Drawing away from the odious assistance of her assailant, Rachel glared. “Indeed, sir, that was more mauling than kiss! I think my ribs are broken, and you’ve ruined my roses as well as scored them into my flesh!”
She held out her arm and shook back the flounce to show bloody scratches, but what he stared at were the bright droplets where the soft swell of her breasts showed above the piqué ruching of her gown. He bent his head. She felt his warm breath, his mouth, and when those sunlit gray eyes looked into hers, the blood was gone.
“If you must be wounded, let it be by roses,” he murmured. “But never again by me.” He drew her to her feet, collected the scattered roses. “I’ve made a mess of them! Shall I cut you more before I find my brother?”
She snatched the roses from him before he could toss them away. “I—I’ll save them for potpourri. Your brother?” Then his earlier remark came back and her hand went involuntarily to her lips, still bruised and softened by his. “You’re Matthew!”
He bowed again. “Your servant, sister.”
“Indeed,” she flashed. “If you were my servant, I’d have you whipped!”
“If you’re of a mind for that,” he mocked, “doubtless Harry will oblige. Show him your wounds and swear I offered violence.”
“You did, sir!”
“Only when you fought like a catamount.”
Was there no squelching him? “I’ve no wish to set brothers wrangling, and I suppose that soldiers have heartier manners than common,” she said, tossing her head. “But be warned, brother-in-law! If you ever constrain me again, I’ll take it out of your hide.”
“So Harry’s found a lass with bottom to her!” cheered the newcomer unrepentantly. “Damned if I thought he had it in him, but slow fires burn deep. Where’d he find you, Mrs. Bourne? Not, I’ll be bound, sitting primly by your mama at a dance?”
With my lover dead across my knees and a sheriff hauling me from the saddle.
Shallow-buried pain rose up. She stared at him, unable to speak. His smile faded. His eyes seemed to delve into her mind. The air was charged and for those few still moments, there was no one else in the world. She had never been so possessed by another’s spirit, not even by Etienne’s when they melted in primordial ecstasy where self was lost.
“Matthew!”
Harry was coming forward. Selah and Tante Estelle behind him, though Tante rushed past, throwing herself into the tall man’s arms. He kissed her, swung her in a circle, laughing, before he embraced his brother, clasped Selah’s hand.
Rachel watched as if she were a ghost.
Matt was not in uniform because he’d resigned his commission. “And the first thing I did as a free man was beat the hell out of a fellow officer,” Matt said. Catching himself, he begged Rachel’s pardon, but Harry was too concerned to much note his brother’s profanity.
“That finishes your career, then.” he said, and sighed resignedly. “Over a woman, no doubt?”
Staring at his scarred, worn boots, which had now been polished to gleaming by devoted hands, Matt gave his brother a crooked grin. “No. It was over an Apache.”
Harry knit his brow, slapped the side of his leg. “The chief who saved your skin from a band of roving hostiles? That event impressed you enough, apparently, to occasion a letter home.”
“Cochise did get me out of an ambuscade,” Matt said. “But to understand how it is with Apaches, you’ve got to remember they live in small bands and range widely for food. To start with, the Western Apache and Chiricahua Apache are pretty different. The Chiricahua separate into three major groups while the Western Apache belong to five principal groups that divide again into a score of bands that splinter again into local units. These smallest groups raid and war, sometimes joining with their nearest neighbors, but it’s very rare for a whole band to unite. Groups are separated by numerous mountain ranges and the fact that each needs a large area from which to hunt and gather food.”
“They don’t grow squash or corn?” asked Rachel.
“Western Apaches have been farming for a long time,” Matt said. “They grow six different kinds of corn, which is the main crop, and beans and squash. The Chiricahuas grow almost nothing. All Apache depend heavily on wild foods. Mesquite beans, acorns, piñon nuts, mescal hearts, berries, wild onions and potatoes, the fruits of most cactus, seeds and roots. Collecting these foods takes a lot of time.”
“But from what we read, there’s still time for raiding,” said Harry.
