss me.

Leaving
the fields, I started through the woods. A squirrel scurried up a tree,
chattering at me, and a scarlet cardinal left its perch and soared away.
Bluejays scolded, and all around were the heady smells of earth and moss and
lichen. I took my time, enjoying the sense of freedom, anticipating the bath. I
shouldn't be doing this, I knew, for I was no longer on Hawke's property and
hadn't asked his permission to leave. He would be extremely displeased if he
found out, but I didn't care. The thought of the long, luxurious bath ahead of
me made the possibility of incurring his wrath well worth the risk.

Although
he was as remote, as indifferent, as he had ever been, his manner as cool, he
seemed to treat me with a bit more courtesy than he had before the snakebite.
He had displayed no warmth, yet he had not spoken to me sharply even one time.
Because I had saved his life? After brusquely expressing his gratitude the
morning I had carried breakfast in to him, he had not referred to the incident
again, nor had I. I tried to avoid him whenever possible, afraid I might
somehow betray myself. As Cassie's morning sickness was behind her and she was
blooming with health, I let her carry his lunch out to him, and although I
still served his evening meal, I did so unobtrusively, never speaking unless
spoken to.

I
had
baked no more pies for him. I served him efficiently, as silently as possible.
If I could help it, Derek Hawke would never know what I felt for him. I firmly
repressed the emotions inside, refusing to allow them to blossom freely. Hard
work provided an outlet, and I had thrown myself into it with a vengeance,
deliberately pushing myself, working as I had never worked before. Things had
gone smoothly these past six weeks. I just hoped they would continue to do so.

I
could see the river through the trees ahead. There was a wide, sandy bank, and
the water was still a large blue-green pool shimmering with reflected sunlight.
I slipped off my shoes, digging my bare toes into the damp, squishy sand,
savoring the sensation. Removing my dress and petticoat, I draped them over an
old fallen log along with the towel. Completely naked, I stepped into the water
with the bar of soap in my hand, moving out until it was up to my waist. The
water was deliciously cool and invigorating, and I abandoned myself to its
joys, splashing myself, feeling almost like a child again. The soap Mattie had
made was soft and creamy and scented with lilac. I reveled in the rich lather,
smearing it over my arms and breasts, giving my hair a thorough washing as
well. I spent almost half an hour bathing, swimming about, and it was with
great reluctance that I finally climbed out of the water and toweled myself
dry.

My
hair was still damp, and I decided to let the sun finish drying it before
putting my clothes back on. I spied a large, flat gray rock near the water.
Spreading the towel over it, I stretched out on my back, propping one knee up.
Surrounded by trees and water, I felt like a wood nymph and I smiled to myself
at the thought. It was extremely unlikely that anyone would chance to see me
and I was perfectly content to let the sun stream warmly over my body. The
water lapped gently against the banks. A frog croaked. Birds warbled. Rustling
leaves made a dry, crisp sound like whispers. I had rarely felt so relaxed and
content, finding the solitude a great luxury after a busy, noisy day.

The
sun was fading, but since I had at least an hour before it would begin to grow
dark, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. I thought about Angie, wondering
what had become of her. I hoped her situation was better than my own. The husky
young farmer who had bought her was probably waiting on
her
by this
time. I wondered if I would ever see that tough, scrappy little English sparrow
again. Our days together on board ship seemed years and years ago. And the
experiences I had had at number 10 Montagu Square might have happened in
another century. I could think of all that now without either anger or
bitterness. The past was over and done with, far behind me, and the future
loomed ahead like a vague, unsettling question.

I
must have drifted off to sleep, for when I opened my eyes my hair was dry,
curling in feathery waves about my head. Something had awakened me, some
unusual noise. I sat up, suddenly uneasy, experiencing the distinct sensation
of being watched. A horse neighed, startling me, and I turned to see Derek
Hawke sitting astride one of the chestnuts several yards away. His face was
expressionless. I had no way of knowing how long he might have been there. I
stood up, momentarily forgetting that I was naked, and he continued to look at
me without any reaction. The horse grazed on the short grass at the edge of the
woods. Hawke sat casually in the saddle, the reins held idly in one hand.

"I
thought I might find you here," he remarked.

I
scooped up the towel and quickly wrapped it around me.

"I
looked all over for you," he continued in a calm, level voice, "in
the house, in the yard, in the bam. Cassie finally told me she'd seen you leave
with a towel and a bar of Mattie's lilac soap. I figured you'd come to bathe in
the river."

"Your
assumption was correct."

"Your
hair's like fire in the sunlight—soft clouds of fire. You know you should never
have left the property without my permission. Marietta. If one of the blacks
did it, I'd have to use my whip."

