"She's outta your reach now," his wife hissed, too low for the others to hear. "Not as far as I woulda liked, but I know you well enough to believe you'll keep your distance, now she's married."
Bartholomew sent her a killing smile. "And you're vastly relieved, aren't you, Hester? Now you can stop being afraid that I'll overcome my compulsive conscience and divorce you in order to have her. But then," he added, unaware how prophetic his words would become, "we never know what the future will hold, do we, dear wife?"
With a strength that grew out of his hatred for Hester, he went to Ariah and, after a quick glance at his wife to make sure she watched, he kissed Pritchard's new wife.
"Be happy," he whispered against Ariah's full sweet lips, drinking in her scent and savoring her taste for the last time.
With the impulsiveness he had come to love in her, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "I will," she whispered back, "as long as I can bolster my spirits occasionally with a glimpse of you."
Ariah had not meant to lie to Bartholomew, but as her husband dragged her through the rain to the solitude of their own house, she wasn't sure happiness with him was a viable possibility. Pritchard was singing a vulgar song, obviously far from sober. If the Fates were with her, he would fall asleep the moment he crawled into bed, and leave her alone.
But the Fates were a contrary lot. Beneath the roof of the back porch, he grabbed her to him for another wet kiss, his hands stroking down her back to her buttocks and pressing her even closer to his male hardness. "My very own wife." He giggled drunkenly. "Come on, wife, let's go to bed."
Ariah blushed hotly and tried to ease herself away. The idea that everyone knew what would take place within the next hour mortified her. At least Hester had refrained from making any of her coarse, double entendre remarks, but Ariah knew that tomorrow would be another day. Pritchard opened the back door, swung her into his arms and carried her into the hallway. He almost dropped her as he set her on her feet.
"Don't think I can carry you all the way up."
She had barely caught her balance before he was towing her upstairs to the bedroom they would now share. The two keeper's houses were identical with one exception; the room off the vestibule which Bartholomew used as an office, here belonged to the Second Assistant Keeper, along with a bedroom directly above, reached by box stairs off the first floor room. The rest of the upstairs was the First Assistant Keeper's domain. But, having no need of so much space, Seamus had kindly offered to take the smaller quarters. Both assistant keepers shared the kitchen, dining and living rooms downstairs.
The instant they were inside the master bedroom her new husband yanked off his coat, vest and tie, and threw them on the floor. Ill at ease and uncertain what he expected of her, Ariah remained by the door. "Get undressed," he said, grinning. "Never mind, I'll do it."
He fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress while he kissed her so hard her tender lips were ground against her teeth until she tasted blood. The fastenings resisted his clumsy fingers and she heard the fabric rip as he became more insistent. Buttons clattered to the floor.
"Wait, Pritchard, let me—"
"Can't wait, been thinking of nothing but this since the first time I saw you."
His breathing was ragged, his hands demanding. Her dress floated to the floor in tatters. Seeing that she had no choice, she hurriedly undid a few inches down the front closure of her combination chemise while Pritchard yanked down her petticoats, ending in a crouch at her feet. Ariah shuddered as his hands slid up her naked calves, beneath the lace-edged legs of her chemise, to the garters that held up her stockings.
"God, you smell good." He pressed his face into her stomach, his fingers hooking into the tops of her stockings and drawing them downward. "Lift your feet."
Balancing herself with one hand on his shoulder, she did as he asked. He freed her feet from the fine-knit stockings, and ran his hands back up under her chemise. She reached to stop him at mid-thigh. "I should use the water closet first."
"Do you have to?" he whined.
He forced his way under her restraining hands but before he could attain his goal, she jerked away. "Yes, I have to. I'll be right back."
"Hurry. I'll wait in bed."
Ariah ran down the stairs, wearing nothing but her half-opened chemise, and praying that Old Seamus would stay at Bartholomew's awhile longer. The old man had filled in for Pritchard during the wedding, but had since been relieved by Bartholomew until his regular midnight watch.
