Wilde, Jennifer (19 page)

I
was standing at the window, immersed in thought, when the door between the two
rooms opened and Hawke stepped inside.

"You
haven't unpacked," he remarked.

"Not
yet. It'll only take a minute or so. I... didn't bring much."

"You
look tired," he said. His voice was without emotion. He might have been
speaking to a total stranger.

"It
was a long trip. I suppose I am a bit weary."

"I
suggest you rest for a while, and then I'll take you to dinner. There's a
particularly nice restaurant down by the wharf. You'll need to change into
something a bit less tattered."

"I
haven't anything else," I replied. "This is my best dress. The other
one I brought is even—" I hesitated, feeling miserable.

"I
hadn't thought about that," he said.

"It
doesn't matter. I'm... really not hungry."

"Nonsense.
We'll eat in the taproom downstairs. It's noisy and rowdy, but the clothes
you're wearing will do. I won't change, either. You get some rest. We'll go
down around eight."

He
left the room, closing the door behind him. I unpacked my bag and, as there was
no wardrobe, placed my things in the drawer of the dressing table. Taking off
my dress, I gave it a thorough brushing, discovering a new tear in the skirt as
I did so. I took out my sewing kit and mended the tear as well as I could. Then
I sat down at the dressing table and washed my face with water from the
pitcher. This accomplished, I brushed my hair until it gleamed with rich
coppery highlights, all the while studying my reflection with blue eyes dark
with speculation.

His
manner had been cool and curt, yes, but there had been no sign of the anger
that had been there earlier. He had even been... considerate, decreeing that we
would eat in the taproom because I didn't have anything suitable to wear to a
decent restaurant. He had noticed that I was tired, had told me to rest. Was I reading
too much into it? Was I being wildly foolish to hope that he still might drop
that icy reserve and let himself be "fool enough" to do what he had
been ready to do this afternoon? This trip to Charles Town was my
"reward" for saving his life, he claimed, but Derek Hawke never did
anything on impulse. He had wanted me with him, had wanted my company. That was
a very good sign indeed.

True
to his word, he hadn't changed clothes when he came to take me down to the tap
room, although he had cleaned his brown knee boots. He looked exceedingly
rugged and strong in the clinging tan breeches and somewhat tattered white
shirt with its wide, full sleeves gathered at the wrist. I noticed the barmaid
looking at him with frank appraisal as she led us to a table in the corner of
the room. Although she was an attractive wench with sultry brown eyes and dark
golden hair that fell to her shoulders in a cascade of curly locks, Hawke
hardly noticed her. He seemed preoccupied, ordering our meal tersely and then
settling back in his chair, immersed in thought and ignoring me completely.

The
taproom smelled of beer and sweaty bodies and cigar smoke. Sawdust was
scattered over the rough wooden floor and the rumble of hearty male voices,
loud and exuberant, was frequently augmented by bursts of raucous laughter. I
glanced around curiously. Even though it was in the basement of the inn, and
though there was no dart board, the place was not too unlike the Red Lion back
in Cornwall where I had sometimes helped my mother serve the customers so many
years ago. A number of brawny sailors crowded around the tables, exchanging
tales with drunken glee, and several elegantly dressed young blades lounged
about looking lordly and ready for mischief. I saw one of them seize the
barmaid and give her an ardent, clumsy kiss, plunging his hand into the top of
her low-cut white blouse. The girl pulled away from him and slapped his hand,
then moved away from the table with hips swaying provocatively. The young man
grinned appreciatively, banging his pewter mug on top of the table.

Several
minutes passed, and I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Hawke was still
immersed in thought, apparently unaware that I was sitting across the table from
him, and I had the distinct impression that someone was staring at me. I could
actually feel a pair of eyes directed at me with such intensity that it was
almost like physical contact, most unsettling. I turned to see a young man
sitting at a table across the room. He didn't bother to look away when our eyes
met. He kept right on staring with eyes that boldly challenged, their message
unmistakable. Surely not more than twenty, he had a lean, wolfish face with a
sharp, jutting nose and wide lips that were frankly sensual. His dark brows
were peaked, his dark-gold hair clipped in short, uneven locks. Those gleaming
green-brown eyes were hypnotic, holding my own, making it impossible for me to
turn away.

"You're
staring," Hawke said sharply. "Stop it at once!"

"I—I
didn't mean—"

"He's
trouble, bad trouble."

"You
know him?"

"All
too well. Jason Barnett. I believe I mentioned his name yesterday. The boy's a
notorious womanizer. What he can't get with his wily ways or his father's
money, he takes by force. No woman's safe around him."

I
turned to look at the youth again.

"I
told you not to stare!"

"I—I'm
sorry. I was just—"

"Damn!
He's coming over here. If there's anything I don't need, it's a run-in with a
surly young devil like Barnett. I shouldn't have brought you down here! I
should have known you couldn't keep your eyes off the men."

"That's
not fair," I protested. "I felt him staring at me, and I
merely—"

"Shut
up!" Hawke ordered.

Barnett
stopped in front of the table. He was long and lean, dressed in a dark-gray
suit and emerald-green waistcoat. A pearl stickpin held his white silk stock in
place. Although the youth was not at all good-looking, he exuded an aura of
sexuality that many women would find attractive. I was frightened, sitting in
my chair with lowered eyes, praying the boy would go away before Hawke grew even
angrier.

"Well,
well, well," Barnett said. "What have we here? You've been holding
out on us, Hawke. Heard you got an indentured wench this spring, but I never
figured she'd be anything like this. Didn't know you could buy this kind or I'd
uv been going to them auctions myself a long time ago."

"Shove
off, Barnett."

"Hey,
that ain't no way to treat a neighbor. Isn't friendly at all. Ain't you gonna
introduce me to your friend?"

