Morning Song

by Karen Robards

  She kicked at him. It was a mistake. The hem of her chemise flew up to somewhere in the neighborhood of her belly button. Powerless to cover herself with her hands tied, Jessie could only look down at her long bare legs and the curly triangle of hair between them with mortified fury. How dared he do this to her! He was every bit the villain she'd known him to be! If he touched her, if he dared . . .

  Clive placed one knee on the bed and reached for her.

  "If you touch me, I'll kill you. So help me God, I will!" It was a fierce hiss.

  Clive merely lifted an eyebrow at her mockingly. Then his hand found its target, and he twitched the hem of her chemise into place so that she was minimally decent once more. 321

  "I hate to disappoint you, Jessie, but I'm too tired to do anything but sleep. Though I'll be glad to accommodate you in the morning, if you like."

  With that he blew out the lamp and rolled into bed beside her. In a disgustingly brief period of time he was fast asleep, while Jessie, lying rigid on her sliver of the mattress, was left staring into darkness as she fought not to let her body slip toward the dip his weight created in the bed. Fury and hurt warred inside her, but as she closed her eyes at last, fury had the upper hand. Sometime during the night he rolled over, pulling the covers clear off her body. Half asleep, Jessie gradually registered that she was cold. Of its own accord her body sought the nearest source of heat. Clive, of course. He had his back turned to her, and she snuggled close against it, her front against his back. Then she fell back asleep.

  Jessie dreamed that she was at Mimosa again, safe at home in her own snug bed. She was watching Stuart smile at her, one hand over his head as he lifted the mosquito bar out of his way. Then he was crawling into bed beside her, reaching for her, his hands stroking her body, which was mysteriously naked, caressing her breasts and belly and thighs until she was moaning with need.

  He was looming over her, his knee sliding between hers to part her legs, probing at her as he sought entry. In her dreaming state Jessie felt the burning heat of him, the moistness of his mouth on her breasts.

  Then all of a sudden he found the opening and thrust inside. At the shattering impact Jessie's eyes flew open to discover that this was no dream!

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  She was flat on her back and he was over her, possessing her, kissing her breasts even as he moved inside her with slow, careful ease. Part of her wanted to beat at his head, to cry rape, but the quivering hunger of her body told her that this was no rape. Though he'd done it somehow in her sleep, he'd roused her to the fever point where her fury at him no longer mattered next to the urgent demands of her flesh. Her hands weren't even bound any longer, she discovered when he withdrew nearly all the way and she clutched at his shoulders to stop him. Sometime while she'd slept, he'd untied her wrists.

  This time he was slow, and careful, and relentless, pushing her nearly to the brink time and again, only to draw back until she was mindless, pleading for him to finish, pleading for him never to finish.

  Her arms wrapped around his neck and her legs wrapped around his waist. With each slow, sure thrust she cried out, arching her back. Finally he lifted his mouth from hers to whisper in her ear.

  "Tell me you love me," he commanded hoarsely. Dizzy with need, she did as he said.

  He moved inside her again, then almost withdrew.

  "Say it again."

  "I love you! I love you! Oh, Stuart, I love you!" He thrust deep inside her, once, twice, taking her quivering to the brink.

  "Clive," he rasped in her ear. "Say ‘I love you, Clive.' "

  "I love you, Clive," she gasped obediently into his mouth, then repeated it again and again, mindlessly, as he took her over the edge with him.

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  XLIII

  When he awoke the next morning she was gone. Clive lay for a moment in luxuriant peace, his eyes still closed, before it registered that Jessie was not curled beside him any longer. He opened his eyes to make sure. Except for the silk stocking that still hung down from where he had secured her bound hands to the headboard, there was no trace of her in the bed at all. He had only tied her hands because he was furiously angry and too damned tired to think up some other way to keep her with him, and safe, until he could calm her down. When he'd awakened during the night and seen how uncomfortable she'd looked, he'd had a pang of conscience and freed her hands. Then one thing had led to another, and he'd thought that the situation between them had been resolved. Obviously he'd been wrong.

