Halfway Home, page 24
“You’re my wife, Sara,” he reminded her, reminding himself at the same time.
“I know.” She addressed the ceiling instead of him, as if she were embarrassed. “Then if you must know, it was my fingers.”
Her fingers.
“Your fingers?”
“You see, Archibald’s knees—”
Her fingers and his knees?
Judas priest, he thought he had heard it all, living cloistered aboard ship for weeks at a time. “I’m sorry, Sara. It’s truly none of my business. I only wanted to be sure I didn’t hurt you in the same way, or give you a disgust of this whole—er, marital business.” He found he couldn’t use the crude terms that were common currency aboard ship for what he was about to do to her.
“Yes, well—you probably won’t. I mean, you’re not even sharing my bed, are you? Archibald didn’t mean to hurt me, I’m sure. He was a very kind man. But the bed wasn’t very wide, and he was scrambling around and muttering—I believe he must have had too much to drink—and then his nightshirt sort of got tangled up and he fell on top of me, and when I offered to move over to make more room, his knee came down on my hand and bent my fingers backward into the mattress, and it . . . well, it hurt.” She was still staring up at the ceiling, her chin thrust out as if to say, laugh if you must bedamned to you!
Instead of laughing, Jericho rested his brow on the mattress, the top of his head brushing her hip as the last piece of the puzzle slipped into place. He had married an idiot. A blooming, blithering innocent who truly thought babies came from mashing fingers. She hadn’t lied. Criminally uninformed she might be, but at least she hadn’t lied to him.
After a moment he felt something brush against his hair. He froze. His shaft, which was already standing at half-mast after her absurd revelations, drooped farther.
And then he felt her fingertips touch his scalp. Tentatively. As if she weren’t sure he would be pleased with the small liberty she was taking.
God, yes, he was pleased! He was thrilled right down to his small toe that she was willing to touch him anywhere. He had a job of educating to do, but it had been his experience that a raw recruit could be shown a task far easier than he could be told.
And so he set out to show her.
Coming up onto the bed, he sat beside her at first, taking her hand in his. One by one, he began to stroke her fingers, dipping in between them, his fingertips straying now and then across her palm. “Sara, I’m going to lie down beside you. I did that before, if you’ll remember. I didn’t hurt you then, did I?”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “And this time, no one’s apt to shoot at us.”
It occurred to Jericho that, while he knew his way around any number of whorehouses both here and abroad, when it came to courting a respectable woman, he was in a league with the cat who sat down to tea with the bishop. Somewhat out of his element.
Carefully, he lay down beside her, shifting so that his left leg touched her right one. She was smooth as silk. He was inclined to be hairy. Just one of the many differences between them that excited him almost beyond bearing.
When he was sure he could speak calmly, he said, “If you were to move closer, you could rest your head on my shoulder.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, and edged an inch closer.
Jericho forced himself to be patient, to think before he made his next move. But patience didn’t come easy. His member had snapped to attention again and was eagerly tenting the bedcovers. Which made him glad he hadn’t opened the curtains after all, for he was coming along far too nicely to risk scaring her off.
Kissing. A man could hardly go wrong kissing. So propping himself up on one arm, he leaned over and kissed her lips, and then her eyes, and her temples. Next he allowed his lips to stray down the side of her neck to the small hollow at the base of her throat.
He touched her with the tip of his tongue, savoring the sweet-salt flavor of her skin, which only made him hungry for more. Emboldened by the pulse he felt throbbing there, he eased one hand aboard her belly, spreading his fingers so that his thumb touched her navel at the same time his fingertips tangled in the small nest of golden brown curls between her thighs. He had large hands. She was a small woman.
He was large in other respects, as well, and therein lay the problem. He had vowed not to hurt her, and yet . . . “Sara, can you spread your legs for me?”
She started to speak and then stopped. Started to obey, but then clamped her thighs tightly together, capturing his invading hand. He could hear the breath seething between her teeth, and it thrilled him to know that she might be feeling something of the same sort of excitement that he was.
The scent of sexual arousal drifted up around them, mingling with the scent of her hair, her skin—his own muskiness. The scent alone nearly did him in.
Patience, he warned himself. You’re almost there now. Easy as she goes . . .
He slipped three fingers between her tightly clasped thighs. “There now, shhh,” he whispered, soothing her with small murmuring sounds as he continued to explore. Her eyes were shut as if to deny what was happening to her, and he felt a small surge of pity for any maiden setting forth on this particular voyage for the first time without a chart, much less a compass.
God knows what that friend of hers from Illinois had told her, but it had obviously never prepared her for the simple truth. Ricketts, he discounted altogether. The bumbling old fool had probably never even got close to home port.
She was small, hot and slick, her body ready even if she didn’t realize it. Finding the nugget of pleasure he sought, he began to stroke the soft folds around it, tugging this way and that, teasing but never quite touching the tiny man in the boat, though it was standing boldly now, eagerly demanding attention.
He entered her with a single finger, feeling her fright as if it were his own. Easy, mate—warp alongside gently now, and then board her boldly.
