It was a different Hudson on which they embarked from the Hudson whose waters they had negotiated in warmer weather. Brilliant leaves had fallen everywhere, carpeting the earth in rich browns and red and gold. Only the beeches and hickories still seemed in full leaf. The sounds of chirping insects were absent and all the fish had run downstream—passing the trout, which were surging upstream to spawn. Georgiana saw them flashing by the sloop in the last of the sunlight, brilliant as maple leaves. The work of the busy muskrats and beavers was nearly complete now and soon the curious raccoons with their comical faces would no longer peer down from the trees but would seek winter quarters in rocky dens. Fat winter birds fluttered by against the waning sun, their feathered bodies storehouses layered with fat to endure the hard northern winter.
The River Witch plunged south into the Hudson Highlands. For a while they lost the wind and to keep the tide sweeping upriver from carrying the sloop backward they had to use the long oars and “sweeps,” but when the wind picked up again they glided south.
“Along here in the spring,” Brett indicated the steep eastern bank with a wave of his hand, “there will be a solid blaze of strawberries And just ahead I’ve often seen the rigging filled with fireflies.” He stopped abruptly and his gray eyes narrowed as he studied three long birchbark canoes that were sliding silently along the opposite shore. “Now what would that many Iroquois be doing so far from their territory?” he asked of nobody in particular.
“Perhaps they aren't Iroquois.”
“Perhaps,” he said in an absent voice. “Let’s see what our schipper thinks.”
Georgiana had seen but one Iroquois. Incredibly tall and with a bone structure that would have done credit to an ox. His voice had seemed to emerge hollowly as from the depths of a cavern. No wonder the local Indians were afraid of this northern breed, she had thought. Now as Brett strode forward to confer with his schipper she leaned forward to look, but in the shadows of the trees on the opposite bank she could not see these canoe-borne warriors as different from any other Indians. To her they seemed but dark shapes in the night, distant, unreal.
“At least they’ve passed Windgate on their way south,” she said when Brett came back. “We won’t be bothered with them.”
“Yes.” He did not seem inclined to talk about it, but she noted that every man aboard had turned watchful and constantly scanned the shoreline. It gave her an uneasy feeling.
“They may just be going south to the fair,” she suggested. “Kermis, I think cook called it. Anyway, she said there was some kind of Dutch fair going on in New Orange.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But I think we’ll have our outing another day. The wind is against us but if we turn about now we can make it back by morning.”
She knew then with a cold feeling that he thought there might be other canoes gliding down from the northern reaches. War canoes, with this party but the advance guard.
“But no need to spoil our holiday,” he said jauntily. “The crew have fiercer drinks to warm them—Kill-Devil and Bride’s Tears, but we’ll share a bottle of fine Canary, and Linnet can spread out a linen cloth for us here on the deck and we’ll have the picnic you mentioned. By moonlight.”
“Not yet,” she said wistfully, unwilling to leave the rail. Shapes of the mountains shadowed the wild shores beyond this silver river. A glamorous landscape.
“Yes,” he said, his mellow mood matching her own. “It is lovely, isn't it?” He leaned down, his hand lightly caressing her hair and breathed deep of its lemony scent, for it was not the night that had captured him but the woman.
“Lovely...” she echoed dreamily, her eyes on that distant shoreline. She put the thought of Indians and tomahawks from her “ ’Tis too cold anyway for sleeping out ashore,” he said casually. He sniffed the air. “The wind is fair but it smacks of snow. You may be giving your masquerade ball sooner than you had planned. Are you ready for it?” he challenged.
Georgiana lifted her head and faced him. If he wanted to ignore the Indians and talk about trivialities, so would she. “I will be ready for it. The servants at Windgate are well trained and we have infinite supplies of stores. And enough wine in the cellars to float the River Witch to Bermuda!”
Brett sighed. “I realize we have enough wine, but music must be provided for dancing, rooms must be made ready to bed down a great number of guests, the kitchen staff must work for a week or more making sweetmeats and cakes—such is the custom here along the river. And,” he added, “at least one of your servants appears to be moonstruck.” He was looking at Linnet, some distance away and leaning pensively on the rail. “Or seasick,” he added critically.
