Chapter Ten

 

The following day was fraught with tension. When his porridge was lumpier than usual, Bartholomew cursed and slammed the bowl down on the table so hard the salt cellar bounced up and landed in his mush.

"Good hell, woman." He leaped to his feet and snatched up a towel to wipe off the mess that splashed onto his hand. "A child could make porridge in his sleep. Why can't you do it wide awake?"

Ariah had jumped at the banging of the bowl behind her back where she stood at the stove. At his angry bellow, the basket of freshly gathered eggs she had been sorting so she could scramble the two largest for him, fumbled from her hands and plummeted to the floor. Eggshells and gooey clear liquid splattered onto her skirt. She glared at him as she knelt to mop up the mess. "Who says I'm awake? I hardly slept a wink last night."

"And you're blaming me for that, I suppose?"

Her eyes stung with unwonted tears. She lowered her head and busied her hands with the rag she was using to sop up the eggs. "If the noose fits, hang yourself with it."

Bartholomew clenched his hands, torn between shaking her witless and kissing her until she fainted from lack of air. "All you have to do is pay attention to the one thing you're doing, instead of trying to cook, read that confounded book of yours and mend your skirt at the same time."

Ariah stood up so suddenly she swayed with dizziness. He reached out to steady her and she slapped his hand away. "I have better things to do with my time than stand around watching porridge thicken."

"Yes, the same way you have better things to do than grind the coffee until it's the proper consistency, or roast it first as you're supposed to do."

She looked at him blankly. "I'm supposed to roast it?"

Bartholomew stared back at her, his face like black thunder, terrifying and beautiful at the same time.

"Is there anything you do know how to do?" he asked.

Ariah had no argument; he was right in everything he said. Her mouth quivered. "I'm very good at identifying birds."

The urge to laugh at her inane statement fled as he watched tears pool at the corners of her eyes, and spill over. Damn! He slammed a fist on the table hard enough to rattle the dishes and stalked toward her. He couldn't bear to see her cry. She flinched when he drew near. The black anger fled his face as guilt lacerated his heart. His voice softened. "I'm not going to hit you. Come here."

He drew her into his arms, cursing himself for losing his patience. It wasn't her fault that his need for her was chewing him to bits more efficiently than the coffee grinder did beans, or that he couldn't sleep anymore, could barely force himself to eat. His control had been stretched to its limits and then some. With his every nerve was jangled, he found himself white-knuckled more often than not in his effort to keep his hands off her.

Why hadn't he insisted she take the train to Yamhill and then the stage? Because I had no idea she'd turn out to be the most precious creature I'd ever laid eyes on. But he had known within five minutes of meeting her. He should have put her on the train that very moment. It was his weakness that had created this disaster. Now he had taken out his mounting frustration on her and she was soaking his shirtfront with tears. His arms tightened around her. "I'm sorry, nymph, I'm sorry. Please stop crying."

Desperate to please him in any way she could, she made a heroic attempt to stem the flow. After a few hiccupping sobs, she succeeded. He stroked her back and buried his face in her hair. Lily of the valley pervaded his senses, along with the warmth of her body and the softness of her breasts pressed against him. His body reacted with vigor.

"Oh hell!" Bartholomew thrust her away. "There's only one cure for this."

Painfully aware that what he was about to do was not the only cure, but simply the only one available to him, he wheeled toward the door and snatched up his coat and rifle. A few brief seconds later he was gone.

Ariah listened to the crunch of his boots in the frosted mud and the mutter of his curses as he headed for the barn, and vowed to grind tonight's coffee as fine as flour. She'd fix him the best dinner she could come up with—Greek food, the one thing she did know how to cook, or as close to Greek as she could manage with what the Upham’s had in store—and she'd make certain nothing was undercooked or burned because of her damnable lack of domestic aptitude.

