by Jo Ann Wendt
Did he detect a tiny blaze of tears in her eyes? Damn! He'd hoped to put Dove-and-Marguerite to rest. He'd hoped to talk about himself tonight, not goddamn Dove. He'd hoped— hell, admit it. He'd hoped to propose marriage.
Marriage. They walked along, their footfalls muted in the dust of the lane. They passed a cottage. The fragrance of mint drifted from a kitchen herb garden. Marriage. He let the word seep into him, work its way down into flesh and bone and marrow, into the center of his being. Face it, John. If you wed Jericho, you will be the one doing the kissing, and she will offer the cheek. For her heart belongs to Dove. Can you be content with that? Can you? He knew the answer. Sweet heaven, yes!
He gave her hand a squeeze.
"It's not all bad, you know. Being the one doin' the kissing."
"Dove deserves better than that."
"We all deserve better than that. Everybody in the whole wide world. But most people learn to be content with what they get. For love's a queer thing, now, ain't it. It goes where it will, and that's a fact. Jericho, there's no amount of pushing or shoving or tugging can make it go where we want."
In the deepening twilight, he saw her lips tremble. But she was no baby. By and by, she gave him a staunch look. And even a smile.
"I'm enjoying the walk."
He smiled broadly. "Good. So am I."
Jericho felt better once she was back in the midst of the revelry, sitting on the grass at the edge of the dance field with John, companionably sharing a tankard of ale. She blanched when Dove appeared suddenly up on the castle hill, standing in a large group of nobles and ladies, his golden hair distinctive and shining in the moonlight. Her heart beat unevenly. What a sight they made, the silk-clad nobility leisurely strolling down the hill, their fine clothes shimmering in the moonlight, the rich silk leaping into bright color as they drew nearer the roaring bonfires.
She drank deeper from John's tankard. She already felt tiddly with drink. But perhaps tiddly was the best way to feel tonight. Tiddly, she wouldn't think of Dove and Lady Marguerite. When she'd drunk, John idly picked up a twig that lay in the grass and tossed it into her lap.
" 'Tis your boon. Your prayer, your wish for the coming year. Make a wish and toss the stick into the fire. Everyone will toss a boon into the fire on Mid-Summer's Eve."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"What did you wish for?"
"A wife."
A calm statement. Not flirtation. Her gaze flew to his.
Steady brown eyes, a steady, unfurrowed brow, a steady, decent spirit. He was a fine man. He would make a good, kind-hearted husband. But he wasn't Dove.
"John, I am not the wife for you."
"I think you are."
"No. No, I'm not."
"What are you then, Jericho? What is it you plan to be?" He sent a flickering glance at the hill, at the descending lords and ladies. "A mistress for a married lord?"
She looked swiftly away. So he'd heard the gossip about kissing on the bed. She was deeply ashamed. John's regard, John's good opinion of her was something she didn't want to lose.
"It was stupid of me."
"Yes, it was. It didn't hurt Dove's reputation; people expect that of him. It hurt your's."
She flushed and acknowledged it with a nod of misery.
"As to what I am going to do. I'm going to be a dame schoolteacher. In London. And after that, in New York, as soon as I earn passage money for myself and Black Bartimaeus. I don't plan to marry. Not ever."
John sighed in irritation, but he didn't press. Out around the blazing bonfires, dancing began in earnest. These were not the parlor dances Jericho had danced at Maritje Ten Boom's waffle frolics. These were wild romps. When the first few young men came leaping through the bonfires to impress their sweethearts she gasped in shock, but then she got used to it.
A tent pavilion stood at one end of the dance field, for the nobility to use. Few of them used it. Most of them strolled amongst the villagers. Lord Lark ignored the pavilion, and with a pagan whoop, slung off his silk coat. He leaped into the dancing, leaping through bonfires. The villagers whooped and cheered.
Only Lady Marguerite wanted no part of the common people. She headed straight to the pavilion, crooking her finger at Dove, bidding him come. Dove's expression as he watched Lord Lark at his fun was downright disheartened, and Jericho's softer self felt sorry for him. Dove loved a party. He loved nothing better than to get drunk and cheerful. How wonderful he would be, jumping through the bonfires. But her harder self refused to feel sorry for him. Kiss her on the bed for days on end, and then jump up—"Hallelujah!"—to fetch his bride, would he?
