Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  I opened the door for him. "I'll look forward to meeting her."

  Howard hesitated in the doorway a moment, looking at me with friendly blue eyes, a warm smile on his lips, and then he took my hand in both of his.

  "I must tell you something, my dear," he said. "I do hope you won't mind. When I saw you the other night in that—uh— quite remarkable red gown I had my reservations about you."

  "Oh?"

  "I thought you were quite lovely, quite charming, but I thought Hawke must be out of his mind to be thinking of marrying you and taking you back to England. I—well, I thought he was just dallying with you, telling you a lot of marlarky in order to keep you happy."

  "And now?" I asked.

  "Now I think he's a lucky man indeed. I envy him."

  He squeezed my hand and smiled again. If the rest of Derek's friends were as kind and compassionate as Stephen Howard, I'd have no difficulty at all when I became Lady Hawke, I thought, but I knew Howard was a rare man indeed. I put my free hand on his cheek for just a moment, thanking him silently. He let go of my hand and smoothed the lapels of his frock coat, slightly embarrassed.

  "Goodbye, Miss Danver."

  "I hope to see you again," I told him.

  He nodded and started toward the gates. I closed the door and went back into the parlor, watching through the window as he opened the gates and climbed into the waiting carriage, and then I turned away, gazing at the elegantly appointed room without seeing anything but the chilling picture that was beginning to take shape in my mind, the pieces slowly fitting together. I thought of the man in the navy blue coat, the man named Bert who had been watching the apartment for over two weeks, following me when I went out, and I thought of Will Hart and the information I had obtained from him before Jeremy Bond burst upon the scene. I thought of Roger Hawke, seeing him clearly in my mind, tall and lean and lethal, elegantly attired in rich brocade and lace frills, coldly planning to take his revenge. All the pieces were in place now, and all of them fit perfectly. I saw the picture clearly. I knew the plan. I understood the motives behind it.

  I tried not to panic. Panic would accomplish nothing. Alarm leaped inside of me, vibrant, so intense I had to grab hold of the drapery for support, my knees weak, threatening to buckle beneath me. I gripped the soft velvet so tightly I could feel it give, heard it ripping from its fastenings at the top. I let go. No, I told myself, no, you mustn't. You must be calm. You can't afford to give way. A kind of calm returned, and I clung to it as a drowning man might cling to a spar. I tried to think rationally, and after a while I succeeded. It was five-thirty now. Had so much time passed? Five-thirty already, and he hadn't returned. . . . What if something had happened? I forced the thought from my mind, desperately clinging to the spar of calm as the waves of panic splashed anew.

  If I had figured it out, Derek had figured it out, too, had fit the pieces together just as I had done, and he would take the necessary precautions to ensure his safety. There was no cause for alarm. I told myself that over and over again until, at last, I believed it. Derek could take care of himself as well as any man, better than most. He was late, yes, but there was a perfectly good reason. They wouldn't try anything in broad daylight. No, no, they would lurk in the shadows, crouch in the darkness, waiting for just the right opportunity to do their foul deed in secrecy and silence. He would be home soon, and I would hold him tightly and then I could tremble, then I could give way and he would comfort me and drive away the alarm.

  He knew. He probably knew far more than I did, and he hadn't discussed it with me because he had wanted to spare me this same alarm. He wanted to protect me, shelter me, spare me unnecessary worry, and I loved him for it. He had probably suspected something like this for a long time, perhaps ever since we came to New Orleans, and the talk with Stephen Howard had merely confirmed it. That would explain so much. That would explain his cool manner, his remoteness, the tension I sensed just beneath the surface. He had been irritable, harsh, unyielding, and I had felt shut out. I had been hurt. I understood now, and I blamed myself for resenting his manner when all the while he had merely been trying to protect me from needless alarm. When I had told him about the man in the navy blue coat, about my encounter with Hart, he had listened with cool indifference, doing his best to stem my worry by pretending to feel none himself. I had been angry and frustrated. I had wanted to rail at him. Now I wanted only to hold him.

