Her eyes darkened. She searched his face. ‘’What then?”
He sighed and touched his lips to hers. “I am your husband now,’’ he said almost lightly, though his eyes were dark and intent. “I want what husbands generally seek from their wives.”
She was disappointed by his answer, though she wasn’t really sure what she had wanted him to say. One of his hands moved to encircle her waist, to pull her close. Her heart quickened, her cheeks burned. “I have already vowed to be your wife,’’ she breathed unevenly. “What you seek is no longer a matter of choice.”
His fingers slid upward toward her breast, until the pounding of her heart thudded against his palm. ‘’And if it were?”
She closed her eyes as his mouth began to play with soft yearning upon hers. And she realized that she had longed for this moment, dreamed of this moment, for months now, ever since that night.
“If it were your choice?” he murmured again. “Would you willingly yield to me?” He withdrew a bit and awaited her response.
Her green eyes met his with the answer her lips refused to give. She quickly closed them and turned her face away. “No.”
“Damn you!” he muttered harshly, jerking her hard against his chest. His lips were at once insistent and demanding as they slanted roughly against hers, at once arousing the response he sought. With a tiny cry of defeat she slipped her arms about his neck and welcomed the thrust of his tongue.
Chapter 24
The room was dark and shadowy when Ambrosia woke, the shutters drawn tightly against the morning sunlight. Her eyes blinked open and searched the strange room. She remembered then. She was not alone.
She stared at her husband for a long time. He slept soundly at her side. She rose on one elbow and reached to brush a stray lock of his shiny black hair from his brow. But just as she was about to touch him, she froze. She withdrew her hand, wondering what had possessed her to even think of doing such a thing. She had never really imagined that it would be like this, not even when she had dreamed of marrying Ledger...
A frown flitted across her brow. She had not thought of him once last night. Drayton’s lovemaking had banished everything and everyone else from her mind. Her frowned deepened and she felt a pang of guilt. She had enjoyed it. She had responded to him without reservation, had surrendered a vital pan of herself in return for a few fleeting moments of pleasure with a man who was her enemy. How easy it was to fall into such a trap! To become no better than Maggie or the woman who had so brazenly paraded Drayton through the market that day. Ambrosia understood now what those women had wanted. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, feeling a surge of self-loathing.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rambert.”
Ambrosia started at the sound of his voice. She pulled the comforter modestly above the curves of her breasts before she returned her eyes to the ceiling. She was suddenly very uncomfortable lying beside him, very self conscious about the way his eyes lingered on her bare shoulders.
His finger traced the line of her collarbone. “Hungry?”
She shook her head, then bit her lip hard. Last evening she had been hungry when she and Drayton finally emerged from the parlor. She had eaten a very hearty dinner hours after Sheba had first announced it served. She had never seen Sheba wearing a grin quite like that before, and she was probably wearing it again this morning. Ambrosia didn’t look forward to facing that. Or to facing Drayton, after she had responded so shamelessly to him.
Drayton stared at her, wondering at the seriousness of her expression. “Are you feeling well?”
“I wish you’d stop asking me that!” she snapped. She turned her back toward him and pulled the comforter up to her chin.
Drayton frowned, then vented a reluctant sigh as he rose from the bed and began to dress. “I’m going down to breakfast,’’ he announced as he fastened his uniform trousers and reached for a freshly starched blouse. “Shall I have Sheba bring you something?”
She shook her head.
“Shall I bring you something up?” He grinned. Her mouth tightened. She refused to look at him.
He let out a long breath as he laid the shirt aside and strode toward the bed. “Ambrosia.”
The eyes which lifted were bright and mutinous, and they made his eyes light with impatience. “What is it?” he demanded.
She looked away.
In a single fluid movement, he sat on the bed and jerked her to a like position, ignoring her gasp of outrage as the comforter slipped to her waist. ‘’What is wrong with you?” he growled. “Or do you simply make a habit of waking up in such a foul mood?”