“Apache have been driving off Mexican horses and livestock for two hundred years,” shrugged Matt. “But Spaniards and Mexicans have enslaved a lot of them to work in the mines or as servants. I doubt you know how in 1836 the governor of Sonora got a trapper named Johnson to hold a feast for the Chiricahuas who had been friendly to the Americans. When the Apache were all crowding around some stacks of gift cornmeal, a heavy gun blasted away, loaded with bullets, nails, stones and chains. Trappers finished off the survivors except for a few who escaped and spread the story. The wonder is that an Apache ever trusted Americans again, yet the great chief Mangas Coloradas did—and got a hundred lashes from gold-hungry miners. That brought on the slaughter of innocent settlers, which I’m sure you read of, brother—but did you know the Apache side?”
“You seem to have taken it much to heart, Matthew.”
Matt turned his glass wearily in his hand. “Our Indian policy is disgraceful, Harry. I know our people must be protected, but I’ve no stomach to battle Indians for the score of years it will take to subjugate them. Since the only other prospect of war is between the North and South, I felt there was no future for me in the army.”
“But you haven’t finished with Cochise,” Rachel reminded him.
Matt sighed, downing the rest of his drink. “Cochise, as I may have written you, Harry, had been supplying wood to the stage station at Apache Pass and protecting the route from other bands. Anyhow, a bunch of Western Apaches raided a ranch drove off cattle and kidnapped a half-Apache boy. I was away from Fort Buchanan at the time, and a young shavetail, just out of West Point, was sent out with a detachment. He didn’t know one band from another and didn’t care, but he met Cochise at the stage station and demanded the boy’s return. When Cochise claimed innocence, the lieutenant arrested him and six of his friends. Cochise got away and took hostages for his men. The damned West Pointer hanged six Apaches, including two of Cochise’s nephews and his brother. Cochise killed his hostages. I got back to Buchanan and as soon as my resignation was accepted, I asked the lieutenant to a meeting.” Matt rubbed his knuckles reminiscently. “It was worth it.”
Rachel listened, intent on the sound of his voice rather than what he said.
“Too late I came to love thee …” The cry of Augustine echoed in her heart during the next days while her heart flamed like the autumn around them. “Yea, too late came I to love thee. And behold, thou wert within me, and I out of myself, where I made search for thee.”
She told herself she couldn’t love him, that he was a brigand where women were concerned, and if she cared again for any man, it must be Harry. Sick with shame, she wondered what her husband would think if he knew his brother’s presence filled her with a restless fever. If his hand brushed hers, sparks flashed between them. If he came near, her blood slowed, weighting her till she felt powerless to move. Tortured when he was present, irritable when he was not, she took to spending much time in her room alone with her father’s books.
She was stricken with the kind of madness, the physical disorder, seen as disaster by Euripides. “Oh let not love with murderous intent come to my door.” It was a malady, a sickness that would wear itself out, but she must give it no chance to flourish. There was, however, no way to avoid Matthew at meals.
“Have you taken a dislike to Matt?” Harry questioned her a week after his brother’s arrival.
Rachel jumped. “Why, no,” she stammered. “What makes you think that?”
“You scarcely speak when he’s with us, and I don’t recolle
ct your ever engaging him in conversation.”
I cannot look at him, meet his eyes. When our glances touch, fire runs through me. I dream of him; dream that he held me as Etienne did, that he’s stroking and kissing me and sending me mad. His voice wakes hidden secret nerves. I can’t speak more than a few words to him or everyone would know.
“You’ve had a lot to talk about,” she evaded. “I enjoy just listening.”
“Do you, sweet?” Harry kissed the tip of her nose, chuckling. “I’m proud of your knowledge, Rachel. Perhaps I’m vain, but I’d like my cynical young brother to know my wife is learned as well as beautiful. He told me yesterday he wondered what you teach in the school since he’d tried to discover your opinions on a number of subjects and could only conclude that you had none.”
“He said that?”
“He did, love, and with justification from what I’ve observed. He’s asked your thoughts on everything from the Atlantic cable and the Suez Canal to cherry bounce, and I declare your answers would lead one to think you’d never heard of the first two and thought the last was some kind of game.”