  Leaving the parlor, I deliberately found tasks to occupy myself. I took Derek's shirts out and refolded them. I dusted off his boots. I straightened my own clothes. An hour passed and the sun began to go down and the courtyard began to fill with dark orange-gold light and shadows began to spread over the walls. Shadows began to spread inside as well, and I lighted candles in every room. I ran out of tasks. The apartment began to seem like an opulent prison. The walls seemed to close in on me. I couldn't stand much more of this. If he didn't return soon, the waves would wash over me and I would drown in panic. I took down the first volume of Samuel Richardson's Clarissa and tried to read, but the words blurred together and it was impossible to concentrate.

  Putting the book aside, I went out into the courtyard, trying to hold the panic at bay. The tiles were bathed in dark gold that slowly faded. The shadows were thickening. The fountain splashed quietly. Derek would be home any minute now, I told myself. Any minute now the carriage would pull up in front, and he would climb out and step into the courtyard and I would throw myself into his arms and everything would be all right. I must stay calm. I must think of something else. I mustn't let the panic sweep over me. I watched the shadows grow darker, from gray to blue-gray to black, watched the last dark golden rays fade until the tiles were a gleaming gray-white. The air seemed to take on a soft violet tint, and the first fireflies began to flicker in the shrubs, pale gold against the dark.

  There had been fireflies four nights ago when I had been standing here in the moonlight with Jeremy Bond. I allowed myself to think about that evening, examining the scene in retrospect with cool objectivity. It still seemed a dream, unreal, hazy, without substance or texture. I couldn't deny the feelings he had aroused, but in the cold light of reality I could justify them to myself. I had been deeply disturbed when I stepped out of Damon's. I had been angry, frustrated, frightened as well, and I had felt rejected, too. Derek had been curt and abrupt, almost shoving me out the door, and Bond had appeared when I most needed comfort and companionship. He had sensed my vulnerability, had taken advantage of it, employing all his considerable charm in the hope of an easy conquest.

  He had been smooth and skillful, an accomplished seducer who wooed with great finesse and far too much experience. He knew all the right words, all the right phrases, speaking them in a low, melodious voice that, at the time, had seemed all too sincere. He had said he loved me. I had almost believed him. He had said he intended to marry me, and that was absurd, a final ploy calculated to gain him the victory he had almost won. Yes, there had been a few dangerous moments when I had been on the verge of succumbing to the need and emotions inside, but loyalty to Derek and my love for him had prevented me from taking that disastrous plunge. I could never have forgiven myself if I had allowed Jeremy Bond to chalk up one more conquest. He had failed, and I would never see him again. He had said he was leaving New Orleans on business, and by the time he returned he would undoubtedly have put me out of his mind. He would undoubtedly find easier prey. Men like Jeremy Bond didn't like to be reminded of their failures.

  I had felt physical desire, yes, I had indeed wanted to go to bed with him, I could admit that, but it had been a momentary aberration on my part, a matter of flesh responding to flesh, and it had nothing to do with true feeling, nothing to do with love. I loved Derek with every fiber of my being, and no matter how glibly he might use it, I doubted that Jeremy Bond knew the meaning of the word. I forgave myself for responding to him as I had, knowing it would never happen again. Strangely enough, the encounter with Bond seemed to strengthen my feeling for Dere
k.

  The courtyard was almost dark now. The gleaming white tiles were barely visible beneath the layers of shadow, and the fountain was a blurry white shape not clearly defined. The dark gray sky was taking on a purple hue, pale stars not yet sparkling. A carriage came rumbling down the street. It stopped, and I felt a wave of relief, relief so great I was almost dizzy. I heard the iron gates opening, heard the carriage moving on down the street. Derek closed the gates and looked at me, clearly surprised.

  "Thank God," I whispered.

  "Marietta? Are you all right? Has anything happened?"

  I shook my head, still dizzy with relief, and I hurried over to him and threw my arms around him, clinging to him, and he was surprised anew but not at all displeased. He wrapped his arms around me, gathering me to him, holding me very tightly.

  "What's this?" he inquired.

  "I—I'm just so relieved."

  "You were worried about something?"

  "I was worried about you."

