"No, no—"
"Then why won't you explain it to me?"
She gripped his thigh with both hands, her upturned face filled with frustration. "My mother made me promise never to marry for any reason except love, because then everything would be beautiful for me. Her parents tried to force her to marry a much older man, you see, one she'd never met, but she had already fallen in love with my father.
"They were so happy, Bartholomew. Sometimes I felt left out because they were so wrapped up in each other. I learned to do very well at entertaining myself. I read a lot and played fantasy games with my dolls. But I still got lonely. There were friends to play with but I didn't go to school, I always had a governess. After my mother died, the only friends I had were Andrea and her brother, Ian, who lived next door. Andrea and I used to speculate about what the big secret was about marriage, but she didn't know any more than I did. Ian was younger and a brat. Even if he had known, I wouldn't have asked him."
Ariah sat back on her heels. "When I was fifteen, I started helping Papa at his office, the way Mana used to do. The two other clerks were men, of course, and older than me." She grimaced. "I suppose even if I had been a man, they wouldn't have been friendly since the boss was my father. The last three years I rarely had occasion to speak to other women, except for Aunt Ida and our cook, Enid."
Bartholomew broke in. "Couldn't you have spoken with one of them?"
Ariah giggled at the thought. "Aunt Ida would have fainted and Enid would have quit."
Her face became serious again. "I suppose I never worried much about any of this before because I always assumed it would be the same for me as it was for Mana." Ariah's hands lifted expressively, and fell. "Whatever went on in their marriage bed, she obviously enjoyed it."
Bartholomew squirmed in his chair, his face going to deep rose beneath his tan. He tried to think of someone more appropriate for her to talk with, and wished for the first time since their arrival at the Upham place that Olivia were here instead of in Tillamook. He quickly banished the thought of Hester, who believed that only women of the lower classes spoke openly of bodily functions. The introduction of such a subject would be taken by her as an intimation that she was of that class, something she could not abide because it was far too close to the truth, in spite of the airs she put on to convince everyone of her fine breeding.
"The problem is—" Ariah recaptured his attention "—I'm not marrying a man I know, one I'm in love with. That's why I need to know what's going to happen. And my mother would agree. Don't you, Bartholomew?"
He started as she laid her hands once again on his knee. "Yes. I suppose I do, but what I really think is that your mother must be very disappointed right now."
"Disappointed?" Ariah blinked. "Why?"
"Because you're about to do exactly what she begged you not to do."
"You mean marrying a man I don't know." She frowned. "But I'm sure my mother would understand, under the circumstances."
"I'm afraid I don't.”
She stared up at him a long time. "If I tell you why I must marry Mr. Monteer, will you answer my question?"
To hide his consternation, he picked up his cup from the table next to his chair and took a sip. He pursed his lips, cleared his throat and cleared it again, feeling like a bear with his hind leg in a trap. "Ariah, if your mother had thought it best for you to know, she would have told you herself."
Ariah beat her fists against her thighs. "But she died. I know she would have told me if she'd lived long enough. When I asked where babies came from, she was very forthright in her answer. She explained that men plant a seed in a woman's womb, here—" Ariah pointed to her stomach "—and that the baby grows there until it's ready to be born. But I was so young, it wasn't until after she was gone that I began to wonder exactly how the man went about planting the seed. That is what happens in the marriage bed, isn't it, Bartholomew? Seed planting?"
Bartholomew rubbed his hand over his mouth, uncertain whether to laugh or cry.
"Well, is it?"
Heaving a sigh, he nodded. "Yes, that's what happens in the marriage bed. Seed planting." Leaning his forearms on his thighs, he bent toward her. "But, Ariah, there's a good deal more to it than that, and you'd be much better off learning about it from . . .from your husband." He had started to say from the man you love, but the notion that that man would not be him brought such pain to his chest, he nearly couldn't go on.
