Rich Radiant Love

by Valerie Sherwood

  “ ’Tis cold. Would ye fancy a sip of Kill-Devil?” Big Kryn, the schipper, was offering her his black leathern tankard.

  Linnet jumped and blushed. She felt that what she’d been thinking must show on her scarlet face.

  “No, thank you,” she said crisply, waving away his outstretched hand. “I don’t drink Kill-Devil. ’Tis too strong.” She was surprised that the schipper was speaking English. Usually he spoke only Dutch.

  Crestfallen at her rejection, Kryn mumbled something in Dutch that ended in “juffrouw.” But Linnet, intent on her thoughts of Nicolas, was not listening. She could not know that Kryn had learned those few words of English just to please her, for he had long fancied the pretty serving girl but never before had the courage to speak to her. She always went by with her pretty nose in the air, ignoring the likes of him. But tonight the familiar sloop, the silver river, the romantic darkness had conspired to make him bolder.

  Suffering inwardly at being ignored by the lady of his choice, Kryn stood for a moment, awkward and baffled, then he took a long draught from the leathern tankard and went back to the more friendly company of the crew.

  Linnet did not even notice his going. She stood by the rail, looking pensively at the cabin door that had closed behind Georgiana and Brett. She was wishing with all her heart that by some miracle the ten Haers’ sloop, with Nicolas aboard, would sweep up the silent river and hail them.

  But for all her fruitless dreaming about Nicolas, Linnet had imagined well the scene behind that closed door on the River Witch, for there Georgiana clung with desperate urgency to her husband’s strong frame. Whatever tomorrow brought—be it Indian wars, or heartbreak from sleek fox-haired Erica, or ruin from Nicolas’s connivings—they would have tonight.

  And so she burrowed into Brett’s arms as if she would nest there, and stroked his face with tender fingers and murmured endearments in a manner so intense that Brett lifted his head and looked at her keenly, even though she was only a blurred shape in the darkness of the cabin.

  “Faith, what’s got into you tonight?” he wondered. “For ye’re in a devil of a hurry!”

  “No.” Her voice was barely a sigh and she brought his face down lovingly to rub her cheek against his again. “I’m but holding on to what is mine. I want these moments to last and last and last forever.” There was a little catch in her voice as she said “forever” and she clung to him.

  “Georgiana,” he murmured, and from the way he spoke her name she could tell how moved he was.

  He might have said more, but that she was smothering him with kisses and—passionate lover that he was—this once he let her lead the way and marveled, as he always did, at her seductive sweetness. He felt privileged to hold her thus, privileged that she should let him love her and love him so completely in return. But it would never do to let her know it—for that would give the wench unbounded power over him!

  And then he forgot everything else, as did Georgiana, in the miracle of love as they clasped each other close and forgot the world in ecstasy.

  “I’ll not let the Indians have you,” he promised her humorously when, passion spent at last, he came up for air, “even though you weaken me down to half my strength with these exertions!”

  “Oh, Brett.” It was a little cry from the heart as she nuzzled against him, warm and tingling in the afterglow. “I wasn’t thinking about Indians.”

  He chuckled. “ ’Tis plain that you weren’t.” He ruffled her hair tenderly. “Catch a wink of sleep now, for we’ll soon be arriving.”

  But once Windgate was hailed and she dressed hastily and accompanied him out on deck, her viewpoint changed mercurially.

  “You see, there was no reason to come back,” she scoffed as they stepped ashore. “There have been no Indian troubles here or Wouter would be racing down the bluff to meet us.”

  His gaze rested on her a bit wearily as he strode up the hill. “But there could have been, Georgiana, and we’d have been outnumbered even by a small war party, caught away from our stronghold, leaving it with no strong hand at the helm.”

  For all her airy bravado, she was abashed. For his words had brought it home to her clearly: at Windgate, as on any other savage frontier, the price of life itself was continual vigilance.

  “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly and gave him a stricken look from wide turquoise eyes.

