A Wild Yearning, page 14
"Delia!"
Startled, Delia looked up into Ty's face. His hair was slightly damp and he'd brought the smell of rain in with him. His lips slanted into a teasing smile. "What were you thinking so deeply about, brat? I thought I was going to have to bellow at you through a peddler's horn to get your attention."
She felt a warm blush creep up her neck. "Nothin'. I... I wasn't thinking..."
His smile faded, and he seemed to rivet her with his eyes. There was no mistaking the look of hunger in those dark blue depths. "Come to bed, Delia." It was distinctly a command.
She moistened her lips, tried to swallow, and choked instead. She stumbled to her feet, backing away from him. "I... I got t' use t-the necessary house."
"Don't be long," he said, his voice a rough burr.
Delia's feet swished through rain-wet grass as she hurried across the dark yard toward the privy, but she didn't go inside for she'd used the facilities only a half hour before. It had merely been an excuse to delay going up that ladder and into Tyler Savitch's waiting arms.
Tilting her head back, she gazed up at the night sky. A brisk wind was scattering the storm, and stars peeked in and out from behind the fleecy, scudding clouds.
Will you come to me tonight? Oh Lord above us, did she dare? The love she felt for him was so powerful, so consuming. She wondered if it was possible to love this much and survive it. Hugging herself, Delia stood outside alone in the cool spring darkness, torn by conflicting feelings of desire and fear. When she went back inside five minutes later, she was no nearer to deciding what she would do.
Ty was waiting for her at the top of the ladder.
She froze at the sight of him so that he had to reach down and haul her up through the trap door. He slipped his arm around her, leaning into her. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around his waist and felt the supple muscles of his back flex beneath her hands. The entire lengths of their bodies were pressed so tightly together, Delia thought surely he could feel her heart thudding against her chest.
"Christ, Delia, I thought this day would never end." He sighed and his hot breath stirred her hair.
Somehow they had wound up with one of his legs between hers, and he rubbed it against the folds of her skirt, pressing until she felt the hard thigh muscle grind against her mound, even with all their clothing in between. Her chest began to burn, and at first she thought it was because of the painful hammering of her heart. It wasn't until she sucked in a gasping lungful of air that she realized she had forgotten to breathe.
"Ty," she protested. Only it didn't sound like a protest, but rather an invitation.
"You got me so damn hard for you, Delia-girl, I'm about to burst," he whispered, his voice deep and rough. Taking her hand by the wrist, he pressed it against the front of his breeches. Delia felt dizzy with the shock of what he was doing, of what she was letting him do. Yet a part of her was curiously aware of what she felt—a stiff, thick, pulsating warmth that seemed alive beneath her palm.
He nuzzled her neck with his chin and Delia trembled, biting back a groan. He tilted her head up and nodded toward one of the flimsy partitions that divided the sleeping area. "You've been put in there," he said, still keeping his voice low, "and I'm right next to you. Luckily, the Hookers are bedded down clear at the other end. But I'll wait until they get good and settled before I come to you—"
Delia's heart came slamming up into her throat. "No! I'll... I'll come t' you, Ty..."
He kissed her hard and fast and wetly on the mouth. "All right, but hurry. Oh, Christ, but I want you, Delia." His hand dropped from her waist to caress her bottom as he let her go.
Delia lay on her pallet in the darkness. The minutes ticked away and the night deepened and Tyler Savitch waited for her on the other side of the partition. If only, she kept saying over and over to herself, tossing and turning until her head ached and she felt almost feverish, if only she could be sure it was love he felt for her.
But he didn't love her. If he did he would have said so, wouldn't he? Of course, men weren't always blatting the word about the way women did. And he had given her things, hadn't he? First the fancy red-heeled shoes and then his mother's moccasins...
Still, he was bringing her to Merrymeeting to be another man's wife. If she went to his bed tonight, what would he do afterward? Would he marry her himself, or would he just give her another present and a final kiss and turn her over to Nathaniel Parkes without another thought? Delia's heart, already aching with love for him, might as well be wrenched from her breast, so painful would that be.
