Honor's Fury

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Honor's Fury Page 32

by Fiona Harrowe


  “Not in the war, not in gallant battle.” His voice had a jeering tone. “I was trying to save a poor nigger from being lynched.”

  “Here—in Lexington?”

  “Yes. Makes one wonder about the war, doesn’t it? Hasn’t solved a damned thing as far as I can see. The South still looks on the black man as her property and won’t accept that he’s free. If a Negro doesn’t tip his cap the right way the unlucky devil gets strung up. And the North is still trying to cram emancipation down the South’s throat while secretly feeling the black man is inferior and doesn’t deserve equal treatment. There you have it.”

  “You can’t expect things to change overnight.”

  “No, but one would hope that after four years of fighting something was learned,” he said grimly.

  “Are you sorry you were in the war? Would you act differently if you had to do it all over again?”

  He thought for a few moments. “No. I probably wouldn’t.”

  Dessert was brought, sticky sweet gooseberry pie.

  Encouraged by Damon’s willingness to talk, Amélie went on. “Why did you choose to stay here in Kentucky? In such an isolated spot?”

  “Chance. It’s not because I particularly like Kentucky. Now that the war is over the secessionists are crawling out of the cracks, attacking the men returning from Yankee regiments even though the state remained in the Union. Burning their homes, stealing horses and cattle. But I was looking for a secluded place and when the McIntyre farm came up for sale I bought it.”

  “But you have your home in Massachusetts.”

  “I didn’t want to go back to where I was known,” he said, his voice harsh with irritation. “Can’t you get that through that thick skull of yours? Look at me. Look!” He turned his scarred cheek toward her. “Not pretty, is it?”

  To Amélie the healed slash across his dark cheek and the patched eye were not at all repellent. It gave his handsome features a rugged strength and she found him even more disturbingly attractive than she had before.

  “Aren’t you exaggerating, Damon? It really isn’t as bad as—”

  “Please!” he broke in irascibly. “Spare me your sympathy. Do you think I'm a child to be soothed with a few words?”

  “I was simply—”

  “More platitudes? I don’t want to hear them.” He threw down his napkin and scraping back his chair rose. “I permitted you to stay, Mrs. Warner, as a concession— since Toby seems to like you. But that does not include a license to voice your opinions as to my appearance or where I choose to live. Remember that. Good night!”

  Amélie sat for a long time staring down at her untouched plate. Damon had never been a tractable man. Prickly, proud, he nevertheless had been reasonable. But this embittered, angry Damon was someone quite different. Was it the loss of his eye, the scar (still unexplained) that had soured him? His disillusionment with the war? Babette? Herself? Only with the child did he relent, become human.

  She wished she could reach him to tell him she was sorry, that she knew he had been guiltless in her husband’s death. She had wanted to bring up the matter of the watch, to explain why she had left so abruptly that morning and why she had refused to see him again. And when he had begun to discuss his reasons for settling in Kentucky, she had hoped she could guide the conversation to a more personal level, admitting her mistake and her regret. But he hadn’t given her the chance. And it appeared he wasn’t going to.

  Amélie was awakened out of a deep sleep by the sound of a baby crying. For a few moments lying in the dark she was taken back in time, thinking it little Charles. The old anxiety gripped her heart. Colic? A bad dream? Fever? The ponderous wardrobe revealed by a pale shaft of moonlight, the bedpost, a bob and pendulum clock dimly visible in the shadows, confused her. Then she remembered. It wasn’t little Charles. It was Toby!

  Quickly she found matches and lit the candle on the bedside table. Throwing a crocheted shawl that covered the foot of the bed around her shoulders, she took the candle and went out into the hall. The baby was still crying. Where was Maisie? Hadn’t she heard him?

  She opened the door of Toby’s room and when he saw her light his breath caught on a sob. She set the candle down and lifted him, the shawl falling from her shoulders.

  “It’s all right, darlin’,’’ she crooned. “Did you have a bad dream?’’

  Toby’s sobs subsided into a whimper.

  She patted the little back, hugging the warm body to her breast. He took a deep shuddering breath and lay quietly on her shoulder.

