Desdemona remained silent, intent on finishing her meat. Her mouth and fingers were greasy, and there was a large smear on the front of her pink gown. But Saxon gave her an encouraging smile. "Yes, Grandmother," he said softly, "see what I have brought upon us all."
"They are eating with their hands!"
Chickadee looked up from her plate. "Iffen my knife warn't so dang dull, I wouldn't use my hands, Araminty. I got manners same as all you-uns. But 'sides that, fangers was around long afore forks. Maybe the good Lord above meaned fer us to use our hands."
"The good Lord? What do you know about Him? In my dictionary, a heathen is a person who does not acknowledge the teachings of God or the Bible."
Saxon's ire was immediate. He stood, threw his napkin to the table, and took a step toward Araminta. His extreme anger erased all thought of trying to remain genteel in his dealings with her.
"Keely was right in saying I am the man of this household. Grandmother! I have done everything you commanded, and in doing so have stripped you of your previous power over me. You may simmer in your wrath, or you may accept the changes that will undoubtedly take place in your life. What you choose to do is entirely up to you, but I—"
"You will pay for your insolence." Araminta turned to look at Chickadee. "And as for you, you are a most repugnant person. Your manners are as atrocious as your grammar, appearance, and—"
"Here's to you, Araminty," Chickadee said and lifted her wine glass, noticing that Desdemona imitated the action. "Yore snuff's a mite strong, but I got to hand it to you. You don't give up easy, and I reckon you and me's gwine have us a time on account o' I don't give up easy neither!"
Fuming, Araminta swept from the dining room, the odor of her perfume lingering over the table like a cloud of cloyingly sweet roses.
Saxon blew a sarcastic kiss at her back and sat down again. "Shall we finish our meal, ladies?"
*
Chickadee awoke with a start, disoriented until she remembered where she was. The bedroom was dim and chilled, the fire having gone out. Glancing at the heavy, scary canopy above her, she reached to Saxon's side of the bed, wanting to feel the warmth of his strong arms around her while she went back to sleep, but her hands encountered only cold, empty space. Then she remembered he hadn't come to bed with her. She found the warm robe Candice had brought to her, snapped her fingers for Khan, and left the bedroom.
At the upper landing of the staircase, she walked into a table. "Dang it," she muttered, "What fer do these Blackwells got to have all these God-burn tables and chars a-settin' around in ever' corner?" she asked Khan. "A person could git kilt jist a-tryin' to git around!" She rubbed her bruised knee and grabbed the banister.
"You reckon thur's anythang dangerous a-settin' on these here steps, Khan? Iffen thur is, I ain't a-takin' no chances." Swinging her leg over the slick railing, she slid all the way down.
She swiftly reached the bottom, dismounted, and wandered around the ground level of the mansion until she saw light coming from beneath a closed door. She opened it and saw Saxon sitting in an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace. He hadn't heard her enter, and he hadn't seen her yet, either.
As always, her breath caught in her throat when she studied his features.
He still wore his evening clothes, but the elegance of his attire in no way diminished the aura of potent masculinity that accompanied him as faithfully as his shadow. He'd removed his dinner jacket and waistcoat. Those, she noted with a smile, were thrown in a heap on the floor. His cambric shirt was open, revealing the muscled expanse of his broad chest, the whisper of hair covering his skin like soft slivers of midnight.
His hair was mussed, the golden light of the fire flickering through its raven waves like stars shooting across the dark night sky. His eyes, half shielded by his thick lashes, stared directly into the flames, as if that eerie blaze was telling him something of great importance.
She noticed a bottle by the leg of his chair. He'd been drinking, she realized, and when she saw shattered glass in front of the lyre-shaped fire screen, she knew anger was the reason behind his bout with brandy. Even now, his jaw was clenched, indisputable evidence of his inner turbulence. He must have had words with Spider Woman.
"Are you going to spy on me all night, or are you going to join me, Keely?"
She nearly jumped out of her robe at the sudden sound of his voice. "Saxon, I—"
"Come in and shut the door."
