by Susan Wiggs
But Roarke held him off. "I'm giving this to Phillip, Hance. And if I find you trying to take it from him, I'll do to you what I probably should have done a few minutes ago. I'll take you across my knee. Now, why don't you pick up those bear-claws, and we'll see if we can get them back on the string?"
"No." Hance turned away sulkily. As he left the room, Roarke heard the boy mutter, "Mine," under his breath. This time, Roarke ignored it. He'd give Hance time to get used to his being back. But not much time. Roarke had already figured out that the boy would require more than a little training.
The hogsheads rolled down the river road at a lumbering pace, stirring up red-brown dust as the Greenleaf boys guided them to the wharf. Genevieve basked in a glow of pride; it was their best crop yet. A few of the townspeople milled about, admiring the yield, shaking their heads with the wonder of it.
"They still can't get over you," Roarke said, grinning down at Genevieve. "A few years ago no one would have believed that a woman and an ex-slave could raise so much as a turnip between them."
As they were laughing together, Nell Wingfield sidled by, sporting a new hat of outrageous proportions.
" 'Tis a tidy bit of tobacco there, Genevieve," she said. "Henry will be most pleased."
Genevieve's face clouded. Henry Piggot would indeed be happy to learn of her farm's bounty. He'd been absent for the duration of the war, but she didn't doubt that Nell kept him informed of things in Dancer's Meadow. The constant dread of his arrival weighed on her mind.
Hance, riding high on his father's shoulders, plucked a paste grape from Nell's hat.
"Lookee there, Papa," he chortled. "It's not real! I wondered why the birds stayed away from her."
"Give that back, you little urchin!" Nell huffed, grabbing for the bit of fruit.
"No," Hance said merrily, slipping to the ground with youthful agility. "You've got enough fruit on your ugly old hat."
"Hance…" Roarke strode off in pursuit, concealing a grin of amusement.
Nell glowered after him. "Impertinent child," she sniffed. "He could use a good whipping. I'm surprised a man like Roarke would tolerate such manners." She narrowed her eyes at Hance. Roarke had reached him and was extracting the paste grape from his hand. "But then," Nell continued, "we can't hold Roarke responsible for the boy's nature, can we?"
Genevieve shot her a warning glance. "Don't speak of it, Nell. Don't ever speak of it. If you do, I swear, I'll make you sorry."
Hance landed a kick on Roarke's shin and ran down to the river, howling like an Indian.
"Blood will tell, Genevieve," Nell said cattily. She gave a moist, red smile to Roarke, who handed her the paste fruit. Just as she was leaving, Nell seemed to remember something. She handed a folded piece of paper to Genevieve.
"Read that to me, will you?" she said. "The writing is too poor for me to decipher. I dislike straining my eyes."
Genevieve hid a smile as she donned her spectacles. Nell could barely read her own name. Glancing down at the paper, she said, "It's from someone called Desmond Sloat."
"An associate of Henry's. A British procurement officer."
But Genevieve didn't hear. She stumbled back against Roarke, gasping with disbelief.
"Henry Piggot is dead," she breathed, staring at the letter. "He was killed on a farm near Fairfield."
Genevieve's mind reeled as images of Piggot swam through her thoughts. Piggot, her creditor, her tormentor, was gone. She drew a deep, shaky breath.
And then relief set in. Relief so dreadful and so profound that Genevieve was ashamed of herself.
Genevieve's gaze moved dubiously up the trunk of the enormous hickory tree in her yard. Roarke had climbed to the first great crook and was moving out onto a spreading limb.
She shaded her eyes and squinted against the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the hickory, dappling her face.
"Roarke, do hold on with both hands. You'll fall."
He stopped working for a moment and grinned down at her, shaking his head. His smile was more dazzling than the sunlight above.
"Well, now, I can't very well tie these ropes if I'm clinging for dear life, can I?"
"Just be careful," she said primly. But, watching him, she knew she needn't have worried. Roarke secured the ropes using both hands, straddling the branch with his ankles hooked together, the sinews of his thighs straining against the taut fabric of his breeches, holding him in place effortlessly. He finished knotting the ropes and looked at Gene.