On her knees again, she placed both hands on his arms and looked him in the eye. "You're my friend, Bartholomew. I've come to feel close to you, safe, comfortable. I want you to be the one to tell me."
"Good Lord." He ran his hand across his eyes, feeling the iron teeth of the trap slice through his flesh. That he had taken the Lord's name in vain was a grave indication of the chaotic state of his emotions. He needed time to think.
"The deal was that you tell me first why you have to marry Pritchard."
Letting her breath out in a huff, Ariah sat back again on her heels. "All right, but you must promise that you won't repeat a word of what I say to anyone without speaking to me first.
With a weary lift of his hand, he said, "I promise. Now get on with it."
Chapter Nine
With great care, Ariah arranged her skirts, fussing with the folds as she tried to decide how best to explain her situation to Bartholomew. Her brow wrinkled in concentration and her teeth worried her lower lip. How much should she tell him? Would he feel honor-bound to tell his nephew? What would she do if Mr. Monteer decided he wanted no part of her and the danger that might follow her to his isolated lighthouse on the Oregon coast? She would be alone then, with nowhere to go and no one to protect her.
Was she wrong to place these strangers in peril because of her? It wasn’t fair to them, she couldn’t deny that. She would see how Bartholomew reacted to her story. If he shows any reluctance to have her at the lighthouse once he knows everything, she would simply have to change her plans and find another way to save herself.
Bartholomew downed the last of his coffee and went to the stove to refill the cup, but she wasn't fooled. He was trying to hide his impatience, but that dark look was on his face, as though he were already dreading her words, knowing he would not like them. When he returned to his seat, she cocked her head and glanced up at him from under her thick, stubby lashes.
"To understand," she began, "you need to know a little of how Greek people think. I told you my mother was to have married another man. Her family had already paid her dowry in household furnishings. Land is a better dowry but they had barely enough for their crops and the goats they raised. Anyway, the marriage was all arranged. Until Mana told her mother that she was carrying me."
At her last words, Bartholomew, who was taking a sip of coffee, choked, spewed brown liquid over his white shirt and sat forward again.
"I'm not illegitimate." She grinned at the shock on his face. "Papa would have married her sooner, but it took time to arrange everything since he was not a citizen. I know most people would consider it scandalous that she gave herself to him a bit early. Goodness, back home, if they knew you and I slept alone in the same house together, I would be ruined, regardless of the circumstances. But Mana said when you're in love—" the way I'm beginning to think I love you “—then propriety and the rules of society become stuff and nonsense. She never regretted what she did, and she told me never to let love slip past me, to trust in my heart, grab hold of love and let it take me where it would."
Bartholomew shook his head at the rapt expression on her lovely face. "Even so, surely she warned you against allowing men to take liberties with you. Didn't she tell you that some men would say and do anything to get what they wanted from you?"
"Yes, but she said I would know when it was right and when it was wrong."
Good hell, had there ever been a more innocent woman? Part of him was appalled, but another part was completely enchanted. He couldn't help himself; he took her chin in his hand and drew her closer, hi
s tone gruff. "You allowed me liberties, little nymph, and you know full well it was wrong."
"It didn't feel wrong."
No, it had felt more right than anything he had ever known, but he didn't dare say it aloud. He let her go and sat back. "I believe we've digressed from the subject."
"Oh, yes." She made herself comfortable, knees drawn up, skirts spread about her, her toes in their black stockings barely peeking out from under her hem.
"In 1821," she began, "when the Greeks fought for freedom from the Turks, the women of a small mountain village went to the top of a high cliff and, holding hands as though they were at a wedding feast, they jumped to their deaths rather than face dishonor at the hands of Turkish soldiers. You see, to the Greeks nothing is more important than honor. A disgraced woman brought shame on the entire family. It didn't matter to my mother's family that Papa loved her and wanted to marry her. She was promised to another man, a Greek man, who already had her dowry. That was all that counted. Her grandfather . . . the head of the family, was a tenacious old man who insisted out of sheer stubborn pride that she be forced to honor his agreement with her Greek fiancé. They would simply pay the man more dowry to accept the coming baby as his."