She sat on a velvet empire sofa and waited for him to speak, but he only picked up the bottle and drank, his gaze never leaving the fire. "Saxon, why ain't you in bed? I can tell yore a mite upset, but likker ain't—"
"You know nothing about me, Mrs. Blackwell," he slurred. "Despite what you say about those heart eyes, you will never know who or what I am."
Lord o' mercy, he shore was ill tonight. "I know yore mad about somethin' and I suspicion—"
"The word is suspect. " His eyes finally settled on her. "You don't suspicion. You suspect."
She bristled. "Don't them words mean the same thang?"
"No they do not." He gulped more brandy. "You don't really hate Barton Winslow. You don't know what genuine hatred is. You may want revenge on him for what he did to your mother, but you can't truthfully say you hate the man."
"What does that have to do with—"
"I know what hatred is, though." He rose and crossed to stand in front of her. "I've lived with it for years. Every hour, minute, second, hatred closing in, coming nearer until finally it owned me." He spun and weaved to the fireplace. There, he put his arm on the mantel and leaned his head on it.
Chickadee sat in confused silence. Saxon obviously wasn't receptive to her opinions tonight, but she knew he'd never have begun this conversation if he hadn't needed to talk.
"Hatred," he mumbled, his face still buried in the vee of his bent arm. "A profound hostility, Keely. Loathing."
"Yep, I reckon hatred's both them thangs, Saxon, but y'know," she said, pausing when he turned to face her, "hatred ain't somethin' that can git to you lessen you let it. Iffen somebody hates you... well, that don't set real good on nobody, but it ain't got to break yore life to pieces."
"What do you know about hatred?" Saxon tried to put his elbow back on the mantel, but it slipped off. "Has anyone ever hated you?"
She met his hostile stare with a look glimmering with understanding. "Yore granny cain't stand me. And I don't much believe Thatcher's got a hankerin' to be my friend neither. But I ain't gwine let it bother me none."
The smile he gave her didn't reach his eyes. Swaying, he drank more brandy, but even as he swallowed, his cold gaze never left her. "Of course you don't care how Grandmother or Thatcher feel about you! Soon you'll be returning to those ridge mountains or whatever the hell they're called, and you'll never have to see Araminta Blackwell or Thatcher again. Keely McBride Blackwell—not a care in the world does she have!"
He toasted her with the bottle and then staggered to a tremendous shelf of books. As he walked past them, he slid his thumbnail across their leather-bound spines. The noise made him think of a drum roll—the kind played before an execution.
Chickadee sank back into the soft pillows, knowing Saxon was by no means finished with his verbal attack. Normally, she wouldn't have let him go a step further before setting him back on his heels. But she instinctively understood he was using her as a scapegoat for something that had nothing to do with her, so she waited for him to continue.
"Look at you sitting there," he growled from behind her, his hand vanishing into her hair. "No worries, no problems, eh, Mrs. Blackwell?"
"I got thangs to misery over jist like ever'one else," she told him smoothly. "Life ain't no—"
"Save the lecture, Keely!" He stalked to the other side of the room, stopping in front of a wall niche that was filled with a collection of handpainted thimbles and exquisite figurines. With uncoordinated fingers, he reached for one. "Look at this ugly lady. Whoever made her forgot to give her breasts. A t
itless lady!" He laughed and then tossed the figurine into the hearth, where it shattered.
Chickadee smiled broadly. That's it, Saxon. Git mad. Flang thangs and holler. Ain't nobody here but me and Khan to watch you wrang it out, and we ain't gwine hold it agin' you, she cheered him on.
"Did you think that was funny, Mrs. Blackwell? Perhaps you'd like to see it again." Saxon took another statue and hurled it into the fireplace, continuing until he broke every thimble and figurine. "Was that humorous enough for you?"
She giggled and shook her head. "Cain't you flang nothin' bigger?"
He smiled back before he lifted the brandy and finished it off. "Anything to make the lady happy." Viciously, he flung the bottle at the hearth, laughing at the sound of the loud crash.
She stood and clapped. Looking around the room, she spied a collection of fragile plates. Why these Blackwells needed supper plates in the book room was beyond her, but she'd put them to good use. She hurried to the case, opened the glass doors, and removed several of the costly plates. "Catch," she said, hurling one at Saxon.
