Would she ever grow used to lovemaking again? Would it ever be as it had been with Etienne? How could her body, so joyously attuned with his, be cold and locked to her husband?
She lay unhappily in her husband’s arms, drifting into a restless, dream-filled sleep when she seemed to be looking up at a man whose face was hidden. She was not afraid, perhaps she was, but the excitement of his touch, the tingling shocks going warmly through her, overpowered her fear, turning it into a higher peak of longing.
“Harry?” she cried. “Etienne?”
The shadowed face lifted. Matt gazed down at her. Gripped with terrible sadness, she awakened and found herself alone.
Harry had business in town and left directly after breakfast. Matt had not come to the table by the time Rachel left for school. She thought vindictively that he must have found the taffy pull at Belleforest decidedly fatiguing. At noon, after seeing the last of her pupils off, Rachel returned listlessly to the house, picked at her solitary lunch and decided she simply couldn’t mope about Gloryoak the rest of the day. Harry would be late and she certainly didn’t, after that disgraceful dream, wish to encounter Matt.
She hadn’t been back to Tristesse since the headstones with their plants had been set up. She told Tante Estelle where she was going, said no, indeed, she didn’t need someone with her, and asked to have Lady saddled while she changed into her dark-green habit.
She was homesick, she told herself, eyes stinging as a great wave of longing for her father and Etienne swept over her. She had been so happy with their simple life. But Father and Etienne were dead; the peaceful fabric of that life had been ripped forever that morning the intruders burst in.
For her there was no going back, but today she’d ride to Tristesse, at least. If anything survived of the dead, she might sense Bradford’s gentle presence or feel something of the mother she could not remember.
The boy who brought Lady to the house was the same one who’d watched her run off on Bess, and he eyed Rachel nervously. “I could just follow you on old Tam. Miz Rachel,” he offered.
“Thank you, Jason, but I’m not running away,” she assured him, smiling in spite of her megrims. “Tante Estelle knows I’m going, so no one shall blame you.”
Reluctantly, he gave her a hand up and handed her the reins. “You take mighty good care now, Miz Rachel,” he warned. “Master Harry kill me too dead to skin if you was to get lost or have any trouble.”
“I expect I’ll be back before he is,” she assured him. “Don’t fret, Jason. I’m just going to my old home for a little while.”
Waving to Tante Estelle, who stood disapprovingly at the door, Rachel rode down the lane and soon picked up the rutted road to Tristesse. It was overgrown with grass and vines, almost invisible in places. Feeling desolate and alone, Rachel conquered the impulse to whirl Lady about, take the clear, broad road, perhaps start for Jefferson and meet Harry on his way home. But instead she nudged the high-stepping mare down the path that Bradford’s infrequent journeys had kept open.
The road grew even more obscure as the woods grew thicker and the ground boggier. Great bald cypresses reared above water and willow, oak and tupelo and sweetbay grew in the damper places. Leaves were beginning to carpet the ground, and squirrels were busy against the winter. There was a hint of frost in the sunshine, though haze softened the crimson of black gum across the lake. Up ahead were the twin cypresses that marked the Tristesse pier, and Rachel’s heart twisted painfully as the pillared beauty of her old home showed through the magnolias. Reining Lady, Rachel waited silently. Easy to fancy that Father was inside at his books, that stew simmered in the black iron pot and Etienne might stride up at any moment with a gift of honey or game.
But nothing happened. Tristesse seemed transfixed in enchanted sleep. She felt like a trespasser, as if she no longer belonged here, yet this sense of alienation drove her to stay. Hitching Lady to a post, she first walked up the knoll to the little graveyard. Gracefully carved stone planters were softened by rambling roses, thyme, rosemary and lavender. Bradford’s and her mother Louella’s names were linked together on one long stone. Harry had ordered Désirée’s name on the single planter, a little distance from the Delyses. How like him to be kind, Rachel thought, even when there was no one left to see. Tante Aurore had never visited her sister’s grave.
Rachel knelt and prayed, but got no feeling of response or peace. Slowly, she touched the headstones, then descended the little hill, going up the stairs and into the house.
