Louisa Rawlings

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Louisa Rawlings Page 17

by Forever Wild


  “No!” She turned to Drew, her blue-green eyes like mountain pools, dark and liquid. “No,” she said more softly. “Nothing happened, Uncle Jack. Mr. Bradford is a gentleman.”

  “But Marcy…”

  “Nothing happened, I tell you.”

  Drew stared at her. What was the little fool saying? “Marcy…”

  “No, Drew. I won’t have it.”

  “I should marry you. It’s only right.”

  “I quite agree!” Mrs. Marshall said in a high quaver.

  Marcy shook her head. “I won’t have you telling lies to be noble, Mr. Bradford.” She turned to the others, her chin jutting in stubborn defiance. “Mr. Bradford’s a gentleman. I’m not about to ruin a man’s reputation and future over something that never happened.”

  “But Marcy…” Old Jack’s voice was a bewildered bleat.

  “Never happened, Uncle Jack! Now I won’t listen to another danged word on the subject!” She snatched up her knapsack and the provision basket and marched to the boats. “If we don’t get back to camp soon, we’ll never make Long Lake before nightfall!”

  Drew watched her go, feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. He thought, I don’t understand you, Marcy Tompkins. I don’t understand a bit of you!

  He stared at her in the boat while she averted her eyes from his, watched her at their base camp while they packed up the last of the supplies, searched her face as they loaded up the boats and prepared to return to Long Lake. At the last moment, she remembered she had left her knife in the lean-to. He mumbled an excuse to the others and followed her back, cornering her in the lean-to before she could escape him. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her close, and peered into her eyes. “Why, Marcy?” he asked hoarsely.

  She smiled up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “Because I love you, Drew,” she murmured. “I know you don’t want to get married. Rich or poor, you don’t want to get married.” She gulped and blinked, and the tears ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t think love could make you feel so sad…and so happy. And terribly old.” She laughed, a tremulous little laugh. “What a child I was, with my silly plans.”

  His heart was aching. “Oh, God.” She was right, of course. He couldn’t marry. Not right now. It would be a disaster.

  She forced a bright smile, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Tarnation, Drew! If we don’t get back to the boats soon, Mrs. Marshall will start clucking again, the old hen!”

  It was twilight when they drew up at the landing of Long Lake. He had sat in a daze the whole way, thinking of her words. She loved him! If it had been torture to love her in silence, it was doubly agonizing to know she loved him in return. Nothing could come of it. Not right now. Maybe…if he could get to Paris, come home a success…he could marry her. He groaned inwardly. But how could he ask her to wait? He sighed. Thank God he was leaving tomorrow morning. Maybe, away from the North Woods, he could begin to forget her.

  The boats were unloaded at last. The guides had been paid and, one by one, had said their good-byes and gone home. It was dark. Drew stood on the veranda of Sabattis’s Boardinghouse and gazed out at the evening star. Marcy had wept at the evening star, he recalled with longing. Fool! If he had any sense, he’d be inside with the rest of them, changing into his “city” clothes, preparing for supper. There was a movement in the bushes. Marcy stepped into the glow of the lantern that hung from the veranda roof.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. Hadn’t she tormented him enough?

  “Mrs. Sabattis always closes up at nine. I’ll come to your room at ten. You’re in the end room, aren’t you? I’ll be there at ten.”

  “Good God, Marcy! No!”

  “Yes.” Her voice was firm and quiet.

  “I can’t marry you now. You know that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I can’t support a wife. I’m not even sure I can support myself. If you still want that rich husband, you ought to search elsewhere. Look, my name may be Bradford, but I’ve no money of my own. Only a father who’s reluctant to support me as long as I’m involved with the foolishness of my painting.”

  “I don’t care!”

  “Dammit, you’re not listening! I have no prospects beyond what my paintings might bring, and I’m not sure they’re worth anything. But they’re important to me. Try to understand. All my life I’ve had love, approval, acceptance…all unqualified, anything I wanted. Not just because of my father’s money. I don’t even know why. I never had to earn anything! Do you understand? But the painting is mine. It’s not money or mills or businesses that I’ll inherit from my father. It’s mine! And I’m not sure right now that I have room in my heart for anything else. Even you.”