The thought brought a clear image of Bartholomew to her mind, the way he had looked as he relinquished her to Pritchard. Why, God? Why couldn't I have married the man I truly love? Why did he have to be married already?
Had she made a mistake marrying Pritchard? Would she have been better off going somewhere else? Perhaps fate would have been kind enough to give her time to find another man she might be happier with, before Uncle Xenos caught up with her.
Confused and miserable, Ariah locked herself inside the cold, drafty water closet in the woodshed off the kitchen. With her arms braced against the door as if to hold off an attack, she laid her forehead on her crossed arms, and cried until Pritchard came down and pounded on the door.
"Go back upstairs this instant, Pritchard, or it'll only take longer for me to finish." As soon as his footsteps faded and the door to the kitchen closed, she pulled herself together, completed her business, and went back upstairs.
Her husband was in bed as promised. The lamp was turned low but not low enough to prevent her from noticing that he was naked above the waist; the covers hid the rest.
"Could you douse the light?" she said.
"Do I have to?"
"Please? I'm not accustomed to undressing in front of men."
"I should hope not."
Grudgingly he did as she asked. In the darkness she slipped out of her chemise and into the nightrobe she'd left on the back of a chair that morning. Taking a deep breath, she went to the side of the bed, lifted the covers and slid in next to her husband. Immediately he reached for her and swore in disappointment at the feel of the gown covering her from chin to toes. "Can't you take this off?"
She almost answered with the same words he had used earlier when she asked him to douse the lamp, but stopped herself. What did it matter if she were naked or not? It would not alter what was to happen, or make his unwanted invasion of her body more palatable. So she took off the gown and endured his rough exploration of her body, the same way she endured his rancid breath from the wine he had drank—by holding her breath and mentally listing the various families of birds.
Accipitridae, vultures, hawks, harriers.
Pritchard squeezed a breast and she gasped from the pain.
Alaudidae, larks. His nose butted hers as he tried to kiss her. Her mouth was already sore from the bruising pressure of his, her inner lip torn, but she resisted the urge to turn aside. His tongue sliding over her lips made her stomach lurch.
Why did Pritchard's touch revile her when Bartholomew's filled her with delicious sensations? Was it only Pritchard's roughness? Should she ask him to be gentler? Guilt for wishing he were Bartholomew kept her silent.
Much too soon, he was shoving her legs apart and clambering on top of her.
Caprimulgidae, nightjars. Cathartidae, new world vultures. Certhiidae, chamaeidae, diomedeidae. The Latin names pounded through her head, faster and faster and still she could not block out the fear and revulsion.
The hand groping between her thighs held no tenderness. It felt as if a vulture were tearing at her flesh.
"You're dry," Pritchard panted into her ear, making it sound like an accusation. "Uncle Bart said you'd be wet."
To learn that Bartholomew had discussed her so intimately hurt even more than her husband's inexperienced probing. She fought back tears.
"Uncle Bart said wait, but I can't." His voice was raspy, his breath coming in gasps. His fingers dug at her, desperately seeking the lubrication necess
ary for his entry into her body, until she cried out in pain.
"I'm sorry," he muttered brokenly. "I have to . . ." His rigid flesh demanded entrance. He grunted and groaned as he tried to force himself inside, battering at the unbending barrier of her virginity.
Ariah bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. The pain was worse than she had expected. The embarrassment and indignity increased her suffering until she longed to scream. Pritchard stiffened. A high, keening moan issued from inside his throat. Fluid washed over her. He collapsed on top of her and went still. In silence, while tears ran down her face, Ariah thanked the Lord that it was over.
Chapter Seventeen
Midnight. The sky was so black there was no discerning where it ended and the sea began, where the sea ended and land began. It didn't matter.
Bartholomew left the lighthouse, secure in Seamus's good care, and started up the stairway to the upper level of the bluff. The wind tore at his slicker, slapping the heavy, oiled fabric against his legs. Like a trickster, a gust swirled to lift off his hood. He felt the cold rain dribble onto his face and kept going.