  “Don’t be.” Brett reached out and drew her along with him, slackened his long stride to accommodate her shorter one. “This is a new way of life for you here, different from Bermuda. It takes time to learn a new way of thinking.”

  “Do you think I will learn it?” she asked a trifle bitterly. Doubtless Erica Hulft was well versed already and Katrina ten Haer had been brought up in this way of life.

  “Of course you will learn,” he said easily. “In fact, I think you already have. You could have protested our change of plans on the sloop—but you did not.”

  “No, I did not,” she said softly, and went into the house a happy woman.

  Chapter 20

  No Indian war party arrived, but an alarming message did, for a passing river trader told them that the cattle on one of the distant bouweries were dying of a mysterious plague “and the tenant. I’m told, refuses to discuss it!” That same river trader imparted the welcome information that the Indian canoes they had seen were seeking a runaway squaw rather than white men’s scalps. This cheerful news left Brett free to leave Windgate to Wouter’s care, with Georgiana as chatelaine.

  “I’d best head north,” he told Georgiana restlessly. “If there’s some kind of scourge besetting the cattle on one of our bouweries, we’d best be advised of it—we may need to take measures.”

  Georgiana did not ask what those measures would be. “But what about the Indians?” she demanded in an attempt to head him off, for she wanted these blissful days to linger.

  Brett shrugged. “The Indians will have found their woman by now and be dragging her back. No business of ours. There’ll be many an Indian scare here that comes to naught, Georgiana. ’Tis a constant shadow that hangs over all our heads in this wilderness. Guns are always being run upriver to the Iroquois. But meantime the cattle must be thought of.”

  And he was off, over her protests, on a three-day excursion into the forested countryside—and his going marked the end of their extended honeymoon in New Netherland’s red and gold autumn.

  Georgiana sighed to see him go, his stalwart straight-backed form in its sturdy leather doublet and soft buckskin breeches riding off atop his big black stallion. She yearned to hike up her calico skirts and leap on Floss’s silver back and go with him, riding up into the tamaracks and firs to drink from the cold rushing mountain streams that silvered down from the heights, and eat at hastily built camp-fires, and lie on her back on cushions of spruce branches with her lover and look up through the crisp night air at the stars, shining brilliant in the clear mountain air.

  Her soft gaze followed that erect masculine figure until it vanished into the trees, and she turned away with a sigh. She knew she would have loved him if he had brought her to a hovel instead of a mansion and she must rub her fingers raw at the spinning wheel and carding wool instead of airily directing the operations of a nearly self-sufficient manor. Her heart rode with her lord up into the tamaracks but—her body must stay housebound. For there was a chill in the winelike air these days and cook—who was an authority on such things—had told Georgiana importantly that there would be frost any day now and frost meant butchering. And Georgiana knew she must be there to learn how things were done here, so she could properly supervise in future the curing and salting of the meat.

  So Georgiana sighed and controlled her urge to run after Brett as she watched him go, reminding herself sternly that she could not be off in the tamaracks if she was to get a grip on this place, this northern climate. For New Netherland’s ways were not Bermuda’s ways, as she was learning afresh every day, and she who had been so sure of herself and so in command as mistress
of Mirabelle Plantation in Bermuda often felt helpless as mistress of Windgate on the Hudson.

  Cook was right. The warm days had lingered unusually long, but that very night the first frost of the season made lacework of the small panes of the windows and silvered the grass down the bluff. The brilliant autumn colors would go now, the leaves come rustling down in a thick carpet that would soon be covered with snow and the white snowy expanse would become a road map with the little tracks of furry animals leading across the banks and into the forest glades and down to the frozen river.

  Georgiana woke to a flurry of activity. For this was “hog-killing day,” which meant for the household that all those hams and pork shoulders must be salted and cured eventually to hang in the big smokehouse. Next would come the sausage making and the rendering of the lard to be stored in big earthenware crocks in the cool cellars of Windgate.

