The Seduction of Shay Devereaux

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Don’t cry, Jenny.” His whisper was fierce. “I’m not the man for you, and we both know it.”

  You are. She fought the urge to shout her denial to the skies.

  His hands dropped from her and he stepped back, leaving her bereft, chilled and more alone than she’d ever been. More abandoned than she’d felt the day Carl rode away to war. More saddened than the day she’d learned of his death.

  The door closed behind her, Shay silent in his leaving. No footsteps told of his whereabouts and she bent her head, walking to the bed, silently removing her clothing, aware that he stood just beyond the wooden barrier. Perhaps he imagined her as she was now, bare but for the shift she wore, her dress and petticoats on the floor.

  Reaching to pull her nightgown from beneath her pillow, she tossed the quilt aside, then stripped from the simple muslin shift. It fell from her hand, her fingers lax and cold. Her breasts ached, yearning for his hands to enclose them. Her mouth held the taste of his, her lips still damp from his kiss, and yet she craved more of the same. And deep inside, her womanhood wept for what would never be.

  Her arms slid easily into the sleeves of her white gown, and she pulled it over her head, concealing her body, hiding her breasts, covering the length of her legs and the aching need that might never be fulfilled. Her pillow was soft, the feather tick comforting, and she shunned the covering of sheet and quilt, instead lying on her back, as if she awaited the lover who would never return.

  It had been a grave error in judgment; he knew it, bone deep. And yet, he could not regret a single moment of the brief encounter. That he would forever pay penance for tasting her mouth, for stealing moments of pleasure in the dark, was a given. Jenny would ever remain in his mind as forbidden fruit, as the woman he could not have.

  Standing at the edge of the cotton field, Shay shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, his hat pulled low over his forehead. The plants were nudging their way through the soil, fragile green shoots poking toward the sunlight. Once they gained ground, once their roots took hold, it would be time to chop out the weaker sprouts, guaranteeing the survival of the fittest plants.

  Noah’s measurements had ensured the proper planting, his forty-inch stick marking the rows, wide enough for the pickers to move between them come late summer, when the cotton burst from the bolls, ready to harvest. There was more to this than Shay had imagined, and he was struck with a moment of shame that his boyhood had been spent on a plantation, and yet, he knew little about the sowing and reaping of the crop. Only that an army of slaves tended the fields that ensured his family’s well-being, their labor providing the funds that ran the Devereaux plantation.

  And what was happening now, he wondered helplessly, on those acres where men and women had toiled with only food and housing as their reward for unstinting service? What were his parents doing, there in the plantation house that had once been filled with the luxuries of life that bales of cotton provided? Had they survived the rigors of war? Had Roan ever returned to the home he’d shunned for the North?

  At the thought of his brother, he cast his eyes toward the horizon, north, to where Roan’s journey had taken him. North, to where he’d joined the Union army and betrayed his roots, and the family he’d left behind. And what of Yvonne, the sister whose days consisted of parties and new frocks and tea on the veranda, the sister who had run off with a Yankee officer, leaving her parents to grieve?

  He would probably never know. And that thought brought a strange sadness to dwell in his depths. Doomed to be a wanderer, he was a man without roots.

  “Mr. Shay.” Noah stood at his elbow and Shay jolted, shaken from his thoughts, stunned that he’d so escaped into memories that the man had come upon him unaware.

  “It looks like a good crop, don’t it?” Noah’s voice was rich with satisfaction as his big-knuckled hand motioned toward the field.

  “Yeah,” Shay murmured. “How long before we need to thin it out?”

  Noah pursed his lips. “Depends on the rain and the sun. We’ll be choppin’ in maybe a couple of weeks.”

  “How many acres will we plant, altogether?” Shay asked, thinking of Caleb and his bride-to-be.

  “Maybe twenty. Along with the corn and the kitchen garden the women put in, that’s about all we can handle.”

  “Twenty-five would be better,” Shay said, glancing at the man beside him.

  Noah shrugged. “More money, but we’d be bleedin’ heavy by the time we got it harvested.”