It was the first time Harry had ever criticized her and it smarted.
“Very well,” she said ominously. “If you gentlemen desire my conversation, you shall have it!”
It happened that Dr. Martin was in the neighborhood that day and joined them for dinner. When the doctor and Matt began discussing the shortcomings of military medicine, she kept Harry from reminding them the subject was less than agreeable for mealtime by launching into Florence Nightingale’s struggles with prejudiced doctors and officers when she introduced basic hygiene into hospital wards in the Crimea and reduced the mortality rate from cholera, dysentery and typhus from fifty percent to two percent.
“Um—yes,” said Dr. Martin. “I understand she intends to found a training home for nurses.”
“A pity we can’t train doctors, too,” Rachel remarked, “for she seems to know a good deal more than they do about saving lives.”
She next asked what he thought about Lister’s studies of the coagulation of blood and Pasteur’s observation of tiny organisms called bacteria.
“Most interesting, ma’am.” The doctor’s frizzy sideburns made his round cheeks seem even plumper. “But one must watch these new theories with caution.” He escaped with relief to Matt. “Since the Republicans have won state elections in Maine, Vermont, Indiana and Pennsylvania, it seems almost sure Lincoln will be elected this week. Tell me, sir, do you think he will attempt to hold seceding states?”
Before Matt could answer, Rachel said, “Isn’t it strange how things alter? Back in 1812 some New England states were threatening to secede and the South detested them for not supporting the war against Great Britain.”
Matthew gave her a strange look. “When you have one region dependent on agriculture and the other preoccupied with industry and shipping, there’s a natural clash of interests. To your question, Dr. Martin, I hope that any states wishing to leave the Union can do so in peace, but I don’t expect it. Mr. Lincoln said over two years ago he didn’t believe the government could endure permanently half-slave and half-free. I think he’ll see it as his duty to unite the divided house even if it takes flesh and blood to make the mortar.”
Harry nodded moodily. “I fear you’re right, brother.”
“Well, if the Yankees push us, we’ll trim their wicks!” cried the doctor. “If we can’t outfight a pack of vinegar-blooded shopkeepers and puritans, it’ll be a sorry pass!”
“We’ll be fighting strong young men, doctor. There are twenty-two million of them, more than double the South’s population, from which one must subtract about thirty percent slaves. They’ll be worlds better provisioned and supplied, and they have a balanced economy, good railroads and naval supremacy.”
The doctor put down his brandy, eyes rounding. “Dammit, Matthew! You’re not suggesting they could beat us?”
“No suggestion about it, sir. Fact.”
Dr. Martin swallowed so his Adam’s apple wobbled in the soft folds of his neck. Quivering, he heaved to his feet. “I never thought to hear such talk at Gloryoak,” he breathed. “Why, Matt, it’s high treason!”
Matt raised a dark eyebrow. “That’s what some say about secession, doctor.”
“If it comes to war, may I ask on which side you’ll fight?”
“Is there a mandate I must fight for either?”
“And you a soldier!” gasped the doctor.
“No longer, sir.” Matt shrugged bemusedly. “But if I wanted to win, I’d have stayed in the uniform I lately quitted.”
“I—I scarcely know how to answer you, Matthew.”
Rising, Harry dropped a hand on the arm of each man. “Doctor, I dare say you’ve forgotten Mart’s freakish tempers. If. Texas goes to war, he’ll be in the first and finish at the last. Let’s talk of something else.”
Matthew cast a droll glance at Rachel. “I’m sure my sister-in-law can supply a topic,” he murmured. “Shall we argue whether the Neanderthal skull is really a hundred thousand years old or marvel at this new writing machine someone has invented that strikes letters onto paper?”
“I have another call,” said Dr. Martin. He bowed to Rachel. “Thank you for your most gracious hospitality, ma’am.” He shook hands with both brothers though there was a stiffness in his clasp with Matt. Harry and Rachel saw him to the door. She then made as if to go to her room but Harry drew her back with him to where Matt was pouring more brandy at the sideboard.