A hot blush crept to her cheeks when she realized she'd been staring in frank admiration at his thighs. The blush grew hotter when Roarke's wide grin told her he'd seen. He grasped the rope and let himself down, dropping to the grass in front of her. But he said nothing, only stooped and picked up a plank of lumber that he'd cut and sanded. He passed the ends of the rope through two holes in the plank and tied them. The he stepped back to admire his handiwork.
"You didn't have to do this," Genevieve said.
"Nonsense, girl. Every child needs a swing. Hance loves the one I made for him."
"But there aren't any children here. Joshua's youngest is twelve now."
"Well, then," Roarke said, lifting Genevieve up and setting her on the swing, "it appears we old folks will have to enjoy it."
"Really, Roarke," Genevieve protested. She gasped when he gave her a push that sent her sailing toward the sky.
She'd never been on a swing before; she'd never even thought about it. But as the soft early-autumn wind rushed through her hair, it never occurred to her to object to the frivolity of playing like a child when there was work to be done.
Roarke was enchanted by the picture she made, sable curls flying out behind her, eyes sparkling like gemstones as she began to laugh. It was rare that Genevieve let down her guard and gave herself up to pure pleasure, so damned rare…
Suddenly, Roarke knew that he wanted to make her laugh every day, not just on these occasional visits. And, just as suddenly, he knew with shining certainty that she was ready at last to hear what he'd ached to tell her for years.
When Genevieve arched forward, he caught her at the waist and lifted her out of the swing. Roarke's face must have betrayed the emotion that pulsated through him, because she stopped laughing to stare at him, cocking her head to one side.
He grasped her by the shoulders and drew her so close that she could feel the urgent pounding of his heart.
"I love you, Gennie Culpeper," he said in a hoarse, throbbing whisper.
She caught her breath. The honesty of his admission stunned her at first. And then a warm, pervasive feeling seeped through her to the very core of her being. She looked up at his face, a face that had haunted her since she'd first laid eyes on him seven years before, in the smoky, dim atmosphere of her father's tavern.
She lifted her hand to his cheek and stroked it gently. Unlike all the other times they'd been together, there was now an absence of tension. At last she felt completely free to touch the face she'd thought of with forbidden adoration for so long.
"I love you, Roarke," she admitted softly, giving voice at last to the secret she'd carried hidden in her heart for years.
His eyes seemed to burst into flames of joy as, ever so slowly, he brought his lips to hers. His kiss was so sweet, so compelling, that Genevieve nearly melted in his lingering embrace.
"Oh, God, Gennie, I love you. I need to wake up to you every morning, to give you children, to embrace each and every day with you for the rest of our lives.
"Marry me, Gennie," he said against her lips. "Please…"
In the past she'd had a hundred reasons for not wanting a husband. But now not a single one came to mind. She knew only that she loved him and wanted him and would never be complete without him.
"Yes, Roarke," she heard herself saying. "Yes, please." She wound her arms around his neck and gave herself up to the rush of giddy joy that enveloped her. All the promise of the happiness to come was in Roarke's kiss. Genevieve knew, with heart-stopping
certainty, that she was happy for the first time in her life.
Mimsy Greenleaf appointed herself the bride's seamstress, lending her expert hand to an extravagant assortment of new dimities and calicos and linsey-woolsey fabrics with enthusiasm. She gave special care to the length of green-sprigged cotton Genevieve had chosen for her wedding gown. Mimsy's unerring eye for design and detail created a dress prettier than any Genevieve had ever seen.
She wore it one late-September morning, standing on a half-round stool while Mimsy took up the hem. The gown felt perfect. Its snug bodice hugged her torso, rising to a wide, lace-edged neckline. The full sleeves were gathered just below the elbows. Rose, who had inherited her mother's talent, had woven purple and green ribbons into the front of the bodice and into the sash at the waist. As she had for days, Genevieve felt herself on the verge of song. She hugged herself and tried to stand still.
"Just a few more inches," Mimsy said, speaking around a mouthful of pins. "I declare this hem must be four yards around."
"I'll probably trip over the skirts," Genevieve said.
"When have you ever tripped over anything?" Mimsy snorted. "You seem to do everything just right, Genevieve. I don't know how we'll get on without you when you leave here."