Her resolve firm, she hurried to the rocker where she had left Dr. Chase's book. Making herself comfortable in Olivia's chair, she thumbed through the recipes in the cooking section, searching for instructions on baking an apple pie, remembering his mentioning to Effie that it was his favorite.

Through a misty rain that was half sleet, Bartholomew rode to the washed-out bridge where he held a shouted conversation with two men on the far side that had come from Trask House to investigate the damage. Tomorrow a crew would begin cutting trees for the new bridge. If they waited for the rain to cease, it might take weeks. He wasn't the only one needing to get through. He promised to do what he could on his end to help, and departed.

Now, riding up the track to the house, he watched the smoke curl up from the chimney and tried to quell the eager churning in his gut at the thought of seeing Ariah. She was there, framed in the open doorway, waving to him. His heart did a backflip. His pulse doubled. He paused long enough to tell her he would be in as soon as he'd taken care of his horse. She called back that supper would be ready when he finished. He saluted and rode on.

The 18,000 candlepower lamp of the Cape Meares light could not have outshone her smile. It seared its way straight into his heart, making him feel lighter than he had all day. He tried to ensure his control with a severe lecture about the danger of letting himself forget that Ariah Scott belonged to Pritchard, and would never be his.

"Got a deer liver for you," he announced as he stepped inside with a hide-wrapped packet. “The rest of the deer is hanging in the barn.”

Ariah hurried over. "Look at you, you're soaked and covered with mud. Here, let me help."

"What's that I smell?" He leaned close, grinning while she hung up his coat. "It's certainly not burnt bacon."

"No, it certainly is not."

"Then what is it? I didn't think you knew how to make anything but lumpy oatmeal, burned bacon and canned beans."

She swatted him indignantly upon the arm. "My rabbit stew wasn't so bad."

"Your rabbit stew?” He grinned. “I'm the one who skinned that rabbit and cut it up. You didn't have the slightest idea what to do with it. Except to scream your head off over the blood."

"I did not scream my head off."

"You nearly fainted."

"It was a grisly sight." Stiff-backed she marched to the stove where she stirred the contents of a large soup kettle, filling the room with a delicious aroma. "Well, today no one helped me. I made rice pilaf, fried zucchini and a sort of meatless moussaka."

"Moose-aka? What in heaven is that?" Bartholomew reached for the long-handled spoon, intent on sampling her fare, but she smacked his hand with it instead.

"It's a casserole made with eggplant and lamb, only I didn't have any lamb."

"I'm relieved to hear that you didn't go out and slaughter any of John's sheep. I'd hate to have to explain to him when he gets home why he's short one."

Ariah gave a disgruntled Humph!

Bartholomew chuckled. "When do we eat this feast?"

"As soon as you stop making fun of me and sit down."

He sat. Ariah brought him a bowl of soup and waited, her hands tangled in her apron, while he took his first bite. Onions, chunks of potato, carrots, canned tomatoes and oregano floated in a delicious clear broth that smelled like heaven and tasted like ambrosia after his long, cold ride. With a sound of pleasure, he scooped up another spoonful. Pleased, Ariah fetched a bowl for herself.

"I brought you something," he said, watching her.

“I know. A deer liver. You told me.”

“No, something else.”

She was wearing a wool skirt in Christmas red, plaited at the sides, and a plain red waist that made her skin glow and deepened the rosy tinge of her full lips.

"A surprise?" She brought her bowl to the table and sat down across from him.

"Sort of." He broke open a biscuit—not burned for once—and slathered butter inside. "I thought you might like something to read besides that one book of yours and John's worn Bible, so I brought back your crate of books."

"Oh, do get it, Bartholomew. Now. I can't wait to open it."

"Now? Can't it wait until after supper?"

His spoon never stopped moving as he scooped the delicious soup into his greedy mouth. She wanted to insist, but knew it would be silly to let the meal she had worked on so hard get cold. "Very well, but hurry."

The tension of the morning was forgotten and both of them were so glad, they were willing to do anything to prevent a return. Bartholomew nodded toward the book lying near her plate and asked what she found so interesting within its pages.

