Love's Tender Fury

by Jennifer Wilde

  “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.

  VII

  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.

  “It’ll soon be one o’clock,” he replied. “You slept quite late.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I saw no reason to awaken you,” Hawke said dryly. “Yesterday was an exhausting day. You needed the rest. I’ve ordered a tray of food for you. It should be brought up shortly.”

  I had never seen him so elegantly attired. The dusty boots and shabby work clothes had been replaced by a superbly tailored navy blue suit and a pale blue satin waistcoat embroidered with black silk patterns. His white silk stock was expertly arranged under his chin, his high black boots shined to a glossy sheen. The rough, sweaty farmer who toiled in the fields with his slaves had been transformed into an aristocratic dandy who might frequent the finest drawing rooms in London. His magnificent attire made him seem even more remote.
He looked cool and arrogant and superior, his dark-gray eyes revealing nothing as they took in my disheveled hair and rumpled, low-cut petticoat.

  “You’re going out?” I asked.

  “I have business to attend to.” Hawke reached into his pocket and took out several folded bills, placing them on the dressing table. “I won’t be back until almost six,” he continued. “I trust you can keep yourself occupied with shopping.”

  “But I checked all the supplies. We don’t really need—”

  “You mentioned last night that you didn’t have a decent dress to wear. Buy yourself one, and whatever else you need to go with it. You’ll find a number of shops nearby that cater to the ladies. Don’t go too far afield. Stay in this immediate area.”

  “You intend to just turn me loose?”

  “I hadn’t contemplated locking you in your room, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I—I could run away so easily.”

  “I doubt that you will,” Hawke replied int hat same dry voice. “First of all, you know I’d come after you—and I’d find you. You wouldn’t like the consequences, I assure you. Secondly—”

  He hesitated, giving me a long, lingering look.

  “Secondly?” I prompted.

  “You don’t want to run away from me,” he said.

  “No?”

  Hawke did not reply. It was not necessary. I had been wildly foolish to let him see how I felt about him, but it had been unavoidable. He knew, had just acknowledged it in his own enigmatic way. How I wished I could demolish this icy, arrogant male with some scathing comment that would convince him he was mistaken, but no words would come.

  “We’ll dine out tonight,” he informed me. “I expect to find you ready and waiting in your new clothes when I return at six. I’ve left plenty of money. I expect you to spend it all.”

  “You’re very kind,” I said quietly.

  “No, Marietta, I’m not kind at all. Never delude yourself into believing that. I’m quite ruthless.”

  “And proud of it?”

  “In this world, it’s the only way a man can survive. Men who are kind, men who’re compassionate—” He cut himself short, grimacing. “Get dressed!” he said sharply. “You look like a trollop in that petticoat. The man will be up with your tray in a minute or so, and I don’t want anyone seeing you like this!”

  He turned and left the room abruptly, pulling the door shut behind him. That sudden outburst of anger told me a great deal. He might have shown no reaction, but Derek Hawke had noticed the way the thin white bodice clung to my body, had noticed the swelling mounds of my breast straining against the low neckline. Had he wanted to set them free and fondle them? Had he wanted to tumble me on the already rumpled bed and make ardent, savage love? Was that why he had spoken so sharply, left so abruptly?

  As I dressed, I heard him leave his room. A few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and I opened it to find a grinning male servant with a heavily laden breakfast tray. I thanked him, took the tray, and set it on the bedside table. Hawke had been generous indeed in ordering the food. There was enough to feed two people. How considerate of him to think of it. How thoughtful of him to leave me money for a new dress. He might see himself as ruthless, but I knew that wasn’t the case, even though he tried his best to act the part. He might think himself indifferent to me, too, might tell himself that he was immune, but that wasn’t the case, either. Little by little, Derek Hawke was breaking down, revealing more and more of his true nature.

  I was in an unusually good mood when I finally left the inn, experiencing a sense of well-being and optimism I hadn’t felt in many a day. The sun was dazzling and the salty air was invigorating. I had all afternoon long at my disposal, and it was glorious to feel so lighthearted, so carefree, particularly after those solemn, sleepless hours of misery in my bed in the darkened room. He did care. He tried to conceal it, but he couldn’t, not quite. In no hurry to buy my dress, I wandered down to the docks and watched the men unloading the cargo ships, and then I simply strolled about the streets, soaking up the atmosphere of the fascinating city.

  I was young, I was beautiful, and I was very much in love. I smiled at passers-by. I paused to admire a cart full of flowers—orange, gold, red, vivid blue—and I marveled at the tall, exotic trees and the many shops and realized, suddenly, that I was happy. This exhilarating sensation that seemed to bubble up inside was one I hadn’t experienced since before my father’s death, before my whole world was turned upside-down. As carts and carriages rumbled down the narrow street, as the cries of hawkers filled the air and people moved busily up and down the walks, I paused, reflecting. I had been so miserable last night, and today … today I felt as though I were filled with lonely, lilting music, and the reason was obvious. It wasn’t merely because I loved Derek Hawke. It was because I was sure now that he loved me, too.

