by Susan Wiggs
Fording the rushing yellow waters of the Wabash had exhausted them both. Luke made a small, intimate fire and, too weary to cook, they supped on hardtack and apples. He stared across the fire at her face. The play of light and shadow carved hollows in her cheeks and lent her eyes a depth that made him wonder what she was thinking.
Tree toads piped loudly in the darkness, their shrill voices accentuating the silence of the two people who faced each other across the fire. Luke saw Mariah shift restlessly.
He tossed a stick into the fire with a mumbled curse. She said so little, yet he knew her mind was far from idle. It was ironic; for years he'd avoided chattering women, but now that he was in the company of one who gave him hours of silence, he found he longed to hear her speak. When she rose and slipped soundlessly into the wooded darkness, he cursed again.
At first, Luke thought nothing of her leaving; she never explained her desire for privacy, and Luke never questioned it.
But tension tingled within him as he selected another apple and ate it distractedly. He tried not to notice the deepening twilight, the spectacular glowing cover of the night sky.
Luke's worries took flight. They were in inhospitable country, where the rocks tumbled down to the river from sheer cliffs. Bears and wolves abounded, aggressive animals that didn't fear humans. This was Indian country, too, and—
Swearing, Luke came to his feet. His heart pounded as he unsheathed his knife and loaded his rifle. With sudden certainty, he knew that if anything happened to Mariah, the rest of his life would be a waking nightmare.
She'd gone toward the river. Luke hacked his way through brambles and wild raspberry bushes, emerging high on a bank of earth and stone. The moon, newly risen, cast a silver glow over the foamy tumble of water that cascaded over the rocks.
Looking down, Luke saw a dark shape at the water's edge. Panic shook him to his soul. Cursing, he tumbled toward the shape at breakneck speed, thinking she'd fallen down the cliff. The form on the bank was as still as death.
"Mariah!" Her name was ripped from his throat.
It wasn't Mariah but her clothes, spread in a damp heap over smooth stones.
"Fool woman," he said through gritted teeth. "Damned fool woman." The water was deep here, the current strong enough to sweep an entire oak tree downstream. Luke shuddered to think what the swirling water could do to a swimmer, especially one so slight as Mariah.
He set his gun against a rock and threw down his hat. He knew that it was absurd, that there was no hope of finding Mariah in the churning, moon-silvered waters, but he couldn't just stand helplessly by and call her name. Stripping down to his breeches, he waded in and then plunged, surging strongly toward the middle of the river. He dove to the sand and rocks of the river bottom.
After exploring until his lungs ached, Luke resurfaced with a strong kick, gripped by helpless panic. "Oh, God, Mariah," he choked.
She was calling his name. At first her voice didn't register in his panic-fogged mind, but then he snapped his head around, scattering droplets of water over the surface. Relief surged through him when he saw her standing on the shore, looking almost childlike in her overlarge hunting shirt.
Luke emerged from the river with great slogging steps. Chasing on the heels of his overwhelming relief came a terrible rage, overtaking the tenderness he'd felt, obliterating reason.
He stopped in front of her, inches from her. His eyes raked her slender form from her slick, inky hair to her bare legs, slim and shapely beneath the formless hunting shirt.
His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her upper arms. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled.
Mariah caught her lower lip with her teeth. "I was bathing, Luke. What's the matter?"
"What's the matter!" He emitted a sharp laugh. "You disappear for hours, you don't answer my calls—"
"It wasn't hours, and I didn't hear you calling. When I saw you on the bank, I hid. Over there, behind the rocks."
"My God, Mariah, did you think this was a game?" He shook her as he spoke.
She refused to flinch under his rough assault. "I wasn't dressed."
He let her go abruptly, causing her to stumble back. "Damn it, Mariah, I was thinking you'd drowned, and you were worried about your modesty!" He flicked his gaze over her again. The damp shirt did precious little to conceal the frankly feminine curves of her body. Despite his rage, Luke felt a primitive stirring at the sight of her, the smells of water and wind that clung to her.
