Windswept (24 page)

“Well enough, I think. I’m at the end of the eighteen-forties. I’m finding plenty for several articles, but unfortunately, they would be all about Edgar and his life and not about Mary Maude and hers. He doesn’t write much about her, except about her gardening abilities and the renown her home-grown exotic fruits and vegetables bring to their entertaining. And of course his pride when she gave birth to another child.”

“I only read the first volume. What do you think of Edgar so far?” Davis was beginning to see how she had gotten so caught up in history itself, the studying and interpretation of individual lives. He had learned much about the art and craft of writing history listening to her reports and observations at dinner. Her talking about his own family added a personal touch, and the stories made him more and more curious about her findings. He had not expected to be so fascinated. He’d always been bored by history in the obligatory school and college courses. Maybe it was the teacher.

“He’s put a lot of himself into this journal,” she answered. “It’s more than just a report of weather, crops, and expenses. Edgar Jamison was a proud man, proud of his accomplishments with the plantation, proud of his family, his four children. His pride comes through more in the second volume as the kids get older.”

She stopped to stretch and he enjoyed the play of her breasts under the T-shirt.

She gave him a strange little smile when she noticed where his gaze had gone. One of those “Gotcha” smiles just like his sister’s when he fell into one of her traps. Was Barrett teasing him?

She resumed a bland expression and continued, “Some of the entries lead me to think he probably had a touch more arrogance than the average man, and his correspondence will tell me more. He seems to have run his plantation with a strong hand. Politically, he stood with John C. Calhoun and the more radical Southerners. From his portrait back at the plantation I’d say he was a handsome man, but I don’t know if he used his looks in a lady-killing way.”

“Why do you say arrogant?”

“In his journal he positively crows about besting some of the other planters with his horses and his success at building Windswept. It’s in the words he uses when reporting a satisfying success in anything. And when he rails at someone’s stupidity. You can say Southern planters were arrogant by definition, but I think Edgar saw himself as above average in everything.” A twinkle appeared in her eyes. “Speaking as a direct descendent, do you think you inherited any of his arrogance?”

“Definitely,” he responded laughing. “I’m also autocratic, egotistical, and vain.” He paused. Now was the time to be humble. “Listen, I have a large favor to ask.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I have to take a couple of prospective investors and their wives to dinner on Wednesday. I ran into one of them, Al Pendleton, at the club, and he said the other one, a long-time friend, is coming here from his home in Atlanta on Tuesday. I’ve been trying to get together with both of them for God knows how long. To make a long story short, they’re both history buffs, big on the Civil War and their ancestors who fought in ‘the recent unpleasantness.’ I mentioned Windswept, the papers and you. Al said he’d like to meet my ‘tame’ historian . . .”

Barrett’s eyebrows almost touched her hairline.

“Uh, ‘captive’ historian?”

Her eyebrows drew together in a frown.

“Consulting historian.” Her brows resumed their normal position over deep blue eyes that were definitely laughing at him. “Anyway,” he continued, “would you come with us? I hate to ask this, but . . .”

“It would be my pleasure,” she said. “Can you find out who the ancestors were? I can do a quick research job on them. Some Southerners are notoriously protective of their forebears’ place in history and I’d like to go prepared. But you’d better warn them: I don’t do battles, you know, fight them using the silverware for cavalry and infantry. I’m not a military historian.”

“I’ll owe you for this. We’ll be dining and then the wives want to go dancing, so be prepared.”

***

Barrett watched Davis warily the remainder of the day, but he didn’t make a move on her, just worked in his office. She stopped feeling stupid for leaving herself so open to his shenanigans this morning.
All he wants is the nights!
He didn’t fool her. He’d take it any time he could get it. Or her.

Having skimmed much of the last volume, she gave up on Edgar’s journal around four. She wasn’t going to find what she needed with this particular Jamison. He, a self-centered male, barely mentioned Mary Maude’s contributions to Windswept’s success. He was proud of his children, especially the boys, but spent most of his time either overseeing plantation activities or taking part in politics in Baton Rouge when the legislature was in session. As many wealthy planter families at the time, the Jamisons had made several trips to New York and Europe over the years, but except for noting the purchases they made, Edgar said little about what they had seen or whom they had met--outside of prominent politicians.