  He had been fighting himself for some time now, but … the battle was about to be lost. The feelings that stirred inside of him might be easy enough to repress, might be concealed by a stern, rigid manner, but there was another, stronger, emotion not so easily denied. He could combat the love, but the lust—the purely physical craving that rose in his blood—was too potent to be dismissed with a scowl and a show of indifference. He didn’t want to love me, but he wanted me physically, and he wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. Yesterday, by the side of the road, he had almost given way to that urgent, pulsing need, and last night, had the barmaid not been so brazenly available … I moved on down the street, knowing that I was going to win him before much more time passed.

  Madame Clara’s was on a side street, not too far from the inn, a small shop with an unusually attractive display of bonnets in the window. A bell tinkled overhead as I opened the door. The woman behind the counter put down her fashion pamphlet and looked at me with one brow arched inquisitively. Wearing a lovely violet silk dress, she was slightly plump, in her late thirties, I judged, with hair too blond to be natural. Her shrewd, attractive face was made more so by a subtle and skillful use of makeup. Jet earrings dangled from her ears, and she smelled of some exquisite perfume. There was no one else in the shop.

  “Hello, honey,” she said, “I’m Clara. You must be new in town. All the girls come here, but I haven’t seen you before.” She examined me closely with dark, worldly blue eyes, taking in my run-down shoes, my patched and faded dress. “I think you’d better come back later on, honey, after you’ve gotten yourself established. My shop is the best in Charles Town, true, but I’m frightfully expensive.”

  “I have quite a lot of money with me,” I informed her.

  Clara arched her brow again. “That accent! Lord, honey, I thought you were—”

  “I know what you thought.”

  “No offense, dear. I used to be one of the girls myself—in New Orleans. I was one of the best, too, one of the most expensive, and a helluva lot smarter than most. I actually saved my money. When the face and figure began to go, when the men started looking for someone younger, I had enough money to leave the city of my sins and open a dress shop here in Charles Town. I’m afraid my reputation followed me, but my dresses are so elegant even the grand ladies started coming in. I prefer the girls, if you want to know the truth. At least they pay their bills on time!”

  I was rather startled by the woman’s frankness and effusive manner, but I couldn’t help warming to her. World-weary, disenchanted, she nevertheless had a friendly air that was immediately engaging. I suspected that Clara saw the world around her with a wry, humorous outlook that promptly dismissed any kind of sham or pretention.

  “How much money do you have, honey?” she inquired.

  I told her, and that eyebrow shot up once again.

  “He must be generous indeed. I mean—no offense, honey, but when a girl who looks like you waves a roll of bills like that, there has to be a he! What on earth are you doing wearing those rags?”

  “We—we’ve been in the country.”

  “W
ell, honey, all I can say is he’s been wise to keep you out in the backwoods, dressed like that. When the men in Charles Town get a good look at you in the gown I’m going to provide, your man’s going to have some very stiff competition.” Clara paused, a deliciously wicked twinkle in her eyes. “I mean that literally,” she added.

  I smiled in spite of myself. Clara stepped from behind the counter, her violet silk skirts rustling crisply.

  “Lord, if you knew how bored I’ve been today. One single sale this morning—to a rich matron who looks like she should be out milking cows in some muddy pasture. What fun it’s going to be to outfit someone who’ll do justice to my clothes! There’s enough money there for everything, honey, shoes, stockings, gown, all the trimmings. We’re going to have a marvelous time getting you all done up.”

  Clara flitted through the shop, examining dresses, taking down boxes, tossing tissue paper about, chattering all the while with considerable vivacity. Later on, after we had selected the gown and were searching for accessories to match, I found myself telling her all about my relationship with Derek Hawke. Clara showed no surprise when I said that I was an indentured servant. It was a joy to be able to talk to someone who was sympathetic. When I finally concluded my story with a description of my lonely vigil in the bedroom the night before, Clara sighed heavily and patted her sleek blond hair.

  “Men, they’re impossible! Yours seems a particularly tough specimen, but don’t despair, honey. After he sees you all decked out tonight, he’s going to forget all about his noble resolutions.”

  “I—I don’t know why I told you all that. I’m not usually so—”

  “Everyone needs to talk now and then, honey. It’s done you a world of good, and I do adore a good story. Yours is absolutely fascinating! Tell you what, I’m going to throw in a few extras, just for the hell of it. Do you have any makeup?”

  I shook my head, and Clara promptly went behind the counter to fetch a small case covered in pearl-gray leather.

  “Everything you need’s in here,” she informed me. “Lip rouge, powder, eye shadow—even a tiny bottle of my own perfume. It’s guaranteed to make any man lose his senses in ten seconds flat. This kit comes all the way from Paris, incidentally. The very best coquettes wouldn’t be caught without one well in reach.”