by Lexy Timms
Chapter 7
“What’re we looking for?” Jasper cast about in the undergrowth.
“Willow bark for the fever. That’ll be easy.” Clara peered around the roots of an oak tree. “Yarrow and Indian pipe. Also comfrey leaves. My mother would never admit to it, but her family always binds comfrey into wounds, with a prayer.” She cast a mischievous look over her shoulder. “If you asked her, she would say it was nonsense, but she always does it.”
“What does yarrow look like?”
“A spray of golden flowers, like Queen Anne’s Lace.” She knelt to peer under a bush.
“Thank you,” Jasper said. He was getting used to saying it to her, and it felt inadequate.
“Don’t mention it.” She avoided his eyes. “It’s really...It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he told her, anger rising unexpectedly. “It’s incredibly kind.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” Her voice was almost sharp. “You’re working for your keep.”
“I wouldn’t be if you had turned me in,” Jasper snapped back. It was truly amazing how quickly fear and thwarted desire could flare into anger. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t. You should have. I’ve been in battles, Miss Dalton. So has Horace. We’ve fought the Union. Everyone in that house down there would turn us in without a second thought if they knew who we were.”
“Are you trying to persuade me to do so?” Her voice was incredulous. She sat back on her heels to stare at him.
She was so lovely, wisps of blonde hair escaping from her braid that Jasper could not think for a moment.
“I simply want to know why you did not,” he said finally. He wished he could go and take her hands in his own and tell her that he loved the calluses on her fingertips and the sun on her skin—that she was everything he had never thought of in a woman, and that it was glorious. He wanted to tell her that her honor was no less for her kindness and that he had never imagined that a Union woman would be the one to save his life.
She looked away, her profile proud and sad under the dappled shadows of the trees, and her hands twisted in her lap.
“Why didn’t you threaten me, to take what your friend needed?” she asked at last, looking back to him. There was nothing soft in her blue eyes now. “You should have, shouldn’t you?”
It was not in her, he saw, to hurt someone who meant her no ill.
“I see.” He ducked his head to try to hide the smile he felt on his face.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No! No, I assure you. I simply never expected to meet someone like you.” A wave of melancholy swept over him at that. He knew what options a young woman in her position had. He knew that it was unlikely she would ever find a better match than her suit. “Your Mister Dupont is a very lucky man,” he managed.
“He’s not my Mister Dupont,” she said at once, with feeling. Her voice was icy, and she returned to searching with a vengeance, brushing branches aside with angry swipes of her hand.
“Is that why you ran out here?” It was really none of his business, but Jasper could not stop the words. He hardly recognized himself lately. It was as if he had lost all control.
Where Clara is concerned, his mind whispered. He ignored it. Clara, he told himself, was a Yankee woman. A woman he would never see again as soon as Horace was recovered.
“Yes,” Clara admitted finally, and she sounded so ashamed of herself that Jasper stopped dead in his tracks.
“Does he know where you are?”
“Yes!” Clara said indignantly and then she whispered, “Well, no. I left him by the barn.”
Jasper felt his mouth twitch. He heard a chuckle escape himself and turned away to hide his laughter. He was trying not let his humor get the better of him, but the sound of Clara’s own giggle was too much, and he descended into laugher. The image of Cyrus Dalton standing alone by the barn in his expensive coat was just too much. What started as a giggle devolved into shrieks of laughter, until both of them were holding their stomachs and gasping for air.
“I did say I had to leave,” Clara said, a bit desperately.
“You just left.” Jasper gave a shout of laughter, leaning against a tree and shaking with mirth.
“Oh, dear.” Clara covered her mouth with her hand, but it did no use. Her face was flushed. “Oh, my. I, oh, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Shouldn’t you?” Jasper wiped his eyes and stood, a few chuckles still bursting out around the edges. “He seems deadly dull.”
“He doesn’t like you, either,” she said with an impish smile.
A moment later, they both remembered the danger.
“Did he say something?” Jasper asked quietly.
“He said he didn’t think you were trustworthy.” Clara’s voice was just as subdued.
She was combing through the undergrowth, and Jasper began to wonder if she was the type of woman who could not sit still when she was anxious. He pictured her whirling around the house, knitting and cleaning and inspecting the barn and felt a smile tug at his lips before he processed her words.
“Mister Perry, that is—”
“Call me Jasper,” he said. Please.
“Jasper, then,” she said after a pause. “What did you say to him?”
“I, er...” He knew from the steely look in her eyes there was no escaping this without telling her the truth. “I told him that you were a very capable woman, and not to underestimate you.”
She blinked at him. “You did?”
“Yes,” he said finally, looking away to hide his embarrassment. “It isn’t my place to judge, perhaps.”
Cyrus Dupont certainly thought so.
“I see.” Clara looked away and pushed herself up to check a new patch of undergrowth. She pulled up several mushrooms and laid them neatly on the ground beside her. “Thank you,” she added finally.