Her footsteps echoed past the sitting room and guest chamber, and she turned into the dining room, which had been her father’s office and where she had sat reading or sewing while he talked or studied.
Could that smell of tobacco linger so long? She touched the pipe still lying on his desk, the pile of books. Mill’s On Liberty, Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, Trollope’s Barchester Towers, de Tocqueville’s L’Ancien Régime. She had left these when moving most of his library to Gloryoak. It seemed that the pipe, chair, desk and books should be there to leave some palpable trace of the man who had used them.
The kitchen was cold. Tante Aurore had taken away nearly everything movable. Rachel glanced in her old room. The four-poster where she’d slept for so many years was stripped of bedding and the draperies were pulled.
There was still the blood stain from Etienne’s wound, close by the spot where she had fought and writhed in Tom’s brutal hands. Here she’d dragged her lover’s body across the floor. There was nothing for her now but that. Blindly, she ran down the hall, colliding against a hard figure. She screamed, struck out in mindless terror so that she kicked and struggled until she was swept up in steely arms, one hand trapped against her captor’s chest, the other pinioned.
“What’s wrong?” a harsh voice demanded. “Have you gone mad, flying down the hall like that and jumping on me like a—wildcat?” The voice gentled, took on a teasing note. “A small wildcat to be sure, and very, very pretty!”
“Matt!” She opened her eyes, so relieved that she went soft and trusting against him. “Matt, I was frightened! I’m so glad it’s you!”
His eyes were gray fire. With a groan, he lowered his head, taking her mouth with his as he pushed through the door of the guest chamber. When he lowered her to the bed, Rachel tried to sit up, tried to say no, but his hands on her breasts woke sweet wildness within her, a burning urgency. She helped him thrust her clothes aside, knew one moment of old dread when he entered her, a dread engulfed by the rising tide of savage need that swelled and surged, built to unbearable heights, then crested and broke in great waves of delight. She sobbed and laughed and clung to him, the frozen armor of her body shattered.
She didn’t know what would happen now, couldn’t think of Harry, her marriage, anything. She only knew she had been dead and was alive again.
But Matthew was looking at her with a haggard face. “Oh, my love!” he said. “Oh, my darling. And to think I followed you to see you came to no harm!”
“Matthew, it—wasn’t harm.” With a tremulous laughing sob, she touched the hollow of his cheek. “I thought I’d always be afraid. I still was, even last night with Harry.”
“Last night?” Matt’s eyebrows knitted. “My God, girl, you can’t mean that’s the first time you—” He broke off. “So that’s why you went crazy when I kissed you that first day! But even when you fought me there was something about the way you felt in my arms—I’d have sworn you knew how to please and pleasure.”
“Etienne was my lover.”
“That Cajun boy who’s buried in the family plot?”
“Your father’s grandson and your nephew,” she elaborated.
“Did Harry know?”
“Yes. I told him because he felt responsible for—for what Tom did.”
Matt sucked in his breath, his arm tightening around her. “Tom raped you!”
“Yes.”
“And after that you were afraid. My God, poor Rachel! Poor Harry! Married to you for months
and only last night getting you to bed!” Matthew stared at her in the dim light, brushed her lips with his and sprang up. “Well, Rachel, you’ve had your dealings with my family! If you’re able to receive my brother now, we’ll forgive ourselves this afternoon. But it cannot happen again.”
The words stabbed her, though she knew he was right. Impossible to betray Harry, impossible for either, brother or wife. But how, after this, to never yield to that sweet hunger, never feel Matt’s lips or hands again?
“I love you,” she said forlornly.
“Don’t think that!” He drew her to her feet, straightened the basque of her habit as if she were a child. “Harry adores you. He’s a far better man than I am in every way.”
“But—”
His eyes were filled with such pain that she winced, began arranging her clothes and hair, a taste of ashes in her mouth. “Rachel, I’ve wanted you ever since we met, but I’m not a green boy. I thought I could keep my hands off my own brother’s wife. None of this was your fault. You think you love me because I broke through your prison. But it’s Harry you must love. Come. Let’s go home.”