She crossed her arms protectively over her breasts and narrowed a pair of furious green eyes. “I make it a habit to wake up alone,” she articulated with icy brittleness. “You’ll have to pardon me if finding a Yankee in my bed turns my stomach.”
“You didn’t seem to mind it last night,” he reminded her with an amused arch of his brow.
“I must have been drunk last night,” she retorted. “Otherwise I would never have been able to endure it.” Ambrosia shocked herself by telling such a blatant lie. She was even more stunned by the momentary hurt that shone in Drayton’s face. It was gone so swiftly that she wondered if she had imagined it. And then he was angry.
Furiously angry.
“You are not drunk now,” he said softly, prying her hands away from her breasts and forcing her back against the pillows. “Shall we see if you can endure it this morning?”
Ambrosia struggled violently against him, even as his lips pressed insistently to the smooth line of her throat, even as his tongue sought out the dark, velvet peaks of her breasts. She twisted and lurched in panic, crying out against the ease with which he held her immobile, gasping in mortification as he thrust a knee between her thighs. He freed his hardened shaft without bothering to remove his trousers. Ambrosia froze in horror at the thought of being taken in anger, in violence. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if he sensed her rigidness, but he knew far too much about her body to allow her to retreat. He kissed her deeply, an experienced kiss that feigned gentleness, probing, urging as he caressed her breasts lightly, as he moved his hands in a knowing, calculated manipulation of her most sensitive areas. In spite
of her panic, or perhaps because of it, the blood of passion raced through her veins. A desire born of her own anger and frustration and fear surged inside her, a dangerous, volatile desire that demanded immediate release. She arched against him with a cry of need, aching to be satisfied, hungering for the burst of physical satisfaction that would end this frenzied, mindless battle. He satisfied her then, roughly, almost ruthlessly, as he himself was satisfied. But for both satisfaction faded almost instantly in an aftermath of guilt and emptiness.
Ambrosia moved quickly away from him, curling up like a frightened kitten. She did not want him to see her cry. But she felt used, soiled, little better than a bitch in heat. She let out a choked sob as his hand touched her shoulder. She was rigid when he lifted her by the shoulders and forced her to face him. She could not. She braced herself, fully expecting to be taunted for her response. He had proven his dominance, had stripped away the last remnant of her pride by catching her in a lie. Yet his voice was low and apologetic, and it held nothing of a taunt.
‘’Forgive me, Ambrosia,’’ he whispered. She felt him pulling the comforter gently over her trembling body. ‘’I never meant to take you that way.’’
She felt a tear slip quickly over her cheek from beneath her closed lid. He pulled her into his arms. She would never have admitted it, but she was actually comforted to feel those hard, muscular arms about her. She opened her eyes and slowly raised them to meet his. He laced his fingers tightly through hers and touched them to his lips. “I would not begin this way with you,’’ he murmured.
She swallowed hard and looked away. The fault had been hers. He had merely reacted i
n anger, as any man might have done.
“You should not have lied,” he reproved in a low voice, as if reading her thoughts.
She lifted her eyes again and he gave her a little smile.
“You’re much too good a liar. Remind me never to teach you how to play poker. ‘’
“I learned to play when I was seven.”
He grimaced and let out a moan. “God help me.” He sighed as he let his hand slip behind her head, testing the softness of her hair, moving beneath it to knead the downy skin at the nape of her neck. “Why did you lie?”
Ambrosia’s eyes fixed on the small gold band that seemed so out of place on her finger. “I-I don’t want to like it,” she admitted after a long silence, her cheeks flaring with color.
He watched her fidget nervously with the ring, half amused by her answer, half-angry. ‘’I am your husband, Ambrosia. Things might be simpler if you took pleasure in pleasing me, as I take pleasure in pleasing you.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a Yankee. I’ll never take pleasure in pleasing a Yankee.”
He bent her head back and touched his mouth to hers, but his voice was sterner than before, not quite so gentle. “Someday you’ll realize that I am not your enemy, Ambrosia.”