“It’s nothing.” Embarrassment burned in his cheeks. A splatter of rain hit his hand, and Jasper grimaced up at the clouds gathering nearby. “Perhaps you should go back to the house.”
“We’ll move quickly. I’ve the Indian pipe, and there may be yarrow near the willow tree. This way.” She picked up the herbs and stood, making her way down the hill.
“There?” Jasper caught a glimpse of yellow up the hill, and Clara followed the line of his arm.
“Yes!” She ran up the hill lightly and stood by as he pulled out his pocket knife to sever the stems.
The patter on the leaves was increasing, and a rumble of thunder started nearby. Clara looked around herself, holding up her palm to catch the fat drops that made it through the canopy of the trees. He wished he had a coat to give her, but his was bundled away beneath a pile of leaves outside the hut.
“You should go back to the house,” Jasper said urgently. He held up the armful of yarrow. “How do I use this?”
“Strip the leaves off and—” A clap of thunder sounded above them and the rain came down in a sudden roar. Clara reached out to grab his hand and yanked him down the hill. “This way!”
“Where’re we going?” Jasper called.
“The willow!” Her shout was almost lost in the sound of the downpour. “It always stays dry underneath. I used to hide there during storms when I was little.”
At the edge of the trees, they hesitated. The willow was next to the winding stream that bordered their property, long limbs trailing into the water that tumbled down from the rapids upstream. Fifty yards away, if not more, and the rain was pouring down.
“Perhaps we should stay here...” Jasper’s voice trailed off.
“We’ll be soaked through either way,” Clara said, pointing up at the heavy clouds across the sky. “August storms never clear quickly.” She hesitated, then shot him that mischievous smile that made his heart stop dead...and took off, running out into the rain with a shriek.
They laughed as they ran, rain running down their noses and soaking their hair. Clara held up her ski
rts and leaped over little puddles that were forming on the ground, and Jasper followed behind with his hands shielding the precious armful of yarrow.
They burst into the space under the tree with a gasp. Clara was still laughing, pushing her soaking hair out of her eyes and panting for breath.
“I love rainstorms,” she managed in between gasps.
“It is a nice relief after the heat.” Jasper leaned over, hands on his knees. “I haven’t run like that since I was little.”
“You acquitted yourself quite well, I thought.” She gave him a bright smile and bent to wring the water out of her hair. “Your shirt is all askew, you know.”
“It is?” He twisted, trying to see the collar.
“Here.” She reached up to turn the collar inside out, and Jasper felt himself stop breathing. Her touch was light and capable, the brush of warm fingers against his neck and his stomach while she adjusted the sopping wet fabric under his vest. He swallowed hard. “There,” she said brightly, looking up at him at last, and her smile died when she saw his face. “Jasper? Is something wrong?”
He shouldn’t. Oh, he shouldn’t.
Jasper reached down to take her hands, moving gently. He did not want her to realize where she was, who she was with. He only wanted to hold her close, study her face, watch her lips curve. She was frozen in a mirror of his own stillness. They stood, hands wrapped together for a long moment, just as Jasper gathered the courage to step away, shuddering with the effort, he saw her lips part.
“Please,” she whispered.
His reserve broke in a rush. His arm wrapped around her waist and he pulled her close, bending his head to kiss her.
Chapter 8
His lips were warm and soft. In the moment before he kissed her, Clara had pictured herself standing up on tiptoe to press her lips against his. She wanted to do so desperately, but she could not seem to remember how to move, or even how to breathe. Now, as he bent his head to hers, she felt herself sway against him. Her fingers clasped around his and she stretched up to meet his mouth. The heat of his palm was burning against her back.
She did not expect the bolt of heat that shot through her. The touch of his body against hers was warm, solid. She did not realize she had moved until both of her arms were twined around his neck to pull him closer, and she clung to him as if she was drowning. The whole world had faded away, and there was only his mouth against hers, one hand sliding up to her neck to cup the side of her face and her skin on fire with his touch.
When they drew away from one another, Clara could not have said how much time had passed. It seemed an eternity and yet too soon. She wrapped her fingers in the front of his shirt, looking up to meet his brown eyes.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he murmured.
His voice sent a thrill through her, running over her skin, sparking a low heat in her belly and lower. She caught her breath at that and saw his eyes darken with desire. His fingers were splayed against her back, holding her close. She could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his shirt, the linen soaked against his skin, and for a moment she was overwhelmed with the desire to press her lips against his throat where the cloth parted. She let her breath out in a little sigh, and he groaned, made to pull away from her.
“Don’t go.”
“If I stay, I’ll do things we’ll both regret.” He shuddered as she flattened her palm against his chest.
“Are you sure?” She leaned closer, smiling, and brushed her lips against his.
“Very sure.” His fingers clenched against her back.
“No.” Clara traced a finger over his skin. “Are you sure we’ll regret it?”
“Woman, you will be the death of me.” He caught his breath in a laugh and stepped back, running his fingers through his hair. His breath coming hard.