He turned away sharply. "You'd best finish dressing," he growled. "I wouldn't want to offend your modesty any more than I already have."
She made no move toward her clothes. "Why are you so angry, Luke?"
Her soft query made him pause. Features hard, he replied, "I thought I'd lost you."
Mariah sighed. So that was it. For one spiraling moment she'd imagined another reason for Luke's rage. In the preceding weeks she'd imagined a softening in his attitude toward her, an easing of tension as they rode side by side.
Making a sound of impatience, Luke scooped up their clothes. He clamped his hand around her wrist and pulled her through the brambles, moving so swiftly that Mariah felt as if she were being dragged. When they reached the camp, he hung their garments from trees to dry.
As she studied the grim look on his face, Mariah won-dered how she could have ever believed he liked her. She was nothing to him, nothing but his means of dealing with the Shawnee. All he wanted from her was her cooperation in finding his sister. It was clear that he could barely tolerate her.
When he'd finished with the clothes, Luke turned to glare at her.
Pride kept her from lowering her eyes. She was through being ashamed of who she was, through trying to convince him that her Indian blood hadn't tainted her character. She met his murderous gaze with a level stare.
"Do you really hate me so much, Luke?" she asked softly.
A curse burst from his lips as Luke closed the distance between them. "Hate you?" he questioned in a whisper that throbbed with disbelief. "Good God, Mariah, would I have cared so much what happened to you if I hated you? I died a thousand times looking for you tonight."
"But I thought—"
"You thought wrong, Mariah."
And then he was kissing her with all the fervor of suppressed frustration. There was no gentleness in his embrace, no sweetness, only the raw passion of long-denied emotion. Despite the ferocity of Luke's embrace, he radiated a deep tenderness that quelled all Mariah's fears.
When he finally released her, she stared up at him, a hundred questions written on her face.
His smile was soft. "Now do you understand, Mariah?"
"No."
"Neither did I, not until tonight. I was so damned stubborn, resisting what I knew to be true because of, of—"
"Because of what I am. Because my father was a Shawnee."
"I swore to hate the Shawnee because of what Black Bear did to my family." He laid his hand alongside her cheek and smiled again, rubbing his thumb over her temple "But I can't hate you, Mariah."
"You made an awfully good attempt at it." She turned away in confusion.
He caught her arm and drew her around to face him. "I'm not finished, Mariah."
She wondered if he was going to kiss her again. And she wanted his touch.
But he made no move. Instead, his smile disappeared, and he looked at her so intently that she felt he'd touched some part of her beyond mere flesh.
"Mariah."
She studied the darkness of the woods behind him.
"Mariah, look at me. No, don't talk. Just listen." He took her by the shoulders. His touch was gentle now.
"I love you, Mariah."
The world seemed to splinter, to shatter into a thousand pieces. Mariah searched within herself and found that she was afraid.
Because she loved him, too.
"I'd anticipated that question, sir," Hance said, giving Dr. George Attwater his smoothest smile. "I'm well prepared to support your daughte
r quite comfortably."
George Attwater puffed on a fat cigar and looked across his desk at Hance. Ash from the cigar crumbled down onto his vest. He brushed it away distractedly. Hance Adair's appearance was almost too perfect. Every golden-blond hair was in place, and a white smile glittered in his tanned face. He sported a crisp new suit of charcoal broadcloth. His hands were meticulously clean, the fingernails manicured.
Adair's face was a mask of civility and control. It was impossible to see what was going on behind the smiling blue eyes. Because Dr. Attwater found himself wondering about the man's sincerity, he found himself doubting it.
"Your family's in farming, isn't it, Hance?"
He nodded. "But I've always been one to strike off on my own. I'm into shipbuilding and trade."
Attwater raised a thick, graying eyebrow. "Is that so? What is it you've been trading?"
"Furs, grain, supplies, salt from the licks. Whiskey. With all the new settlers coming in, there's a demand for just about everything."