"Do you want to join the dancing?" John asked.
"Yes!"
"This dance is pretty wild. Should we wait for a milder?"
"No! The wilder the better."
Drinking wine in the pavilion with Marguerite, Dove impatiently scanned the crowd for Jericho. Where was she? He'd sent for her the minute he'd arrived home and had walked into his room to find her message.
Sign My Indenture
Her demand impaled on a candlestick! It still made him smile. She hadn't come when he'd sent for her, so he'd sent twice more. She hadn't come those times either, and his exhilarated, large-hearted mood had turned to irritation, Grubworm! She had a stubborn streak a mile wide.
Hell, he hadn't sent for her to kiss her. He had Marguerite to kiss now. He'd only wanted to talk. He liked talking to Jericho. He enjoyed being with her. The truth was, he'd missed her during his stay in London. And that had surprised him. A queer business, missing the company of a bondslave. Queer and damned bewildering. Planting one hip on the table edge, he swilled wine from his goblet, then leaned down to kiss Marguerite who sat on a chair beside him, beautiful and sparkling. When she kissed him back, he eagerly rid himself of the goblet, drew her up and into his embrace. He kissed her again with total satisfaction. Well, almost total satisfaction.
He frowned. "Damn it, Marguerite, how can you have lived in France and not like French kissing?"
Draping her silk-clad arms around his neck, she smiled.
"I don't know, darling. I do not like it, that's -all."
"Could you learn to like it?" he asked hopefully.
"No. Sweetheart, don't wrinkle my gown."
He sighed in disappointment, loosened his grip, and kissed her the way she liked.
"Dove, how long must we stay at this peasant revelry?"
He was taken by surprise. He searched her beautiful upturned face. "Don't you like it? Hell, I'm damned fond of Mid-Summer's Eve. So were you when you were a child. I like rubbing elbows with the villagers."
She lifted one beautifully plucked eyebrow.
"We'll leave whenever you like," he conceded.
"Thank you, darling!" Her ravishing smile brought a deep dimple to each cheek. Her sooty lashes fluttered provocatively. He stroked her silken back and sighed in utter happiness. Hope sprang up.
"Marguerite, tonight. Can't we?"
She shook her head in a positive no.
"I might conceive."
"What of it? It's a natural consequence of love. Now or two months from now, what difference does it make?"
"Dove, we've discussed this endlessly! I will not have people counting to nine after we wed. My gown, sweetheart, you're wrinkling my gown." %
"We could use something. A shield of sheep gut?"
She drew back in distaste. "I am not a whore, Dove. Condums are for whores. Darling! Don't wrinkle my gown."
"Sorry." He tried to think. "Bits of sponge soaked in vinegar?"
She made a wry face.
"I could come out. At the last moment."
"But you wouldn't. I know you, Dove. I've known you all of my life. You would get carried away."
He tried to find humor in all of this, but it was damned difficult. He loved her so much, wanted her so badly.
"I could dip my pecker in boiling oil. Would that suit you?"
"Dove, don't be crude."
"Crude, hell. I'm in love with you."
"And I am in love with you. But we must wait." Her voice grew crisp. "Besides, the marriage contract is still being drawn up for us to sign."
"So? I don't give a damn about money, endowments, dowries, legal claptrap."
"That's because you are a man. A woman has to protect herself. The law being what it is, a widow can end up penniless. Look at what happened to me. Nearly everything went to my husband's despicable children. What did I get? A paltry chateau in Rouen. A few thousand francs in income a year."
Dove stared at her in surprise. Somehow, it came as a rude jolt, Marguerite anticipating his imminent departure from this world. He was damned shocked. And hurt. His face must have shown it, for she twined her silken arms around his neck and gave him her provocative kitten look.
"Silly! I love you. I plan to be married to you for at least fifty years, Dove."
"Well, so do I," he said, testy, his belligerance rising. "But maybe I ought to order your shroud and coffin now. Just in case."
"Dove, don't be sarcastic. Marriage is a practical arrangement as well as a love arrangement. Practical matters must be spelled out."