He doesn't love ye, Delia scolded herself as she flopped over on the lumpy cornhusk pallet. She punched her balled-up fist into the pillow. He doesn't love ye an' if ye go to him this night ye'll be no better than the slut yer da always named ye.
And what of Nat Parkes and the obligation she owed to him? He was expecting a wife, a mother for his daughters. Oh, Delia, look at the mess ye've made of things. Fallin' in love with a man who's never goin' t' love ye, and all the while promised to a man ye've never laid eyes on.
Delia turned on her side, facing the partition behind which Tyler Savitch lay, waiting for her. She would give up a lot for love of Ty—her virginity, easily, and even her honor by breaking the promise she'd made to Mr. Parkes. But only if she was sure he loved her. Only if she was sure...
And so although the man she loved waited for her throughout the long night on the other side of the partition, Delia lay awake as well, thinking of him, wanting him, but not going to him after all.
Very early the next morning, Delia descended the ladder from the loft and slipped into the keeping room, hoping to put a kettle on the fire and have a nerve-soothing cup of tea before the others awakened. But Ty was there before her, sitting at the board table, his bent head resting on his clasped hands. He looked up at the sound of her footstep.
She tried a bright smile. "Mornin', Ty."
He glared at her with bloodshot eyes.
Delia sidled around the table and headed for the door to the linter, the small added-on room that housed the pantry and led to the outbuildings in back.
Ty jumped up, sending the bench skidding across the floor, overtaking her in two steps. Whirling to run, Delia tripped over a sack of cornhusks used for kindling. She was back on her feet in a split second, but Ty snagged her arm. He hauled her around and slammed against her, pinning her to the wall between the hearth and the linter.
"Ye're crushin' me!" she cried, more angry than afraid. Somehow she knew that Ty, unlike her da, would never use his fists on her no matter how hard she pushed his temper.
Ty eased his weight off her, but he kept her trapped by placing his hands on either side of her shoulders. "Where were you last night?"
"Let me go."
"No."
"Ye're always such a bastard in the mornin'."
"Where were you last night?" he asked again.
"I never said for sure I was comin'. Ye just assumed it."
"Christ!" He pushed himself away from the wall, turning around and shoving his hand through his hair. Then his head jerked back around to her. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"I'll not fall into bed with ye, Tyler Savitch, just 'cause ye've gone an' snapped yer fingers beneath my nose."
His brows came down, his eyes narrowed, and his thin nostrils flared, and Delia, who was coming to know him well, tensed because she saw real anger now, deep and cold and dangerous.
Then she realized she didn't know him so well after all, because an instant later he threw back his head and laughed. "You're a funny one, brat," he said. "If I remember correctly, my bed was the first place I found you."
Her chest tightened and her eyes filled with tears as he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with his knuckles, moving them up into her hair, then down a heavy ringlet, following the length of it where it curled around her breast.
"Delia," he began, but she didn't wait to hear more. She pushed against him and ran from the room, through the linter and into the yard.
She did not stop running until she was sure he wasn't following her.
There was smallpox in Wells.
The epidemic had already run its course, leaving its victims dead and mutilated. Only two, an old woman and a child, were still in the throes of the disease, and neither was expected to last the night. Ty and his party had meant to spend the night in this small town that was scattered for seven miles along the Maine coast, but when they learned of the epidemic, they rode straight through and set up camp on the beach five miles farther down the King's Highway.
Ty didn't wait to eat supper. He was all set to ride back to the beleaguered town when Delia tried to stop him.
She grabbed his arm as he gathered up the reins, preparing to mount. "Ty, ye can't go back there! What if ye was t' get the disease yerself?"
He dipped his head and planted a kiss on her nose. "I won't, Delia-girl. I've been inoculated."
These were the first words he had spoken to her since they had argued that morning—argued about sharing his bed. A part of Delia was relieved he was no longer angry with her, another part remained furious with him. His temper was quickly ignited and just as quickly doused, whereas Delia's temper tended to smolder. She tightened her grip on his arm. "That's a lot of horse feathers, those inoc—those things. Sir Patrick said so." In truth, she had no idea what the word even meant.