Genevieve laughed. "Give Joshua a little credit, Mimsy. I couldn't leave the farm in more capable hands."
"Are you sure you want to give it up?"
Her eyes turned to the window, to the twin hills that rose behind the house, gray-green with ripe tobacco. She'd poured sweat and tears over every acre of that land; she'd loved it, hated it, praised it, cursed it, and finally made things grow.
But where she was going there would be a lot more growing to do, and she'd be doing it with Roarke. She felt no tug at the idea of signing the entire farm over to Joshua. She and Roarke wouldn't need it. Everything they needed was at Roarke's farm.
She was ready to leave. Ready, because what awaited her commanded her heart like a plot of land never could.
She gave Mimsy a fond pat. "I'm very sure," she said firmly. Then her face burst into a smile. "Roarke's here!" He was coming up the road on his big roan horse, holding Hance in front of him on the saddle.
"Hold on, girl," Mimsy scolded when Genevieve leaped from the stool to greet him.
"But I want him to see the dress."
"No, you don't. It's not fitting. He'll get an eyeful soon enough."
Genevieve agreed that tomorrow was soon enough. Mimsy helped her out of the dress and slipped on one of her usual day gowns. Without stopping to put on shoes, she ran from the house to greet Roarke.
She paused to lift Hance from the saddle and placed a kiss on the boy's shining head, which was warm from the bright autumn sun. He scampered up to the fields, where Joshua and his sons had begun cutting the tobacco.
Roarke dropped to her side and caught her in an embrace that took her breath away. At first, Genevieve had protested his frankly affectionate demonstrations, which he indulged in regardless of who was watching. But now she savored the sweet warmth of his kisses and the strength of his arms folding about her. She wanted the closeness as much as he did.
'Tomorrow, love," Roarke mumbled against her hair. "God, it's an eternity until then."
Genevieve agreed. Always she felt this inner fire at his nearness. Something within her strained for completion and she could hardly wait for the moment when she could give her whole self to him.
"I can't stay long," Roarke said regretfully. "I never knew there was so much to be done for a wedding. Mr. Carstairs has agreed to officiate."
"I'm glad," Genevieve said. "It's kind of him, considering I haven't set foot in his church in six years."
"He's happy to do it, Gennie. Cy Hinton and I finished setting up the garden at my house. We'll be wed right under the sycamore tree, where I first proposed to you."
Genevieve blushed. "I'm surprised you remember that, Roarke. As I recall, I wasn't very civil to you about it."
Laughter crinkled in his eyes. "I didn't mind, Gennie. I knew you were in love with me even then, but you were just too damned stubborn to admit it."
She struck him lightly on the chest. "You flatter yourself, Mr. Adair."
"Do I, Gennie?" His eyes held hers compellingly.
At last she shook her head slowly from side to side. All the denial, all the reasoning with herself, had been in vain. She knew it now; she felt safe admitting it.
"I've always loved you, Roarke Adair," she said, her throat aching with emotion. "Always."
"Then don't be so sad about it, little love," he told her gently, taking a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "The only sad thing is that we took so long to do anything about it."
Genevieve nodded. A stiff breeze blew down from the Blue Ridge, tasting of winter's chill. She stepped into the circle of his arms.
"Hold me, Roarke," she said, seized by some inexplicable sense of urgency. "Hold me and tell me that this is really happening, that it's not just a dream."
"It's no dream, Gennie. I have to get Hance and go back now, but after tomorrow we'll never be apart."
She buried her face against him and breathed in his fragrance. He smelled of sunshine and clean earth, "Swear it, Roarke," she said. "Swear we'll always be together."
He placed a finger under her chin and tilted her head up to face him. "I swear, little love," he whispered, and claimed her mouth in a kiss that told it far more eloquently than words.
As Genevieve watched him ride away, she was full of a happiness so brilliant that even the single cloud that scudded over to obscure the sun couldn't dim it. The intensity of her joy frightened her a little. Good Lord, she thought incredulously, why would fate smile on me like this? Me. I've done nothing in my life but bring a few pounds of tobacco from the earth, and yet I've managed to win the love of the finest man in God's creation.
