A Wild Yearning, page 25
Nat patted the top of Delia's head as if she were a cowering dog he'd just whipped. "Never mind. I know your intention wasn't to shame me."
Just then Colonel Bishop began whacking on a triangle, summoning everybody for the start of the race. Meg, who had been watching Delia's humiliation with a triumphant smirk, slipped away from Ty's side and trotted up to her father. "The race is about ready to start, Papa. You don't want to miss it."
Ty helped Tildy lurch to her feet and she, too, ran up to her father. Nat swung her up in the air, settling her down on his shoulders. "Let's go then, girls." He smiled at Ty. "Thanks to the doc's wedding gift, this is one race I think I'm going to win."
Delia watched her new husband walk off with his daughters, her face tight and drawn. She turned to look at him, and Ty saw her breasts heave once as she fought down tears.
"Lord above us, I'm such a wooden-headed fool for even thinkin'—thinking," she corrected herself through gritted teeth, "that I'm capable of acting like a proper lady."
"Aw, Delia-girl..."
Ty's heart ached for her, for he knew exactly how she must feel—shame and pride all tangled together until it became a knot in your gut that wouldn't go away. There had been countless times in that first year after he'd been dragged back to the Yengi world when he'd slipped up and inadvertently done something that marked him as an "Abenaki savage." He had felt a bitter, frustrated shame at the looks of horror and disgust on the faces of those around him. But he had felt a traitor as well. As if by turning his back on the Abenaki ways, he was denying the man who for ten years had raised and loved him as a son.
Ty wanted to wrap his arm around Delia's shoulders and pull her against him, to kiss the tears from her eyes. But of course he couldn't. He started to take her hand before he realized he shouldn't be doing even that anymore. His hand clenched into a fist. "Come on, brat. Let's go watch the race."
She nodded, wiping at a stray tear that had escaped to meander down her cheek. "All right, Ty," she said, giving him a brave smile that broke his heart.
Ty went back to the manor house to pick up the starting pistol and was crossing the green when the Reverend Caleb Hooker joined him.
Caleb flashed his engaging smile. "I've been told the prize for this affair is a free baby."
Ty grinned. "That's right, Reverend. Aren't you going to compete? A prize like that—it should be coming in handy for you and Elizabeth before too long."
Caleb flushed. His eyes drifted over to Elizabeth, who still sat at one of the trestle tables, talking with Anne Bishop and Hannah Randolf, the blacksmith's pregnant wife. For a moment, a moment so brief Ty wasn't sure if he had imagined it, the young minister's face darkened with anguish.
But when he turned back to Ty the crooked-toothed smile was back in place. "It appears as if Mrs. Randolf's the one in most imminent need of the prize."
"With Hannah Randolf such a need is always imminent. If you want to ride, I've got a horse I can loan you."
Caleb laughed, shaking his head. He glanced wistfully at the men who were doing some last minute adjusting to saddles and stirrups before mounting up. "Somehow I don't think my superiors back in Boston would approve of one of their ministers riding hellbent for leather in a horse race."
Ty wondered if the young reverend knew that there was some heavy betting being done on the race's outcome. He probably did, Ty thought, but judiciously chose to ignore it.
Merrymeeting horse races traditionally covered five miles. They started at the weathervaned pine tree in the middle of the green, looped around the mast house and lumber works, dipped down to the new meetinghouse and parsonage, and then followed the cart track out to the farms. Here, out of sight of witnesses, the race always turned into a free-for-all, with each contestant using every dirty trick to jockey his horse into the lead. What man couldn't unseat, the thick and savage wilderness could. Four miles later, the race wound up back at the settlement, circling the blockhouse and finishing up at the lone pine tree. The winner was usually the horse and rider who had simply hung on to survive it, and Dr. Savitch had treated many a broken bone and abrasion following a Merrymeeting horse race.
It was also Ty's task to signal the start. He took his place beneath the pine, the women and children in a semicircle around him, and raised Colonel Bishop's old pistol above his head. Ty was acutely aware that Delia had drifted over to stand beside him. For some stupid reason his heart was knocking against his rib cage and he kept forgetting to breathe.