“She is neither,” laughed Georgiana. “Linnet is in love. She has at last admitted it—whispered it to me just as we came aboard.”
“Who is it she’s taken a fancy to, do you know?”
“She wouldn’t tell me—set her jaw. She’s very stubborn, you know. All she would tell me—and I quote her—is that he is ‘a most wondrous gentleman’ and that she met him at the ten Haers’ ball.”
“A gentleman?” Brett was startled. “I’d assumed she was enamored of some lackey.”
“Well, gentlemen have wandering eyes too,” pointed out Georgiana, her own eyes dancing.
“But that could mean trouble, for most of the men at the ball were married. Get her to tell you his name.”
“I doubt she will. She says she is sworn to secrecy but that he has promised to visit her soon.”
“Married,” sighed Brett. “Else why swear her to secrecy?”
“Let us hope not—and there could be other reasons. He could be young and his family might not approve of his courting a serving wench.”
Brett’s skeptical shrug gave her back a cynical answer.
“In any case, I wish her joy,” said Georgians quietly. “She has had a cruel, hard life and I intend to give her another dress that she may parade before him—whoever he is. Something in soft orange, I think, to complement her rich brown hair.”
“You would make a lady of the wench because you like her but—you may come to regret it,” warned Brett. “For you know not who this gentleman may be.”
Later Georgiana would realize sadly how true that was.
But for now she tossed her head scoffingly. “Linnet is like me,” she told him. “She gives her heart away suddenly—and follows where it leads her.”
“That too,” said Brett, eyeing her with more tenderness, “can be dangerous. Look where it has led you.”
“Yes,” sighed Georgiana, swaying against him, feeling the pistol he had thrust into his belt cut into her soft flesh. “Look where it has led me.” The moon had come out and she gave him a winsome smile, her teeth flashing white in the moonlight. Here in the magic night, with the wind billowing the sloop’s sails and sending them skimming over the Hudson’s silver surface, here with the great rounded hulks of the mountains rising majestically like sea monsters from the deep, here with the wind blowing fresh and fair, and Brett’s arm about her. she could believe herself capable of anything. She could make Erica fly away, she could forget Nicolas’s claim to Windgate—and his disturbing presence—she could toss her cares into the river and forget them.
Tonight, this magic night, she was Brett Danforth’s woman! “Let's go to our cabin,” she said softly. “We can eat later and, after all, if there’s a chance of Indian trouble ahead, you’ll need your rest.”
He gave a low laugh. “Rest, my lady, is not what you have in mind.”
Her winning smile told him that was true indeed.
Abruptly he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the cabin. As he passed the schipper, the big Dutchman raised a “blackjack” leathern tankard of Kill-Devil in salute. Down the sloop’s rail Linnet turned enviously to look. Her own eyes grew starry as she watched the lovers disappear into the cabin, shut the door. Someday, she told herself dreamily, someday that could be her and her gentleman drifting with the tide upriver, forgetful of all but l
ove....
Linnet was a hopeless romantic but, unlike Georgiana, she was not set on an even keel. Just now she was listing badly, for the handsome fellow who had kissed her so briefly at the ten Haer ball—lord, there had not been time for more than that although Linnet would have been glad to give her all—had almost capsized her emotions. She would do anything for her gentleman, she told herself tensely, anything!
From her place by the rail, with the heavily wooded landscape flying by, Linnet yearningly imagined the scene in that cabin. They were both so handsome, Georgiana and Brett—beautiful people. He would be laying her down gently on the bed right now and Georgiana would cling to him, not wanting him to take his arms away—not even to undress!
Linnet pulled her shawl around her shoulders for the night had turned cold and the fresh breeze with its hint of snow was chilling her to the bone. She warmed herself with the thought of that warm bed where the naked lovers were locked in a hot embrace.