Nothing seemed to matter, not the rain, not the wind, and, most especially, not him. He was nothing, less than nothing. He no longer wished that he could be reborn, but that he could cease to exist entirely.
His boot slipped on a slick wooden step and he began to fall. Only instinct and his hands on the rails kept him upright, though one knee banged painfully into the stair. He welcomed the pain. It helped hold back the images haunting his brain.
Images of Ariah and Pritchard, together.
The wind was so fierce that to keep from being swept away he had to cling to the cable strung along the board path to the houses. He blinked water from his eyes and swiped a hand down his streaming face. Far ahead, a thousand miles at least, a pinprick of light beckoned. His house? Ariah's? Was it her bedroom window still alight? Hers and Pritchard's?
A keening gust knocked him to his knees. He shoved himself back up and danced sideways before his grip on the cable reined him in. Old Seamus had warned him it was bad out. T'would be easy, the old seadog had said, to be blown clean off the bluff and drowned in the swirling black brine below. The edge of the bluff wasn't more than twenty-five feet away from where he stood. How tempting to simply let go, to let the storm end his pain.
Somehow he made it to the compound. The gate squeaked as it swung open. The light that had guided him home came from his own porch. The assistant keepers' house next door was dark. He walked around to the north side where he could see the windows of the master bedroom. They too were dark. He stood there a long time, staring up at the windows and wishing with all his heart that the wind tonight had been stronger.
Hours later, Hester flung open the office door and stared at Bartholomew where he sat behind his desk. His dark hair, always curly from the dampness but usually neatly combed, looked to her like one of his dratted birds had nested in it. A tracery of red colored the whites of his eyes and fatigue deepened the lines in his face. His slicker lay in a puddle on the floor. On the desk stood an empty bottle of whiskey.
"What do you want, Hester?"
Weariness and dejection weighted his voice.
"You been up all night, haven't you?" she said. "Frettin' over that . . . that—"
The rich brown of his eyes turned to ice, promising retribution as lethal as a shark's bite if she used her favorite foul name for Ariah Scott. No, it was Ariah Monteer now. A smile as sweet as three day old fish guts curved Hester's lips. Seeing Bartholomew tie his insides into knots over Pritchard getting under that girl's skirts instead of him was almost worth having the slut as part of their family.
"She belongs to Pritchard now," Hester taunted, "and I aim to make blame sure you don't never get your hands on her."
Tense moments passed as he studied his wife. Her drab, overly-beribboned dress hung on her like an ill-fitted sail. "You should see Doctor Wills, Hester. You've lost weight. Makes you look like an old hag."
"Ain't nothing wrong with me that getting away from this gawdawful bluff won’t cure."
He smiled. It felt good to goad her into a temper. Maybe a good fight would make him feel better. "Are you sure? I can tell by the way you hobble around here that your feet are hurting you more."
Her eyes widened at that.
Bartholomew's smile spread into a self-satisfied grin. "You didn't think I was aware that you were having trouble with your feet, did you? Or is it your legs now too? And you've been drinking enough water to sink a steamship. Not to mention that demon moonshine you call a tonic. You spend half the night on that thunder mug of yours, and three-quarters of the day in the water closet. What's wrong with you, Hester? What sins are you atoning for with your health?"
Rigid with anger, she sneered back at him. "You're the one been sinnin'. Lusting after that girl like a ruttin' bull. That's always been your albatross, hasn't it? Lust. It eats away at you like the rot of dead flesh. You married me so you could pant and rut in my body night after night, but I put a stop to that, didn't I?" Her laugh was shrill, with an edge of dementia. "And you ain't never forgiven me ’cause lust is what you live for."
In a dramatic gesture, she flung her arm into the air, her other hand on her padded breast. "They which lusteth after flesh shall not inherit the kingdom of God."