  "Well, now I'm back. Safe and sound. Feel better?"

  I nodded, resting my head on his shoulder. His arms were so strong, holding me so securely. He was so tall, so firm, SQ solid, and I never intended to let him out of my sight again, never. He sighed, indulging me as an adult might indulge a child, not at all remote now, the wall momentarily vanished. Gently, he loosened his hold and curled one arm around my shoulders, leading me past the fountain, into the foyer.

  "Quite a welcome," he remarked, closing the door.

  "You were gone so long."

  "That couldn't be helped."

  "I'm so glad you're back."

  "You're pale, Marietta. You're trembling."

  "I can't help it."

  "You were that worried?"

  I nodded once more, and Derek studied my face. We were in the parlor now. His hands rested lightly on my shoulders, and his gray eyes were full of concern. That handsome face, usually so stern, was tender now. How long had it been since he had looked at me this way? How long? Weeks and weeks. He hadn't looked at me this way since that late afternoon in Natchez when we were in the gardens behind the inn, standing at the edge of the cliff. He moved one hand until it touched my throat, the fingers gently wrapping around it. He tilted my head back and leaned down and kissed me lightly on me lips, so lightly. I was trembling again.

  "There," he said. "There. It's all right."

  "I thought—"

  "I know what you thought."

  "I—I know about your cousin, Derek,"

  "Oh?"

  He moved back. He took off his cloak and draped it across a chair. He was wearing a handsome navy blue suit, a white brocade waistcoat with tiny navy blue and black polka dots, a black silk neckcloth. His fine black leather boots were polished to a high sheen. He didn't seem at all disturbed. He seemed to be in a remarkably mellow mood. I had rarely seen him so relaxed.

  "Stephen Howard came by this afternoon," I told him.

  "Did he?"

  "I—I sent for him, Derek."

  "I see."

  "I had to know what was going on, Derek. I had to."

  "So you sent for Stephen Howard and tricked him into telling you about our conversation at Damon's."

  "I know it was deceitful, but you wouldn't tell me and—"

  "I didn't want you to worry, Marietta."

  "I understand that now. I understand—everything."

  "I was trying to protect you from unnecessary alarm. There was no need for you to worry, no need for you to be apprehensive. I suspected something was going on when you first told me about the man in the coat, and after you described your encounter with Will Hart, I was certain."

  "You think your cousin—"

  "I'm sure they're his hirelings."

  "Derek—"

  "There's nothing to worry about, Marietta."

  He lifted the skirt of his frock coat, revealing the butt of a long and lethal-looking pistol. He pulled it out, examined it with expressionless eyes and set it aside. I shivered. Derek sighed, still relaxed, looking rather lazy, not at all angry.

  "You carried it," I said.

  "I've been carrying it for weeks."

  "You never told me."

  "I love you, Marietta. When you love someone, you shelter them. You protect them. You shivered just now when I took the gun out. Had you known I was carrying it you would have been ill with worry. I've been extremely preoccupied of late. I've been cold. No doubt I've been harsh."

  "I—I was—"

  "You thought I was having second thoughts about marrying you. You thought I was beginning to regret coming back to America for you. It isn't easy for me to love, Marietta. I'm not a demonstrative man. I do love you."

  "I never really doubted it."

  He elevated an eyebrow. "No?" he asked. His voice was almost teasing.

  "Perhaps, just a little. You were so—so wretched to me when I came in wearing the red dress."

  "I wanted to throw you on the floor and make brutal love to you. I had to restrain myself. I knew every man who saw you in the dress would feel the same savage quickening inside. That angered me. The thought of another man touching you filled me with cold fury."

  "You treated me so coldly. You almost shoved me out the door of Damon's."

  "I know. I felt badly about that. I shouldn't have sent you off alone, but I had to hear what Howard had to say. I wasn't thinking of anything else, and I felt you'd be safe with the driver."

  "I was hurt."

  "I realize that. I've hurt you many times. Never intentionally. No doubt I'll hurt you again. I'm frequently unfeeling. You've known that from the very beginning."

  "I loved you in spite of it."