  “I don’t care!”

  He wanted to shake her. “You’re the most stubborn… Look. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Paris just as soon as I can make my arrangements.”

  “Drew, I don’t care,” she said softly. “I love you. If you go away tomorrow and I never see you again, if I live and die in these mountains, I want tonight. I want one more memory.”

  “Oh, God,” he groaned. “What have I done?”

  “You didn’t do it. Love did. I’ll come to your room at ten.”

  He shook his head. “Marcy…no. No.”

  She smiled gently. “Yes,” she said.

  The moon hung high that night, turning the Sabattis’s veranda to silver. The breeze was cool, blowing Marcy’s skirt and waist. She shivered. What would Uncle Jack think if he knew she’d come out without her drawers and shift? She opened the front door of the boardinghouse, moved quietly up the staircase, and tiptoed down the long, moonlit corridor. Drew’s room was at the end, next to the Sabattis boys. But Tom had taken his summer earnings and gone off to see his girl at North Creek tonight, and the other two boys were out guiding a party of sportsmen. No one was nearby. She passed a room that still showed a light under the door, then two rooms from which snoring emanated, then the empty room; Drew’s room was dark. She felt a moment’s panic. If he were asleep, she could wake him. But what if he were gone…the room empty? She took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Drew stood by the window in the darkened room, his tall form bathed in moonlight. He turned as she entered. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come,” he said. “I’ve only got to send you away.”

  “What makes you think I’ll listen to you?”

  “You’re a stubborn little…”

  She cut him short. “I’m going to love you tonight, Drew Bradford, whether you want me to or not.”

  “Damn you, get out of here!”

  She shook her head. “And I’m going to kiss you, for starters!” She marched across the room, backing him into a corner, and put her arms about his neck. She pulled his head down to hers and planted her lips firmly on his. He yielded for a moment, his lips soft and warm, and then he went rigid. He pushed her away from him and cursed under his breath.

  “Marcy…don’t…”

  She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands across his chest, feeling his nipples grow hard even through his woolen undervest. “I will, Drew. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “What if I holler?”

  She could hear the laughter in his voice, though he tried to hide it. He was weakening. She giggled. “Do you want Mrs. Marshall to have a conniption fit?” Her fingers had begun to work on the buttons of his undervest.

  “Good God, don’t you have any sense of decency?”

  “Not a lick. At least not when I’m in love.” She unfastened the last button, pulled open his undervest, and kissed his hard chest.

  He drew in a rasping breath. “You devil.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, fighting hard to resist her enticements. “Marcy, please…”

  She pulled off his shirts and ran her fingers across his sleek shoulders, scratching at the patch of hair on his chest, feeling his muscles stiffen and twitch with each caress. He kept his hands clenched at his sides while sh
e explored every inch of his beautiful torso with hands and lips, tasting the salty moistness of his burning flesh. She could feel him trembling, a throbbing that surged through her fingertips to quiver and pulsate within her own bosom. Her mouth went dry and she gulped madly, desperate for his touch. “Tarnation,” she said, her voice a soft croak. “Must I do all the work?” She reached for his hands and placed them on her buttocks over the thin skirt she wore.

  He groaned in agony, then surrendered, pulling her close against him, kneading her firm young flesh through the skirt. He kissed her wildly, his mouth seeking her neck, her ears, her downy cheeks. At last, hands shaking, he stripped the few garments from her body and carried her to the bed.

  Through lids grown heavy with passion, she watched him pull off the rest of his clothes. He stood silhouetted in the moonlit room, his beautifully formed body—broad-shouldered but narrow in the hips—making her heart catch. He lay down beside her, but made no move to touch her. “If I had the strength,” he said hoarsely, “I’d tell you to go this very minute. This is madness!”