  “Toby, Toby, darlin’,’’ she whispered softly, kissing his damp hair.

  The door behind her opened. Turning she saw Damon. He was wearing the same knee-high boots and drill trousers he had worn earlier but was without a coat. His white shirt was half buttoned up the front as if hastily donned and it exposed the matted fur of his broad chest and the thick column of his neck. He seemed to fill the doorway, his tousled dark hair, black eye patch and frown disturbingly virile.

  “Toby was crying,” Amélie explained hastily.

  Damon did not speak but stared at her, his one narrowed eye moving over her lower limbs. She realized then that the light of the candle outlined her legs through her thin petticoat. Something inside her moved, a shiver, a spasm not caused by the chill in the room.

  “He’s asleep now,” she said in a low tone, her cheeks hot. Gently she placed the child in his painted cradle. Tucking him in, she planted another tender kiss on his forehead. Then scooping up the fallen shawl, she took the candle and went out past Damon who still had not said a word.

  “Best leave the door open,” she murmured. “In case he should waken again.”

  He shut the door, his lips in a grim line. “Tending Toby is not your responsibility.”

  “Whose responsibility is it then?” she said, annoyed at his implacability. “He was crying and no one was there to see if he was in pain or to soothe away his bad dream.”

  “It’s for me to decide whether he’s to be picked up or not.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he’s only a baby!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  She threw him a scathing look and stamped into her room. He followed on her heels, closing the door behind.

  “I don’t want you meddling, Mrs. Warner.”

  “And I don’t care what you want. A fine mess you have here. The house indifferently cleaned, the meals indifferently cooked, Toby indifferently—”

  “That's enough!” he snapped. “Why did you really come here, Mrs. Warner? Was it to find fault? Or perhaps”—he took a step closer, again surveying her, his dark insolent eye resting on her shoulders and heaving breasts where the shawl had slipped away once more—“perhaps to charm me into letting Toby go.”

  “I'd as soon charm a snake,” she retorted, hoisting the shawl up, wrapping it firmly about her body, now trembling with rage.

  “And have more success. I’m not about to make the same mistake for the third time.”

  “Oh, you and your mistakes! Poor done in Damon Fowler. Holing himself up in this shabby farmhouse with a ‘No Trespassing’ sign and dogs to guard him, afraid what people might say ...”

  She saw it coming, the gathering storm, but was powerless to stop.

  “. . . so sorry for himself—”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, his steely fingers bruising her flesh while her hair tumbled down around her face and the shawl fell to the floor.

  “You—are—provoking me,” he said between short, harsh breaths. “Deliberately. Damn you!” His hands flew to her hips and he pulled her to his chest, his mouth claiming hers in a savage, hurting kiss.

  Her body instinctively arched against the pain, but shifting his arms, he locked her in, and she could only mumble a protest behind fastened lips.

  He lifted his head. “Why did you come?”

  When she did not answer his mouth sought hers again. She jerked her head away. But he brought it back, clasping the back of her skul
l in an iron grip, worrying her bruised lips with teeth and tongue, forcing them apart so that he could enter. She clamped her teeth down and his tongue retreated. Compelling her closer, scraping her skin with his beard, he captured her mouth again.

  A defiant sob growled in her throat. She hated him with a loathing that welled in her like acid, hated this assault, this show of brute strength. She felt the swollen heat of his lust through her petticoat, his hard knee wedged between her thighs. Beast! Animal! her mind screamed. Imprisoned, she fought with her hands, beating at his shoulder blades, her fists climbing his neck to his hair. Grabbing a handful she wrenched with all her pent-up strength.

  He let go.

  They stood inches apart, facing one another, breathing hard as if they had just raced a mile course. Amélie, searching for demeaning words, epithets that could express the boiling rage within her, but finding none, lifted her arm and struck him across the face with a force that stung her palm.

  Damon did not move. Amélie realized dimly that her slap had been across his injured cheek and she waited, nerves taut, for him to retaliate. But when he did it was not to strike her. He reached out, bunching her petticoat in his fist, tearing it from her body. She gasped at the cool air washing over her.