She paused as she went past him, but he would not look at her.
That night at dinner, he said he was leaving. “There’s a wonderful place west of the Pecos and south toward the Rio Grande,” he said. “I scouted there when I was stationed at Fort Lancaster. Good grass and all the land a man could want since there’s no rush to settle.”
“Isn’t that where the Comanches go every fall on their raids to Mexico?” asked Harry while Rachel gripped her napkin tight, feeling as if her heart had stopped.
Matt shrugged. “The Comanches do pass through the Big Bend,” he admitted. “But I’d look for a place well-removed from their usual route. Milton Faver’s the only white man ranching in the whole region, now that Ben Leaton’s dead. He depends on spring water. But I’d locate between mountain meadows and the Rio so if the springs went dry I’d still be able to get my cattle to water.”
“You seem to have thought about it in some detail,” Harry observed. “Why don’t you stay at Gloryoak, Matthew? There’s plenty to be done.”
“Guess I’ve been too long in the West. I feel crowded, Harry. Even the air’s heavy and moist. Besides, I’d never make a planter.”
Harry studied his wine, then lifted his shoulders and laughed. “Then all we can do is wish you well with your cattle. I had no business making plans just because you’d left the army. When are you going?”
“In a couple of days.”
“A couple of days?” Harry reacted as if to a slap. “There can’t be that rush, brother! Won’t you stay for Christmas and let us celebrate the New Year together?”
For the briefest second, Matt’s gaze touched Rachel, piercing her desolation to send her blood pulsing. “I wish I could stay, Harry. But I need to get settled in and buy cows that’ll give calves in the spring.”
“When people move west, they often never see their families again.” Harry reached for Rachel’s hand. “Won’t you add your persuasions, darling? I wish we might have this holiday before Matt seeks his fortune and warclouds burst.”
All that afternoon his name echoed within her. Matthew. Matthew. The marvel of feeling alive again in her most secret parts vied with guilt, her resolution to be faithful to Harry.
She knew the only way she and Matt could keep away from each other for long was to put physical distance between them. He was right to go, and quickly. Yet the thought was like a knife tearing through her. Matthew, Matthew. Without you I shall be only half.
“Please stay,” she said at her husband’s urging. How could he not guess, what with the way her hands trembled and her voice frayed? “Just till New Year.”
Matt’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and his jaw set. He looked as if he hated her. “Alas, sister, I must beg your pardon and be on my journey. I’m sad, believe me, not to share your holidays, but I hope to return in a few years and bring gifts for the children who’ll fill Gloryoak by then.” He grinned at Harry. “You’ve not been wed so long, brother, that two’s still not the best company! I thank you both for your graciousness, God knows, but I miss the open skies.”
“Then we must hope you’ll visit us soon,” said Harry, taking Rachel’s hand. “Who knows, you may bring back a wife and children of your own!”
“I doubt it,” said Matt.
“Why, boy, you’ll need someone to inherit those cattle and vast acres!”
“Your children can have them,” Matt said. “The only lady I ever fancied in the marrying way already had a husband.”
Rachel held her breath but Harry nodded. “I thought it was something like that more than Cochise that made you want out of the army,” he said. “The officers’ world’s a small one. Paths always cross again.” They talked then of cattle prices and far-flung army posts guarding the fringes of the Big Bend of the Chihuahua Trail from Mexico to San Antonio, and danger of Comanches, but Rachel heard little of it.
Don’t go away. I can’t bear it. Nor can I bear it if you stay. To see you like this, to want and need you though it must not be. Too late came I to love thee—yes, too late came I to love thee.
Three mornings later, on Sunday, Matt said his good-byes, kissing Tante Estelle, trying to make her smile through her tears, before he shook his brother’s hand. They embraced with the quick rough embarrassment of men trained not to show their feelings. Matt dropped a kiss on Rachel’s cheek, swung into the saddle.
“Be happy,” he said, looking down from his big gray horse. “Harry and Rachel, I wish you very, very happy.” He rode down the lane, stopping at the far end, and waved before he put Storm into a canter.
