by Karen White
I straightened, feeling suddenly that I could read his mind. I wanted to reach up and put my hand over his mouth before he could continue. But I remained where I was.
“I think that you and I should marry.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Adoor slammed somewhere in the house, and I think I must have said something. John approached and leaned toward me, but I did not move. He lit a lamp on the desk and straightened. His black eyes flashed in the lamplight with an emotion that I could not read but that made my skin feel as if I had been burnt by the sun.
I tried to stand but realized my legs could not bear my weight and sat back down.
John raised an eyebrow and spoke. “I know this is sudden, but after talking with my neighbors today, I have found that your presence in my house has led to a great deal of speculation and that your reputation is at stake.”
I gripped the edge of the desk. “I assure you, sir, that my reputation does not concern me at this juncture of my life. And I do not plan to remain here at Whispering Oaks, so it does not matter much.”
He paused, his eyes raking over me, my every pore tingling from where his gaze touched. I pushed the chair back, putting distance between us.
He took note of my movement and smiled. “There is another matter I wished to discuss with you. It concerns Rebecca. She needs a mother, and it seems that you two are growing fond of each other. I cannot imagine that you would wish to leave and not see her again.”
I forced myself to stand, leaning heavily on the desk for support. As much as I wished for solace amid my grief on Saint Simons and to be away from the child who so reminded me of the one I had lost, John was right. I had no wish to abandon Rebecca here in this house of dark shadows. But his proposal was not to be considered.
“You seem to forget that your wife is barely cold in her grave. If your acquaintances are gossiping about my mere presence here, imagine what such a hasty marriage would do to your own reputation.”
He studied me with those black eyes that held so many secrets. “It is not my reputation that I care about. I know that there is nothing left for you on Saint Simons. And I want you to stay—for your sake as well as Rebecca’s. The only way I see that occurring is if you marry me and live here as my wife.”
My heart seemed to stutter, skipping a beat. “I have no desire to ever be married again. I tried it once and found it lacking.”
That infernal eyebrow shot up again, lending him a wizened expression. “Then perhaps you were simply married to the wrong man.”
I heard myself sucking in my breath before I realized what I was doing. “You go too far.”
He stepped around the edge of the desk until he stood directly in front of me. “Robert treated you badly, Catherine. Do you not think that you are due a husband who will treat you with nothing but kindness and respect?”
I jutted my chin. “Like you did for Elizabeth?” I regretted the words as soon as I had uttered them.
He gripped my shoulders, pulling me closer. “You do not know the truth of what was between your sister and me. I hope, for your sake, that you never do.”
His eyes burned with controlled passion and I craved, just for a moment, to see it unleashed. This man fascinated me. As much as I wished to pull away, I wanted to feel his touch on me and let his heat burn away the eternal coldness that had resided inside of me for so long. But he was like a fire: uncontrollable, its path unknown, and, for those unwary enough to fall in its path, too easily consumed.
He released me and let his hands fall slowly to his sides. His gaze dropped to my mouth and then, deliberately, to my throat, where he could see my quick breaths and rapid pulse. I raised my hand to hide my traitorous skin, but he reached and took my fingers, his touch creating a spark that snapped in the darkening room.
My palm stung where he had touched, but he would not let me pull away. His voice was low and seductive, the tremulous notes warming places inside me that had not been touched in a very long time. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to shut him out, but his presence overwhelmed me.
“Catherine, let me take care of you. You will never lack for anything—certainly not food or clothing or a dry roof over your head. Can you honestly tell me that you have any of those things waiting for you back on Saint Simons?” He spoke softly into my ear, his warm breath sending goose bumps down my neck and arms. “Can you?”
I found myself leaning into him and put my hand on his chest to stop myself. “Why would you want to marry me? I have nothing to give you.”
His eyes became hooded, his emotions effectively locked away from my view. “I have always held you in high regard, Catherine. You had such a brightness of spirit about you, a joy for life that was very captivating. I . . .” Abruptly, he dropped my hand and turned away toward the window. “And Rebecca needs a mother—desperately. I think you two would be good for each other.”
I stared at his broad back, foolishly imagining placing my face against it and finding rest. “Then you . . . you are speaking of a marriage of convenience.”
He whirled on his heels, the grace of his move reminding me of an encounter I had once had with a catamount. So sleek and beautiful; so deadly. Back then I had my father and his rifle for protection. Now I had only me.
A flash of white appeared as he smiled. “No, Catherine. I have no desire for another cold marriage bed. I would fully intend to claim my marital rights.”
I was glad for the dim light to hide the flush I felt creeping over my face. “I . . . I see.”
He walked toward me, his footsteps muted by the carpet. I held my breath and forced myself to look in his face.
“I do not think you would find my bed wanting.” He leaned down, his lips hovering over mine. “Let me show you how it should be between a man and a woman.”
When I spoke, his lips brushed mine, taking away the intended sting of my words. “Sir, you are being presumptuous.”