He managed to remain disgruntled for another couple of minutes, then caved in. Hell, she was so damned beautiful. And he loved her. Sensing his capitulation, she lifted her mouth to be kissed, and he gratefiilly kissed it. When the kiss ended, he ran his hand up and down her warm silken back. He sighed and reluctantly let her go. He was wrinkling her.
"Let's put a boon on the fire, Marguerite. Together. Make a wish together.''
"Don't be silly, sweetheart. Peasant nonsense."
His heart fell a little. He helped himself to more wine. Fiddle music filled the night, gay and lilting. He drank and tapped his toe to the rhythm. Out on the dance field, Lark had his arms around a fairhaired girl from the village and would surely take her to bed tonight if she proved willing. The music and the merriment soared louder, wilder.
He spotted Jericho!
She was dancing a wild country dance around one of the bonfires, her mop of red hair flying as she linked arms with the other women. A soft smile sprang to his lips. Sign My Indenture. Skewered, by damn. On a candlestick. She had grit, that grubworm. Smiling, he refilled his goblet and took a gulp. Marguerite tugged at his coat.
"Dove, you will get drunk," she said disapprovingly.
His spirits rising with the wine and the sight of Jericho, he flashed her a cheerful smile. "No. No, I won't. I promise."
But the faster Jericho danced, the faster he drank. Somehow, she filled his senses. He couldn't tear his gaze away, he couldn't stop watching her. Each time her red hair swung in the firelight, he smiled softly.
When a clamor went up from the freely imbibing parish— "Lor' Dove! Come dance, Lor' Dove! Come'a! Come'a! Jump ye the boonfire! Bring yer sweetheart!"—he swung to Marguerite with zest.
"Marguerite! Let's join the dancing."
"On the grass? With peasants? You jest."
"Then I'm going."
"You most certainly will not," she objected. "Dove, your dignity, your rank. I will not have my future husband—"
But, full of wine and high spirits, he shucked dignity and rank as quickly as he shucked his silk coat and whipped it away. He went leaping out onto the dance field. "Hooray!" the parish welcomed him. "Lor' Dove, Lor' Dove!"
Jericho was exhausted but happy. She wiped her brow and shook the damp fabric of her bodice, shaking cool air into it. Damp patches clung under her arms and to the small of her back. But she didn't care. She didn't want to stop. John was right. Nobody could dance and be unhappy at the same time.
Laughing breathlessly with Janie and Birgit, the scullery children, she went with them to the ale barrel, dipped and drank. Then she returned to the dance field. A circle formed for the next dance. Fed fresh wood by overzealous boys, the bonfires blazed and roared, sending sparks whooshing up to the stars. Jericho threw back her head and watched them soar. She felt dizzy, tiddly, happy.
The men and boys formed a circle around the women. The women marched ten steps to the right, the men ten to the left. To her delight, Jericho found herself partnered next with ten-year-old Harry, the turnspit, who blushed sweetly as she gave him her hands.
The fiddlers rippled into introductory notes. Men joshed their partners or flirted with them, depending upon their luck in the draw. Feet tapped. Everyone drew a breath, ready to go. Then, just as the music plunged into the dance, a roar went up and the fiddlers stopped. Jericho whirled. Surely no one would jump this bonfire. This one was too big. Too hot, too blazing.
She watched, gasping, as someone came leaping through the flames, like a golden stag—arms flung overhead. A wonderful leap! The crowd cheered wildly. With springy quick steps, Dove landed right in front of her.
Tiddly with ale, she felt nothing but joy. He stood there, hazel eyes bright and humorous, hands casually draped on hips, as if he'd jumped nothing more dangerous than a mud puddle.
"I got your message, grubworm."
"Were you horribly angry?"
He grinned. '' Horribly.''
Ignoring the loud cheering, he extended his palms in invitation. Without an instant of hesitation, she partnered him. The fiddlers struck up, and Dove yanked her off her feet, taking off at a gallop. Exhausted minutes earlier, she felt a wild surge of vigor. With his lively, smiling eyes on her's, scarcely ever looking away, she felt she could dance until her feet were stubs. Dance? She could fly!
And soon she saw she might have to! For this dance was rough and downright dangerous. Bounding around the bonfires at a sidestepping gallop, men swung their shoulders into other men's shoulders, knocking them down, and after the first startled minute Jericho saw that was the point. Men whooped and butted each other like bulls, trying to knock each other down, and if even a knee brushed the ground, the dance master thumbed the couple off the field.