Ty pried her fingers loose. "When you and Sir Patrick can show me your degrees from Edinburgh, perhaps I'll give some credence to your learned medical opinions." He mounted, but he paused to look down into her worried, angry face. "Delia, I'm a physician. I can't ride off and leave a person in need."
"But if they're goin't' die anyway—"
"I can help them die easier." He pulled the pacer's head around and rode off down the road, leaving her shouting after him.
"Ye're a wooden-headed fool, Tyler Savitch! If ye get the pox, don't come expectin' me t' nurse ye back t' health!"
His laughter carried back to her in the still evening air. Delia watched him go, loving him, worried for him. In so many ways, she knew, it was the very qualities that caused her to love him that made her so afraid... afraid of losing him.
Ye're the wooden-headed fool, Delia taunted herself. How can ye lose what ye never had in the first place?
Much later that night, Delia stood at the very edge of the ocean, letting the tide come to within inches of her toes. She breathed deeply of the sharp sea smell of kelp on wet rock. A tangy breeze caressed her cheek, as gently as a lover.
The Atlantic stretched wide before her, shimmering dully like a flat pewter tray and reflecting the golden bowl of a full moon. Behind her was the forest. It grew right up to the scattering of brine-washed boulders and this sliver of a sandy beach.
The flickering shadows of their campfire danced on the sand to the right of her. She could see the glow from the flames but not the fire itself, for it was sheltered by a lichen-covered ledge and hidden within the sickle curve of the beach. Delia could hear the low drone of Caleb's voice as he read to his wife from their Bible. Then she heard the crunch of footsteps on the sand.
She tensed, but she didn't turn to look at him, not even when she felt her cloak land heavily over her shoulders. His hands lingered at her neck, then fell away.
"I thought you might be cold," he said.
When she said nothing, he came to stand in front of her, heedless of the salt water that now lapped around his boots. He tucked a sprig of sea lavender into her hair and gave her a boyish, lopsided smile. "You aren't angry with me, Delia. Not really. So quit pretending that you are."
Oh, but he was an engaging rascal. He could charm the clothes off a bishop's wife, and probably had.
The thought made her smile, but she said, "I suppose ye think all this bein' nice to me now will make me forgive ye."
He laughed, shrugged. "Hell, so far I haven't done anything to be forgiven for."
"Hunh," she protested. Still, she reached up and touched the flowers he had put in her hair. It was too dark to read the expression on his face, but she could feel the intensity of his eyes boring into her.
It only took one step to bring his body right up against hers and he took it. She did not back away. As if from a far distance, she could hear the sea lapping and sucking at his boots.
So slowly it seemed an eternity, his lips descended. But his mouth hovered provocatively over hers and his breath, warm and moist, bathed her cheek as he spoke.
"You want me, Delia."
The word barely made it out of her constricted throat. "No."
"Yes."
"Yes. I can make you want me."
His mouth crushed down on hers, forcing her lips apart in a fierce, hungry kiss. Her protest had dissolved with the first touch of his lips on hers.
He pressed his palm against the back of her head so that he could hold her mouth in place while he thrust his tongue in and out of it rhythmically. Then his tongue slowed, stayed, filled her mouth, and he turned his head back and forth, slanting his lips across hers.
She made a tiny whimpering noise in the back of her throat. It seemed the only thing keeping her upright was his hand on the back of her head. She reached up and clung to his arms, her fingers digging into the tense, rigid muscles.
He broke the kiss, pulling away from her. She saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled at her. "You want me, Delia-girl. But I think maybe next time I'll make you do the asking."
He left her there, standing on the beach, wanting him. Just as he had said he would.
Chapter 9
The tiny settlement on Falmouth Neck smelled steamily of soft soap.
It came from the front yard of an old fortified log house that stood directly across from the Neck's main pier where it hooked out into Casco Bay. A woman and a small boy were stirring a boiling mixture of grease and wood ash lye in a fat iron kettle that hung from a lug pole over a big fire.