Moving over her, he lowered himself carefully, letting her feel his weight, easing gently into position . . . He had it all laid out in his mind, having gone through more or less the same maneuver scores of times over the years.
But this was Sara. This was his very own wife, not some nameless female whose body he could rut on for a small price and then walk away from without a second thought.
Already fit to burst his own skin, he felt himself grow even larger, felt himself brush against her sweet, steamy jungle. He groaned.
Sara gasped. She pushed against his shoulders and at the same time, clamped his body between her thighs. Jericho recognized the conflicting action as a defensive reflex, meant to keep him from going deeper. Instead, it sent him over the edge. As she began to thrash around beneath him, he eased into her. Gently at first, only far enough to pin her in place. He had barely broached her when the exquisitely sensitive tip of his shaft felt her maiden’s veil. Closing his eyes, he whispered a single oath, fighting the compulsive temptation to ram through.
You promised, he reminded himself. You vowed never to hurt her.
His heart was pounding hard enough to shake the whole bed. His tortured lungs caught and held his breath, and he hovered there for one small eternity, praying he wouldn’t disgrace himself by firing off too soon.
And then Sara took things into her own hands, quite literally. He never knew if she meant to help matters along or cover herself against deeper intrusion, but when she wedged a hand down between them, when her fingertips blundered onto the root of his manhood, Jericho lost his last feeble hold on sanity. With one wild cry, he pierced her, then drove into her again and again, deeper and deeper, faster and faster, oblivious to all but the mindless race for release.
The end was inevitable. Almost from the first moment, he could feel it overtaking him. Glowing. Pulsating like the great northern lights. Finally, exploding over him in wave after splendid wave.
With a long, shuddering gasp, he braced himself on his forearms. Buried deeply inside her, he hung on, holding her safe. Holding them both safe against the drugging, drowning power.
Eventually he became aware once more of his surroundings. Of the woman beneath him, nearly crushed under the weight of his sated body. Of the sweat that covered them both. Of her startled eyes staring up at him as if she had never seen him before.
“Is—that it?” she asked finally, her voice no more than a whisper against the harsh rasp of his own breathing.
Jericho swore silently. Holding her tightly, he rolled onto his side, carrying her with him, pressing her soft, hot body against his. He was still inside her and swelling again, but he knew to his vast sorrow that she wasn’t ready for another go at it.
Might never be, under the circumstances.
His conscience bade him apologize, but he could no more shape the proper words than he could fly. “I reckon so,” he said, which was neither apology nor explanation, but simply the best he could do at the moment.
“Well,” she said, and with that one small utterance, stole what was left of his heart right out of his breast.
Sara didn’t know whether to feel proud or offended. So this was the true marriage act, she thought. Carrie had been right about the pain, but she had left out all the other feelings. The sense of being a part of another human being—being joined for a little while in ways that had nothing to do with bodies.
Which was fanciful, to say the least. And Sara had never been the least bit fanciful. All her life she had prided herself for her sensibility, but if there was anything sensible about hanging onto a man’s body while he did things to her that defied description and passed all understanding—if there was anything sensible about’ wanting him to do it to her all over again—why, then, she didn’t know what it was.
So she settled for curling up in his arms and going to sleep, feeling safe and warm and wanted.
Feeling wanted. It was the next best thing to being loved . . . wasn’t it?
*
Jericho split kindling. He wasn’t particularly good at it, as it was a skill not often required of seamen. But it was hard physical work, and he felt a real need for hard physical activity.
The air was warm for November. Brisk, but still warm in the sun. With no wind at all, the smell of burning swamp was barely discernible. He could smell the rich scent of alluvial earth, the sweet, dry smell of corn in the crib. The resinous scent of pines and cedars, and the dusty scent of the pecan trees that lined the drive path and the massive water oaks that gave the place its name. Only now was he beginning to realize how much he had missed the smell of all those things during his years away from home.
Home . . .
Another puzzle that had taken root in his mind. Was home the farm where he had spent the first thirteen years of his life, or the sea, where he had spent the next twenty-odd years?
Or was home the woman whose bed he had so recently left, amazed to discover that it was still broad daylight outside?
Sara. It had seemed so simple when it had all started. She was a decent woman. She had needed him. He’d needed someone to look after Wilde Oaks now that Louisa was gone. So he’d married her, never thinking beyond the duel. And now he had a wife.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Jericho stared up at the bedroom window, wondering if she was still asleep. Wondering if she’d taken a disgust of him. He wouldn’t blame her if she had. He was a great gawking hulk without any of the fancy manners women liked in a man. He didn’t know how to choose his waistcoats and cravats and all the colorful trimmings Rafe set such store by, and so he settled for owning two suits, both black, two cravats, both black, and five shirts: three of white linen, two of black wool.
He possessed two pairs of boots, neither with the neat banded tops of contrasting leather that were worn by fancy gentlemen on both sides of the Atlantic. Although one pair did sport a fanciful pattern of salt stains.