"And
do you intend to use it on me?"

"I
think not," he said idly. "Not this time, at any rate. You took a
mighty risk, coming here like this. There are a number of rowdy young men in
the area—Higman's son, a hellion if ever there was one, and Jason Barnett, a
young rascal with a total lack of morals. What if one of them had come upon you
stretched out like that, looking like some flesh-and-blood statue of
Venus?"

"Neither
of them did," I replied. "How—how long have you been sitting
there?"

"That
needn't concern you," he replied.

So
he
had
been there for some time, long enough to note that I looked like
a living Venus, long enough to observe that my hair was like soft fire in the
sunlight. He must have approached quietly, walking the horse slowly through the
woods. He had made no attempt to awaken me. The horse's neighing had done that.

"Your
eyes are full of challenge," he said. "You commit a serious offense,
and then you stare at me with those blue eyes as though daring me to do
something about it. Where is the submissive wench who served my dinner with
lowered eyes an hour or two ago?"

"I'm
sorry if you're displeased, Mr. Hawke," I said coolly.

"Ah,
that cool, aristocratic accent. You read books, too. I noticed the volume of
John Donne missing from the shelf in my study. I assume it's in your
room?"

"I'll
return it as soon as I get back to the house."

"There's
no hurry. You're free to read any book in the house, so long as it doesn't
interfere with your work. It seems I've got myself quite an accomplished
servant."

"Slave,"
I corrected, "bought on the auction block. Your property for the next
fourteen years."

"I
suppose I should consider myself a lucky man. You know, for a while I thought
you might have run off, tried to escape. When I couldn't find you anywhere, I
felt something—akin to panic. Then Cassie told me about the towel and bar of
soap. I was mightily relieved."

I
did not reply. Holding the towel in front of me, I gazed at him calmly, my
composure belieing the nervous tremors within. We had not exchanged this many
words since before the snakebite, and I found his manner strangely
disconcerting. Despite those impassive eyes, he seemed more relaxed than I had
ever seen him. He had never been so personal, so familiar, and there was a
faint teasing quality in his voice that had never been there before. Was he
finally beginning to see me as something other than a chattel, a piece of valuable
property? Had the sight of my body stirred something inside of him he had
refused to acknowledge before?

"I
suggest you put your clothes on, Marietta. We should get back to the house.
It'll soon be getting dark."

"I'll
walk back," I informed him.

"You'll
ride on the back of the horse," he corrected. "I don't want Jason
Barnett stumbling across you in the woods—even fully dressed. Hurry up. Get
your things on."

He
obviously had no intention of turning away while I dressed. I hesitated only a
moment, and then I stepped over to the log and calmly draped the towel across
it, picking up my petticoat. Although I didn't look up, I could tell that he
was watching me, and I deliberately took my time, taking a perverse
satisfaction in doing so. I slipped the petticoat over my head, smoothed the
bodice down and adjusted it at the waist, then donned the faded beige and brown
striped cotton frock with its carefully patched skirt. I ran my fingers through
my hair and shook my head so that it would fall properly, then casually slipped
into my shoes. The whole performance took a good five minutes, and I hoped that
he had enjoyed it.

"Ready?"
he asked idly.

I
picked
up the towel and nodded. He walked the horse over to where I was standing and
held his hand down for me. I gripped it and put my foot in the stirrup,
swinging myself up behind him, and then I wrapped my arms around his waist.
Hawke flicked the reins and gave them a gentle tug, and the horse started
slowly through the woods. Neither of us spoke. I noticed the way his thick dark
hair curled at the back of his head, noticed the way the white cloth of his
shirt stretched across those broad shoulders. My legs touched his on either
side, and I could feel the power in his thighs. When the horse moved over rough
ground, I leaned against him, resting my cheek on his back. I thought how
glorious it would be to be able to love openly, to express that love freely, in
words, in action. I had successfully suppressed it for weeks now, but at the
moment it was like a pain inside, hurting... hurting so much.

The
sun was going down at last, and as we started across the fields I saw the blaze
of scarlet and gold on the horizon, fiery colors that melted and blended
together, tinting the air a hazy orange. The cotton, so white before, was
stained soft pink now, and shadows spread thickly over the ground. It was
beautiful and touching, and I wanted to cry because of the beauty and because
of what I held inside and couldn't express. Hawke sat very straight in front of
me, his back ramrod stiff. I wondered what he was feeling, what he was
thinking. Was he thinking of me? Was he remembering the way I had looked
stretched out on the rock, or was he thinking of something else, the price of
cotton, the chores to be done tomorrow?