Ariah's tone became more grave, her expression somber. So far, all she had said was true. Painfully true.
"So, with the aid of a sympathetic aunt, my father stole my mother away. A lot of Greeks were immigrating to Egypt at that time to find jobs constructing the Suez Canal. Papa hoped leaving Greece would put an end to the matter and he and Mana would be left in peace. He never dreamed anyone would come after them. But my great-grandfather sent one of my uncles to bring her back and to punish Papa. It took time to discover where they had gone, more time to get a passport and follow. Through my father's embassy, he learned my uncle was on his way, and once again they fled. Eventually, they ended up in France where I was born. When Uncle Xenos tracked them there, they escaped to Britain, then to America.
"Papa changed his name from Scott Jefferson to Jeffrey Scott. For a while he worked as a store clerk to throw my uncle off. But it upset him to see my mother living in near poverty when his chosen profession could allow them to live better. Uncle Lou worked for the owner of the store. When he found out my father had been trained in the law, he convinced him to become his partner. I was eleven then. So much time had passed that they were sure they were safe."
Ariah sniffed and Bartholomew saw wetness gleaming on her cheeks in the firelight.
"I don't know why it took Uncle Xenos so long, but two weeks ago, he showed up at Papa's office. When Papa . . ." She swiped at her eyes to cover the fact that she had almost said too much, almost told Bartholomew the truth. She leaped to her feet and began to pace, her fingers knitted tightly together as she forced herself to go on.
"When Uncle Xenos learned my mother and father were dead, he asked where to find me. I'm an orphan now, Bartholomew, unmarried and alone . . . except for my Greek relatives. He meant to take me back to Greece and marry me off to advance the financial situation of the family and make up for what my mother deprived them of. What else could I do but run? If I must marry a stranger, I prefer an American—" she thumbed her chest "—of my choosing."
When she turned to face Bartholomew, she saw shock in his sable eyes. The heavy dark brows came down over them, giving him an icy black look that would have sent her uncle racing back to Greece where he belonged.
"Your uncle would have forced you to go with him?" He came to his feet and towered over her, stiff with rage and something else she could not identify.
Ariah froze, hypnotized by the intensity of his gaze. As he looked at her, the anger drained out of him and he took her in his arms, gently cradling her head against his chest.
"He won't take you anywhere," he whispered while his thick fingers brushed the moisture from her cheeks. "I won't let anything happen to you."
Bartholomew squeezed his eyes shut as the reality of his promise splintered through him. It would not be up to him to protect her. She would be Pritchard's wife, not his. The anger and the fear of losing her that had overwhelmed him on hearing her story surged back to submerge him in a vicious whirlpool of emotion, a vortex of agony and hopelessness. That he could love her beyond anything, when they’d known each other such a short time, was unbelievable, but he did. Yet he could never lay claim to her. Many times in his life he had wished he could start over, be reborn. Now, he wanted simply to die.
"I'm scared, Bartholomew."
Her words dragged him back up out of the pit of self-pity he had been digging himself.
"Not only of Uncle Xenos," she added, "but . . . how can I marry when I don't know what will happen to me on my wedding night?"
Bartholomew held her to him so tightly she whimpered. The thought of her sharing a bed with anyone other than himself plunged him lower into the maelstrom of pain threatening to drown him. Gritting his teeth, he eased his grip on her. She needed him. Lord knew, Pritchard would be no help to her if her uncle did come to claim her. The boy was a coward about standing up for himself, let alone anyone else. And if the matter should become physical, Pritchard would be the first to duck and run, leaving Ariah to fend for herself.
Bending his head, he pressed his face into her hair, breathing in her scent as though it could keep him sane and strong. "Don't be afraid, nymph, I won't let anyone hurt you . . . ever."
"Will you tell me then?" Her arms were wrapped about his waist, her words muffled against his chest.