She pulled away from him again, afraid that he might make her forget that he was a Yankee, that he might make her want all the things he offered her. Reluctantly he rose and finished dressing, forcing away the doubts that were suddenly clouding his mind, telling himself that it would only take time....
Ambrosia was kept busy during the next few days, visiting many shops in the northern section of Charleston she hadn’t even known were there, buying the furnishings necessary to make the house Drayton had rented comfortable. All the while she kept a watchful eye on the cost of every item she purchased. The want of the war years made her feel uneasy about spending so much money at one time, in spite of the fact that her husband seemed far more concerned with pleasing her than he was with money. Ambrosia also felt guilty about buying fine things when so many formerly wealthy families still suffered in their proud poverty. She thought of the Bowmans, existing on so little, relying so heavily on the salary she had contributed just a few months before. At the first opportunity, she asked Sheba privately how the Bowmans were “getting along.” The black woman told her that she was not to worry, that there was money from another source now that ‘’Massah Ledgah done sol’ some o’ his writin’, an’ lookin’ t’ sell mo’.”
Ambrosia quickly lowered her eyes, trying to hide the fact that she felt empty and sad rather than pleased with the news. He had turned to writing, as she had dreamed he would. He had never even told her that he was going to try; She did not notice that Sheba was gnawing nervously at her bottom lip, wondering whether or not to mention the fact that Melissa had run off with a flashy, white-trash scalawag several weeks before, that Ledger and his mother were alone now. Sheba had overheard enough of the ugly accusations Melissa had flung at her sister that night to know why Ambrosia ran away. And though Sheba’s loyalty to Ambrosia was strong, she could not deny the feelings she saw in Ambrosia’s eyes, and had seen for years. Even though Melissa had run off with another man and had no intentions of ever coming back, Ledger was still married to her. And now Ambrosia was married to someone else as well. No, she could not say anything about Melissa or Ledger....
Ambrosia’s eyes lifted again and she asked in a shaky voice, “Does he-does he know I’m married?” she asked reluctantly. “To a Yankee?”
The black woman nodded slowly. “He know. De majah talk t’ him when he come t’ ask me t’ work.” She saw Ambrosia’s face fall and quickly added, “He wish you all de best, you an’ de majah.”
Ambrosia did not meet her eyes again, but Sheba saw her lips tremble as she forced a nod. “Yes...I’m sure he does...”
On the third day after their marriage, Ambrosia and Drayton were finishing breakfast when Sheba offered Drayton a plain white envelope that had been delivered earlier that same morning. Ambrosia peered curiously over her coffee cup, watching Drayton’s face expectantly.
“We’ve received a personal invitation to attend a reception tomorrow evening,’’ he said as he handed her the formal printed card and flashed her a brief smile. “A reception given by General and Mrs. Sickles.”
Her eyes scanned the announcement, then studied the personal note at the bottom, penned and signed by the general’s wife. “Must we go?”
“Have we other plans?”
She reluctantly shook her head.
‘’Then we certainly must.’’ He smiled and covered her hand with his own. “I should enjoy showing you off a bit, Ambrosia.’’ He felt her stiffen and she abruptly withdrew her hand to fidget with her spoon.
“I haven’t anything to wear,”
“Janette can remedy that, I’m sure. We’ll pay her a visit this morning and explain our dilemma. She’s had ample time to come up with something. “
Ambrosia lowered her eyes and said nothing more, but her feelings were clear and Drayton understood them. It would not be pleasant to face a horde of curious, gossipy strangers who would make her the center of attention. And Drayton’s hasty marriage to a Southern woman, after weeks of keeping constant company with Carolyn, would naturally stir speculation and gossip, gossip which had no doubt already reached Mrs. Sickles’s ears and prompted this invitation.