Cigar smoke spread in a blue haze across the room. George Attwater looked around, at the long walls of books and stacks of manuscripts and documents. "What a man chooses as his life's work," he said, "tells much about the man."
Hance heard veiled disapproval in Attwater's voice. But he was careful to keep his congenial smile in place. "I agree with you, Dr. Attwater. I've chosen a career that suits me perfectly. Never will I be in a position where laws or other men can tell me exactly what to do."
This provoked a sudden coughing fit, but when Attwater looked up, there was a certain grudging admiration in his face.
"You must be away a lot," he suggested, "since Lexington has no navigable river."
"I intend to keep residences here and in Louisville."
Attwater puffed furiously on his cigar. "You've satisfied me, Mr. Adair, inasmuch as a man can be satisfied with his daughter's choice of a husband."
"I ask nothing more, sir."
Attwater held up a hand to indicate he wasn't finished yet. Setting down his cigar, he grew serious. "We're an old family, Mr. Adair. A proud one. Our ancesters were among the first to brave New England's shores. We've been doctors, ministers, men of learning, and women of great culture and breeding. Never, in either of our families, has there been a scoundrel, a man of questionable character."
Hance's smile disappeared. "What are you saying, Dr. Attwater?"
"That Ivy is a product of generations of untainted breeding. That, in a husband, she deserves likewise. I demand it for her."
Hance's handsome face grew rigid, like cool marble chiseled into a statue of uncommon handsomeness. "Dr. Attwater, I'm a first-generation American. But my parents are decent, hard-working people who take as much pride in who they are as you do in who your cobwebbed ancestors were."
Dr. Attwater's scowl broke into a smile. "By God," he said jovially, "I do believe you're right, Hance Adair. I like a show of pride in a man, almost as much as I like honesty."
"I'm curious, Dr. Attwater. You've barely spoken of Ivy herself."
"I think the world of my daughter, Hance. But it's easy to misread Ivy. Most people think of her as a bluestocking, a sophisticate in many ways. The girl's always been so damned smart it scares me. She mastered Greek by the time she was ten, astronomy by age twelve… When she was sixteen, she wrote an interpretation of Helvetius that I actually used in one of my best lectures."
"I'm not at all surprised, Dr. Attwater. Ivy is the most accomplished woman I know."
"But she's innocent, Hance. In every way that matters."
"I know that, sir."
"She tells me she loves you."
Hance's smile returned. "I reckon she does, sir."
Dr. Attwater's hand came down on the desk, hard. "How can she know that?"
"You're not giving your daughter much credit, sir. She's not a little girl anymore."
"Why Ivy, damn it? You're rich, handsome as the devil, and Lexington has more lovely young belles than any town in Kentucky. Why Ivy?"
It was a question Hance had asked himself again and again. He loved what Ivy was, what she represented. Goodness, decency. All that he was not. He met Attwater's gaze.
"Your daughter's perfect for me."
"I'm sure she is. But are you perfect for her?"
"I'll make her happy, sir. When it comes down to it, that's all you want for her, isn't it?"
The lines of age around Attwater's mouth deepened. He stared past Hance at a Jouett portrait of Ivy on the library wall, done when she was about twelve years old. The artist had captured the intent look in her eyes, the intelligence there. Yet the effect had been softened by the presence of a small, wistful smile.
"You're right, Hance," he said at last. "That's all I want."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Intriguing patterns of moonlight and shadow danced over Mariah's nude body. She gave Luke a shy half smile that filled him with tenderness so fierce it made him tremble. When she lifted her arms, he came to her swiftly, without hesitation, burying himself in the soul-shattering warmth of her, surrounding himself with her essence, the glow of her love.
It had been this way for a week, ever since Mariah's disappearance had driven Luke to an admission of his feelings for her. Neither Luke's prejudice nor Mariah's distrust had been proof against the emotions that bloomed between them.