His fingertips lightly swept down my arms, and for the first time in my life I felt completely and utterly helpless. I hardly knew this man, and what I did know was incomplete. There were too many unanswered questions, too many hidden emotions, for me to want him the way that my body demanded. But when he was near me, even barely touching me, my reason abandoned me.
His lips touched mine gently and I tasted him for the first time. When he pulled away for a moment, I closed the gap between us like a starving person hungering for his touch. Our mouths collided as my body melded into his. His arms pulled me closer and I found myself floating in an ocean of warmth and passion, the waters threatening to suffocate me, but their lure of refuge and heat impossible to resist. I wondered if this was what drowning would be like, and the thought brought a fissure of reason to me. Like a person coming up from a deep slumber, I pulled away.
He did not step back but continued to hold me close. “You are not indifferent to me, Catherine. We have both felt this thing between us since that first night when I rescued you from the swamp.”
I shook my head, swallowing thickly. “No, I am not indifferent to you.” His expression remained guarded, but I could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. I was aware of every place on my person that he had touched, and felt a small pulse of anger at myself for allowing him to see how he affected me. Who was this man? What secrets did he hide? I needed to remove myself from his presence to allow myself to think. It was near impossible to do so clearly with him so near. And he was well aware of it.
I pulled back and stepped away from him. “I need time to think.” I walked clumsily around the desk, putting it between us, my legs wanting to buckle under me.
He stood rigid by the desk, regarding me intently. “Yes, do think about it. Think about your life these past months on Saint Simons and then think about your life here. I doubt you will have to think much further.”
“But marriage! Surely there is another way.” I looked a
t him anew, a glistening thought budding in my brain. “For what reason could you possibly want me as your wife?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I have already mentioned my reasons.”
“No, there has to be more to it. What do I have that you could possibly want enough to acquire by marrying me?”
His gaze darkened. “Do not insult me, Catherine. Perhaps in due course you will understand. But for now, suffice it to say that I need a mother for my child and a companion in my bed. And you, my dear, will lack for nothing.”
“It is you now, sir, who is being insulting. This transaction you are proposing is slightly better than selling myself. I may have lost everything, but I still have my pride.”
“Forgive me. I did not mean to insult you. You know that I hold you in the highest regard.” He began to walk around the desk toward me. “And I find your pride one of your most attractive assets. One of many, I might add.” His gaze flickered over me before returning to meet my eyes. “I merely meant to imply that a marriage between us would be mutually beneficial.”
He now stood within arm’s length of me, and I knew I had to escape before I agreed to anything just to have him touch me again. “I need time.” Without another word, I turned on my heel and left the room.
* * *
I ran to my bedroom, feeling faint from the pressure of my corset as I closed the door. I sat down on a small settee by the window and waited for my breathing to return to normal. My thoughts were in turmoil—torn between grieving for my dead sister and this remarkable proposal from a man I could admit intimidated me as much as he excited me.
I thought of my barren existence on Saint Simons, the constant gnawing hunger and grief, and knew that John was right. There was nothing there for me except for more of the same and with no end in sight. At least if I stayed here, I would have food and shelter and no more worries. And I would have Rebecca. She was not Jamie, but I knew in due course that I would come to love her as my own. She was all that I had left, a final connection, somehow, to the family I had loved and grown up with.
But marriage to John! The thought thrilled and repulsed me in equal doses. The physical intimacies of my marriage to Robert had been rote and painful, but I could only imagine that sharing a marriage bed with John McMahon would be anything but.
I shivered, my body at war with my mind. What did he know of Elizabeth’s death? And what was he not telling me? He had sworn to me that he was innocent of any wrongdoing, and I had believed him. It was so easy to believe his words when standing in his presence. But now, away from him, I would have doubts. How could I marry a man I was not sure I could trust?
A niggling thought teased at the back of my mind. Kneeling before my dresser, I pulled out the bottom drawer and reached into the back, feeling with my fingers until I grabbed the pipe that I had found in the attic. I stared at it in my hand and then, without really knowing why, I placed it in my pocket. I supposed I carried it on my person for the same reason I now wore the key on a chain around my neck and securely tucked inside my dress.
I paced the room, unable to come up with any answers to my predicament. I heard John leave the house, and I opened my door, feeling relieved that I would not run into him. My steps took me outside to the back porch, where I heard voices from the kitchen. Hoping to find Rebecca, whom I had left in Delphine’s care, I entered the small brick building.
The pungent aroma of old smoke mixed with freshly baked bread touched on my memory and sent a wave of nostalgia through me. I stood in the doorway and waited for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Rebecca sat at a small table in the corner, Samantha on her lap, eating a thick slice of bread liberally smeared with butter. Delphine and her mother, Rose, stood silently, their gazes watching me with open curiosity.
I smiled. “I am sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to read to Rebecca and put her down for her nap.”
Rose knotted her thick, dark eyebrows, staring at me intently for a moment before speaking. “Delphine do that. I needs to speak with you, Miss Catherine.”