Carolyn was another matter entirely. Drayton had little doubt that she was seething and anxious to confront him with her anger. He hadn’t meant to humiliate her. He had never expected Ambrosia to enter his life again and had certainly not expected her pregnancy. He had involved himself with Carolyn for all the wrong reasons, and now he would have to be careful that Ambrosia was not caught in the cross fire when Carolyn vented her anger. Still, he was not about to turn down the invitation from the general and his wife. Facing gossip squarely was the only way to silence it. Ambrosia’s pregnancy was not yet evident, and by the time it was, Drayton hoped to be far from Charleston. He’d formally requested a new assignment even before making final arrangements for the wedding and had spoken with General Sickles personally about being assigned to Atlanta or New Orleans. But he would not be hiding from the world until those new orders came through. Like it or not, Ambrosia would have to reconcile herself to her new role as his wife.
Ambrosia rose and left the table without protesting Drayton’s decision, but the thought of socializing with Yankee soldiers and their women filled her with dread. And Drayton’s own words only reinforced her worst fears. He wanted to show her off. They would all believe she had seen the light of salvation and obtained protection and security by marrying a handsome Union officer. There was just enough truth in the notion to make her feel sick with guilt. She had, after all, surrendered her freedom and her dignity in return for a name for her child. But she was not one of them. She would never be one of them!
Madame Loreau listened sympathetically as Drayton explained his wife’s situation, then shrugged her slender shoulders and gave him a sly smile. “But of course! I have been working on ze gowns so much already! Ze first is nearly finished, ze silk,’’ she went on happily, relieved that Drayton had returned to the shop with his wife. She felt certain that he would see that his wife ordered a few more gowns at least, and in appropriate colors. Major Rambert was a generous man, and he wouldn’t want his wife to look like a widow! “Wait here,” she said, sliding a palm up his chest. She flashed him a smile and crooked a finger at Ambrosia. ‘’Come in ze back an we will do ze final fit.”
In the tiny back room, Ambrosia donned the sheerest chemise she could imagine and added several lovely starched petticoats that felt wonderfully new and luxurious. Madame Loreau’s forehead puckered as she inserted a thousand pins to hold the various pieces of black silk and lace in place. Sometime later, Ambrosia gingerly turned to have a look in the glass. Her hand flew instinctively to her breast, and she
could hardly restrain a gasp of surprise. The dress was elegantly simple, subtly designed to draw attention to Ambrosia’s womanly assets. Four braces of delicate black lace stretched from shoulder to tightly cinched waist, and a touch of the same lace edged the throat. Yards of black silk fell in loose folds from a stylish fourreau skirt. The French woman raised a self-satisfied brow. Even in black, Ambrosia’s skin carried a youthful glow, her eyes were luminous as a cat’s, and her figure was alluring and graceful. “Madame Rambert is pleased?”
Ambrosia gave a small nod. She had not had a new gown in years, not since she was a thin, shapeless girl, and she was amazed at the changes now as she looked in the mirror. It was like seeing herself for the very first time. She touched her cheek and then the soft folds of the skirt, trying to convince herself that this was all real. Madame began working with her hair, pulling it back and fastening it with an ornamental net of gossamer black and silver. A thin black velvet ribbon at the throat and a pair of black satin slippers completed the ensemble. Ambrosia felt all but transformed.
She held her breath as she stepped out of the back room, feeling giddy and excited as a girl at her first ball.
“Your bride-she is so-so-”
Drayton’s blue eyes locked with Ambrosia’s and he gave her a slow, deliberate smile. “Lovely, Janette,” he supplied huskily. Ambrosia’s cheeks flooded with color. But he abruptly turned away from her to face the French woman again. “But I’m disappointed with the black. I had thought of green, or blue, something bright and-”
“Ah! Oui! But Drayton” -Madame gave an exaggerated shrug of helplessness-’ ‘your bride, she orders only ze four gowns. And all of zem in black. Such a pity! It is not her color, black.”
Drayton’s disbelieving eyes flew to Ambrosia’s and the animation in her expression vanished. She had forgotten for a moment, in a flurry of excitement over her new dress, who and what she was. For a moment she had actually wanted to see the pleasure in his eyes. How had she forgotten that he was a Yankee, and that she was a Lanford? She bowed her head, vowing that she would not forget again. “I am in mourning for my father, Drayton,” she said quietly.
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