She sighed. So it would be one day for her, when her wondrous newfound gentleman came to claim her. She leaned on the rail, daydreaming about him, wondering how soon he would come to Windgate—for he would come, as he had promised. Of that she was certain from his hot beguiling whispers in her ears, from his questing hand that had wandered delightfully along her heaving bosom and pinched and fondled her ripe breasts. He would come for her and then—and then—Linnet felt her whole body go weak at the thought and her legs began to tremble. He’d said nothing about marriage, of course—there was too much difference between their stations in life for that, she knew with a flash of honesty, but—to be a mistress to a man like that! The very thought dazzled her.
And such a man! A man who could have Erica Hulft at a snap of his fingers, or Katrina ten Haer, or even her mistress, the glorious Georgiana—for such was what Linnet naively believed.
The man of her dreams who would one day “come for her,” of course was Nicolas. He had come upon her in the dark hall at Haerwyck, where she had retreated on hearing footsteps coming—for she was not sure that haughty Rychie ten Haer would relish having a serving wench, no matter how handsomely decked out, get too close to the crowded ballroom. He had in fact been momentarily blinded by the blazing candlelight he had so recently left, and had crashed into her and instinctively closed his arms around the warm yielding body with which he had collided.
“Well!” His voice was appreciative—the more so because he was still smarting from Georgiana’s rejection of him and some harsh words from Katrina ten Haer. “And what lovely creature do we have here? Do I know you, Juffrouw?”
Young lady! He had called her young lady! He must think her to be one of the invited guests! Linnet felt suffocated by excitement, for she had instantly recognized the voice of the tall man who had reached out to catch her as she was knocked off-balance, and whose mustaches were even now tickling her ear.
“You—you saw me at Windgate, sir,” she faltered. “I’m Linnet, maid to the mistress.”
“Ah, yes, maid to the mistress.” Nicolas did not release his hold on her. Instead he kept her close against him, amused that he could feel her heart pound through the thin material of her bodice. Those were soft round breasts that were pressing so tight against him, and now he recalled her although at first he had not. A luscious piece, even though a trifle obvious. “But maids have a way of becoming mistresses. Linnet,” he said whimsically, and bent to steal a kiss.
It meant nothing to him, that stolen kiss in the dark hallway at Haerwyck, but it stunned Linnet. Her response was immediate and violent. She flung herself against Nicolas with all her strength and when he would have let her go, pulled his golden head down to hers and kissed him passionately. All the pent-up frustration of her manless life, all the scorching dreams of a lover that she had never confided to anyone were in that kiss.
“Well, well,” murmured Nicolas, sensing a lass ripe for bedding. His impudent fingers toyed idly with her breasts. “Perhaps we could find an unoccupied corner of this manse and pursue this matter further?"
Linnet was agog at the suggestion. In her mind Nicolas had the same standing as a patroon—for might he yet not be the patroon of Windgate? Linnet had heard and savored the gossip, indeed there was little else to occupy her mind at isolated Windgate. That Nicolas should favor her was almost more than her full heart could bear.
But it was not to be.
“Linnet? Linnet, where are you?” It was Georgiana’s voice, calling her.
To keep her from answering—and therefore disappoint Georgiana, who had disappointed him—Nicolas pressed his lips down firmly again upon Linnet’s mouth that had just opened to speak. ‘‘Don't answer,” he said, speaking softly into her throat. “I’ve only just found you.”
Linnet thrilled to such obvious interest. “But I was always there,” she gasped, breaking away. “You just didn’t see me.”
It was true enough but Nicolas’s next words swept the past away. “I see you now,” he whispered. “And I like what I see.”
Her clothes! thought Linnet joyously. It was her wonderful blue kirtle and her sleeves slashed in gold that had made Nicolas notice her! How irrational that was in the semidark did not even occur to her. Her spirit was leaping forward on wings of joy at his touch, at the bold impudence of his words.
“I—I like you too, sir,” she quavered.
“Enough?” His hand was questing down inside the cleavage of her thin doublet. “Do you like me enough, Linnet?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” Responding to his touch, all her senses racing. Linnet felt as if she would faint. “I’ve always liked you,” she added with complete honesty. “Even when you didn’t notice me.”
“Linnet, we are going now!” called Georgiana. “The house is crowded, there is no room for us. Linnet.” She was beginning to sound exasperated. “Linnet, where are you?”
