"Reckon I'll take a bath myself," Rawlins remarked. "No sense wastin' all that water."
"Go right ahead!"
I dropped the bar of soap back into the barrel and reached for the skirt and blouse I had spread over the chair. As I did so, the towel slipped, almost dropping to the floor before I caught it. Rawlins guffawed and began to pull off his buckskin tunic. I hurried into the bedroom and was dismayed to discover that there was no door I could slam shut between the two rooms. I discovered, too, that I had forgotten to get my petticoat from the pack. My cheeks were still burning, but, strangely enough, the anger was almost pleasant. Anything was better than that terrible numb lethargy.
There was a loud splash as Rawlins climbed into the barrel. Hesitating only a moment, I stepped back into the sitting room, the towel tucked securely around me. Rawlins was in the tub, scrubbing himself vigorously, his hair soaking wet and plastered over his head in pointed locks. He reminded me of a frisky puppy splashing about, and I almost smiled in spite of myself. Opening the pack again, I pulled out the multilayered petticoat I needed. Rawlins let out a little yelp as the bar of soap slipped out of his hand and went skittering across the room.
"Damn! Be a dear. Fetch me the soap."
"Get it yourself!" I snapped.
"You really want me to? You want me to climb out and—"
"I'll get it!"
He smiled as I handed it to him. Why did I feel myself warming to this man? I had every reason to hate him. Why did I want to smile back at him and smooth those damp locks away from his brow? He intended to sell me to a brothel in New Orleans. Despite his engaging manner, despite his charm, he was my enemy. I had to remember that. I had to keep that in mind at all times. To succumb to his charm would be a fatal mistake. Rawlins looked up at me with those merry brown eyes, utterly disarming.
"I don't know what happened," he said, "don't know what caused you to come back to life, but I sure am glad to see you comin' round. Meek women bore the pants off me. I have a feelin' I ain't gonna be bored no longer."
"I'm hungry, Mr. Rawlins. I suggest you hurry with your bath so we can go downstairs and eat."
"Righto," he said. "Won't take me more'n a few minutes."
Leaving him to his bath, I went back into the bedroom and, standing well out of sight of the open doorway, dried my body thoroughly and then vigorously toweled my hair, ridding it of most of the dampness. I could hear him splashing away as I dressed. He was humming a jaunty tune, enjoying himself immensely.
"Hey!" he cried. "I need that towel."
I took it in to him and fetched my shoes.
"It's all damp," he protested.
"I'm sorry about that. You'll just have to make do."
"Inconsiderate wench," he grumbled.
He heaved himself out of the barrel, dripping rivulets of water all over the rug. I hurried back into the bedroom and put on my shoes. There was an old hairbrush on top of the dressing table and, sitting down in front of the mirror, I began to brush my hair. Soon it was almost dry, soft and feathery and wonderfully clean. The glow I had felt earlier still remained inside. The grief, the desolation were there as well, but they were tightly contained, locked away. I was no longer willing to let them render me helpless.
Rawlins stepped to the doorway and peered in at me.
He had tied the towel clumsily about his waist. Seeing him like that reminded me of pictures I had seen of the early Roman gladiators. He was superbly built, lean and muscular, exceedingly virile and emanating a hearty confidence much as the gladiators must have done before entering the arena. Hearty, audacious, he grinned at me, those wet, sharp-pointed locks covering his head like a sleek helmet. I put the brush down and stood up, looking at him with calm blue eyes.
"Just thought I'd tell you I'm almost ready," he remarked. "All I have to do is slip into some fresh buckskins. You look stunning, Marietta. Uh... we don't have to go down for supper..." His eyes took in the bed.
"I think we'd better," I said coldly.
Rawlins gave a good-natured shrug and stepped back into the sitting room to put on fresh buckskins identical to those he had been wearing before, only cleaner. Instead of boots, he wore soft buckskin moccasins. As we went down to the taproom, he seemed as jolly and exuberant as an Oxford youth turned loose on the city with a pocketful of money. Hair still damp, eyes merry, he led me into the dimly lighted, smoke-filled taproom. There were well over a dozen rough-looking men gathered around the tables, and all of them watched with considerable envy as Rawlins led me to a corner table.