The woman paused in her work to look up as Ty rode in, the others following. She wiped the stringing wisps of hair from her sweating face and then her mouth broke into a huge smile.
"Ty!" she cried and, dropping the stick, started to run. Ty slid off his pacer and met her halfway. They threw their arms around each other and Ty lifted her off the ground, kissing her long and hard on the mouth.
Delia sat on the horse Ty had given her and watched them with a sick little smile on her face. This one was like all of Ty's other women, fair and delicate and, since she was in the middle of boiling up a big pot of soap, probably clean as a saint on Sabbath day as well.
The woman clasped Ty's arms and stepped back, studying him up and down. "Oh my, but you're lookin' fine." Her hands fluttered up to her hair, then she wiped them on the skirt of her faded Holland frock. "Darn you, Tyler Savitch, why do you always manage to catch me looking such a mess?"
"You look beautiful, Suz," Ty said.
The Hookers had gotten off the ox cart, so Delia dismounted as well, but she hung back while the introductions were made.
The woman's name was Susannah Marsten and she was a widow who ran the trading post in Falmouth. She had a five-year-old son called Tobias. He stood with Ty's hand resting lightly on his head. Susannah Marsten leaned close enough to Ty that their shoulders rubbed and she was smiling so happily. Delia thought the three of them already looked like a family and she felt almost nauseated with a hot, burning jealousy.
"You sure are a welcome sight in these parts, Reverend," Susannah said to Caleb as they were introduced. "You too, Mrs. Hooker."
Caleb's wide, charming smile revealed his overlapping teeth. "To hear Ty talk, I only got hired so that Merrymeeting could call itself a proper town."
"Oh, you mustn't take Ty seriously. He loves to tease." Susannah laughed and looked up at Ty, her eyes shining. They were as bright a blue as cornflowers, Delia thought enviously.
"And this is Delia. The girl I've brought for Nat," Ty said. He motioned at Delia. "Come over here, brat. Since when have you turned shy as an old maiden aunt?"
Delia lifted her head and stepped forward. "I thought I was bein' polite. Giving two old friends a chance t' get reacquainted an' all."
This brought on one of Ty's scowls. Susannah looked Delia over carefully and then her eyes went back to Ty. Delia was glad to see a worried frown crease the woman's fair, smooth brow.
"You folks thirsty?" Susannah asked after a long awkward moment, while Ty glared at Delia and she glared back at him.
Ty jerked his eyes away from Delia. Slipping his arm around Susannah's waist, he gave it a familiar squeeze. "I'm dry enough to make a hen quack."
Susannah laughed. "Then come on in. All of you. I'll broach a hogshead. There's someone inside you need to look at, Ty." Moving with an unconscious grace, she led them across the yard to the front door of the large, hewn-log building. "That old timber beast, Increase Spoon, came down to trade some peltry. He brought his squaw with him. She's powerful sick."
They entered a long room with a fireplace at one end around which were grouped a settle and a couple of chairs. In one far corner stood a table and opposite it a maple cupboard, displaying a set of blue glassware. Beside the cupboard, a musket hung muzzle-down by its trigger guard from a pair of deer-horns. Four copper-bottomed pots swung over the mantel tree above the hearth.
The commercial part of the room was separated from the living area by a hip-high partition with a swinging door in the middle. Along one wall of the store ran a counter, behind which were shelves filled with everything imaginable—from buttons to stockings, ax helves to lamp oil.
The floor was covered with larger items such as rum kegs and crocks of applejack. Bales of beaver and bear fur and blankets and beads for the Indian trade were all arranged in neat rows. A path about two feet wide had been cleared through the stacks of trade goods, running from the front door along the counter to the living quarters in the rear.
Two figures huddled before the fire. One, a man, stood up as they came in. He was dressed head to toe in buckskins that were stained with grease and stiff in spots with dried blood. His graying hair hung long about his face, becoming entangled with his beard where it grew past his neck. He watched them come toward him with eyes that were as small and dark as olive pits.