  He tossed the petticoat aside and stood watching her, his eye scanning the full, high breasts, the chill, erect nipples, the slim torso, the curve of white hips. His inspection, a mixture of desire and scorn, lashed her like the flick of a cutting whip. She wet her lips.

  “Please leave at once!" she ordered in a grating voice, trying for cold dignity. But the words were inadequate, a mockery to the heated tension between them. Damon chose not to remark. The candlelight threw his shadow on the wall, a black hulk, monstrous, intimidating. Never did he seem so tall, so masculine, so overpowering. She herself seemed unable to move, frozen, her heart beating in queer, uneven jerks.

  Anger had given way to fear. He had become the symbol of rampant masculinity, the aroused male who desired her with a mindless, driving hunger that would not bar cruelty.

  She stepped back, reaching blindly behind her for something to cover her nakedness, her exposed white breasts with their enlarged nipples suddenly shameful, lewd. Her hands brushed the bedcovers and she tried to pull them out, but he leaned over and snatched them away from her groping fingers. Another step and another and her spine touched the cold wall. He leaned over her, looking down, his hands braced over her head.

  She ducked and ran for the door. Before she could clutch the knob he grasped her shoulders and whirled her around. She fought, kicking and flailing with arms and legs. He brought her, still struggling, to the floor, pinning her to the rug with the weight of his body. He lay for a few moments over her, heavy, his heart through the rough shirt pounding against her crushed breasts. Then one hand trailed down her side and lifting his haunches slightly he brought the hand between her legs. His touch on her most sensitive place sent a shiver through her. He cupped her thatched pubic area with his palm and inserted his finger, slowly, teasingly manipulating, while she tried to steel herself against feeling, tried and failed.

  She hated, despised her weakness, the flesh that refused to assert a denial. But the battle had been lost earlier, the moment he had put his hands on her shoulders. She knew that now. He was her destiny, her love, her despair. Letting go, she wound her arms about him, releasing herself to his erotic massage. A moment later current after current raced through her body, shock after shock leaping and coursing to the roots of her hair. He was kissing her again, pouring a torrent of kisses on her throat, her face, her breasts, his savagery infecting her with a thrilling sensuality that made her forget time and place, her anger, his hostility. Soon she was crowding against him, contorting her hips, silently begging for entrance of the rock hard organ pressed against her thighs.

  He reached down and unbuttoned his trousers and her legs came up, grasping him about the waist. When he thrust himself inside her, she drew in her breath, her hands gripping his shoulders, her mouth seeking his. Moving in unison with him, she tightened the muscles of her velvety sheath so that he could feel her power to captivate, to imprison. He made a noise in the back of his throat, taking a firmer grip on her hips, pounding away at her, his vigorous lustiness matched now by the wild excitement in her blood. Only Damon could do this to her, only Damon for whom she had been made could touch and assuage the deep well of longing inside, plunging her into rapturous agony. At the last, at the final penultimate moment, her mind cried out in ecstasy, I love him, I love him, I love him!

  Entwined, their breaths mingling, Amélie sought speech. “Damon . . .?” her voice quivered. She wanted to tell him, she wanted to say it, I love you, but did not quite know how. “Damon . . .?”

  He moved from her, not answering, his silence inhibiting her.

  Still wordless he lifted and carried her to the bed. She longed for him to speak, to utter one tender, forgiving word. But he lay down beside her, gazing at her, his face in the flickering darkness a blank mask. She felt the intimacy they had just shared slipping away and in its place an invisible wall slowly going up, stone by stone. Desperate at the passage of those blank moments, at the intimidating barricade growing ever higher, she blurted,

  “Damon . . . I—’’

  He quickly placed his hand over her mouth, shutting out speech. He didn't want to hear. She had come back into his life, raising old memories, tearing the scab from the healed over wound in his heart. The haunting face, the sweetly curved mouth, and slender throat were there as they had been when he had lain with her that first time at the Barnum. Only the eyes were different. They had been guileless and clear as translucent glass then. Now they were clouded with a yearning tinged with sadness. Should he pity her, give in to the message those eyes conveyed?