She refused to look at the shadows cast by the clouded sun. To put any meaning in that event would be to question her joy.
The clock ticked somberly in the late afternoon. Mimsy had gone to put the finishing touches on Genevieve's dress. Joshua and the boys were out of sight, over the rise in the more distant fields. Rose was helping Mimsy, and Caroline, who possessed Calvin's urge to read and learn, was practicing her skill reading the Scriptures to her mother and sister. She hoped one day to attend a Quaker school in Philadelphia that Luther Quaid had told her about.
Genevieve was alone in her house, listening to the clock and thinking about Roarke. She'd sleep here for the last time tonight. No wave of mawkish sentimentality washed over her at that. The house had never been anything but the sole legacy of Cornelius Culpeper, the husband she'd never met, who'd unwittingly dealt her many cruel years of hardship by leaving her his debts.
A movement on the road caught her eye. The afternoon sun glinted on the painted side of a coach, causing her to wonder. There were few coaches in Dancer's Meadow; even horses were getting scarce because of the war. The coach rolled up and crunched to a halt on the gravel drive. A black footman jumped down from the box and went around to open the door.
Henry Piggot emerged.
Genevieve's hand flew to her mouth, and she made a small sound of helpless denial. You're dead, she said mutely. You were killed while looting farms at Fairfield. But even as those thoughts tore through her mind she realized that a mistake had been made. A mistake that would cost her her happiness.
Abandoning futile denials, she opened the door to him. His bulk had increased over the years. He was massive now, filling the doorway.
Genevieve stared at him and forced herself to speak. "Hello, Mr. Piggot."
He smiled humorlessly around the ivory toothpick that protruded from his mouth. "Back from the dead, it appears. I'm afraid I found it expedient to contrive my own demise. You see, the patriots were about to seize me for spying… But it's all blown over now. The rebels are doomed, and I've work to do." He fingered the packet of papers in his hand. "Debts to call in."
Genevieve fumbled as sh
e put on her spectacles to peruse the fading papers he showed her. Her fingers were like ice as she clenched and unclenched her fists at her side.
"I don't have that sort of money in hard currency," she told him shakily.
He shrugged. "Very well, I'll take this farm, then, and all your darkies."
She slammed her fist down on the table, upsetting a clay bowl of Mimsy's peppers. "You'll never have this farm, Mr. Piggot, and those 'darkies' are not mine to give." Silently she blessed the fate that had kept him from coming earlier. If he'd come just a day before, the farm would have been half in her possession. But she and Joshua had made the official transfer yesterday. She no longer owned the tobacco concern, and so Piggot wouldn't be able to take it from her.
She explained that to him with relish.
He looked unconcerned. "I'm sure you'll be able to find some form of payment. I understand you're to be married shortly. In a town as small as Dancer's Meadow, tongues can't keep from wagging about an impending wedding. Your husband will simply have to—"
"No!" Genevieve felt herself growing panicked. The debt amounted to a small fortune. Roarke didn't have that kind of money; he'd lose his farm. And even if he could afford it, it wasn't fair to force him to assume another man's debts. He deserved a wife, not a liability.
"Does anyone else know you've come?" she asked Pig-got.
He shook his head. "Not even the fair Nell. I've had to keep my presence a secret here in patriot territory."
Genevieve emitted a shaky sigh. "Roarke is to know nothing of this."
"Then what do you propose to do, Mrs. Culpeper?"
Genevieve turned away and went to the window, unmindful that the papers Piggot had brought were cast to the floor by her movement. What, indeed, was she going to do? The gilded mantle of contentment that had shrouded her since she'd agree to marry Roarke suddenly fell away, leaving her naked and exposed to a cold feeling of hopelessness. What a fool she'd been to believe fortune had finally smiled on her. There had always been obstacles; there always would be.
As she gazed eastward, the afternoon sun glimmered on the placid river. Genevieve had a sudden wild surge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way to get the money. Digby Firth had been generous to her in the past, and she hadn't disappointed him. It would mean, of course, that she couldn't marry Roarke tomorrow, that she couldn't even risk telling him about her problem. She clenched her fist at her side.