  “Bleeding?”

  “You ever picked cotton?” Noah’s voice was soft, his look measuring. “You got any idea how them bolls cut up your fingers? You’ll be wishin’ for thicker calluses by the time September comes along.”

  “I’ll manage,” Shay said. And he would. If it meant that his hands wore bandages every day, he’d stick it out. For Jenny…for Marshall. And for the man he’d buried in Elmira.

  The days flowed into weeks as the summer sun beat unmercifully against dark heads in the fields. Cotton had to be dusted with arsenic to keep the bugs away from the crop, and Shay was aghast at the thought of handling the lethal stuff. Yet it must be done, and they donned gloves, and then at his bidding, tied kerchiefs around their faces, covering nose and mouth in an effort to keep the dust from being inhaled.

  Caleb’s bride, Zora, joined them in the fields, and though Shay flinched at the idea of a young woman doing the work of a fieldhand, she would not be denied. And perhaps, Shay thought, it was for the best, for Caleb outdid himself for his young wife’s approval. Zora went to the house at high noon daily, returning with the dinner basket, a task Jenny had allotted to her care. Shay ate with Noah at the edge of the field, speaking of the crop, the weather, everything but the woman he desired with every fiber of his being.

  She ate with him at supper time, although not much chewing and swallowing took place. Already slender, she was becoming reedlike, her cheekbones more prominent. The joyous woman he’d known only weeks ago had become quiet and withdrawn, and he gathered the blame to himself for the change in her. His flesh ached for her touch, his heart mourned the loss of her ready smile, and he tossed and turned each night, knowing she lay in the room beneath his, a room he would not enter again.

  Before long, after the cotton was picked, he’d be gone, and Jenny’s life would be back on an even keel. There would be a man one day, a gentleman, fit for a lady, someone without death and nightmares haunting him.

  Hands beneath his head, he stared at the ceiling, the heat oppressive, as thunder rolled in the distance. Rain threatened, with lightning low on the horizon, and he kicked the sheet from his legs, uncaring that his body was naked beneath it. From below, a whisper of movement caught his ear, and faint sounds told him that someone was in the central hallway. His door was open to catch any stray cross breeze, and he sat up, listening intently as the creak of the screen door at the front of the house caught his ear.

  Perhaps Marshall was walking in his sleep. Shay stood quickly, stepping into his trousers, sliding his arms into his shirt. Picking up his boots, he walked into the hallway, then down the staircase. The library door stood open and he halted on the threshold. Waking Jenny was almost a necessity. He could only imagine her anger otherwise. Marshall wandering about in the middle of the night was a frightening thought.

  He looked with misgiving at Jenny’s bed. The thought of bending over her, watching her sleep, was almost too tempting to consider. His breath caught in his chest as he stepped closer, his gaze searching the bed. There was no temptation there to lure him, no graceful form to coax him near. Her sheets were rumpled, half on the floor, her pillow against the headboard and the bed was empty.

  “Jen?” His whisper was incredulous. Where had the woman gone? Turning on his heel, he strode from the room and across the corridor to Marshall’s room. The boy was a dark shadow against a white sheet, arms and legs sprawled in abandon.

  The front door opened with the same creak of hinges he’d heard only moments ago, and he walked out
onto the veranda. A double row of oak trees lined the rutted lane, their branches overhanging, forming a shaded approach to the house during the day. In the late-night hours, when only stars lit the sky, the area was in deep shadow, a dark tunnel leading toward the town road.

  A pale form moved beneath the trees, barely visible, yet discernible to the man whose whole being was attuned to Jenny’s presence. “Damn.” His curse was low, a whisper that blended with the night sounds. A rustle of movement in the honeysuckle vines at the end of the veranda, the swift flight of a swallow across the yard and the croaking of frogs in the swamp surrounded him.

  Where Jenny was going was a moot question. The chance of danger lurked beyond the boundaries of this place. Raiders were always a possibility, poor men who sought what they could find under cover of night. She might be as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms, but even the slim possibility of harm coming to her was enough to send Shay after her. He tugged on his boots, then stepped down from the porch, moving quickly and silently in her wake. His steps were long, where hers were random and slow.