"'But the fruit of the Spirit is love'," he answered in a voice as calm as hers was shrill. "That's something you've never known, isn't it, Hester? Love. I might have come to love you, if you hadn't tricked me into marrying you and locked the door on me. But your spirit has been consumed by bitterness. All that's left of you is a shell, like the ones that wash up on the sand, still slimy from the snail that abandoned it. Your own shame made you afraid to let anyone love you, and now, no one ever will. You can be sure of that."
"Damn you, Bartholomew Noon. Damn your—" she searched for a word foul enough for her intent, big enough for her pride "—execrable hide. I hope that lousy piece of flesh hanging between your legs shrivels up and falls off for lack of use."
He broke into rich peals of laughter. Hester's gaunt face flushed and she fled the room, leaving the door open behind her. Bartholomew's laughter ended as abruptly as it began. He sank back in his chair, drained by more than the unpleasant encounter. Hester as right; he'd slept little during the long, lonely night. Every time he'd closed his eyes, scenes of Ariah with Pritchard flashed onto his inner eyelids in three dimensional colors like the double-imaged cards in the stereoptic viewer Hester had bought in Tillamook. There was no denying it. He loved Ariah, and it was eating him up to think of her being bedded by that awkward cub, Pritchard. Only it was worse even than Hester had described.
With a sigh he dragged himself to his feet. For a time, he gazed out the window toward the lighthouse. It was a fine day. The storm had passed on, leaving clear skies. Far out over the sea a cormorant soared on the wind, a graceful black arc against the azure sky. Closer lay the spot where, only two nights ago, he had worshipped Ariah's sweet body, with his mouth, with his hands. Would she forget what they had shared, now that she was married?
Restless with his troubled thoughts, he wandered into the living room to stare out at the house that now sheltered her. She had skipped her usual chores this morning. Was she all right? Had Pritchard misused her?
He didn't hear Hester come to the doorway.
"If it pains you so much to see that girl wed to my poor nephew, why don't you resign your post here?" she asked. "We could move back to town and you could run for mayor. Old Duncan's already said he ain't gonna run again."
He didn’t bother to turn and face her. "I've told you, I have no intention of moving back to town. I'm happy here with the sea and my birds."
"And your slut over there in Pritchard's bed?" she retorted. "What about me? Don’t my happiness matter? I hate it here, Bartholomew. That's all that's wrong with me. If you're really worried about my health, move me back to town and just see how healthy I can get."
&nbs
p; "You forfeited your right to my concern the day you locked me out of your room, Hester. I've spent my entire life looking after the welfare of others. Now I'm going to see to my own, wherever and however I have to."
Hester snorted. "Like in that trollop's bed? I'll see you in hell first."
He turned and pinned her with his hard penetrating gaze. "You've done your best for seven years to make my life a hell, and you've done a good job of it. But no more. I no longer care what you do, Hester."
His attention switched back to the house forty feet from his own, dismissing her as though she were a bug on the wall. Hester had always known he didn't love her, not even when he married her—in spite of the way she'd worked her fingers to the bone, cooking and cleaning and caring for his paralyzed pa, and for him too. She wasn't good enough for Bartholomew Noon. No, she was hill people, looked down on all her life because she'd had the misfortune to be born into a family of poor white Southern trash.
If she could be honest with herself, she would have to admit it was his very lack of love for her that drove her to his bed the night his father died. That and the need to secure her future. He had wanted her body; oh yes, the same way Lenny Joe had, back when she was sixteen. Lenny Joe had run away to avoid paying for what she'd given him. But not Bartholomew. She'd made sure Bartholomew didn't get away. And she'd made him pay for his filthy use of her body.
The way she'd always wished she could've done to Lenny Joe.
♥ ♥ ♥
Ariah closed the cover of Dr. Chase's book and went to the stove to check the roast she was browning for supper. She'd had enough of the doctor's Hints on Housekeeping. "Do everything in its proper time. Keep everything to its proper use. Put everything in its proper place." Simply reading the words clasped a constricting steel band around her chest. The good Dr. Chase obviously didn't believe in enjoying life. She imagined him lying awake at night, unable to sleep until he'd thought up a new rule to live by.
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