Phoebe's Valentine

by Duncan, Alice

  When he caught his breath, he said harshly, “Phoebe, do you know what you’re asking me?”

  She nodded.

  “Think about it, Phoebe. This isn’t a game.”

  “Oh, please, Jack.”

  Tears trickled from her eye and made a tiny silver track down her perfect cheek. He picked them up with his thumb.

  “Phoebe,” he said gently, incredibly touched by her offer—if it was an offer. “We can’t make love, really. I can’t take your virginity. We’re not married. That’s not pretend; it’s foolish. You’ll get married someday, and then your husband should be the one to lie with you and teach you those things. I was wrong to—to touch you that way last night.” Although he didn’t regret it for a second. Not for one single second.

  “Oh, please!” She sounded as though she were in anguish. “Please, Jack. I’ll never get married. I already know I won’t. I’ll never have another chance. No man will ever want me. I know it. Please?”

  Jack’s head swam. He couldn’t figure this out. She wanted him to make love to her, a virgin, because she’d never marry? Because no man would ever want her? He stared at her perfectly beautiful face, considered her perfectly beautiful character, and knew she was making no sense.

  “Phoebe, what you’re saying is crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy, Jack! You said I was pretty. Don’t you want me? You wanted me last night. Or was it just that you wanted a woman and I was available?”

  She pulled her hand from his and turned away quickly. He knew she thought she’d found the answer to his reluctance. Very gently, he cupped her chin and made her face him.

  “That’s not true, Phoebe. It’s not true at all. I want to make love to you. If you don’t believe me, just look.” His erection was threatening the buttons on his trousers by this time. “But making love isn’t something to play with.”

  “People play with it all the time.” Phoebe sounded bitter.

  Jack shook his head again, annoyed with himself for not doing a better job of this. “I know they do, Phoebe, but they shouldn’t.”

  “You said you’d pretend with me, Jack.” It sounded like an accusation; as though he’d made her a promise and was now deliberately breaking it.

  “What you want me to do isn’t pretend, Phoebe.”

  “It could be.” Her voice wobbled, the words thick.

  “Aw, Phoebe, don’t cry.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t you see? It’s not just making love to you. Lord, I’d love to make love to you. But I don’t want to hurt you. You might get pregnant, for God’s sake. We’re not married. Don’t you see?”

  “I can’t.”

  She said it so softly, he wasn’t sure she’d spoken at all until the import of her words hit him. He drew back and peered at her hard.

  “You can’t what?”

  She wouldn’t look at him now, but stared at his shirt front, her fingers fiddling with her skirt. “I can’t have babies.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “The doctor. Back home. After . . . after the Yankees came through.”

  “Why did a doctor examine you for something of that nature?” Even while he asked her the question, he was sure the answer would kill him.

  “I asked.”

  He shook her very, very gently, aggravated because she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. “Why did you ask the doctor something like that, Phoebe? Answer me. Why?”

  “I . . . I just did.”

  “Damn it all, Phoebe, that’s not true. Answer me!”

  She reared away from him, her face a mask of humiliation. “All right!” she cried. “All right. You want to know? I’ll show you.”

  To his shock, she sat back on her heels and unbuttoned her dress. Tears made rivers down her cheeks. “I’ll just show you, Jack Valentine, damn your eyes. You won’t pretend with me, you’ll just get to see exactly why I wanted you to.”

  Off went her shirtwaist. She seemed nearly hysterical, and Jack tried to calm her. “Phoebe, just wait a minute here.” He attempted to pat her, to grab her shoulder, but she shook him off.

  “No! Damn you! You’ll just see for yourself then.”

  The buttons of her camisole didn’t want to open, so Phoebe tugged at them until they surrendered and the garment went flying. Her skirt was unbuttoned in a trice and puddled around her knees in waves of faded calico. There was nothing left now but her shift and drawers. She ripped her shift over her head. Then she untied the tapes to her drawers and pulled them down in one gigantic yank.

  “Phoebe!” Jack was beginning to think she’d completely lost her mind.