Oh, he was a great hand when it came to getting along with menfolk. He could spin a yarn with the best of them. He had earned the respect of those who knew him and those who knew only of his reputation. He knew his ships, he knew his men, his cigars and his whiskey.
But when it came to knowing women, he was dead in the water.
Except in whorehouses. He knew what was expected of him there. The women knew what was expected of them, so without bothering with much in the way of small talk, they got down to the business of fornication.
But none of that was much help to him now. How did a man deal with a woman like Sara? He couldn’t deny she heated him up quicker than any high-class whore in the fanciest French bordello, but he could hardly treat her like one. She was a decent woman. She was also stubborn as a harness-galled ox.
On the other hand, he reckoned stubbornness might be called a virtue if it meant giving her word and sticking by it. If it meant loyalty to two old freed blacks who had raised her from a baby. If it meant riding hellbent for leather to tend to a husband who’d had the misfortune to get himself sliced up in a duel, and who didn’t much want to be tended to in the first place.
Stubbornness, Jericho concluded, wasn’t entirely a bad thing as long as a person was stubborn about the important things in life.
A flicker of movement caught his attention. Shading his eyes with one hand, he glanced up at the window in time to see the curtains twitch open. There she stood, her hair down over her shoulders. Their eyes met and held, and Jericho thought, not for the first time, that his wife was a beautiful woman.
Beautiful to him at least—even in that brown frock she wore more often than not. Nine men out of ten might pass her by without even seeing her on account of she was so small and she didn’t do anything to draw attention to herself the way most women did.
But the tenth man—and by that, Jericho meant himself—would see the depth of her tilted brown eyes and the way the sunlight snagged there and sparkled. The way her small, pointed chin could square up when she was crossed. The way her lips quivered just before she laughed, and the way . . .
He sighed, still gazing up at the woman who was his wedded and bedded wife. She would stay by him, all right, because she was a dutiful woman.
Only suddenly, he found that he wanted more from her than mere duty. He wanted her to feel the way he was beginning to feel. Light-headed. Hollow-chested. Wild as a possum drunk on strong corn mash. He wanted her to feel a pulse throbbing in her groin when she thought about lying naked in a bed with him, and maybe even making a baby together.
She left without even smiling down at him, and Jericho went back to splitting kindling. At this rate they’d soon have enough to fire every stove in Pasquotank County.
*
The next morning, Ivadelle shoved her hairbrush in the pocket of her best apron, knotted a silk shawl about her shoulders and headed for the second-floor portico. The house faced east. The sun would be slanting across the southeast corner about now, making it a perfect place to dry her hair.
She’d set the old bat to heating water before the breakfast dishes were even washed, as soon as she heard that Rafe was riding over to speak to Jericho about a mare and a team of mules that had come up for sale in the next county.
Ivadelle was nothing if not practical. After yesterday, when Jericho had taken that mousy wife of his to bed in the middle of the day, she had finally faced the fact that he was going to keep her. And while she had no real objection to married men, Hiram would kill her if she got in trouble again.
Besides, why settle for another woman’s husband when with a little more effort, she could have one of her own?
Settling herself on the rail, she spread her full skirt and began to brush. She didn’t really hold with all this hair-washing nonsense—working talcum powder into her scalp and brushing it out again did just as well, and on hair as pale as hers, it didn’t even leave a dulling film. But there was nothing at all romantic about letting a man see clouds of dirty talcum settling on a woman’s shoulders.
So she’d washed, using a bar of Sara’s scented soap, timing everything so that she would be caught in the act. What could be more innocently seductive than a woman drying her hair in the morning sunshine? It wasn’t as if she’d dragged a chair out into the front yard so that anyone riding up the drive path would be sure to see her. A second-floor portico was private, almost an extension of the sleeping rooms, even though it did open out over the front yard.
Rafe wouldn’t have been her choice as a husband, or even as a lover. He was too sure of himself, and he had a way of laughing with his eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. As if he knew precisely what she was thinking.
Besides, she wasn’t at all certain she could manage him. Jericho now—he was another matter. Strong as a bull, dark and exciting to look at, he was a babe in the woods when it came to women. She could have had him jumping through hoops in no time at all if he hadn’t gone and married that little nobody.
It had all sounded so perfect when Hiram had come home and described the place. Within easy driving distance of a nice little town, but set off to itself with only one close neighbor. The two farms, Wilde’s and Turbyfill’s, took up all the land for five miles in any direction. And both landowners were single. A woman didn’t get a chance like that more than once in a lifetime.
“I’ll have a free hand,” Hiram had told them both, his wife and sister, over supper the night he got back from his interview. “Wilde’s been to sea most of his life, don’t know much about farming, but that’s all to the better. I’ve got me some ideas I’d like to try out, rotating corn with beans and round about again.”
Bess had wanted to know about the house, right off. Hiram had described the main house and the tidy cottage set aside for the overseer. Right way, Ivadelle had known which of the two she preferred.
“Be glad to get away from this town, I can tell you right now. I ain’t much for listening to town talk, but when it gets so a man can’t walk down the street without hearing tongues a-wagging about his womenfolk, why it’s time to pull up stakes and move on.”