  He couldn’t. He had been a fool once to believe those eyes. He wouldn’t do it again. He would take her, make love to her, close his mind to her silent plea, and in the morning forget her as she deserved to be forgotten.

  Leaning over, he found her mouth, catching it in his own with a long, shuddering kiss.

  “Damon . .

  “Hush.”

  Obeying, Amélie closed her eyes. He stroked her arms, her breasts, cuddling their firm, swollen fullness in strong, possessive hands, the feel of his warm palms arousing her senses once more, an awareness that ran through her veins like quicksilver. Bending his head, using tongue and lips, lapping, teasing, he brought her nipples to blushing hardness. When he rested his cheek against one soft round breast she buried her mouth in his thick black hair, her whole being floating out to him. This was the Damon she remembered, this was the Damon who had loved her that long-ago night in Nashville, holding and petting her, tender and evocative. Divesting himself of his clothing he took her again, slowly this time, ardently but without savagery. Her soul waited in suspension for his declaration, for some verbal sign of his feelings, and then as his movements quickened and her own heightened passion took over, words, once more, seemed irrelevent. She gave herself over to him completely, rushing upward, body to body, flesh joined to flesh, to the last dizzying apex of shattering release.

  Chapter

  ❖ 26 ❖

  In the morning he was gone, the rumpled pillow beside her the only sign that the night she had just spent with Damon had not been a dream. Strange man, impossible, stubborn man. She was sure now he still loved her, that his reluctance to put his feelings into words came of mulish pride.

  Hearing sounds of Toby across the hail, she got up quickly and dressed. Folding the torn petticoat, she held it for a moment, a smile of remembrance lifting her lips before she shoved it into the drawer of a bureau that stood against one wall.

  Maisie was feeding Toby. He sat on her knee, dimpled fingers clutching her arm, his little mouth pursed like a bird’s to receive each spoonful of porridge.

  The child was such a delight, so different than little Charles who had always been ailing. Toby had an eager appetite and his sturdy body
spoke of health and vitality. She loved the mite and she had to restrain herself when she picked him up from squeezing and hugging until he squealed.

  “Is Mr. Damon downstairs?” Amélie asked Maisie.

  “No’m. He lef early. Says not to ’spec’ him ’til after suppah. He say he got bizness to ’tend to.”

  “He’ll be gone all day?” Amélie asked, unable to hide her disappointment.

  “Yes’m, so he say.”

  Maisie’s face was impassive, but her eyes were watchful. Amélie wondered if she knew that Damon had spent the night in her bed. But the thought passed quickly through her head with a mental shrug. It didn’t matter what Maisie knew or guessed; it was Damon’s pointed absence that mattered. Why had he gone off without a word, without a message for her? No urgent business had called him, Amélie told herself. The plain truth was that he was avoiding her. Why? Was he too embarrassed to face her after such violent lovemaking? Perhaps he needed time to compose himself, time to sort things out. He couldn’t possibly continue rejecting her after what had happened between them. But suppose he had made love to her simply because he needed a woman? One eye might be gone and his face scarred but that did not diminish his virility.

  She did not like to think of herself as being used. But what if she had been? Suppose he had made love to her, a young, attractive woman, as he had with Babette. “I took what was offered,” was the way he put it.

  Amélie groaned inwardly. She wasn’t going to think about it. She only wanted to remember his kisses, his tender embraces, the feel of his bearded cheek pressed to hers.

  She waited for him all that day, busying herself with Toby, telling herself she must not get too fond of the child. A useless warning, since Toby had already taken possession of her heart. But if Damon loved her . . .

  That evening she had a solitary supper and afterward went into the parlor to wait. It had been a warm day and the windows were open to the cooling night air, the curtains billowing softly, the smell of green grass and honeysuckle perfuming the air. The hours passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Her lapel watch, examined at least a dozen times, was getting on to eleven when she heard the front door open. She patted her hair and put on a welcoming smile. But he went past the lighted parlor without turning in and started up the stairs.

 

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