  Until he looked at her.

  “Oh, Phoebe.” His whisper cut a jagged swath across the night.

  Her shoulders heaved with sobs. She was naked now, baring her body and soul to him, her head bent as though she were ashamed of herself, her body.

  “Oh, Phoebe.” He wrapped her up again, and this time she didn’t resist, but cried against him as if her heart had broken long ago and now her soul was breaking, too. “Oh, Lord God, Phoebe. Who did that to you?”

  Her body was exquisite. She had pearly, luminescent skin. Her breasts were magnificent, small and plump, and her hips swelled like ripe fruit, perfect and beautiful. Her legs were slender and graceful and he ached to feel their silkiness wrapped around his own hard, hairy limbs.

  It was her abdomen that was damaged, the part of her body wherein lay her womb, the nest of creation. It had been savaged. He couldn’t bear to think about those scars: round, silvery scars left over from when somebody had stabbed her and stabbed her and stabbed her.

  “Oh, Lord, Phoebe. Who did that to you?”

  “A d-damned Yankee,” came her broken whisper. Jack felt tears sting his own eyes and knew resistance was all over for him.

  As gently as he could, he settled her against the blanket and proceeded to honor her body. It no longer mattered that she was a virgin or that they weren’t married. He wanted her to know how perfect she was, even in her imperfection.

  “How could anybody do this to you?” he whispered as he kissed those dreadful scars. She tried to push him away, but he wouldn’t be pushed. “You’re beautiful, Phoebe. Everything about you is beautiful, even these scars. Don’t hide because some crazy bastard tried to ruin your beauty. Don’t hide from me.”

  She was taking gigantic hiccupping breaths now, and Jack lay his head on her stomach and prayed for some divine spirit to guide him. He knew there was no way anybody could make up to her what she’d lost.

  “Phoebe?”

  His voice was a warm shiver of air that stroked her inside and out. It seeped into her wounded heart and comforted aching parts of her. She couldn’t believe what she’d just done—bared herself to God and the damned Yankee eyes of Black Jack Valentine.

  She was hideous; marred beyond repair, her life’s purpose slashed away by the brutal thrusts of a huge ugly knife as though it were of no more value than—than nothing. She was nothing.

  “Phoebe?” His gentle voice stroked her again.

  It took every ounce of her nerve to answer him. “Yes.”

  “What that man did to you . . .”

  She knew a man would have trouble with this—imperfection—of hers if he ever found out about it. That’s why she’d sworn to herself no man would ever know.

  She wouldn’t help Jack Valentine now, though. She had at least that much pride left. He was on his own.

  “What he did to you was wicked. It was evil.”

  He stopped speaking again. She wondered if he thought she didn’t already know those things.

  “But what he did doesn’t diminish you. It doesn’t make you any less of a woman, Phoebe. Not in any way.”

  Phoebe tried to laugh. She wanted to give Jack a laugh as biting and implausible as she believed his words to be. All she could manage was another sob. What a damnable weakling she was.

  “Oh, Phoebe, Phoebe, what am I going to do with you?”

  He sounded close to
despair. Phoebe was mortified by her behavior. She struggled to get out from underneath him. She wanted to cover her nakedness, to hide her shame. He was too strong for her, though, and she was assailed by a bitter feeling of defeat. She couldn’t do anything right. Not one single thing.

  “Don’t run away from me, Phoebe.”

  It sounded as though he were pleading with her. Ha! As if he, a man, needed to beg about something like that. If there was one thing Phoebe Honeycutt knew first hand, it was how much stronger men were than women.

  His voice was a prayer when he spoke again. “I’ll pretend with you, sweetheart. We can pretend we’re in Paris, and we’re on our honeymoon. We can pretend we’re madly in love and we’ve taken the city by storm. All Paris is at our feet, worshiping your beauty and jealous of me because you’re mine.”

  He mapped her body with his hands as he spoke, his head still resting on her abdomen, still covering those horrible scars with his handsome face. In spite of her misery, Phoebe began to respond to the tone of his voice and the feel of his flesh upon hers.