  Clive sat up, looked around, and cursed. The cabin was empty, not only of Jessie but also of all her belongings. Clive's eyes widened in disbelief as he shot out of the bunk to make sure. The little witch had run out on him! While he'd blissfully caught up on the sleep that she'd cost him in the first place, she'd dressed, packed her things, and vamoosed!

  It was only then that Clive realized, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, that the River Queen no longer throbbed with power, but rocked gently up and down in time to the river's swells.

  While he'd been sleeping, they'd docked again! As the realization came to him, Clive leaped for the door, kicked aside the chair, which she'd apparently positioned as well as she could 324

  from the outside, and as the door swung open, stood naked in the aperture staring out at the busy port that he knew all too well. Damn, he'd have a hell of a time tracking her down in a town the size of Baton Rouge!

  Embarrassed titters from a trio of passing females brought him to full awareness of his position. They were giggling behind their hands, two of them averting their eyes as they passed while the third ogled him boldly. No lady, that!

  Clive felt unaccustomed color rise to his cheeks as he stepped back and slammed the door, which of course immediately swung open again. Cursing, he kicked it shut and shoved the chair against it to hold it so.

  This time when he caught up with her, she'd be lucky if he didn't resort to beating some sense into her! He loved her, damn it, and she loved him, Stuart or Clive, he knew she did, whether she would admit it or not. She was just having a totally unnecessary temper tantrum to punish him for his slight deception, and if he didn't teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget, it wouldn't be for lack of the inclination to do so!

  He'd get dressed and . . . Where the bloody hell were his clothes?

  The little baggage had taken his clothes! Everything from shirt to trousers even down to his boots, was gone!

  His purse, too, with every cent they'd had between them in it!

  He was naked, penniless, and mad enough to chew nails. Just wait until he caught up with her!

  When he got his hands on her, he would wring her nock—so help him God, he would!

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  Clive stomped about the cabin, cursed, and finally kicked the end of the bunk to relieve his feelings. What he did, instead, was hurt his big toe.

  When he quit hopping about on one foot, he snatched the coverlet off the bunk, wrapped it around himself toga-fashion, and hobbled onto the deck to procure assistance.

  He only hoped Luce was still on board.

  Jessie was both tired and unhappy as she stood at the rail of the Delta Princess late the following afternoon. She'd done the right thing, she knew, in leaving Clive McClintock—the dirty swine!—and heading for home, but the knowledge didn't make her feel any better. For the life of her, she couldn't stop confusing that treacherous piece of scum with the Stuart she had loved, and her heart ached badly.

  The only thing that made her feel even slightly better was imagining how angry he must have been when he'd awakened and found her, his clothes, and all the money gone. She wondered how he'd ever managed to get off the River Queen, or even if he had. Perhaps he'd simply accepted the inevitable and allowed the boat to take him on to New Orleans.

  Where he still would have had to disembark naked.

  The picture that that thought conjured up caused a reluctant smile to tug at Jessie's lips.

  The Delta Princess was steaming up the Yazoo River to
ward the dock just to the west of Elmway, and already Jessie was beginning to see the familiar plantations along the river. Makepeace, the Ben-sons' place, fronted on the water, as did the Culpeppers' Beaumont and the Todds' Riverview. Mimosa sat some way back from the river, facing the road, so that the house 326

  itself was not visible from the Delta Princess's deck. But Jessie knew when they steamed past Mimosa land. She was almost home again! Her heart swelled at the thought. How had she ever thought to leave it?

  The Mimosa she returned to would not, of course, be the Mimosa she had left. Stuart would be gone, and Celia would be in sole charge once more. As for herself—what would her role there be now? She was far from the child she had been before Stuart—no, Clive, curse him!—had helped her to grow up. Heavyhearted, Jessie tried to imagine what Mimosa would be like in the future. Celia's former patronizing contempt for her stepdaughter had jelled over the past months into near hatred. She would do her utmost to make Jessie's life a misery, especially when Jessie told her the truth about Stuart-no, Clive!