  Derek smiled wryly and glanced at the clock. "I suppose we should be thinking of dinner," he said. "We'll go out. Not to Damon's. We'll go to one of those 'respectable' restaurants you mentioned the other night. If the respectable matrons and their respectable husbands are outraged to see a hussy like you in their midst, that'll just be too bad. If one of the men looks like he wants to rape you, I'll break his jaw."

  "I love you like this."

  "Oh? How am I?"

  "Teasing. Tender. Accessible."

  "At the moment I feel extremely accessible," he said, looking at me with smoky gray eyes half-veiled by drooping lids. "That frock you're wearing may not be scarlet, may not leave you half-naked, but it's quite provocative nevertheless, and your hair's all shiny, like copper fire. Pity we have to go out to dinner."

  "We don't have to. There's cheese and bread, sausage I could slice. We have white wine, fruit."

  "You had your heart set on a respectable restaurant."

  "I don't feel—terribly respectable tonight."

  "No?"

  I shook my head. The corners of his mouth lifted in another wry smile as he looked at me. I felt a warm, honey-sweet anticipation begin to build inside me, a lovely ache that grew slowly. I moved over to him and touched his cheek and then moved my hand up to smooth back locks of jet black hair. His gray eyes continued to hold mine, lids heavier still, drooping low, the smile curling still on his lips. This was the Derek I dreamed of, the Derek I could love openly and without restraint. The remote stranger was gone,

  "We'll have a picnic," I murmured. "Here, in the parlor."

  "That sounds tempting," he said.

  "I love you, Derek."

  "I know. I'm glad. I'm a very lucky man."

  "You are indeed."

  He curled his arms loosely around my waist and kissed my throat, my shoulder. I leaned back against his arms, running my palms over his broad back as his lips moved lower, lightly brushing the curve of my bosom.

  "I'd better go get the food," I said.

  "I suppose you must. I'm mightily hungry."

  "I intend to take very good care of you."

  "You always did," he said, pulling me nearer. "You polished my boots. You washed my shirts. You baked peach pies. Remember the pies?"

  "I remember."

  "You were a tempt
ress, casting your spell over me, and how I fought it. I wanted a good excuse to whip you. I wanted to despise you. I couldn't, no matter how I tried."

  "I know."

  He drew me even nearer, arms like bands of steel crushing me to him, holding me fast, a willing captive. I stroked his back, running my palms over the smooth broadcloth, tilting my head back so that I could look up into those amorous gray eyes.

  "I never wanted to love you," he continued. "I couldn't help myself. I hated women after Alice, despised them, and then you came along—a temptress with flaming copper-red hair and bold blue eyes and far too much spirit for an indentured servant. There were times when I wished I'd never bought you off that auction block, times when I cursed myself for the folly, but the moment I saw you standing there I knew I had to have you."

  "You said you were merely saving me from Jeff."

  "There was that," he admitted, "but that wasn't the main reason."

  "You waited—so long to take me."

  "I wanted to that first night, after the auction. You were under the wagon, terrified of Indians, shivering, and I spread a blanket over you. You finally went to sleep, and I looked at you for a long, long time, wanting you and fighting it desperately. You were my property, bought and paid for, a convicted thief who gave herself such airs, who spoke in a disturbingly refined voice. It took great strength to keep from crawling under the wagon that night."

  "I never suspected."

  "You knew I wanted you, witch. You kept provoking me, luring me on, casting your spell until, finally, I couldn't help myself. You won."

  "So did you," I told him. "I—I'd better see about the food now. I've a feeling we'll—continue this later."

  "You can count on it," he promised.

  I moved out of his arms and touched his face again and smiled, and then I went back to the tiny kitchen and took out cheese and hard sausage and bread. I sliced the sausage, sliced the cheese and bread, took out delicious-looking jade green grapes and washed them. The ache was still inside, a lovely, tormenting ache that grew lovelier the longer it was denied. He was in a rare mood, and I intended to cherish every moment of it, make every moment memorable. Arranging the food carefully, attractively on a tray, I took out the bottle of white wine, wishing there had been time to chill it, and then I returned to the parlor.