  “Will you pretend with me, Phoebe?”

  “You—you still want to?” She didn’t believe him.

  “Yes. Oh, God, yes, I want to. I want to make love to you. Will you let me do that?”

  She wanted to believe him, but knew it would be unwise to do so. Tentatively, she put her hand on his head, on his thick, pretty black hair. She felt him shudder as though she’d done something wonderful.

  “Please, Phoebe?”

  “All right, Jack.”

  “Thank you.”

  What he did then was something Phoebe was sure she’d never forget; never in a million years. His renewed assault upon her senses made her gasp. And with every stroke, every gentle pet, every silken caress, he spoke to her. His words were sweet and soft and every one praised her, glorified her.

  He helped her to undress him, begged her to touch him as he was touching her. Very shyly, she did. She was thrilled when he moaned his gratitude and pleasure in a way she’d never expected a man to do for her.

  When he kissed her stomach again and then kept kissing her lower and lower and lower until he kissed her very core, she thought she’d die. She didn’t; instead she accepted the pleasure he gave her. It was more magnificent than anything she’d thought possible, and she cried out when she came to completion. This time, though, her cry was ecstatic and had nothing at all to do with pain or shame. She opened herself gladly when he knelt above her and she knew he was going to claim her.

  Although she’d never known the love of any man, there was no barrier to block his entry. The Yankee soldier and the doctor had seen to that years before. Jack didn’t seem to care, a fact almost more astonishing to Phoebe than the sensations he created in her body.

  “Aw, Phoebe, you feel perfect. So damned wonderful.”

  Since she knew she was damaged goods, she’d never even considered how it would feel to have a man make love to her in this way. The feeling was as close to heaven as she expected she’d ever get. It amazed her they even fit together, him being so big and all, but somehow or other he slid right in. She knew she’d become damp under his care and supposed this is the way normal people performed the incredible act.

  Because she couldn’t help it, she began to lift her hips to meet his thrusts. When he gave a little groan of ecstasy, she guessed she was doing the thing properly.

  He was creating those sensations again, too, those hot, spiraling, needy sensations that pooled low in her belly and made her whole body come alive. She heard odd little noises and wasn’t even embarrassed to realize they came from her. She couldn’t help it. He sent her higher and higher, plunged her into a sweetness she’d never even hoped for.

  “That’s the way, sweetheart. That’s the way. Let me love you, Phoebe. That’s—”

  His words broke off abruptly when she suddenly stiffened under him. “Oh, Jack!” And then there was no more room in her for words as sweet fulfillment claimed her. She shuddered and gripped convulsively at his shoulders.

  “Lord, Phoebe. Oh, Lord.”

  He sounded as though he were in pain. But Phoebe watched him and knew it wasn’t pain that held him in its grip, but bliss. She felt him stiffen. Then he gave a wild plunge, and Phoebe knew he had spilled his seed into her.

  Into her. Into barren, infertile soil.

  He collapsed beside her, panting hard, cupping her cheek as though he cherished her. Her; as worthless an object as had ever been created. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

  “Oh, Phoebe. Oh, Lord, what you do to me.”

  After a second or two, she did both.

  Chapter Thirteen

  While she was in the throes of trying to figure it all out, Phoebe made a decision. For once in her life she wasn’t going to let her brain struggle with her feelings and ruin everything. She’d asked Jack Valentine to pretend with her. After a brief encounter, during which she’d bared herself to him—literally—he’d agreed.

  Well, heaven help her, if Black Jack Valentine was willing to pretend, then so was she. This was enough for her. It would have to be, since she didn’t expect she’d ever get anything more. His hand still stroked her hair away from her face, and she placed hers on top of it. It felt good to feel him, to explore the masculine hardness of him. The contrast to her softness felt heavenly.

  “Are you all right?”

  His whisper came out of the black night as though borne to her on stardust. The words were soft and sweet and curled around her senses like silk.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Me, too.” Phoebe detected a definite smile in that deep, velvety voice.