He snatched it from the air, looked down at its red dragon design, and smiled. Araminta had been collecting this rare Chinese porcelain for years. He stood on his toes, held the plate high over his head, and cast it to the hearth. Spinning, he caught the next plate Chickadee threw to him, hurling that one also. Each time one shattered, he and his mountain girl laughed before smashing the next one.
When all the plates were broken, Chickadee calmly closed the case doors. "You done yet, Saxon?"
"Done?" His eyebrow raised mischievously. "Why, the night's still young!" He lurched to the liquor table and took another bottle from it. "Care to join me, little one?"
"Don't mind iffen I do." She went to him and took a long drink from the bottle before noticing a marble bust across the room. "Law, Saxon," she said upon reaching it. "This here man's so ugly, I bet his mama-woman borried another baby to take to the church-house!"
Saxon promptly choked on the liquor in his mouth. "That's Grandmother!" he sputtered gaily.
Chickadee joined him in his mirth. "This here's Araminty? Lord o' mercy! I tuk her fer a man!"
Saxon turned and laughed into the curtains, tugging on them so hard they fell from the elaborate cornice and veiled him from Chickadee's view. As he weaved around the room, trying to get the draperies off, she collapsed to the floor, laughing into her hands.
Saxon, too, was chuckling from beneath his silken coverings, and when he ran into the sofa and tumbled over it, falling to the other side, his snickers became great whooping sounds. "Keely," he managed to call between chortles, "come get these curtains off me!"
She crawled over to him and yanked the draperies off. He lay sprawled spread-eagle on the floor, a silly smirk still tugging at his lips. "I tried to get them off myself," he slurred. "But I couldn't."
She giggled and pulled herself onto him, her breasts cushioning her against the hardened muscles of his chest. "You cain't talk real good tonight neither. I cain't hardly understand nothin' yore a-sayin'."
His amused gaze sobered when he saw her lush breasts spilling from her robe. "Well, can you understand this, little one?" he whispered.
His kiss was so gentle, she was surprised at its tenderness. His lips moved slowly, lightly upon her own, and her mouth began to tingle. Wanting more than a tingle, she deepened the kiss herself, her tongue seeking and finding all the warm velvet valleys of his mouth.
"Love me, Saxon," she purred, her fingers rippling up and down his side.
He lifted her head and tried to bring her into focus. "I can't, Keely," he rasped. "I can't love anyone, because... I don't know how."
She wrinkled her speckled nose in confusion. "What do you mean, 'y'don't know how?'"
He removed her robe, his hands savoring the satin skin of her back and shoulders. "I mean just that." Lifting his head, he pressed kisses to the shadowed hollow of her throat. "I don't know how to love anyone."
His head fell back to the thick carpet. She caught his gaze and held it fast, her eyes seeking Saxon's very soul. There, she saw a chilling misery. Saxon hadn't meant he didn't know how to make love, she suddenly realized. He'd meant exactly what he'd said. The man lying beneath her, so vulnerable, with such sorrow etched across his fine features, really believed love was something that had to be learned.
She sat up and pulled his head and shoulders onto her lap, her fingers whispering through his black curls. "Saxon, you and me's gwine git down to whar the water hits the wheel. Yore swarved up."
"Swarved up?" He brought her hand to his mouth and ran his tongue down the length of one of her fingers.
"Yore confused. Mizzled. 'Pears to me that iffen brains was dynamite, you wouldn't have enough to blow yore nose. Love ain't what y'thank it is, Saxon. It don't got to be larnt, you hear what I'm a-tellin' you?"
"Keely, Keely, Keely, Keely."
"Whaty, whaty, whaty, whaty?"
He chuckled and reached up for her again. She caught his hand and held it to her bosom for the longest time while she tried to sort through what little she could understand. "Saxon, ain't nobody ever really loved you real good, huh? I mean, yore mama-woman and yore daddy, they died when you was jist a young-un, and Desi... well, she cain't never tell you nothin', and Araminty—" When his fingers tightened around her hand, her eyes closed.
In her mind she saw Saxon as a little boy. A frightened youngster whom fate had placed in Araminta Blackwell's claws. She imagined how he must have been, so young, so scared, his feelings so susceptible to hurt.