"Hey, Rawlins," one of them called, "you in a sellin' mood?"
"No chance," he retorted. "This one's special."
"Keepin' her for yourself?"
"You're smarter'n you look, Benson."
Maria served us herself. The food was delicious: sugar-cured ham, hot bread, golden yams, greens. I was famished and dug into the food with great relish, as did Rawlins. He drank ale from a pewter mug with his food, and I wondered how much he had had before he came up to the room, how much of his jaunty humor was caused by the alcohol. Maria brought hot apple pie with cream after we had finished, and Rawlins leaped up to give her a mighty hug, claiming it was his favorite and she was a living angel. Maria blushed with pleasure, girlishly coy for all her great girth.
Eb Crawley came to sit with us for a few minutes after we had finished dessert. His ruddy face was grim as he took the mug of ale his wife brought.
"Another for me, too," Rawlins requested.
"You've already had enough, you rascal. You're not going to be able to get back upstairs!"
"Aw, don't get bossy, Maria. Just bring me the ale."
Maria moved away, red skirt swishing. Her husband's dark eyes were filled with grave concern as he inquired if we intended to push on tomorrow morning.
"Don't see why not," Rawlins replied. "Hell, there's always talk of Indian uprisin's. I ain't sayin' they didn't murder that family and burn their wagon, but it was probably no more'n half a dozen braves just feelin' their oats. They've probably left the area by this time."
Maria banged a pewter mug down on the table in front of him, foamy ale splashing over the rim. Rawlins scowled at her, then lifted the mug to his lips.
"If I was scared uv Indians, I'd never have ventured down the Trace the first time," he continued. "I got two powerful rifles, and a pistol as well, and there ain't a man around 's a better shot than I am."
"Be that as it may, I think you should reconsider. We got a whole slew of men here who're coolin' their heels, waitin' for things to calm down 'fore they go on. It ain't just the Indians, Jeff. I hear the Brennan boys are at it again. Talk is they waylaid a couple trappers not more'n fifty miles on down the road. Murdered 'em both."
"You mean them skunks is still loose and livin'? I'da thought someone would've put a bullet through their skulls 'fore this time. I knew Jim was outa jail, but I thought Billy was locked up in Natchez."
"He broke out. His brother helped him. They killed the jailer, shot another man, too. They don't make 'em any meaner'n the Brennans. If I had my choice of runnin' up against a pack of Chickasaws or runnin' up against the Brennan brothers, I'd pick the Indians every time. Didn't you have a run in with 'em a couple years back?"
"Sure did. Beat the shit outa Billy, put a slug of lead in Jim's shoulder. I'd welcome a chance to finish the job up proper. It's scum like them that gives the Trace such a bad name."
Eb Crawley frowned, clearly displeased. "If it was just you, I'd say go on, get yourself scalped or shot up, but— hell, Jeff, you got the wench here to consider. You don't wanna take no chances with her along. If the Brennans got a-hold of her—"
"They ain't about to," Rawlins replied, finishing his ale. He slammed the mug down and climbed unsteadily to his feet. "I don't know what's gotten into you, Eb. You're talkin' like some frightened dude, and you one of the meanest critters ever drew breath."
"It ain't a jokin' matter, Jeff. These other chaps—"
"I'm tired
talkin' about it," Rawlins interrupted. "Come on, Marietta, let's go on upstairs."
He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. All that ale had quite obviously gone to his head. He was weaving slightly as we left the taproom, and he stumbled as we climbed the stairs, crashing against the wall with considerable impact. When we reached the upper hall, he flung his arm around my shoulders, leaning heavily against me as we moved on down the hall. As soon as we stepped into the sitting room, he plopped down in the chair, looking flushed but still quite merry. The barrel was gone, I noticed, and so were our dirty clothes.
"Lita's launderin' 'em for us," he explained when I commented about it. "She'll have 'em all freshly ironed and ready to pack away when we get ready to leave in the morning. She always cleans my buckskins for me, has 'em smellin' like new."
"That's very thoughtful of her."
"Lita's a swell kid. I did her a favor once. This is her way of payin' me back. Hey, all that talk didn't upset you, did it? I mean all that jawin' about the Brennans and the Indians."