His voice cracked as he called out, "Gentlemen, take your marks!"
There wasn't exactly a starting line, so the riders pushed and shoved against each other for the best vantage, growling and swearing good-naturedly.
Ty cocked the pistol. "Get set."
"Hey, Doc!" somebody yelled. "Fer Chrissakes, git on with it!"
Laughing, Ty pulled the trigger. The crack of the gunshot bounced across the water, its echo drowned out by yells and the thundering of hooves across the green.
Delia, her earlier humiliation forgotten, jumped up and down with excitement. As the horses and their riders rounded the meetinghouse, heading for open country, Nat was in the lead, and Delia clutched Ty's arm, whooping in his ear.
"Look, Ty, look! Nat's ahead. Oh, I hope he wins!"
Her fingers pressing into his arm sent a jolt through Ty, drawing his head around to look into her laughing face—and the ramifications of what she had just said finally struck home, as if an angry giant had balled up a fist and landed a blow smack in the middle of his gut. The prize was a free birthing of the winner's next child...
And Nat's next child would be by Delia.
Nat won the race.
The bay mare burst out of the forest on the stockade side of Merrymeeting, with Nat clinging to her neck and one foot dangling from the stirrup. They still had to circle the palisades before galloping to the finish, but the mare was a good three lengths ahead of the closest rival and with plenty of wind left in her. The only question was whether Nat could manage to hang on until they reached the tree.
At last Nat and the mare careened around the pine. He hauled desperately on the reins and the mare skidded to a stop, spraying up divots of marsh grass and dirt. He fell out of the saddle, wobbling a bit as his entire weight landed briefly on his wooden foot. There was a jagged rip in one sleeve of his Sabbath-day suit and a pair of gashes on his forehead trickled blood, but his face bore a triumphant grin.
Delia scooped up Tildy and, with Meg at her heels, ran up to Nat. She was so excited she flung her free arm around his neck, kissing him on the mouth. "Oh, Nat, Nat. Ye've won!" Nat stiffened and set her away from him, but the action went unnoticed for Meg had thrown herself against her father, wrapping her arms around his waist, chattering excitedly and hopping up and down.
"Papa won! Papa won!" Tildy cried, her voice shrill.
"Aye, that he did," Delia said, laughing and handing the little girl into her father's arms.
"Gosh," Meg said, her thin face blazing with pride. "He's never won before."
Nat's laugh was low and bubbly as he rubbed the top of his daughter's head. "Hush, young'un. Don't throw all my past failures up in my face."
The others gathered around to congratulate the winner as the stragglers made it back to the finish line. The blacksmith, Sam Randolf, slid from his horse alongside Ty, lightly thumping Ty on the shoulder with his fist. "It 'pears like ye'll be settlin' up this prize long about nine months from now, eh, Doc?"
He'd said the words loud enough for all to hear and everybody laughed. A couple of the men cracked more ribald jokes about the wedding night to come. Nat blushed furiously, but then his eyes met Delia's and his mouth creased into a slow smile. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her against him.
"Papa, are you going to be shooting your mettle tonight?" Tildy asked loudly from her perch on her father's hip, innocently picking up on a not-so-innocent comment one of the men had made.
Nat quickly covered his daughter's mouth with his hand. "You hush now, Tildy," he said, grinning bashfully at Delia. "Remember good little girls are seen and not heard."
Ty watched it all—the blushes and shared smiles, the proprietary caresses—and knew for the first time in his life the searing pain of a bitter jealousy. An image flickered across his mind of Nat covering a naked Delia with his large body, thrusting into her hot, tight wetness, and of Delia's head falling back; her face suffused with passion and fulfillment.
Ty shuddered violently, squeezing his eyes shut. You asked for this, Savitch, you big damn idiot. You wanted her safely married off where she couldn't drive you crazy arousing feelings you weren't ready to handle. Now how are you going to manage to handle this?