  Georgiana put on a huge enveloping white apron over her trim slate blue housedress with its snowy collar and tucked back her fetching curls. She was dashing by the dining room windows on her way to the kitchen when she saw the ten Haers’ familiar sloop sailing up to the pier.

  Oh, no, not Rychie and Katrina! she thought with a sinking heart. Not on butchering day. Not when I look like this!

  But it was Nicolas who stepped ashore. With a little unbidden quiver in her breast, she watched him alight and walk with that slight swagger she remembered so well down the long wooden pier. Nicolas was a jaunty sight with his wavy golden hair spilling down over the shoulders of a fashionable short brown velvet cloak trimmed in gold braid and lined in gold satin that gleamed in the sun as the wind that rippled the surface of the Hudson blew it back from his broad chest. That cloak was just the shade of Katrina ten Haer’s deep brown velvet eyes, she thought cynically—just as the saffron plumes that dipped from his broad-brimmed sand-colored hat were just the shade of Katrina’s thick shining hair. Nicolas’s trousers were the same sandy color as his hat and his wide-topped russet leather boots had a high polish. Against his smiling sun-browned face, the frosty white of his linen collar shone as brilliantly as did the white lace points of his boothose. He was wearing tan leather gloves and a sword swung carelessly at his side. Ah, it was indeed a dandy that was striding up the steep slope toward her!

  Georgiana frowned. The double tragedy of the lovers had somehow exorcised the glamorous shadows of Erica and Nicolas from her mind. She had left her brief turbulent feelings about Nicolas back at the ten Haers’—she wanted them left there. Forever. But now here he was, swaggering toward the massive front door of Windgate!

  Her lips compressed. Well, she would seize this opportunity to make it blindingly clear to Nicolas that there could never be anything between them. With that in mind she lifted her chin and went out to receive him, swung open the massive oaken door before his hand could reach the heavy knocker, and greeted her smiling guest standing in the wide doorway with the great hall yawning behind her.

  “You've been watching for me!” cried Nicolas delightedly. “Watching for my sails! You knew I’d come,” he added roguishly, and the saffron plumes of his hat swept low in greeting as he made a leg to the lady.

  Georgiana opened her mouth and closed it again. Somehow that unexpected greeting had nonplussed her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Nicolas,” she said, returning his bow with an automatic curtsy. “You find me in my housedress about to supervise the butchering. You can hardly think I was waiting for you. I merely happened to pass by the window and saw your sloop arrive at the pier.”

  Nicolas had risen from his bow and now he surveyed her with a wicked grin. “You do protest too much!” he said cheerfully, wagging a gloved finger in her direction. “I am tempted to believe you have been peering out the windows ever since your return from the ten Haers’ ball, wondering when I would come to visit.”

  At this bland assertion, hot color rose unbidden to stain Georgiana’s cheeks. “Indeed I have not, and this is certainly no time to visit. The whole household is in an uproar with all this meat to be salted and cured.”

  “Your cook’s an old hand at it. Leave it to her,” Nicolas advised, stepping into the hall and letting her lead him into the drawing room. “Faith, you’re a lovely sight, Georgiana,” he sighed, letting his eyes rove over her trim figure in the gray housedress. “You set a man to dreaming.” His gaze lingered speculatively on her round breasts, rising and falling a bit rapidly, for Georgiana’s breath had grown short at sight of Nicolas. Before she could contradict him, “I came to return this to you.” He held out the glove she had left behind at the ball.

  “I am surprised you did not dash upriver with the glove at once,” she murmured humorously. “Such an important item, how could I have survived without it?”

  He refused to be laughed at. “I thought to give you a little time to reconsider the joys of marriage with the patroon of Windgate,” he said loftily.

  “And should I reconsider them?” she challenged.

  “You know you should, Georgiana.” He leaned forward, his voice of a sudden gone deep and caressing. “You will come to grief here. With me you could be happy. We both know it.”

  Perhaps it was his wicked smile, the intense blue of his eyes. In any event, Georgiana’s heart had begun to pound uncomfortably She felt uneasily that she had invited this conversation—worse, she was enjoying it!