  Unaware of his pursuit, she moved to stand beneath an oak, leaning against the trunk, her head bowed. He slowed his pace, his feet barely disturbing the grass where he stepped. If she heard his approach, she might cry out, possibly alerting Noah to trouble, and that would only serve to embarrass her, should she unduly sound an alarm.

  He was behind her in moments, his hands reaching for her, one arm sliding around her waist, the other hand covering her mouth. She stiffened, gasping for breath, and he whispered against her ear.

  “Shh! It’s all right, Jenny. It’s me.” He felt the trembling begin, then knew the instant she recognized his touch. He took his hand from her mouth and she stiffened in his grasp.

  “You frightened me,” she said quietly.

  His arm dropped from her and he stepped back a few inches. “I heard you leave the house. Thought at first Marshall might be sleepwalking.”

  “No, just me.”

  “I’m not sure it’s safe out here for you, Jen.”

  Her hand rose to sweep broadly across the far horizon. “Nothing out there is a danger to me. The one person with the power to hurt me sleeps on the second floor of my home.”

  “I told you I’d never do that,” he reminded her.

  Her laugh was brittle, making him wince. “Too late, Shay Whoever-You-Are. You left your mark on me.”

  “My mark?” His tone was incredulous. “I bruised you?”

  She shook her head. “No, it went deeper than that.” Her voice trembled on the words she spoke. “I know what you feel like when you want a woman, when your body hardens and your scent speaks of loving.”

  She stepped back from him, an awkward movement, scraping her shoulders against the tree. Her head jerked and strands of hair caught in the rough bark. Lifting her hand, she clutched at the wayward tresses, attempting to pull her hair free.

  “Wait,” he said. “Let me help you.”

  “No.” The refusal was sharp, and her other hand rose to block his approach.

  “Don’t be foolish, Jen. You’re making a mess of it. You’ll pull your hair that way.”

  “Don’t touch me.” Frantically, she tore at the strands that tangled more with each movement, and her sob of frustration tore at his heart. Her gown slipped low against her shoulder, and the pale shape of her upper breast was revealed, its slope tempting his gaze.

  Touch her? He wanted to devour her, take her to his bed and keep her there, claim her as his own and then hold her in his arms throughout the long night hours. His much prized sense of honor fell by the wayside as his hands clutched her shoulders. Leaning against her, he held her immobile, his mouth seeking hers, his breathing strident as though he’d run a race he stood no chance of winning.

  She bit at his lips, and he groaned, the rush of blood to his groin obliterating the pain she inflicted with her sharp teeth. Her lithe body wriggled against him, and his grip slid to her arms, taking the fabric of her gown with it.

  The bodice gave way, shredding across her chest, exposing her left breast in its entirety, and she cried out. “Damn you, Shay.” It was the sound of a woman in pain, and he cursed roundly. Pulling her roughly into his arms, his hands reached for her hair, holding it fast, then tugging it free from the bark.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jen.” His arms encircled her and he bent his head to speak against her ear. “Please, sweetheart, stop fighting me.” Moisture fell from his mouth and his tongue reached for it, tasting the acrid flavor of blood. He drew back in surprise, feeling the warm drops on his lip.

  “Hold still. I don’t want to get blood on you.”

  She stiffened, leaning back, and her eyes sought his face, narrowing as she caught a glimpse of his mouth.

  “I did that?” One slender hand lifted to press against his lips. “I bit you, didn’t I?”

  He searched in his pocket, whipping his handkerchief out and blotting his lips. Her hand held traces of blood and he wiped it, his movements clumsy. Against the pale skin of her breast, two dark stains bore mute testimony to the small wounds he bore, droplets that elongated as he watched. His handkerchief touched the crimson blemish, and Jenny looked down at the long fingers that pressed against her flesh, only that thin layer of fabric shielding her from his hand.