It didn't matter that Nat felt no love for Delia. Theirs was a marriage of convenience, but it was still a marriage.
And tonight Delia would sleep in Nat's bed.
The somnolent feelings generated by the large meal and the warm sun had been banished by the excitement of the horse race, and a note of frenzied merriment entered into the frolic. A few of the settlers who were musically inclined put together an ensemble of fiddles and a Jew's harp.
Even if he'd been able to manage with his wooden foot, Nat Parkes, as a strict Congregationalist, eschewed dancing. Delia stood beside her new husband with a forlorn smile on her face, watching the other couples romp through the spirited country dances.
Ty couldn't bear seeing her unhappy. Cursing himself for making what he knew was a mistake, he approached her, performing a courtly bow. "Would you dance with me, Delia?"
She cast an apprehensive glance at Nat. "Well, I..."
"You know I don't hold with dancing, Dr. Ty," Nat said. "'Tis the devil's handiwork."
Ty's mouth stretched into a tight smile. He nodded toward the circle of whirling couples that included a flush-faced Elizabeth and a laughing Caleb. "If the reverend perceives no danger in it, I should think your wife's soul is probably safe from corruption." And before Nat could argue further, Ty slipped his arm around Delia and pulled her into the ring of dancers. For a few seconds she moved stiffly, but soon she gave herself over to the joy of the music. Their bodies joined together and parted as they moved through the intricate steps.
He tried to shut his senses off to the look, the feel of her, but it would have been like trying to hold back the sunrise. The wind flicked tendrils of her hair against his neck, sending chills rippling along his skin. There was a damp spot between the hollow of her breasts that fluttered with her panting breaths. She smelled sweetly of rosewater and muskily of woman. He knew how she would look naked and beneath him.
He wanted her naked and beneath him.
She whirled away from him and her expressive mouth laughed, her golden eyes beckoned, beckoned... He thought of the wide, fur-covered bed in the loft back at his cabin. He was hard and empty and hungry for her. Oh God, how he longed to take her home this night and lay her across that big, wide bed.
For a few wild moments, the Abenaki part of him actually contemplated snatching her up, throwing her over his horse, and riding away with her into the wilderness. He would build them a snug little wigwam on the shores of some remote northern lake and fill it with a bed of fragrant balsam. And on that bed he would spend the days and nights loving her like crazy until—
Delia's foot landed on a clump of hawkweed and her ankle twisted beneath her. She staggered sideways, falling, and his arms went out to catch her. His face was so close to hers her breath bathed his cheek, warm and moist and sweet. His chest flattened her breasts and he could feel the vibration of her thundering heart. His rocklike, pulsing sex fit perfectly between the cleft of her legs, and unconsciously he moved his hips, pressing harder.
Her breath caught on a ragged sob.
He raised his head to look down into her face—at the tawny, brimming eyes; the parted, wet lips; the sweet, delicate curve of cheek and jaw... He came within a hair's breadth of crushing his mouth down over hers and to hell with the fact that her husband and all of Merrymeeting were watching.
"Let go of me, Ty... Please," she whispered in a deep-throated appeal.
He released her just as the fiddles screeched to a halt and she fled from him. Ty looked around him as someone tuned up a hornpipe and the others lined up for the next dance. Everyone seemed oblivious to the drama that had been unfolding before their eyes.
That's because nothing really happened, Ty told himself. But he knew it for a lie.
Everything had happened.
Chapter 16
At the sound of the door opening, Delia whipped around, her hand fluttering to her throat.
"I didn't mean to startle you," Nat said.
"I just didn't expect you... so soon." Delia faltered.
Nat avoided her eyes. "It took the girls a while to settle down, but once they got into b-bed, they fell right to sleep."
"It was a long day for them."
Nat's glance drifted around the room, flitting from the calfskin chest to the pine dresser with its earthenware pitcher and basin, to the calico curtains fluttering in the open window. And carefully avoiding the bed in the corner. "Long day for us too," he said.
"Aye..."
The damn bed, Delia thought, filled the room. It was a fine cord bed of painted black ash, with downy quilts and a feather mattress. It looked soft and inviting, and she yearned to stretch out on it in sleep. But first...