And Dove didn't spare her. He didn't allow her to be bumped—when a collision seemed certain, he grabbed her by the waist and whirled her out of the way, taking the bump himself—but he danced her into the thick of it, as happy and drunk as a coot. She knew he was drunk, for he shouted odd things to her over the noise of the wild cheering.
"Do I wrinkle your gown?" he shouted.
"What?" she shouted back, deafened by the loud music and the cheering.
"Your gown," he shouted. "When I kiss you, do I wrinkle your gown?''
"Dove, are you drunk?"
"Yes! Answer me! Do I wrinkle your gown when I kiss you?"
"I don't know," she shouted back. "Dear life, I've never noticed."
"That's what I thought," he shouted, and with a grin, grabbed her and wrenched her into a sidestepping gallop that stripped the breath from her. They danced like maniacs. The bonfire spun. The flames bounded upward like huge golden feathers, as if kin to this golden Dove who was cheerfully dancing her into her grave. She grew so dizzy, she could scarcely keep her feet. Her breath flew from her lungs.
"Dove!" she gasped.
"Do you want to stop?" he shouted.
Stop? Of course she should want to. Only a mad woman wouldn't. Yet something wild and wayward flared in her.
"No!" she shouted.
"That's the spirit, Pansy Eyes!"
"This is like Collect Pond," she shouted. "The day you skated me into*a snowbank."
"It's better than Collect Pond," he shouted back. "You were an ugly duckling then. Now you're a swan!" She grinned. He liked her. He did!
The dance field was quickly decimated. Laughing and whooping, crashing and banging, dancers dropped right and left and were thumbed off the field. The cheers of bystanders roared. Dear life, she thought. And she had presumed England was a civilized country.
Soon only one other pair remained in the boisterous contest, young Harry who'd partnered Janie. They made so sweet a couple—Harry's earnest, galumphing prance and Janie's bouncing curls—that no one'd had the heart to give them a finishing bump. Dove
's eyes gleamed.
"Let's go get 'em, grubworm."
"Dove, for heaven's sake—"
But he took a fresh grip on her wrists and charged, yanking her along, yanking her feet out from under. Then, she saw his intent. For though he went charging at Harry like a bull and swung his shoulder with a bloodcurdling whoop, his shoulder merely grazed Harry, and it was Dove himself who staggered as if gored, and it was Dove who fell down in the grass, taking her with him, pulling her down on top of him, a tangle of petticoats and breeches.
The crowd rushed in to cheer Harry and to slap his proud little shoulders. As petticoats and feet shot by, Dove crushed her close and kissed her. It was a drunken kiss, wet and ardent. She pushed him.
"Dove, behave!"
He kissed her again, hot, sweaty. "Jericho," he whispered, his wine breath feathering her lips. "Oh, Jericho, I need you. Come to my bedchamber tonight? Come to my bed? Become my mistress?"
Her chest pounded. "Dove, dear life! Let go. Let me up."
"No. Not ever."
He tried to kiss her again, but she wrenched free and scrambled to her feet. Grabbing his elbow, pulling and tugging, she hoisted her drunken lord to his unsteady feet. For she'd spotted a silken gown promenading across the field, coming toward them.
Her breast fluttered with trepidation as she tugged Dove and sent darting glances across the field toward Lady Marguerite and John, who strolled toward them.
"Dove, behave! Look. Lady Marguerite is coming. Stand up. Dove, you're strangling me."
"Where?" he demanded.
As best she could, while being strangled in his heavy, drunken arms, she nodded, indicating Lady Marguerite's approach. His eyes found her and lighted with love. He was so plainly besotted with his Marguerite that she wanted to kick him.
"Isn't she beautiful, grubworm? Isn't she?"
"Yes, yes, she's beautiful. Dove! Stand up alone. Don't lean on me. Let me go!"
He drunkenly smooched her temple. "Never. Hell, I'm a happy man. I've the bride I love and a grubworm who loves me. Who could be happier?"
"Who indeed," she said darkly and gave him a shove. He listed for a moment, then found his balance just as John and Lady Marguerite approached.