Renegade (14 page)

The heavy-set woman shook her turbaned head in mock disappointment and turned back to the stove. “You ready to ‘splain why you been hidin’?”

“I haven’t been hiding.” She’d definitely been hiding, but Becks knew that if she admitted it, Lola would nag the whole story out of her.

“Hmmm.” Lola ladled some of the steaming grits out into a bowl and even cut a pat of butter to melt on top. Then she very deliberately put the bowl down beside the stove. Her message was clear; she wasn’t going to make things any easier for Becks until the young woman told her what she wanted to know. “You
have
been hidin’, girl, an’ not jest from me an’ the rest of yo’ family.” She pointed the ladle at Becks. “You been hidin’ from that fine-lookin’ Mac Baird, unless I miss my guess, an’ I wanna know why.”

Becks sighed and hopped down to fetch her own grits and spoon. Climbing back up onto the table, she tucked her feet under her skirts. Grandmama would’ve had a fit to see her sitting so, but Lola never minded if she ignored the chairs. “Lola,” she said around a mouthful of the hot grain, “Mac Baird is just a guest of my mother’s.”

“He could be more’n a guest, an’ you know it.”

Becks froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. How much did Lola know? How much had they guessed about Mac’s illicit bargain with her mother?

“If you bother to gussy yo’self up a bit, I reckon he stay longer, sho’ ‘nuff. You could catch him good.”

She had to breathe a sigh of relief then. Lola didn’t know; she was just nagging Becks—as always—about her future. Her future with a man. “Lola, you know I’m not lookin’ to catch a man. Besides—” She took another bite and relished the un-ladylike chance to talk with her mouth full. “—any man who needs me to get ‘gussied up’ to be interested isn’t the man for me.”

The old woman
harrumphed
and went back to stirring the pot. “You ain’t gunna sell a man on yo’self, girl. I know you. You gunna try to sell him on Beckett. You wear this land like a dress.”

Becks had to smile at the analogy. Lola understood. “It’s a beautiful dress, then. A man’d have to be blind to miss it.”

Lola turned then, her shrewd eyes narrowed. She nodded once, studying Becks. “Go then. Wrap yo’self up in Beckett. Show him the beauty of it. Of you.”

Shoulders easing at Lola’s fanciful words, Becks smiled. How she loved this woman! “Do you need anything for dinner?” The others would be coming in soon, and she didn’t want them to ask what Lola’d been talking about. While the old woman cooked supper at the big house and then again for her family, she only made one breakfast. Moses, her children, and those who didn’t have breakfast at their own homes gathered in the kitchens right after dawn. Everyone shared the same breakfast, and Becks didn’t feel like company today. At least, not their company. Moses would be sure to push her to explain her absence, and Becks wasn’t ready to lie to him. Much better to escape and maybe find the reason for her absence…

“Hmmm.” And just like that, the talk of catching a man was behind them, and Lola went back to her stove. “You get me somethin’, I’ll fix it special.”

“Fish?”

“Sho’ ‘nuff.”

And that’s how Becks found herself standing on the back lawn with her pole over her shoulder, wiggling her toes in the dewy grass. She’d changed into Moses’ old red shirt and couldn’t help but remember that time back in April that she’d worn it crabbing. She wondered if Mac remembered and if he’d notice. The shirt was still missing one button, but she hadn’t had the inclination to fix it… every time she wore it, the slight breeze reminded her of his gaze on her skin, and
that
reminded her of his kiss, and then she’d get all twisted up inside again.                    

Lola was right. It didn’t matter what he’d done; Mac Baird was a man she wouldn’t mind catching. Not to keep, oh no. Becks figured that there wasn’t a man alive who could handle her as herself and wouldn’t try to take her away from Beckett. But she’d long ago decided that even if she didn’t marry, she didn’t want to give up all the best things in life. No, she wasn’t going to die a virgin, and she’d just been waiting for the right man.