Distracted by the feel of her soft breasts pressing against him, he planted tiny kisses atop her head. All he would have of her was now; this brief respite heaven had granted him by destroying the bridge and isolating them in John Upham's empty cabin. He'd be damned if he would give up one moment of it unnecessarily, or pass up the chance to enjoy what he could of her before he turned her over to Pritchard. Ruthlessly he shoved down the guilt that arose with that thought. He lifted her face, intent on kissing her sweet lush mouth.
"Bartholomew? You promised you'd tell me."
"Tell you what, nymph?" His lips were a mere breath from hers, his hand exploring the gentle curve of her waist.
"About seed planting."
Bartholomew went completely still. The painful reminder of her innocence was like a bucket of ice water dumped on the searing need of his body. He sucked in air, let it out slowly, and put her from him. Her cheeks were damp, her lips parted and her expression anxious. One look told him there would be no putting her off. He nudged her toward the rocking chair.
"Sit down."
While she sat, he turned away, staring into the fire as he composed himself and formulated a coherent answer to her question. Finally, he faced her.
"Have you ever seen dogs mate?" He cursed himself as soon as he said it, appalled at the crude and animalistic image such an analogy would create in her mind.
"No." She tipped her head, frowning in puzzlement.
Bartholomew ran his hand down the back of his neck and sucked in another deep breath. "Forget about that. Do you know the physical differences between males and females?"
"Certainly."
"Good, then—"
"Men are larger and more muscular," she said, totally serious, "and, of course, they don't have breasts."
His relief vanished. He sighed. "I'm afraid there's a bit more to it than that. Haven't you ever seen a male infant, helped change his diaper, perhaps?"
"No. I love babies, but I've never been around many."
"Lord help me," he muttered. This was going to be more difficult than he'd expected. Sweat broke out on his brow and he thought it quite possible—humiliatingly so—that he might become ill, from mortification alone. How did one make an indelicate subject delicate enough not to frighten a gentle and innocent girl like Ariah? He frowned.
"Ariah, a man's . . . privates differ from a woman's. Do you understand?"
Unconsciously, her hand slid to her lower abdomen.
His gaze followed and he nodd
ed. "Yes. A man's privates are made to fit inside a woman's, and that is how he . . . plants his seed in her."
The sweat was running down his face by the time he finished and he knew he must be as red as a boiled lobster. Certainly he felt hot enough to be on fire. Worse, his contrary body chose this time to renew its earlier arousal. He sat down and crossed his legs, unable to look her in the eye, knowing the moment the words were out, her gaze had no doubt become riveted to his groin.
"Gracious Sadie, I already knew that much." Ariah flapped her hands dramatically. "I watched a pair of mallard ducks mate once in the pond at the park back home. The drake climbed onto the hen's back and thrashed around until I thought he would drown her. When he jumped off and came ashore I saw his . . . privates. What I don't understand is how he got such a limp, stringy looking little thing like that to go inside her. And where, exactly? I couldn't see any openings on that hen."
With both hands over his face, Bartholomew scrunched down in his chair as though it could swallow him whole and deliver him from this horror. He felt a hysterical urge to laugh, and knew if he succumbed he would likely cry instead. After a long moment his hands dropped and he heaved a loud sigh. Eager to get this outrageous conversation over with, he blurted, "The hen's privates are under her tail feathers, which she moves aside so he can reach her."
Ariah pursed her lips as she considered this. "All right, but how did he get that floppy little—"
Bartholomew held up his hands. He wasn't at all sure he could endure her description of male attributes again. "That part of him changes when he becomes aroused and ready to mate. It becomes . . . firm. After he has . . . planted his seed, it becomes limp again."
“Oh.” Ariah rose, walked the length of the broad, rock fireplace, turned slowly and came back. "I cannot imagine that merely becoming excited could make something that flaccid grow firm enough to—"
Forever Mine Page 10