"Not—not particularly, but Mr. Crawley seemed—"
"Oh, Eb's always gettin' in an uproar about nothin'. You got no cause to be alarmed, gal. I been travelin' this trail for years and years, know it backwards and forwards. There ain't a man alive more capable of gettin' you safely to Natchez. You just put all that talk outta your mind, hear? It ain't worth thinkin' about."
"I'll try to," I told him. "I think I'll go to bed now."
"You go on. I'm gonna sit here a while and have me a cheroot."
"You intend to sleep here?"
"I sure as hell ain't gonna sleep out in th' hall. Don't you worry none. Go on to bed."
I went into the bedroom and, blowing out the lamp, undressed in the semidarkness. Soft rays of light from the other room filtered in through the doorway, leaving the rest of the room a hazy blue-gray. The window was open, and a cool breeze drifted in. I could smell tobacco burning as Rawlins smoked his cigar. Completely naked, I climbed under the covers. The coarse linen sheets were cool and clean, smelling of soap. I felt a certain apprehension. Thus far Rawlins had made no attempt to make love to me, but then we had never shared a bed.
Perhaps a quarter of an hour passed before he finally stepped into the doorway. He leaned against the frame with one shoulder, peering at me with a thoughtful look in his eyes. I gripped the sheets nervously, watching him. Rawlins noticed. He grinned sheepishly.
"Don't get yourself all riled up, wench. I ain't gonna do nothin' you don't want me to do."
He pulled off his buckskin tunic and tossed it onto a chair, slipped out of his moccasins, and kicked them across the floor.
"Aren't you going to blow out the light?" My voice was tight.
"Reckon I'd better, at that."
He stepped into the other room. A moment later there was only darkness. I heard him come back into the bedroom, heard him struggle out of the clinging buckskin leggings. Pale rays of moonlight slanted in through the window, tinting the air with a faint silver glow, and I could barely distinguish his naked body as he draped the leggings over the side of a chair. A moment later he sighed heavily and climbed into bed beside me. The springs creaked. The mattress sagged with his weight, causing me to roll over against him. I moved back over quickly, but his leg still touched mine. I could feel his warmth, smell flesh and perspiration and ale.
"You all snug and cozy?" he inquired.
"I—I'm almost asleep."
"Nice to be in a real bed, ain't it?"
I didn't reply. I was acutely aware of his nearness, and I experienced familiar sensations in spite of myself. Disturbed, I tried to make my mind a blank, tried to ignore the male body sprawled out beside me, but it was impossible. I remembered the time he had kissed me beside the wagon the day of the fair. I remembered the dizziness and the delight as his strong arms held me and his lips worked over mine, summoning an instant response. I had felt disloyal to Derek then because another man had been able to arouse the physical response Rawlins had aroused.
"I been lookin' forward to this for a long time," Rawlins said.
"Jeff, I—"
"Didn't wanna force myself on you before," he interrupted. "Figured I'd wait till you snapped outta your trance. You've been grievin' for Hawke, I know, and I was willin' to respect your grief."
"Please don't. Please just—"
"I know Hawke meant a lot to you, wench. I reckon you was near 'bout crushed when he sold you like he did, in a fit of anger. That's the past, over and done with. I'm gonna make you forget all about him, and that's a promise."
Shifting position, he pulled me into his arms and covered my mouth with his own. It was a long, leisurely kiss. He held me loosely, savoring my lips with his own, his right hand gently massaging my breast, and my head seemed to swim. Raising his head, he chuckled softly and stroked me with fingertips that tenderly explored.
"A man like Hawke—-he don't know how to appreciate a woman like you. Me, I reckon I appreciated you the moment I first laid eyes on you."
"Jeff—"
And then he lowered himself on me as though I were a cushion, and he kissed me again, lazily, and I found myself wrapping my arms around him, pulling him closer. I was alive with sensations I thought I would never be able to feel again. Rawlins entered me, moving slowly, savoring each second, savoring each sensation, using my body as a great musician might use a cherished instrument, tenderly. I seemed to be soaring through space, waves of ecstasy sweeping me further and further away from sanity and reason, and I forgot about Derek, forgot about everything but this man, this moment. He shuddered, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of my shoulder, and I cried out, clasping him to me as I was swept into a realm of incredible pleasure like nothing I had ever felt before.