“Jasper.” She wanted to say his name, and she felt a smile grow on her face, unstoppable, when he looked over at her.
He could hardly hold himself away from her. “This would ruin you,” he murmured.
“I don’t care,” she whispered back. She did not, in this moment, she cared for nothing but the touch of his lips again. “I don’t. Please, Jasper.”
“Don’t say that,” he whispered. “Don’t say my name, Clara. I can’t bear it.”
She turned away, heart pounding. She wanted to run into his arms and away from him, too. She was terrified, yearning, desire and fear tumbling over one another in her chest. The red of the farmhouse showed faintly between the blowing branches of the willow, rain coming down in sheets.
There was no going back yet.
She did not want to go back. It was more than desire, she realized. She longed for the touch of his skin against hers once more, but more, for the first time in her life, she understood the feeling others had described to her. It was something she had never expected to find. She had thought she was immune to it.
How could it feel like both the storm and the haven? And how could it take every ounce of self-control she had built up over the years and scatter it to the winds? Clara turned, hardly realizing what she did. Her fingers were on the buttons at the front of her bodice, unhooking each slowly. She did not have to look down to know that the lace of her chemise showed, along with the swell of her breasts. She kept her eyes fixed on Jasper’s, watching him clench his hands to keep from moving towards her.
He did not move until she sat, skirts billowing around her, but then he was at her side in a moment, kneeling on the carpet of leaves and moss and cupping her face between his hands for a kiss.
He laid her out on the ground gently, hand behind her head to cushion it. He was hesitant, bracing himself on his elbows, and Clara left the buttons of her dress half-unbuttoned to reach for him and pull him down on top of her. One hand slid along his ribs, the other tracing down the muscles of his arms, and she opened her mouth for his kiss, hearing a gasp and a moan—her own voice.
She had not known she would ever be so wanton. She heard stories of women undone by poor behavior and wondered at it; and now she could not have stopped her hands from questing over his body any more than she could have stopped the rain from falling. The buttons of his vest sprang open and Jasper groaned as she let her fingers play over his skin.
“Clara.” His mouth was moving on the skin of her throat, hips driving against hers, and she bit her lip to feel his hardness through the layers of her dress.
Their legs twined together as they moved, her hands tracing over his back and down the rippling muscles in his arms, then rising to cup his face as she drew him back up for a kiss. One of his hands cupped her breast gently, thumb rubbing over the nipple, separated from her skin only by a layer of fine linen; Clara heard herself gasp again, and her hips moved up to meet his.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered when he slowed.
It was the wrong thing to say. His eyes closed and he bent his head. One hand clenched against the ground before he rolled away, onto his back.
“Jasper?”
“Don’t say my name,” he whispered again. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” She knew the reasons and asked it anyway, daring him to speak it.
“Because your family would never allow you to marry me. Because I would never dishonor you.” Trembling, he reached out to lay his palm against her face, and his thumb brushed against her bottom lip. When she turned her face to kiss his hand, he drew it away quickly. “Clara, if I stay here with you now, I will dishonor you.”
“It’s not dishonor,” Clara whispered, and he looked at her gravely.
“You know that not a single person in this town would call it anything else. I would be killed, Clara, and you would live the rest of your life shamed for it. I could never allow that.”
“I’m not a child,” Clara said passionately. “I’m a woman, Jasper, and I’m choosing this.”
“What of the future? What if...” His breath caught. “What if you were to bear my child?”
He was right, damn him. She turned her f
ace away, eyes squeezed shut against tears. She could see the boy in her mind’s eye: Jasper’s dark eyes and her fair hair, toddling unsteadily between them in the fields. She thought she had not known love until Jasper kissed her, and it was true—but she had not known, either, the wave of protectiveness she felt to think of her child. Whatever consequences she could face for herself, she could not bear that a child might face them as well.
She bent her head in acceptance, loss swirling in her chest.
“You should go,” she whispered, wanting to be kind and knowing that any moment of weakness would lead her back into his arms.
He nodded, his face never flickering.
“You’ll never see me again.”
“No,” Clara whispered. She turned away, trying to compose her face, fingers working on the bodice of her gown. “Stay until your friend can travel. I would never be the reason a man dies. But you and I...”
“I shall not speak to you,” he promised her. “I won’t even look at you. Clara...I would kiss you goodbye, but I swear I cannot. It would be too much.”
Clara bent her head. She could not look back at him, not when she was biting her lip so hard she thought it might bleed.
“Go,” she whispered. She heard the branches rustle and she buried her face in her hands and counted to one hundred. When she looked around, Jasper was gone—and she rested her face on her knees and sobbed.
Chapter 9
All he could think of was her skin and her lips and the arch of her back, and it drove him mad. Jasper growled, low in his throat and clenched his hands. He needed to focus.
There were more important things to worry about than kisses, he knew that. The fever was not improving. Horace’s skin was an unhealthy shade of grey, a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead, and he was so far gone that he did not even protest when Jasper lifted him to pour the willow bark and yarrow tea down his throat.