The hatred he'd spoken of earlier had begun the day Spider Woman arrived from England. But why had Araminta hated her own grandchildren, and if she detested them so, why had she even bothered with them in the first place?
"Saxon?" She looked down at him and saw he was asleep. "It's a God-burn miracle you turned out as good as you did," she told him quietly, her warm hand cupping his cool cheek. Lost in thought, she let her gaze wander around the room, taking in all the luxurious furnishings.
"This is jist the outdoin'est thang, Saxon. You was raised with ever'thang 'cept love, and I come up with love a-bein' near 'bout the onliest thang I had. Mama? Well, she was a sad woman, like I done tole you afore. But she loved me. And I had Betty Jane and George Franklin too."
"Cold, Keely," he mumbled sleepily, moving closer. "So cold."
She reached for her robe and draped it over his shoulders. "Yore cold whar this here robe cain't warm you none." She sighed. "But I reckon thur might still be a spark o' somethin' kin to what you used to be afore Spider Woman come inter yore life. That skeert little young-un's still in thar, and I can hear him a-callin' out fer what he didn't never git. He's in thar somewhars, and what we're gwine commence a-doin' is dry his little tears.
"Heartease," she murmured down to him. "It's what yore a-pinin' fer—what nobody can git by withouten. Done tole you that afore, but you don't never listen on account o' you thank you know it all, But you don't know nothin' 'bout nothin' 'cept money. But I ain't a-faultin' you none. I reckon since money's the onliest thang you've ever had, you thank it's what's gwine give you what yore a-honin' fer. What you need is love, Saxon. Like I done tole Desi, I ain't gwine be here fer long, but I reckon I'll be here long enough to show you what love—"
She frowned. How could she make Saxon understand what love was if she didn't love him? Sure, she felt something for him, but she was reasonably certain it wasn't love.
"Well ain't this jist a fine fix we're in. You a-needin' love near 'bout as much as you need air, and me... Saxon, what iffen I commenced really a-lovin' you and you didn't never love me back?"
"Love me, Keely," he pleaded, still fast asleep. He shifted in her arms and nuzzled his face into her bare middle, sighing contentedly. Chickadee held him tightly for a few moments, rocking him as if he were a baby. And like a mother, she suddenly felt a powerful urge to take care of the man who sought her comforting warmness.
"You ain't a-makin' this any easier
, Saxon Blackwell, but I reckon the one who's worse offen betwixt us is you. Iffen it's love you need, I'll try and give it to you. Ain't gwine give you ever' bit o' my heart, but, well... I reckon I can give you a smidgeon of it."
After all, she told herself firmly, she wasn't risking all that much. She could love him just a little bit—enough to make him see what love was all about. The way she saw it, a little love went a long way.
Careful not to awaken him, she wiggled out from beneath him and put her robe back on. As she did, she spied the marble bust of Araminta. The old woman seemed to be taunting her and Saxon. Without hesitation, she marched to the hideous sculpture and lifted it from its stand. She lugged it to the fireplace, and with all her strength, threw it to the hearth. It didn't shatter as the china had, but it did crack into two pieces.
"You cain't hate me any more'n I hate you, Spider Woman," she told the broken bust. "But love's stronger'n hate, the way I heared it tole, and it's love what's gwine vict'ry over you."
She sniffed in the way she'd seen Thatcher do so many times and returned to Saxon. She slipped her hands beneath him and, careful to keep her back straight, used the extraordinarily strong muscles in her legs to lift him. Once she was standing, she bent her knees and straightened quickly, slinging him over her shoulder.
"I know you cain't stand it when I tote you around, Saxon, but thur jist ain't no hep fer it tonight," she told him as she left the library. "'Sides that, you ain't gwine mem'ry nothin' about this no how."
As she walked to the steps, she thought of the loneliness and cruelty Saxon had suffered for so many years. Slowly, one step at a time, she climbed the winding staircase, the pain in her trembling legs nothing compared to the ache in her heart.
Chapter 11
Chickadee's first thought the next morning was that Araminta would soon summon Saxon to the library. The woman would want a full explanation for all the destruction.
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