Rebecca finished her last bite of bread, then willingly took Delphine’s hand, allowing the young servant to lead her and Samantha away to bed.
“Is there a problem, Rose?” I had once run a plantation, and I relished the thought of becoming useful at Whispering Oaks.
She placed a cup of tea on the wooden table recently vacated by Samantha and motioned for me to sit. “Have some of this tea, Miss Catherine, while we chat.”
There was something ominous in her voice, and I did as she asked. A sizzling and popping sound came from a large black kettle hanging above the fire, and I jerked around to see Rose throwing a yellow powder into the pot.
“What is that?”
She did not respond, but instead wafted the smoke in her direction, sniffing deeply of the sweet and pungent odor. I looked down into my tea, but doubts assailed me and I could not bring myself to drink it. I should have left then, but I had always had a stubborn curiosity about me and I found that I could not.
Rose dipped a long-handled ladle into the pot and poured it into a tin cup. This she placed across the table from me and stood by it expectantly.
“Sit, Rose, and tell me what it is you need.”
She sat across from me, still silent, then lifted the dented tin cup and drank slowly from it, her eyes closed. She sat motionless and breathing deeply for several moments. I was growing impatient but did not want to say anything to break the spell she seemed to be under.
Finally, she opened her eyes, the black pupils in the center enlarged. When she spoke, her voice was foreign to me, the words sounding old and withered and full of thick black smoke.
“You not like the other one. They says she your sister, but blood is the only thing you share.”
She looked directly at me, but her eyes did not seem to see me. Rose continued, her words without inflection. “You done suffer much sadness. And it not done with you yet.”
I drew in a breath sharply, but she appeared not to notice. “There be two men in your life—two men you share your life with.” She shook her head slowly, her eyes still not seeing. “But one of them is not who you thinks he be. He betray you in a terrible way.”
She paused, and I used it as an excuse to try to stand, but her hand snaked out to hold my arm, knocking over my tea. It splattered over the table, unheeded, the dark liquid creeping slowly to the edge. It seemed to thicken first before hurtling off into drips and hitting the hard brick floor. I wanted to ask her about the two men but didn’t want to give any credence to her words, despite the effect they had on me.
Her grip on my arm tightened, hurting me, but she seemed oblivious to my struggle to free myself. “But there be a great love to be found. A man who love you like you deserve. You soul mates—you be together in a past life and you done found him again.” Her gaze settled on my face and her eyes seemed to clear. “Your lives like the roots of an old oak tree—they runs deep and they cross over each other again and again. Don’ you fight this love. It save your life.”
Slowly, she released her hold on me. Rubbing the spot recently relinquished by her fingers, I asked, “Why would my life be in need of saving?”
Shrugging, she said, “It not for me to see the why of it. I jus’ see the way it will be.”
I tried to lighten the mood. “But I am sure your prophecies are only meant for those who believe in such things.”
She smiled broadly, a gap of missing teeth prominently displayed. “No, ma’am. They’s for everybody who listens.” She pushed back from the table and walked over to a rough-hewn box sitting by the fireplace. Opening it, she reached in and pulled something out before returning to the table. She spread her palm wide and a shiny black stone rolled onto the table’s surface.
“This lodestone be for you. It pull in all the good luck while pushing away the evil. You needs to carry this with you.”
I stared
at it for a long time with some loathing, not wanting to touch it. But neither did I want to insult Rose. What would be the harm in taking it? With a smile, I reached across the table and took it, sliding the smooth stone into my pocket. My hand brushed against the pipe inside and my skin chilled. There was so little I knew, but so much I had to learn. I thanked Rose and left.
I had my supper sent to me on a tray, unable to face John as yet. Luckily, the cane from Whispering Oaks and those of local tenants needed to be processed at the mill, and John was kept busy for most of the following week. When he was home, I managed to avoid him, but knew he was waiting for my answer.
I had done nothing but think about our discussion. The more I thought about it, the more sense it made. I had nowhere left to go, and he was offering me sanctuary. Surely not a reason I would have hoped for marriage, but I had few options left. I could not admit to myself that the prospect of marrying John excited me. My common sense continued to tell me to leave, run away as fast as my legs could carry me.
And there was Rebecca to consider. My heart remained wary, its scar tissue still raw, but the child had begun to find a place within me. Her sweet smile and joyous laugh touched me in ways I could not name but for which I was grateful. I was a long way from healing, but she was bringing me there, her little hand tucked securely into mine. We needed each other, and I knew I could not bear to be parted from her.
The Sunday following Elizabeth’s funeral, I dressed with care for supper. Marguerite selected a dark amber silk from Elizabeth’s room for me to wear, and I shed my black and donned the beautiful gown before I had a chance to think about what I was doing. Marguerite swept my hair up, fastening it with tortoiseshell combs, and I sent myself a frail smile in the mirror, pleased with the results.
I felt John’s appraising eyes on me the moment I entered the dining room. With a gallant bow, he seated me, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. I pretended not to notice, but I was sure he could see the rippled flush that crept over my neck and shoulders.