“I’d trounce the both of you were you a dozen years younger!” he said with feeling. “A pretty pair you are! Rachel going on about army hospitals and coagulating blood, and you, Matt, ruffling poor Martin’s feelings every which way!”
“Shocking,” agreed Matt, twinkling back at his half-earnest brother. “The doctor will spread it around you’ve a bluestocking for a wife!”
“And a seditionist for a brother,” thrust Rachel, but she couldn’t help bursting out laughing.
Harry swung her in a whirling circle, his usually calm eyes lit with eagerness. When they collapsed, breathless, on the sofa, he held her proudly close and grinned at his brother.
“At least you can no longer think my wife has no opinions.”
His lean dark face a mask, Matt said carelessly, “Well scored, Harry. I look forward to learning my formidable sister-in-law’s attitudes on a great many things.” Finishing his drink, he saluted them both. “I’m sure you’ll gladly excuse me,” he nodded. “I promised to stop at Belleforest this evening for some taffy pulling.”
Belleforest had two most marriageable and attractive daughters. Harry grimaced.
“You may get caught in more than taffy if you ride there often, my lad.”
Matt chuckled. “Come, Harry, the McLeod damsels may have set their caps for you true enough, but you’re the heir of Gloryoak. A poor ex-captain like me may think himself lucky with a mouthful of candy.”
His eyes touched Rachel’s lips. A pang coursed through her, a stab of wild jealousy at the thought of his spending a gay flirtatious evening with the young McLeod women. She started to slip from Harry’s arms, but he held her closer.
“You’re so lovely.” His voice was unsteady and he swept her in his arms as the door closed on Matthew. “I want my taste of sweetness, too. Oh, my love—”
V
She awoke the next morning feeling as if she’d had a nightmare till the aching stiffness of her body brought her sharply awake and remembering.
Harry. After three months, she was physically his wife. She felt she’d shriek if he touched her. Thank God he wasn’t in her room—please, God. let her not see him till she had herself reasoned back to a normal state.
It wasn’t his fault. True, he had placed her on her bed last night, kissed and fondled her. but it was she herself who had led his hands to her breasts, she who had lured and invited till he drew back, sweat beading his forehead.
“You—you want me?” he choked. “
Oh, Rachel, you want me?”
She had been tormented enough in her body, angry enough at Matt and despairingly sorry enough for Harry to gamble against the rising terror she felt.
“Yes,” she moaned, fighting panic with her last bit of will. “Yes!”
Then his hands were no longer Harry’s, the urgent questing body bore no relation to the husband-friend she admired and loved every way but this. She was being devoured, smothered, impaled. She clamped her jaws hard together to keep from screaming.
It’s Harry, she repeated, the familiar name her only anchor in a tide of rising horror that swept her back to Tristesse, Etienne’s crumpled form, jostling masked men, those pawing, bruising hands, greedy mouth …
Harry! Harry, Harry.
His long-controlled passion crested in a few minutes but what was to Rachel an endless battle against striking out, fighting him. Tautly rigid, silently calling his name, she came slowly back to the reality of his lying beside her, cradling her in his arms.
“Oh, my love,” he said. “Oh, my darling! You’ve made me so happy, you’re wonderful beyond all telling!”
She couldn’t answer. He lifted himself anxiously on one elbow. “You’re all right? I didn’t hurt you?”
“I’m all right.”
He kissed her eyes and throat and hands, for the first time enjoying his bride, permitting himself to behave like a lover, though for the present his desire was quieted.
“Next time it’ll be happier for you,” he promised. “I’m afraid I was carried away tonight.”
He pushed her hair back from her face, watched her till, to keep from crying out that she’d hated it, that she’d been afraid and always would be, Rachel let her eyelids droop, said sleepily, “Harry, dear, I’m so tired. Could we have the candle out?”
“Of course, love.”
He snuffed the candle, told her good night and soon slumbered heavily, his arm weighing her down as it sprawled possessively across her.
Sleep was long in coming to Rachel. Next time. She hadn’t thought beyond getting through the first time. Now, sinkingly, she realized that Harry thought her fear was broken.
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