  Jack’s heavy legs pinned her down and he lay on her in a way which should have been embarrassing but wasn’t. She felt sated, complete. Wonderful. When his hand left her face and smoothed its way down her throat and sought her breast, she got gooseflesh from the pleasure of his touch.

  “You’re beautiful, Phoebe. Everything about you is beautiful. Your body is . . . is magnificent.”

  The protest that bubbled up within her danced on the tip of her tongue for a second or two before she swallowed it. She was determined not to spoil this idyllic pretense.

  “Thank you.”

  With a little groan, he withdrew from her and rolled onto his side, propping his head in his hand. His fingers teased her nipples. She wondered if this is what men and women did together—real, normal men and women who didn’t have to pretend they loved one another. She was too shy to ask.

  When he kissed her scars, she trembled because she couldn’t help it.

  “Aw, Phoebe, please don’t be embarrassed. You’re perfect just the way you are. Please don’t be embarrassed.”

  Phoebe threw her arms around him, surprising him, making him roll onto his back with her sprawled on top.

  He looked startled, and she couldn’t help but grin. Fancy her, little Phoebe Honeycutt, taking this big, strapping man by surprise.

  “That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me, Jack Valentine.” She aimed for sauciness and almost achieved it.

  Phoebe was sick to death of being sad and strong. All of a sudden she wanted to pretend to be happy, to pretend she could play. To pretend some handsome, good man like Jack Valentine could love her.

  “It’s the truth.” The very simplicity of Jack’s statement touched something deep within her soul and made her believe him.

  “Thank you.”

  She sighed and rested her cheek against his when his big hands began to explore her back, stroking up and down, petting her. He cupped her buttocks and squeezed her flesh, an intimacy that drew another sigh from her. Her breasts squashed against his chest, but she felt her nipples pucker as he stroked her.

  “Lord almighty, Phoebe, I can’t believe what you do to me. You’re a witch, is what you are. You’re a witch and you’ve enchanted me.”

  “Well, now, Black Jack Valentine, that sounds like a right good idea. I think I like it. Let’s just p
retend I’m a witch and I’ve enchanted you.”

  Her purring drawl was going to be the death of him. Either that or her soft body; Jack didn’t know for sure which, but he was pretty sure one of them was going to kill him. He felt as though he were holding moonlight when he unpinned her hair, thrust his fingers through her braids, and that beautiful chestnut mane cascaded over his face and chest. She felt like heaven on top of him. He was hard again already.

  “Then let’s pretend.” Only Jack had the oddest feeling he was no longer pretending.

  # # #

  Phoebe was disconcerted the next morning when she woke up, naked as a jay bird, wrapped in the hard, hairy arms of Jack Valentine. Somebody—she hoped like the dickens it was Jack—had covered them up, so at least their shocking display couldn’t be discovered by Sarah and William.

  His mustache tickled her neck, and she smiled in spite of herself. She liked this pretending nonsense.

  “How’s my witch?” His warm breath against her skin made her shiver with delight.

  “She’s just fine. How’s my toad?”

  With a shout of laughter, Jack cried, “Your toad? Why, I like that, Miss Phoebe Honeycutt.”

  Then he gave her a tickle and she giggled. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been tickled and giggled about it. It seemed like a century ago. Once upon a time, though, little Phoebe Honeycutt had giggled all the time. Her mama used to purely despair of her ever learning to be serious.

  “Aunt Phoebe?”

  Sarah’s tentative question sounded a little frightened. Phoebe burrowed down under the blanket, just in case the little girl dared to breach the tented barrier Jack had rigged for her privacy.

  “Good morning, Sarah, dear. How are you this morning?” It crossed Phoebe’s mind to feel guilty about having abandoned her niece and nephew, but she decided not to allow her mind to spoil this brief idyll.

  “Aunt Phoebe?” The little girl’s voice quavered, and Phoebe shot out from under her blanket. She stared aghast at Jack, who was already out of bed and pulling on his trousers.

  “What is it, Sarah, darlin’?”