  (Would she ever accustom herself to thinking of him by that dreadful name?) Or perhaps, since Celia's marriage had clearly been unhappy for some time, Celia would thank her for being the catalyst that ended it. But where would that leave Celia's coming child? Whether Stuart/Clive was the father or not—and Jessie tended to believe him about that, as Celia's proclivities were well known to her— the baby would be the object of infamy from the moment of its birth if the truth came out. To further complicate the situation, if Stuart was not Stuart at all, but Clive, the legality of Celia's marriage might be called into question. Would the child, even as the supposed offspring of Stuart/Clive, be considered legitimate if the marriage was not? Jessie wondered, bitterly, if Clive McClintock, wherever he was, was finding any enjoyment in contemplating the disaster he had left behind him. The scandal, when it broke, would be appalling. When word got out that Stuart Edwards had been nothing but an impostor, 327

  had been found out and had subsequently vanished, the talk would swell loud and long. Celia wouldn't thank her for making them all notorious, and Jessie didn't much like the idea herself. Yet, if she said nothing, Clive McClintock would be free to return and resume his role as Stuart Edwards for as long as it suited him. Jessie didn't think she could bear that. To see him every day, have to treat him publicly with at least a modicum of respect, and watch him living a lie as her stepmother's husband and the Misses Edwards' nephew and her own—what? Nothing. Stuart, or Clive, it didn't matter. He was no longer anything to her.

  Except a fraud, a cheat, and a liar.

  If she told, his goose would be effectively cooked in the Yazoo Valley. If she didn't, he might come back. But then again, Jessie thought hopefully, he might not. Perhaps she should just hold her tongue and await events. She could say that she had never even seen him while she was away, but had decided to return to Mimosa on her own. Stuart Edwards could simply be allowed to vanish, and over time be forgotten.

  Perhaps that would be best. As long as he didn't come back. Jessie clung to that thought until the Delta Princess approached the dock. She was standing at the bow rail, the wind snatching her hair from its pins, her wide-brimmed straw hat hanging from its ribbon around her neck so that she could enjoy the sun on her face. A line of mule wagons carrying cotton waited on the bank to be unloaded; a dirt farmer and his family stood to one side, watching the paddle wheeler come in. A little way back sat a man on a big black horse.

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  Jessie's eyes widened. Leaning forward, she stared as if unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. The black horse was Saber—and the man was Clive McClintock!

  The Delta Princess was tied up, the gangplank lowered, and what few passengers there were on board disembarked. Still Jessie stayed where she was, frozen in place by sheer disbelief. Her eyes were fixed on Clive, who had swung down from Saber and was leisurely making his way to where she stood transfixed.

  "Need some help with your bag, miss?" The speaker was one of the ship's officers. Jessie tore her eyes off Clive to glance at him distractedly.

  "No, I . . ." she began.

  "The lady has help, thanks," said the smooth voice that she had thought, hoped, never to hear again. As Jessie looked around, Clive came up behind her, dismissed the man with a smile and a nod, and bent to pick up her valise, which sat on the deck at her feet. Then he put his hand on her arm just above her elbow.

  "I hope you brought my boots. I have a fondness for that particular pair." "How did you . . . ?" "Presently, Jessie. Presently." Without causing a scene, Jessie could do nothing but let him escort her from the boat. His grip on her elbow was perfectly polite, his smile urbane. But he didn't speak again. Nor did she. When they were on dry land, he led her toward Saber in total silence.

  After they had reached the big horse's side, he dropped her valise in the grass and turned to face her, tipping back his hat. Jessie's eyes ran over him, disbelieving. How had he managed to get here before her, and fully clothed at that?

  "How did you get here?" she asked, because that was the question that burned in her mind to the exclusion of all else. 329

  "Did you think I wouldn't? You cost me another night's sleep, but I'll survive."

  "Your clothes . . ." He was dressed in a dove-gray trouser suit with a cream-colored waistcoat that was every bit as elegant and well fitting as the clothes he customarily wore. He needed a shave, but the black stubble on his cheeks and jaw just added to his rakish appeal. Even the gray top hat on his head was bandbox fresh! "Taking my clothes wasn't nice, Jessie. I had to borrow some from Luce's current gentleman friend. Quite a good fellow, actually, but rather short."