"I
suggest you leave, Barnett. Promptly."

Ignoring
Hawke, the youth turned to me, his wide lips parted in a smile that could only
be called hungry. Those bold, gleaming eyes seemed to remove every stitch of my
clothing.

"I'm
Jason Barnett, ma'am, known far and wide for my way with a wench. I didn't know
Hawke here was keepin' something like you on the place, or I'd uv come callin'
weeks ago."

Derek
Hawke was outwardly calm, but his face was nevertheless frightening to behold.
His facial muscles were taut, his mouth set in a tight line. His dark-gray eyes
were murderously cool.

"I'm
warning you, Barnett, you'd better shove off."

"I
been lookin' for me a piece of tail ever since I got here," the boy
continued, oblivious to the lethal tone in Hawke's voice. "Haven't had a
speck-a luck, and then I saw this 'un here and I thought maybe you'd like to be
real neighborly and share your good fortune, make yourself a bit o' quick cash.
I got plenty o' money on me, and the wench sure looks like she's willing
enough—"

Derek
Hawke climbed slowly to his feet. "I'll give you ten seconds to
leave," he said.

The
air cracked with tension as the two men looked at each other. Hawke was icy
cold, in complete control of himself, but I saw a muscle in his cheek tighten
almost imperceptibly. Barnett's eyes were sullen, his mouth curled in a surly
pout, the lower lip thrust out. He stared at the tall, menacing figure who
looked as though he could kill without blinking an eyelash, and then he
muttered something under his breath and turned away. Hawke stood there until
the youth had made his way across the room and moved up the stairs to the door,
then he sat down again, calmly, apparently unruffled by the incident.

The
barmaid came over to our table and set the food down, once again looking at
Hawke with that frank appraisal. Once again he ignored her. He might have been
carved of stone. The girl pouted and tossed her hair, moving away from the
table. Hawke began to eat.

I
was so shaken by the incident with Barnett that I just stared at the food. I
had never seen such cold deadly fury. I had no doubt that Hawke would have
beaten the boy to a pulp had Barnett not turned away when he did. I picked up
my fork and promptly dropped it. It hit the edge of my plate with a loud
clatter that caused me to start. Hawke didn't even bother to look up. Raucous
voices filled the air around us. One of the sailors had taken out an accordion
and was playing a lively jig. I toyed with my food, unable to eat. When he
finished eating, Hawke observed my plate, slowly arching one dark brow.

"You're
not going to eat?"

"I
can't. I'm—too upset."

"Pity
to waste that food."

"You—you
think I encouraged him, don't you?"

"I
don't care to discuss it, Marietta."

"You
blame me. I can tell. I was looking at him, I admit that, but—"

"I
told you I don't care to discuss it. If you're not going to eat, then I suggest
we leave."

We
got up, and Hawke summoned the barmaid over to pay her. As he handed her the
coins, his eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew he was taking in that ripe,
voluptuous body, those sultry eyes that so frankly advertised her availability.
He curled his fingers around my elbow and led me out of the smoke-filled room,
up the stairs and into the now-deserted lobby. Only one lamp burned, casting a
pale light over the battered mahogany counter, the dusty furniture, and the
potted green plants. Hawke paused at the foot of the narrow staircase leading
up to the second floor.

"I
suppose I can trust you to go up to your room alone," he said.

"I
suppose
so," I replied coldly.

"Go
to your room. Go to bed. Don't forget to lock the outside door."

"I
won't."

"I'll
awaken you in the morning."

I
went
on up the stairs, and when I reached the top and looked back down, Hawke had
already vanished. Disappointed and at the same time, furious, I went on to my
own room, knowing full well where he had gone, knowing full well how he
intended to spend the rest of the evening, and with whom. I wanted to cry, and
I wanted to rage. Instead, I blew out the lamp and took off my dress and stood
at the window in my petticoat, peering out into the night.

It
was a long, long time before I finally went to bed, an ever longer time before
I slept. I kept thinking of him with the barmaid. She was probably in his arms
at that very moment, his mouth covering hers, his long, powerful body sprawling
over hers. Later, as the moonlight streamed through the window in thin, milky
rays, I waited for the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall. I couldn't
sleep as long as I knew he was with her. I couldn't think about anything else
but the two of them together and the anguish and loss that kept me company in
this dark, lonely room. I waited, and still he didn't come, and finally sheer
exhaustion induced me to sleep.

The
sun was flooding hotly into the room when I finally woke up. It took me a
moment to remember where I was. I sat up groggily, pushing my hair from my
face. I wore only a thin white petticoat, the bodice leaving half my bosom
exposed, the full, ruffled skirt deplorably wrinkled and twisted about my legs.
Sometime during the night I had kicked the bedcovers to the foot of the bed,
and the untidy top sheet and dented pillows bespoke a night of restless tossing
and turning.

In
the mirror across the room I caught a glimpse of myself: hair all atumble, face
drawn. My eyes filled with desolation as I remembered what had happened the
night before. How many hours had I stayed awake, waiting for him to return? At
what time during the night had I finally slept, the adjoining room still empty?
Pain and anger and frustration swept over me, but the edge was taken off by a
much more tangible sensation—hunger. I was ravenously hungry. I had eaten very
little at lunch yesterday, had eaten nothing since.

I
could hear Derek Hawke moving about in the next room. I wondered what time it
was. The sunlight pouring into the room was a radiant silver, making dazzling
pools on the hardwood floor. If the sun was that bright, that forceful, it must
be late indeed, I thought, climbing out of bed. The floor was warm to my bare
feet. I stepped over to the window to see a sky like white silk faintly stained
with blue, the sun a silver ball in its center. Surely it was almost noon. I
turned as the connecting door opened and Hawke entered.

"What—what
time is it?" I asked.