A Wild Yearning (16 page)

Come to my bed tonight. I want to make love to you, Delia.

Yet now he barely glanced her way and he never once spoke to her except to issue orders in a curt voice that set her teeth on edge. He furiously shouted at her when she insisted on taking off the precious moccasins so they wouldn't get ruined by the wet and the mud.

I want to make love to you.
He'd been on his knees as he said it. On his knees, as if, Delia thought with a tiny shiver of excitement, as if he had been about to propose...

Delia, ye wooden-headed fool! The word "marriage" never passed the man's lips.
Lord, but she would have to be careful. She loved him so much, wanted so desperately for him to love her. If she wasn't careful she'd be putting words into his mouth and feelings into his heart, feelings that weren't there.

Because of the weather and the condition of the road, they made little progress that day. They stopped for the night at York, a small settlement that stretched for several miles along the eastern bank of the Agamenticus River. The place was too small and isolated to support an inn or a tavern. But it did have an ordinary house—a house that had been converted into a way station for travelers, in this case by a widow whose husband had been killed during the last Indian war.

Beneath the steep, sloping roof of the house was a sleeping loft divided by thin partitions into narrow cubicles. The beds were merely pallets on the white pine floor and the loft was reached by a ladder through a trap door just inside the keeping room, where the cooking and eating were done. At Ty's request, and at the cost of a copper penny, the widow allowed him to fill a tub in the linter with hot water. The women used it first and then the men, and for the first time in her life, Delia had two baths in as many days.

The supper hour passed too quickly, and before Delia was at all ready, she found herself sitting alone on a settle before the fire in the keeping room, while the Hookers climbed the ladder to the loft and their bed. Ty was out checking the animals, but soon he would come back and he'd expect her to climb up that ladder with him, to get into his bed, to let him—

"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...

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.

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.