  "But ..." Jessie's eyes ran over him again. She was practically speechless with shock. She had left him, little more than a day ago, naked and penniless a good two hundred miles downriver. Now here he stood before her, not only fully clothed but also immaculately dressed, having reached her destination before she did! And if those clothes belonged to someone's too-short gentleman friend, she would eat them!

  "Fortunately I was able to pick up my own things when I rode through Natchez. I've been riding almost continually since you left me, Jessie, on three different horses. So if you find me in not the most pleasant of tempers, I'm sure you'll understand." The shock was beginning to wear off. Here he was, no apparition but Clive McClintock the rat in the flesh, smiling smoothly at her while his sky-blue eyes glinted a warning that he was far from the civilized gentleman he appeared.

  "I knew you were no gentleman the first moment I laid eyes on you!"

  "How very perceptive of you."

  "You shouldn't have come back. When everyone finds out what you've done, the consequences won't be pleasant." 330

  Despite what he had done, one tiny, ridiculously soft spot in her heart did not quite like the idea of seeing him driven from the valley, or arrested, or whatever would be his ultimate fate. Her mind knew what he was, but a niggling piece of her heart kept getting him confused with the Stuart she had loved.

  "You mean when everyone finds out that Stuart Edwards has been dead for some time and that I'm really Clive McClintock?" He was still speaking to her with that awful affability, while his glittering eyes conveyed quite another message.

  "Yes. That's precisely what I mean."

  "And just how will everyone find out? You don't mean that you would expose me?" Clive raised his brows in mock surprise.

  "Surely not! Think of the consequences—for yourself." Jessie was briefly taken aback. "What consequences could there possibly be for me?"

  "Well, my darling, much as it would pain me to do so, if you were to tell tales out of school, I would be forced to retaliate in kind."

  "I don't understand you."

  "Don't you? Let me spell it out for you, then. Should you feel it necessary to inform the world— or even one other person—that I am not Stuart Edwards at all, why, then I would have to disclose certain—intimate—acts that have occurred between us. Who do
you think would be more reviled—the impostor, or the once virginal young thing who had sunk to being his mistress?" As the import of his words sank in, Jessie felt a rush of blood surge directly to her head. "You— cad!" she cried.

  "I would only do such an ungentlemanly thing if you forced me to it, of course." The apologetic tone he affected was pure mockery. "What do you say, Jessie? Shall we keep one another's 331

  secrets?" "I hate and despise you," she said bitterly. "You'll get over it," he answered, apparently taking her words for the agreement they were. Bending, he picked up her valise and hooked its handle over the horn of his saddle. "Can I give you a ride home?" "No!"

  "Come, Jess, don't be childish. It's a long walk." "I'd sooner walk all the way to Jackson than ride with you!"

  "Suit yourself." Shrugging nonchalantly, he swung into the saddle, saluted her, and rode off.

  Jessie was left glaring after him, unable to think of any words bad enough to describe him, even to herself. She'd thought to hitch a ride on one of the mule wagons but discovered, to her dismay, that they were not yet being unloaded.

  If she wanted to get to Mimosa anytime soon, she would have to walk.

  It really wasn't all that far, she told herself as she trudged along the dirt road that, with its mud puddles and fresh ruts, gave silent evidence of a rain the night before. But the weather was humid, and though the tall pines on either side of the road blocked the sun, they were little protection against the sultriness of the air. Mimosa wasn't much more than five miles distant, Jessie calculated, but she was wearing her new shoes with the cunning little French heels, and after a while they began to pinch her feet. Her gown, bought in Jackson at the same time as the shoes, was styled in the latest fashion. It was a lovely shade of deep blue, baring her shoulders in the current mode, but the skirt was longer in back than in front, and she had to constantly pick it up to keep it from trailing in the mud. The ribbon of her hat began to irritate her throat, and when she put the hat on her head, it only made her hotter. She was miserable, and her feet hurt, and like everything 332