A hot flush of nervousness washed over Delia. She stepped closer to the open window where the cool night breeze could bathe her face. It was so quiet she could hear the silky whisper of the cornstalks and the rustle of the pine boughs. In the distance she caught the soft hoot of an owl. There was a tactile quality to the night, a velvety blackness. The heel of a fading moon gave off little light.
Inside, a betty lamp bathed the room with a soft glowing luster. Nat pulled the wick out with the pick to make it burn even brighter. He prowled the room, limping badly, the floppy sea boots he had to wear to fit over his wooden foot slapping loudly against his shins. Delia wondered if his stump got to hurting by the end of the day. A crutch leaned against the wall by the empty hearth. Perhaps he normally removed the wooden foot when he came in from working the fields.
She swallowed, clearing her throat. "Nat? Why don't you take off your foot, if it's paining you?"
He swung around to stare at her, his mouth drawn into a tight line. "The only one ever to see my stump was my wife."
But I'm your wife now, she wanted to shout at him. "I only meant it wouldn't bother me to see you footless."
As soon as the words were out, Delia cursed her flapping tongue. But to her surprise Nat actually laughed. It only lasted a second or two and was more of a chuckle than a laugh. But it dissipated some of the tension in the room.
In the silence that had followed Nat's laughter, his eyes flickered over to the bed. "Frolics make a break from the work, but there's always double the chores to do the next day. We should be getting our rest."
"Aye..." Delia squeaked.
He crossed the distance to stand before her.
His big hands encircled her arms. He stared down into her face, his expression grim now. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers.
There was no commingling of tongues, no open mouths. He barely moved his lips. Yet Delia's throat spasmed as if she would gag. She stood it as long as she could before twisting her head aside and fighting to keep from choking. She couldn't look at Nat, but she heard him heave a sigh. It almost sounded like a sigh of relief, as if he, too, had wanted only for the kiss to be over.
He reached in back of her, pulling the shutters closed and slipping the latch in place. In silence, he turned away from her and began to undress.
Delia supposed that she, too, would have to remove her clothes, but she couldn't move. Nat had discarded his coat and waistcoat when they first came home. Now he pulled his shirt-tail from the waistband of his breeches, untied his kerchief, and drew the shirt over his head. His chest was smooth and hairless and very white, his muscles flaccid and ropy. A small paunch sagged around his middle.
As he hung his shirt on a wall peg, he felt Delia's eyes on him and looked up. His flushed face darkened even more. "Is something the matter?"
Delia jerked as if he'd shouted at her. She brought her hands up to the front of her short gown, but they were shaking so uncontrollably she couldn't manage the buttons.
He gestured weakly at the door. "Perhaps I'll just step out for a minute."
Delia nodded dumbly and after Nat had left the room, her eyes squeezed shut in relief.
She hurried to undress. There were four pegs on the wall. Two were in use with Nat's things; two were empty. Mary used to hang her clothes on them, Delia thought, her chest tight with repressed tears. What, she wondered, had Nat done with all of Mary's things?
Besides the new short gown and petticoat, Anne had also made Delia a nightrail for her wedding night. The yoke and cuffs were embroidered with eyelet lace that Anne had found in her scrap box. Delia paused only a few seconds to admire the nightrail before pulling it on. She ran a brush rapidly through her hair and then slipped into bed. The sheets were smooth beneath her bare legs, but cool, and she shivered. She debated turning off the lamp on the calfskin chest beside the bed, finally deciding Nat might prefer it left on.
Nat was so long in returning that Delia had almost drifted into sleep. She turned over drowsily at the sound of the door opening, then tensed as he entered. He hesitated in the doorway before coming toward the bed. Their eyes met, then pulled nervously apart. He wet the corner of his mouth with his tongue.
She remembered the feel of his mouth on hers. She hoped he would just do... what he had to do without any more kisses. She shut her mind to the memory of another mouth— warmer, firmer lips and probing, thrusting tongue...