It was too cruel, for him to go away like this. Walking to the house with Harry and a sobbing Tante Estelle, Rachel tried to tell herself it was over. Matt had done the only wise and honorable thing. But she had to see him, alone, one more time! Kiss him again, feel the strength of his arms, his long hard body. Just once, just for an hour. Then, forever, she’d be a good, proper and virtuous wife.
“I have some letters to do,” Harry said as they moved down the hall. “Will you excuse me for a few hours, my love?”
“I was just thinking I’d enjoy a ride,” she said. “If I go now, I’ll be back for lunch.”
“Perhaps I should come with you.”
“Oh, no, do your letters,” Rachel urged. “If it stays warm, we might picnic at the lake this evening.”
“We’ll do that then,” Harry agreed, stopping by the library door to kiss her. “Take care, my dear. I don’t like to plague you by sending a boy along when I can’t escort you, but do be cautious.”
Would he never stop talking? Rachel said impatiently, “I’m sure I’m safer alone than with someone who might startle Lady. Don’t fret about me, Harry.” She gave him a fleeting kiss and hurried to change.
She took the shortcut Harry must have used that day he intercepted her on the road leading west. Consequently, though Matt had nearly an hour’s start, she’d been little over an hour on the way when she heard a horse whicker. Lady responded, speeding up, and within minutes, Rachel gripped her reins tight against the saddle horn, gazing into eyes that froze and burned her. Storm champed the bit, and Matt brought him sternly under control.
“Well, madam? Have you a message from my brother?”
She stiffened at his icy tone but desperation made her reckless. After what was between them, what did words matter?
“Tell me good-bye, Matthew. Hold me and kiss me and tell me good-bye. Give me that, at least, to remember.”
He watched her for a long moment. She held out her hand imploringly. His face changed, grew more relaxed. Swinging down from the stallion, he looped the reins over a stump, did the same for Lady and lifted Rachel down.
“One time,” he breathed. “One time for all our lives. Oh, Rachel! It took all my strength to tell you good-bye at Gloryoak. I’m not strong now.”
But he was strong to love her. He was her man
, her only man, and though she might never see him again, this—this ecstasy melting him into her would always be the real truth of her as a woman.
They were coming back to the road when Harry stepped in front of them. He had a pistol and his face was death.
“I was ashamed for letting my downcast wife go riding alone,” he explained in a clipped brittle tone. His eyes rested on Rachel, so full of agony she would gladly have died to erase it. “Did he open your body for me? Is that why you finally took me?”
She couldn’t answer.
Matt said, “Harry, when I knew how it was I decided to go away. Can’t you forget this?”
“No.”
“I won’t fight you,” Matt said. “Kill me, and it’s your right, but don’t hurt Rachel. It’s not her fault.”
“Yes, it is!” she cried. “I came after you today.”
“And you love him.” Harry’s smile was more horrible than the dead expression. “Will you give me a kiss, Rachel?”
“Harry—”
“Kiss me.”
Half expecting him to shoot her as she did so, she moved forward and kissed his cold mouth. He touched her cheek. “My dear, remember this. You are the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me. Go get on your horse.”
She thought she understood, caught his hand. “Harry, kill me, too!”
“I’m not going to kill my brother, love,” he said as if surprised. “But I want to speak to him privately. Now, please, leave us.”
Uneasy but forced to obey, she walked toward the road. She was scarcely mounted when a shot exploded. Scrambling down from the saddle, she ran to where Matthew was swathing his shirt about Harry’s neck and jaw. There was blood on both of them. Harry’s eyes were sightless, unblinking in the sun.
Rachel fell beside him, calling his name. But he would never answer. Never again.
“I tried to stop him,” Matt said. “I wrestled his arm down but he still shot himself beneath the jaw.”
“Shot—himself—?”
“My God, yes!” Matt brushed a bloody hand across his face. “He told me to—to take care of you. I was to stop at the nearest inn and wait for news of his suicide. You were to ‘find’ him and bring Selah.” Slipping his arms beneath his brother, Matt carried him toward the road and the waiting horses.
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