  She smiled. Even in the dim light she could see how much he wanted her. Her eyes traveled his body—the black thatch on his chest repeated in the black patch below that harbored something that waited, proud and overbearing. His brain might want her to leave; his body surely didn’t. It gave her an odd sense of power. He was tall and strong, in command of his world, sure of himself. And yet, lying beside her, he was helpless and enslaved. She liked the feeling. She’d too often felt like a child with him. A child he teased and kissed and loved—but a child. For the first time she felt like a woman. His equal. Someone he truly needed. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and touched him, that part of him that was still so new and thrilling to her.

  He gasped. “Jesus, Marcy…”

  She withdrew her hand at once. “Is that wrong?”

  “No more wrong than your being here tonight,” he growled.

  He was still fighting it. Well, she’d fix him! “I said I was going to love you tonight, Drew. No matter what. And I will!” She began to caress him again, feeling a quivering, a swelling in her hand with each soft stroke. The feel of his hardness, the hot, dry flesh, was like a spark to her own flame, igniting within her, turning her insides to liquid fire.

  He made a strangled sound deep in his throat and wrenched away from her. “Damn you.” He rolled out of bed and stood up; grabbing at her ankles, he hauled her violently to the edge of the bed. He separated her legs, slid his hands up to her thighs, and plunged into her, pulling her hips forward to meet his violent thrust. Again and again, as if he would force his way right through her. She had never felt anything so exquisite. She writhed on the bed, holding her forearm to her mouth to stifle her cries of ecstasy, and wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt her insides explode in a drenching rush; then Drew shuddered twice and collapsed against her, falling forward onto the bed to cover her body with his own.

  “God, I love you, Marcy,” he mumbled, burying his face in her neck. They lay quietly together for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, until finally Drew stirred and sat up, peering down at her in the gloom. “What am I going to do with you?” He shook his head. “Coming to my room half naked.”

  She laughed softly, her voice still shaky. “It appears to me you already answered that question!”

  He sighed and gathered her into his arms. “What am I going to do, Marce? I’m off to Paris as soon as I can. How can I ask you to wait for me?”

  “Take me to Paris with you.” The thought popped into her head as though it had been waiting there.

  “No. I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I don’t want marriage, Drew. I don’t want to be a burden to you. If we’re not married, and…it doesn’t work out, I can leave. It’s better that way—don’t you see?” She kissed him gently. “Say yes, Drew. If nothing else, I can be your unpaid model!”

  Silence. Then “Why the devil not?” he muttered at last. “All right. I figure it’ll be about a week or so before I can get enough money together for the trip. Then I’ll come back and get you. Oh God!” He held her more tightly to his chest. “Are you sure, Marcy? I don’t want to bring you unhappiness. Are you really sure?”

  “Do you love me, Drew?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then I’m sure,” she answered.

  Her eyes flew open with a sudden realization. Good gracious! she thought. Her scheme had come true! That long-forgotten, foolish scheme! She’d be leaving the mountains, the treacherous mountains that had killed her parents. And leaving with the man she loved.

  She snuggled more firmly into Drew’s warm embrace. She’d be safe at last.

  After hours on the train, his mind torn between memories of Marcy’s sweet body and anxiety about their future, Drew arrived at home in the city.

  “Nice to see you again, Parkman.” Drew handed his hat to the butler and indicated his luggage, which waited on the stoop.

  Parkman nodded. “I’ll have Brigid bring it to your room, Mr. Drewry. I trust your summer went well?”

  “Very well. Is my mother in the parlor?”

  “No. She’s upstairs in her sitting room. A sick headache.”

  “Damn! I wish I could get her to throw out that tonic. She’s poisoning herself.”

  “Quite so, sir.” Parkman eyed Drew’s travel-stained clothes. “Shall I draw you a bath, sir?”