CHAPTER 17
It was mid-afternoon, two days after we had left Crawley's Inn, and I was exhausted. We had been riding hard all day, with only a short break for lunch. I had grown to detest Jenny, my mule. She had balked several times already today, once in the middle of a small stream we were crossing. I had promptly tumbled off, landing in the water with an enormous splash. Nothing was hurt but my pride, and Rawlins's riotous laughter hadn't helped a bit. The heat was intense. We were traveling through real wilderness now, and the trail was much rougher than anything we had passed over before.
"I'm tired!" I protested.
"You'll never make a pioneer," he taunted.
"I've no desire to be a pioneer."
"Expect me to mollycoddle you, don't ya? If we stopped everytime you started gettin' tired, we'd never reach Natchez."
"Jeff, I mean it. I'm exhausted."
"Just keep forgin' ahead," he called amiably. "We'll take a rest 'fore too much longer."
I sighed and dug my knees into Jenny's sides, urging her on. My blouse was damp with perspiration, my skirt bunched up over my knees. A swarm of insects buzzed in the air. I slapped one of them off my arm. The sun beat down fiercely, slanting through the thick tree limbs to burn my skin. Crawley's Inn seemed a distant paradise. Rawlins moved on ahead, leading the third mule behind him, and I dared not lag too much. This wild, savage land was terrifying, unlike anything I had ever seen before, and, too, I couldn't forget the talk about Indians.
The trail wound through the dense woods, sometimes vanishing altogether, it seemed, hardly worthy of being called a trail at all. Although Jeff assured me the Trace was the main thoroughfare through the wilderness, we had encountered no one. This territory had been ceded to the English after the French and Indian War—Jeff had regaled me with tales of that conflict, most of them featuring hordes of howling savages—but I failed to see why anyone would want it. Although it did have a certain majestic splendor, it was much too vast, too wild.
At least Carolina had been partially civilized, with farms and plantations and settlements abounding, Charles Town a thriving port. I felt a stab of pain, remembering, and I forced all thoughts of Carolina out of my mind. I wouldn't think about it, I vowed. That was behin
d me. My life had taken another abrupt turn, and survival was all that mattered now. I was going to survive, and I wasn't going to end up in a brothel in New Orleans. Already I was contemplating my escape. It was out of the question now, of course. Where would I go? But once we passed through this wilderness, once we reached civilized country again, I would give Jeff Rawlins the slip at the first opportunity and, somehow, make a new life in the French and Spanish territory.
In the meantime, I could do nothing but stick closely to him until we left this wilderness behind. If one had to travel through this godforsaken country, I could think of no better traveling companion. For one thing, I was confident in his ability to get us through safely, and, for another, he was undeniably engaging and entertaining, constantly telling tall tales of his exploits and those of Daniel Boone. Boone, one of the first to explore these parts, was obviously one of his heroes. I might be exhausted, I might be uncomfortable and frequently irritated, but with Jeff Rawlins I was never bored.
There was the physical part, too. He was a superb lover. I couldn't deny that. Even on blankets spread over the rough ground, he was superb, and I gave myself to him willingly. It was all part of my plan. By the time we reached civilization, he would be completely sure of me, convinced I couldn't do without him, and he was bound to grow lax, seeing no reason to keep a close watch over me. It would make my escape all the easier. I justified it to myself this way, but the fact remained that I enjoyed our lovemaking as much as he. My mother's blood? Perhaps, but I wasn't particularly concerned. There was no place for moralizing in the middle of the wilderness.
We had been climbing the trail for some time, and soon we were on the crest of a hill, the trail winding down in front of us. Jeff came to a halt, and I drew Jenny up beside him. A spectacular vista unfolded before us. Against a pale-blue, sun-drenched sky we could see the tops of distant mountains, a hazy violet-gray, the slopes covered with trees, a patchwork of greens and browns. There was a stream below, sparkling silvery blue, now visible, now hidden by the trees, and the land itself was a rusty reddish brown. It was incredibly beautiful. I could sense Jeff's response. He loved this land. He was at home here. It was a part of him.
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