  She was lost, her heart beating against his fingertips, a rapid cadence that must surely be pulsing loud enough for him to hear. Above her, the night birds sang their mournful song, and in the distance a dog howled his distress. Yet she heard only the frantic throbbing of her heart, betraying her with each beat, yearning for his touch.

  “Let me give you my shirt,” he said. “I tore your gown.”

  She laughed, pressing her lips together to hold back the sound. They’d done little else but cause hurt, one to the other. Biting his mouth was a hateful act, one she regretted to her very depths. Shay’s hands had demolished her only nightgown, revealing her body in a way that should have shamed her. Yet, it hadn’t.

  Even now, as she waited for him to move his hand, his fingers pressed against the firm flesh. The handkerchief dropped to the ground as she watched. His hand clenched, then opened, fingers spread wide. The very tip of his index finger touched lightly, and the crest of her breast responded, tightening and hardening, aching for that errant fingertip to brush its surface.

  Instead it circled, slowly, gently, carefully, and a cry of longing whispered from her lips. He bent, his mouth opening, there where her flesh longed for succor, and her hands flew to hold him against her. His arm held her upright, and she dropped her head, resting it against his shoulder.

  “Jenny…I want you, Jenny.” He lifted her, shifting her in his arms, gathering her high against his chest, and then bent his head again. She felt the laving of his tongue on her skin, the touch of teeth and lips, and the brush of his mouth as he whispered her name.

  The grass was deep beneath the trees and he eased her to her feet, then spread his shirt before lowering her to the ground. He lifted the hem of her gown, his fingers smoothing the length of her legs beneath its fabric.

  She shivered at his touch, knowing the decision she must make. If she allowed it, he would take her, here and now, and she would never be the same. Never be able to hold up her head, with the knowledge that her pride was intact.

  She had given herself to a Yankee marauder, hated the man who took her with no trace of mercy, and lived to gain back her self-respect. It had been a choice she’d made, in full knowledge that it was a sacrifice worth the price she paid.

  Taking Shay into her body was a different matter. Choosing to give herself, knowing that he would leave her, and never look back, brought her down to a level she could not live with.

  “No.” The word trembled in the air, and Shay stilled, his hands beneath her knees, his fingers tightening in response.

  “Jenny?” Hoarse with desire, roughened with passion, he spoke her name with a voice that pled for relief.

  She shook her
head, knowing that the movement was visible. “I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t.”

  He shuddered, his shoulders seeming to bow in defeat, and then he turned to one side and rolled to his back, one hand lifting to cover his eyes. “Just give me a minute.” Aching need coated his words, and Jenny sat up, folding her arms around her knees and hiding her face. She’d led him to this point, allowed his mouth to give her pleasure such as she’d never known. And then denied him fulfillment.

  She knew in her heart that it was her right to refuse. As a gentleman he was obliged to bow to that refusal. But as a man, he was teetering on the brink. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said, her voice muffled against her knees. “I led you on, Shay.”

  He sat up, his breathing harsh. Lifting his shirt from the ground, he wrapped it around her shoulders. “You’re a marrying woman, Jenny. I knew it from the beginning. It’s why I’ve tried to stay away from you.”

  Standing, he lifted her to her feet. “Here, put your arms in the sleeves,” he told her. His hands were gentle as he buttoned the shirt, careful not to touch the curves beneath.

  “You can leave here if you want to,” she said. “I won’t blame you, and I’ll explain to Noah.” The words were like acid in her mouth, but the offer must be made.

  “You know better. I told you I’d be here to harvest the cotton.”

  Relief flooded her, hot tears washing her eyes; and she bent her head, as if she must watch where she walked, turning from him. He followed her lead, close by her side, careful not to brush against her hand. “Thank you,” she murmured as they approached the veranda.

  “For what?” He offered his palm as she climbed the step and she accepted it, waiting as he opened the door. “I tore your gown, forced myself on you and behaved badly. I don’t expect your thanks for that.”

  “You know what I mean.” The door closed behind them and she crossed to the library door. So little time had passed since she walked across its threshold. So much had taken place, changing her forever.