They clung together, one moment in desperation, the next in tenderness, until nothing existed beyond the power of their love. The brutality of the wilderness ceased to be real for them; all was cushioned softness and ease as they held each other.
Mariah threaded her fingers through Luke's hair, loving the feel and smell and taste of him. Never had she imagined feeling this way. She wanted to give… until her whole being belonged to him and him alone.
She'd learned ways to please a man at Cocumtha's knee, then later at Miss Nellie's. But no one had told her about this ecstasy; no one had even hinted at it.
Mariah knew she had something rare and special. Something precious that would last her a lifetime. The girls at Nellie's spoke of physical love with harsh, world-weary derision. But for Mariah and Luke it was a celebration of all they felt for one another. Every kiss, every touch, was a reverence.
At first she'd doubted herself. How could she, in her inexperience, possibly please a man whose very magnificence overwhelmed her?
With tender patience, Luke had shown her how. And it was easy. Easy, because the love that swelled within her breast dictated exactly what her hands and mouth should do. Instinct—ancient, long buried—burst to the surface and Mariah gained confidence. She knew that Luke loved her touch, the feel of her long hair, loosed from its braid, trailing over his stomach and thighs.
Mariah shuddered beneath him and wished the moment would never end. But when it did, Luke stayed by her side, stroking her and whispering love words, promises that there would be other times, a lifetime of them…
"I love you, Luke," she told him. "I love you."
He silenced her with a soft, lingering kiss. "I know, honey. I love you. I didn't know I could ever love a woman like this." He moved his hand over her shoulder and gazed down at her face. "You're so beautiful, so fine."
"Luke," she whispered, winding her arms around his neck, "it'll always be like this, won't it?"
"Always, honey," he promised. "If we weren't out in the middle of nowhere, I'd prove it by marrying you."
She gasped softly. "Would you, Luke?"
Laughter rippled from him. "As a matter of fact, I intend to, as soon as it can be arranged."
She sat up quickly, pulling on her shirt. "Is right this minute soon enough?"
"Sure, honey. But how?" He watched her curiously as she rifled through the saddle packs. She returned with an ear of parched corn and a rabbit's foot that Luke carried to bring him luck in hunting.
She handed him the small bit of fur and bone. "This is supposed to be a deer's foot, but we'll make do." Glancing up, she laughed at the confusion on his face.
<
br /> "I hope you meant what you said about marrying me, Luke Adair. Because you're about to do it, in the way of the Shawnee."
There was a time when Luke disdained anything remotely Indian, but Mariah had taught him that there was much he could learn from the ways of her people. He stood and drew on his breeches.
"Just tell me what to do, honey."
"We exchange the corn and the rabbit's foot. They are the emblems of our duties to one another."
"That's all?"
She thought for a moment, then reached out to him. "Take my hand, Luke. The handclasp denotes my willingness."
He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. She laughed, pulling away. "The Shawnee never kiss, Luke."
He drew one of her fingers into his mouth. "Oh, no? I happen to know one Shawnee who adores kissing. Now, are you going to show me how to marry you or not?"
She nodded, smiling shyly. They exchanged the corn and rabbit's foot with solemnity as the night sounds rose all around them. The simplicity of the ceremony, the privacy, the sharing, lent it a very special meaning. Mariah clutched the rabbit's foot to her breast, her hand trembling a little.
"Niwy sheana," she said softly. "You are my husband."
Luke let out a whoop of pure, unabashed joy, taking her in his arms and swinging her about.
"Mariah—" He broke off abruptly, and she felt his muscles tense, rigid beneath her hands.
The quiet snap of a twig intruded on their embrace. Releasing Mariah, Luke dove for his rifle, priming it as he spun about.
Three metallic clicks sounded in response. Three rifle bar-rels appeared like cold, round eyes peering from a low stand of hackberry bushes not ten feet away.
Luke conceded his disadvantage. Slowly, motioning for Mariah to stay back, he lowered his rifle.