She would definitely not mind if Mac was that man. He’d be leaving soon enough, and having a little fun wouldn’t do any harm. Beckett’s part in his smuggling operation was going to have to stop; if she couldn’t convince him to do the right thing, then she’d convince Eugenia. Either way, he wouldn’t be coming back… and there was nothing wrong with wanting an extra memory to cherish once he left and life went back to normal.

“Are you feeling better today?”

His question so surprised her that she spun around and blurted, “Well, speak of the Devil.”

That quick-as-lightening smile flashed, and Becks felt her heart contract. “You were talking about me?”

“Well, thinkin’ at least.”

This time the smile lasted longer and that dimple above his right eye appeared. He cocked his head to one side. “Really?” Lord, he was handsome today, wasn’t he? He hadn’t bothered to pull his hair back, and it fell in dark waves past his ears. When she’d seen him sitting in her mother’s parlor that first afternoon, he’d slicked it back to look like a proper gentleman. Now he looked like the pirate she remembered… all that was missing was an earring.

With that fanciful thought, Becks smiled. “Really.”

“What were you thinkin’ about me?”

She shrugged, enjoying the way the morning sun made his eyes appear even more copper than they had out in the cotton fields. “Wonderin’ if you fished.”

Eyeing the pole over her shoulder, he nodded, and she loved the curiosity in his expression. “Of course. I
was
raised on the Ashley.”

“The Ashley’s brackish. Salt-water fish are different.”

The smile again, there and gone in a heartbeat. “I’m also a sailor, you know.”

“And a fisherman?” When he nodded, her grin turned playful, and she handed him the pole. “Prove it.”

He laughed, and she caught her breath. Mac didn’t do anything halfway. Other men might chuckle or hide their pleasure, but when he was amused he threw his head back and let loose a great booming laugh that made his chest shake. She wanted to hear it over and over again. It made her want to laugh with him.

Here was a man who knew how to live.

Later, after they’d collected another pole, Becks admired the muscles in his forearm as he pushed her little rowboat away from the dock. They spun in the current a bit while she helped him ship the oars. Then, eyeing her where she sat at the stern, Mac raised one brow just enough to make the dimple appear. “You don’t mind if I row, do you?”

She had to laugh at that. It was her boat, and usually she did row. But with him onboard, it would be heavier and harder to row against the current, which they needed to do in order to get to the best fishing spot. So she leaned her elbows back against the transom, stretched her legs out under her skirt, and crossed her bare feet at the ankles. With a cocky grin, she gestured for him to get on with it. “By all means. I’ll just sit here and enjoy the show.”

He shook his head once then, almost in disbelief, and then bent over the oars.

In no time they were skimming upriver along the bank, as she trailed one hand lazily in the water and watched him. Becks almost wished she were sitting in the bow, because she could just imagine the way the muscles in his back would ripple with each stroke. But the view from here had to be even better, because she could enjoy the way those copper eyes would catch hers every once in a while, and make her heart race.

Oh yeah. She was definitely thinking about seducing him.

The sun was bright, the air thick and comfortable, and the water cool against her fingers. In fact, the only thing wrong with the experience was that he was still wearing a shirt.

And, God bless him, he was trying to fix that. He’d angled the boat into a little eddy near the shore, and when the bow bumped up against the bank, he lifted the oars out of the water. She wasn’t in any hurry to get to fishing, so she just watched as he began to unbutton his shirt.

His gaze was serious, but his eyes twinkled with a humor that made her heart speed up. “I hope you don’t mind?” His drawl was just about the sexiest thing she’d ever heard.

She thought she might have nodded, and she had to swallow past a suddenly dry throat. “Not at all,” she croaked. “It’s awful hot.”

But he didn’t take the shirt all the way off, just rolled up the sleeves and opened it enough to see the sprinkling of dark hairs on his chest. Lord, she’d never hated cotton so much as she did at that moment. And from the way he grinned at her, he knew it.

So she licked her lips and turned away, hoping she didn’t look as bitch-in-heat as she felt. When the boat began to move again upriver, she risked a glance at him. He was staring at her thoughtfully, and she wondered what he was thinking.