If only Mary Maude had kept a journal. But if she had, nobody, including Davis’s grandfather, had said anything about it, and Barrett hadn’t found even mention of one. She’d just have to make do with the correspondence.

She sighed and glanced out at the pool. The aquamarine water, rippling from a little breeze, beckoned. Could she chance it? What would Davis do? What else but join her? And . . .?

No, she decided. No sense in putting such temptation in front of him--or her. She didn’t know if she could resist all the alluring, unclothed masculinity of Davis in a bathing suit.

Feeling slightly letdown, she went back to looking over her notes for possible article ideas. If she wrote something on Mary Maude’s Herbarium, she could use the plantation mistress’s own illustrations. She liked the idea the more she thought about it. She’d need some reference books on herbs and plant medicines, so she fired up the computer to search.

She had just placed her order for a book shipment when Davis walked in. “How about dinner?” he asked. “Eva left us a casserole, or we could order in pizza.”

“Pizza,” she answered as her taste buds started tingling for cheese, tomato sauce, and pepperoni. “With everything.”

After pizza, salad, and a couple of glasses of chianti, Davis joined Barrett in her office and sat at the table. He opened the second volume of Edgar’s journal and started to read. She continued her Internet search for information on early nineteenth century folk medicines, downloading some articles and making notes of references to check.

About ten, she shut off the computer and Davis closed the journal. He turned toward her. “I see what you mean about Edgar’s arrogance. The man was very sure of himself, at least in his writings.” He waved his hand at the book.

“Do you remember any family stories about how Edgar died?” Barrett asked.

Davis thought for a moment. “No, I don’t. Why?”

“I’m just curious. He died in eighteen fifty-four, only fifty-two years old. He records his illnesses in his journal entries, but seems pretty healthy until the final two years. Then he was ill off and on. He was clearly frustrated because no doctor could diagnose him and he didn’t seem to be able to get well. A couple of times, just as he thought he was over whatever it was, he’d have a relapse, despite careful nursing by Mary Maude. If the Herbarium is any indication, she was quite knowledgeable about medicines, both folk and those endorsed by the medical establishment. She frequently added descriptions to her notes which could only have come from medical books of the time. But he died, despite her best efforts.”

“Of course, back then people died of all sorts of commonplace ailments we think nothing of today. No antibiotics or such.” He shrugged and stood up.

“Yes, and they often blamed illness on a ‘miasma’ or unhealthy night air.” She came around the desk and preceded him into the hall. He switched off the overhead lights and followed.

She could feel him behind her as they walked through the dim hall illumination toward the stairs. All they had done was turn the corner, and they were suddenly in their own world, full of soft shadows and quiet possibilities. It had been like this the night before, but something was different now. She couldn’t bring herself to continue their conversation--not about death when she felt so full of life.

Anticipation of a good-night kiss gripped her and silenced her--and him, too, she surmised. They both knew what was coming this time, knew what a kiss stirred between them, knew what fires a touch could ignite. She had to admit she was looking forward to it and curious about the outcome. But she wasn’t ready to succumb to him just yet.

He didn’t wait to reach her room, however. Instead, at the top of the stairs where the decision had to be made of going to her room or his, he drew her into his arms. “Barrett . . .” he murmured and kissed her.

This kiss was different also. The previous night’s had been soft; this one was hungry. Last night’s had explored; this one plundered. That one had savored; this one ravished.

At first Barrett’s whole being concentrated on what he was doing to her mouth. Nothing else mattered and she wound her arms around his neck to keep him right where he was as she responded with demands of her own.

Then . . . she felt him move. He loosened the steel bands of his arms and brought his hands to her shoulders, then down her back to squeeze her butt and pull her hips against his erection, and finally around to her ribcage to rest just under her breasts.

He raised his head just the slightest bit, his lips two inches above hers. When he wouldn’t let her pull him down, she opened her eyes enough to meet his own heavy-lidded gaze. She was about to ask him what was wrong when he traced the lower curves of her breasts with his thumbs and slowly, ever so slowly, rubbed them back and forth across her nipples. Her suddenly engorged, highly sensitive nipples.