  “In a little while. I’ll ring for you. I want to see my mother first.” He mounted the broad staircase slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. She wouldn’t like it. She’d become terribly possessive these last few years, clinging, trying to tie him to her with bonds of sentiment. Bonds of the past. He hadn’t minded. It had seemed a small thing to indulge her. He had known that sooner or later he’d have to make the break, but put off thinking about it. Until now. And now he needed her. Brian had always been tightfisted about money, bestowing his monthly allowance with ill grace, muttering darkly about “my artist son” as though the words disgusted him. He’d never agree to subsidize the trip to France. Not even as a loan. But if Isobel talked to him…

  Drew’s heart sank at the sight of his mother, reclining on her chaise. She looked terrible. She was pale and drawn, her hands fluttering toward him like nervous birds. And when he bent to kiss her on the forehead, he saw that her pupils were small pinpoints. Damn! he thought. She might have done without her tonic for one day, knowing he was returning.

  “Hello, Mum,” he said gently. “How’s my girl?”

  “How good to have you back, Drewry.” She sighed. “I’ve had the vapors all day. But you look wonderful. So healthy and robust. The country air must agree with you.”

  “Yes.” He sat down beside her and held her hand, launching into an abbreviated account of the summer’s adventure: the fishing, the hunting, the painting. Yet all the while he was conscious of her nervous prostration, the edge of tension that might explode into tears or hysteria. It was not the best day to tell her his plans.

  “And now you’re home,” she said at last. “I’ve missed you so. It’s been so lonely here, and Arthur…”

  “What about Arthur?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid I’ve grown tiresome to him. I haven’t seen him very much this summer. But never mind. Now you’re home, dear boy. Home to stay.”

  He frowned and stood up. “Not for long, I’m afraid.” She gave a little gasp. “I hate to tell you like this,” he went on quickly. “I know it’s sudden. But my summer of painting has shown me how much I don’t know. I must study…”

  “Of course! You’ll return to the National Academy. I’m sure we can arrange to have you study under one of the masters.”

  “No. I don’t like the way they’re teaching. It’s all studio work. Even up in the mountains, I couldn’t paint what I saw. I kept amplifying my palette, darkening my colors, overworking everything. Transforming what my eyes saw into what I’d been ta
ught to paint in the studio. I might have been working from sketches by candlelight, for all the good it did me to be out-of-doors.”

  “But where else can you study?”

  “Paris. They’re working en plein air, somehow managing to put sunlight onto their canvases.”

  She put her hand to her mouth, rubbing her dry lips. “Paris? How long would you stay?”

  “I’d like to study for a year, at least.”

  “A year!” Her voice was sharp with accusation. She took a deep breath. “I don’t see how it can be done. You might as well put it out of your mind. Your father will never allow it. He’ll cut off your allowance entirely.”

  “I know that, Mum.” He knelt down and held her hand. “That’s why I’ve come to you. If you could persuade Father to lend me enough money to live on for a year…”

  “But how could you pay him back?”

  “After a year in Paris I should be able to earn a living from my paintings.” He laughed ruefully. “Or else I’ll have learned that I can’t paint worth a damn. In which case, I’ll give the whole thing up and become Father’s partner.”

  “No! I won’t have it. Your painting means so much to you.” She pushed the hair back from his forehead. “Your father might listen to me. But even if he did, he would see to it that you felt beholden to him. How could you work under those circumstances?” She hesitated, then smiled. “Now I’ll tell you a little secret, my dear boy. I have a few bonds put away…nothing extravagant, mind you. Perhaps three thousand. You could live quite handsomely. And study as well.”

  “Three thousand! Oh, Mum.” He thought of Marcy living comfortably, with the pretty dresses she wanted, the easy life. Perhaps he could even afford a servant for her. He kissed his mother exuberantly on the cheek.

  She smiled wanly. “Though it will grieve me to be parted from you, I shall let you go if you promise to write me often. Now, I must see my banker. How soon do you intend to sail?”

  “Two weeks at the outside.”

  “Why then, I’ll even have time to arrange a small soiree to send you on your way. Saturday. That should give me enough time to make my plans.”

 

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