The silence was becoming difficult, and Becks searched about for a topic of conversation. Almost against her will—
a lie
—her eyes were drawn to his forearms and the dark ink designs. She felt his gaze on her, but didn’t want to look away from his arms. The muscles pulled and rippled as he rowed and made the designs do interesting things.

He only had the one design on the inside of his right forearm: the harsh spikes of the palmetto fronds she’d seen him tracing under the magnolia tree the other day. But his left was completely covered in complex swirls, extending from the back of his hand up under the sleeve that was rolled to the elbow. She’d thought that they were all black, but there was just enough blue here and there in the design to give it depth and movement. They were utterly fascinating, and Becks wanted to touch them more than anything.

“You haven’t seen many tattoos?” His low rumble was soothing when it should have startled her, and Becks shook her head.

“Why d’you have them?”

“They’re… comforting.”

She looked up to ask him what he meant, and got captured by his gaze. She saw peace and remembered pain and longing in those copper eyes, and she wanted to touch him. In fact, she was reaching for him when she came to her senses.

Luckily, Mac pulled hard once more on the oars, and they rounded a bend to come upon her favorite fishing spot. A once-mighty oak had fallen into the river here, and the branches that hadn’t cracked and been carried away made an ideal spot to fish for red drum and trout. The branches meant that they didn’t even have to drop an anchor; Mac just twisted in his seat and looped the painter around one of the limbs so they wouldn’t float downstream too far.

She knew that she’d been given a reprieve and should change the subject, but the look in his eyes when she’d asked about his tattoos made her want to know more. “How are they comforting?”

He seemed surprised that she still wanted to talk about them. He unshipped the oars, and turned back to her. With a shrug, he traced some of the swirls with his right index finger. “They just are. They… keep me
me
.”

“How?” She barely breathed the question.

“Since I was a little boy, I loved the water.” Still tracing the swirls, he looked out over the river and the salt marsh. “I went to sea when I was seventeen and have been all over the world. I thought that I was the sort of man who didn’t need a home and could be happy wherever the wind and water took me.” He looked back down at his left forearm. “A Japanese man did this for me on my first trip through the Indian Ocean. It took weeks. He did a little more each evening.”

“It’s beautiful.” Her fingers itched to touch the ink, feel his skin, and she fisted them on her knees.

He noticed, though. “Do you want to…?” He didn’t finish, but offered his left forearm towards her. They sat facing each other under the Edisto sky, and she didn’t hesitate a heartbeat. She’d been waiting for this moment.

His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, and she thought she saw him shiver. Gently she traced the swirls on his skin, marveling at their smoothness. The action was comforting, calming. “These are waves?”

“Yes.” He didn’t need to speak above a whisper; they were that close.

“And they remind you of the sea. Of being free.”

Mac made a choked noise in the back of his throat then, and she tore her gaze away from his arm to glance at him. He wore the most peculiar expression; shock and hope vying in his eyes. She watched him swallow—admired the way the muscles in his throat corded and relaxed—and then he whispered, “Yes.” Her fingers were still against his skin, and now she laid her entire palm across his forearm, feeling the muscles shift as he closed his fist, but she was unable to look away from the heat in his eyes. “No one—besides Robert at least… no one’s ever understood that.”

She licked her lips and watched his eyes widen slightly. “
I
understand.” He swallowed again, and she suddenly realized that he was watching her the way a man watches a woman he wants. She wondered if she aroused him as much as he did her. “To you, freedom is not being tied to any one place. Freedom is… not having to follow someone else’s rules.”

“How…?”

She smiled slightly. “I value my freedom, too. But if I got a tattoo, it wouldn’t be of ocean waves.”

“It’d be of Beckett.”

Her smile grew. He understood.
He understood
. She remembered Lola’s advice from that morning.
Wrap yo’self up in Beckett. Show him the beauty of it. Of you.
“Yes. Beckett is my freedom. I don’t want to follow someone else’s rules. I want to make my own rules and live my own life. I couldn’t stand the thought of being away from here—from land—for so long.”