She moaned, a soft, aching sound she didn’t recognize, didn’t know she could make.

“Davis . . .” His name forced itself out of her. She fisted her hands in his hair, pulled herself up, and took his mouth, demanding, yearning, wanting . . . oh, yes, wanting.

Oh, yes, craving just what he was doing as he covered her suddenly heavy breasts with his hands, massaged them slowly. Oh, yes, needing, desperately needing as he took her nipples between his thumbs and fingers and squeezed. Every muscle in her body clenched in response.

She had no idea how long the kiss or the sweet torture went on, but when he wrapped his arms around her and lifted his head again, she could only cling, surrounded by his heat, until their heartbeats and breathing had slowed. Her sluggish mind took forever to come back to itself. Her body simply luxuriated in his strength and warmth. When he separated them, she almost protested.

His hands on her waist, he nudged her back a step, and she looked up. He was not smiling. On the contrary, his face was stark and tight, his eyes black in the low light.

“Good night, Davis,” she whispered.

“Good night, Barrett.” He gave her a soft, quick kiss and let her go.

Somehow she managed to turn and walk to the balcony and her room without her insubstantial legs failing, but she had to hold onto the balcony edge before she made it to her door. It was obviously going to be harder than she thought, not to simply fall into his arms.

Davis watched her turn the corner onto the balcony and let out a long breath. All of his body ached with the strain of letting her go, of not taking the kiss to its logical conclusion. He had never had such a strong response to a woman before. Not one that locked his muscles, constricted his breathing, left him hard as granite.

He had to stand for a couple of minutes, willing his body to calm down, before he could walk into his own room.

At least Barrett seemed to be as affected as he was. Did she have any idea what she was doing to him? She certainly wasn’t trying to use her “feminine wiles” on him. He was an expert on women’s enticements, both real and fake, and Barrett was just being herself.

In fact, during the afternoon and through the evening, she had reverted to the easy friendship and conversation they enjoyed before the kiss yesterday. She’d made no reference to it or their subsequent discussion.

She didn’t seem apprehensive any longer about the possibility of his refusing her access to the papers, so she must trust him to be true to his word. That was good. He wanted her to trust him. He couldn’t see her getting into bed with him unless she did, on several levels.

And once in bed . . . Lord have mercy, he hoped he could maintain his control. If she could make him hot as a habanero pepper with denim and cotton between them, what would happen skin to skin? He felt his body start to react to the mental movie in his head and he dragged his mind to his appointments on Monday. It was either that or a cold shower.

Chapter Seventeen

Barrett was happy to see Monday morning arrive. For one thing, Davis was out from under foot and she could get some work done. She’d finally arrived at the records for the 1850s, and there were boxes and boxes of them.

She was working her way through a big folder of Edgar’s political correspondence when the phone rang on the house line. Gonzales informed her Horace Glover was asking to speak to her.

“I’ll take the call,” she told him, but made a face at the phone before she punched the button. “Hello, Horace.”

“Hello, Barrett,” he boomed. “Just thought I’d check on how you were doing. Finding any juicy subject matter? Anything on Colonel Jamison?”

What did he mean by “juicy subject matter,” she wondered. Had Horace been talking to Lloyd? It didn’t matter, but she’d rather not have the two collaborating. “I can only repeat what I told you the last time you called. I can’t discuss the papers with you. All I can tell you is, the work is progressing.”

“Has Davis Jamison decided what to do with the records when you’re finished, you know, perhaps open them to scholars?”

“No, he hasn’t made any decision yet.”

“Look, I’m going to be down there at the end of the week. Why don’t you and I go out for a nice lunch, or better still, dinner? Get caught up with what we’re doing, plans for next year, that sort of thing. I have a couple of ideas for your research I’d like to run by you. You need to be thinking about publishing. Your tenure vote is just around the corner and I’d like to do what I can to help.” His voice had started out with a cordial tone, but lowered in volume and pitch to a slightly husky, almost intimate, certainly insinuating murmur by the time he uttered his last sentences.