  “Nicolas, you are a scoundrel.” She took the glove gingerly, being careful not to touch the strong hand that held it, for she knew his touch—even in those handsome leather gauntlets—to be too exhilarating for comfort. She escorted him into the drawing room, dropped the glove upon a table. “You need not have bothered,” she said carelessly, waving him to a chair. “You could have sent it along on any sloop that was passing by.”

  “Ah, but the ten Haers’ sloop is just passing by,” Nicolas chuckled, seating himself on one of the gilded chairs that had been made in France and had reached Windgate by way of a tall-masted ship from Amsterdam. “For I am off on a mission for Huygens ten Haer that will perhaps annoy your husband.” His blue eyes danced.

  Georgiana's brows lifted. She settled her slate blue skirts and made a gigantic effort to sound bored—and didn’t quite manage it. “And what is that mission, pray, that my husband would find so annoying?”

  “Don't look so worried,” he teased. “I am off to Rensselaerwyck to see if the patroon there will perhaps not part with a tiny bit of land just north of that which Govert Steendam is purchasing.”

  “How did you know about that?” she asked sharply, for Brett had told her Steendam’s transaction was still a secret.

  “A lady told me,” he grinned.

  Erica! Not yet married to Govert and already betraying him! Georgiana's lip curled scornfully. “And what would Huygens ten Haer want with this ‘tiny piece of land’?” she asked, although she had already guessed.

  “He wishes to construct a mill.”

  “Did the lady not also tell you what Govert Steendam plans for his land?”

  “Oh, yes. Steendam plans to construct a mill—along with a manor house.” His blue eyes watched her brightly.

  “But two mills cannot be supported so close together,” said Georgiana sharply. Of course there would be no second mill if she had her way, for she meant to influence Brett against this partnership with Steendam that would shackle him to capricious Erica’s whims.

  “So I told Huygens,” said Nicolas in a suave tone. “But he persists in considering it a good idea. Indeed, it would seem he has sent me as his ambassador to the patroon of Rensselaerwyck to offer him a partnership in the enterprise. Van Rensselaer puts up the land—ten Haer puts up the money.”

  “And you no doubt will supervise the mill’s construction and thus have a share in the enterprise.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I wonder who thought that up,” said Georgiana coldly. “Erica?"

  “I shouldn’t wonder.” His reply was careless. “Certainly not Katrina,” he chuckled. “She would be teari
ng out her yellow hair by the handfuls if she thought her father was about to embark on an enterprise that would send me sailing constantly back and forth upriver past Windgate.”

  So Katrina was jealous of her.... Perversely, that pleased Georgiana. “You had best not risk offending the ten Haer heiress,” she warned. “For as Huygens’s only child, she is your best chance of a patroonship—now that Windgate is lost to you.”

  “Oh?” His voice was a mere breath on the wind although his blue eyes had hardened. “And is Windgate lost to me, Georgiana?” he asked softly.

  “Of course.”

  “I told you on what terms I would give up my claim—if you were to leave Danforth and sail away with me.”

  She felt suffocated. “That’s impossible, and you know it!” she flashed.

  “No, I don’t know it.” He looked about him. “I do not see the English patroon about. You are always alone when I find you.”

  “Brett is visiting one of the outlying bouweries,” she said, and her voice softened as she spoke his name. She was suddenly stabbed by the thought that she was sitting here making idle talk with a rogue like Nicolas while her husband, her strong wonderful husband, was far away among the tamaracks. It made her wistful.

  “He leaves you much alone,” criticized Nicolas.

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I miss him.”

  Nicolas was looking at her as she spoke and those three simple words struck him like separate stones. He was struck with envy at the glorious light that filled Georgiana’s eyes when she spoke Danforth’s name. She had never spoken his name like that and he guessed glumly that she never would.

  He rose abruptly. “I cannot stay, Georgiana—much as I would like to do Danforth’s homework for him.” His wistful smile played over her face. “I must be off on mine host’s business to Rensselaerwyck.”