“I must answer her, sir!” Linnet broke away. Her voice trembled as she called, “I’m here—I’m coming, my lady.”
With obvious reluctance, her new admirer let her go.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Linnet, with real tears in her voice. “I wish I could stay....”
She sounded so desperate that Nicolas’s good humor was solidly restored. “I’ll come and visit you at Windgate,” he told her wickedly, half intending to keep that promise—it would serve the lofty Georgiana right to find him seducing her maid! His eyes gleamed. “Till next we meet,” he said gallantly, and planted a kiss directly on her heaving cleavage.
On wings of joy, Linnet ran out to find her frowning mistress. “Wherever had you got to, Linnet? I’ve been searching the house for you. Brett is waiting for us at the landing.”
Linnet said the first thing that came into her head. Her fertile imagination came to her rescue. “I was in the dark hall dancing by myself,” she confided. “And I bumped my head against the wall and it must have stunned me.”
“You do look a bit dazed,” observed Georgiana critically.
Delighted with the success of her lie, Linnet rushed on to embroider it further. “And then I realized I’d burst my doublet and something might pop out, and so I ran back to stitch it up and when I came back down the hall, I heard you calling me and I answered.”
Linnet’s explanation sounded a bit confused but Georgiana had no reason to doubt its veracity. “Come along,” she said crisply. “We’ve already bade our host and hostess good-bye, and bursted bodice or no, we mustn’t keep Brett waiting.”
Down the uneven moonlit slope. Linnet could hardly keep her feet from dancing. If the mistress knew who her lover was, wouldn’t she be surprised?
The thought had stayed with her, teased her, as they cast off from the ten Haers’ dock and made their way out into the main current. The wind whipped the Witch’s sails and blew her red curls into her eyes but she hardly saw the dark shoreline sweeping by. All she could see was the gleam of Nicolas’s eyes shining down on hers in the darkened hall, all she could feel was Nicolas’s warm lips and impudent questing hands, all sh
e could hear was his beguiling voice.
What wonders lay in store for her!
That Nicolas had forgotten her the moment she was out of sight and returned to his ardent pursuit of Katrina ten Haer—and Katrina ten Haer’s fortune—never even occurred to seething Linnet.
Back at Windgate, Linnet had alternated between almost hysterical gaiety, which caused cook to look askance at her, and fits of depression that worried Georgiana. The thought of Nicolas coming to call—and by now Linnet had persuaded herself that he would not only call, he would sweep her up and take her away with him—sent her soaring to the heights, but as the days passed and her lover did not put in an appearance, she fell into a deep dejection that was lifted only slightly by this unexpected downriver outing with her master and mistress.
Linnet had seen the Indian canoes pass by but had paid them no attention. Her thoughts were all centered on Nicolas—when he would come, what he would say, what she would say, and—she shivered just thinking of it—what they would do when they were alone and shedding their clothing in some delightfully dark and private place. An inn perhaps downriver in New Orange—for Nicolas was a gentleman, he would take her somewhere grand! And some serving wench would struggle upstairs with bathwater and a metal tub—ah, how marvelous her handsome Dutchman would look in his bath!
She would scrub his back, she thought raptly. And then pour fresh warm water from a pitcher down over his shoulders to rinse away the soapsuds, admiring the strong rippling muscles that emerged from the foam. And then he would rise up dripping, magnificent animal that he was. His loins would gleam wetly and he would smile at her—the same way she had seen him smile at Georgiana. Exactly the same! And she would seize a fresh linen cloth and towel him dry. She would be—naked, of course, and very fetching. He would not be able to keep his eyes off her. She would work the towel down over the golden fur of his broad chest and over his taut stomach muscles. And when the towel reached his hips she would be giggling and playful and by then he would be overcome with passion and he would tear the towel from her grip and toss it away, and with his legs still gleaming with droplets he would sweep her up and stride with her to the featherbed and plunge upon it, unmindful of dampening the sheets. He would stroke her body with those hands that had so briefly thrilled her the night of the ten Haers’ ball. And he would lower his long length onto hers and he would—
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