"Nothing. I had hoped to find something about birds. There is a farriers' section, but nothing for birds. A big medical section discusses the treatment of wounds, illnesses and such. For people, I mean."

"The way you've been studying it, I expected more than medical advice for horses and humans."

"There's a great deal more, actually; information for merchants and saloon keepers, tanners, blacksmiths, barbers and gunsmiths. Even beekeepers. There are recipes for everything from biscuits to mouth glue to home remedies for gout. Mostly I've been reading the part on etiquette and personal manners."

Bartholomew smiled. "And have you learned anything?"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Only that I'm hopelessly uncivilized. I can't seem to remember to hold my handkerchief by the center and let the corners form a fan, instead of balling it up in my hand. I hate wearing gloves, I dance abominably, and I tend to blurt out whatever's on my mind without thinking beforehand. I'm afraid I'll never be able to memorize all the rules of proper behavior, let alone execute them."

Bartholomew burst into laughter. "I think the best thing you could do is toss that book into the fire. Or at least ignore that section." He leaned across the table and framed her jaw with his large hand. "Don't change, little nymph, you're much too delightful as you are."

Ariah barely breathed, praying he would kiss her again. "Am I?"

Words tumbled into his head, words about honesty, freshness and generosity. Words about love. Words he didn't dare speak. He let go of her and looked down at his empty bowl. "How about some of that moose dish?"

Disappointed, she filled his plate and set it before him, and reclaimed her seat. He breathed in the aromas, wondering which scent belonged to which tasty-looking food, before forking a bite into his mouth. Ariah waited, her lips slightly parted to reveal the tip of a rosy tongue, as though she too tasted her creation.

"Umm." He licked his lips. "Delicious, nymph."

She smiled, her frustration of a moment ago forgotten. "Do you truly like it?"

"It's wonderful. You'll have to . . ." He'd started to say she should teach Hester how to make it and clamped his mouth shut, knowing his wife would never welcome cooking advice from anyone as young and lovely as Ariah. And, in truth, he didn't think he could bear having his memories of this special time tarnished by any sort of involvement with Hester.

Ariah frowned. "It would be much better with lamb added, of course, but—"

"No, no, that isn't what I started to say at all. I was just thinking how lucky Pritchard is.”

The lie seemed to satisfy Ariah, but the light went out of her eyes. The meal resumed in silence. After a desert of apple fritters, which Ariah served with an apology because she hadn't found a recipe for apple pie, Bartholomew insisted on washing the dishes. The least he could do for such a delicious meal, he said. While she dried the last of the dishes, he fetched in the crate he'd left on the porch and set about opening it.

Soon an assortment of books in deep rich shades of burgundy, hunter green, rosy brown and black, lay scattered over the wolf pelt in front of the fire. Ariah, sitting on her heels, tossed their protective India rubber coverings aside and rifled through the embossed, leather-bound tomes, her eyes alight with pleasure.

"Here it is." She held up a slender volume. "Emily Dickinson's poems. Remember? I told you about her."

Bartholomew nodded but Ariah was busy flipping through the pages and didn't see. He was seated on the floor, his back braced against the wing-backed chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

"Emily died a spinster but some believe she had a lover once." Ariah glanced up from under her lashes, a coy, almost seductive look that made his knees go weak. "I like to think she did. Every woman should have a lover once in her life, don't you think?"

"Definitely," he murmured, smiling.

"Here's one of my favorites." With her face suitably sober, she read: "'Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; the carriage held but just ourselves . . .and immortality'." She paused to look at him. "There's more, but it's not very romantic, is it? I fear Emily suffered a bit of melancholia."

"Why don't you find something a bit lighter? Next, I'll recite you one of my favorite verses."

"All right." Excited, Ariah squirmed into a more comfortable position and leafed through the thin tome. When she found what she was looking for, she lowered her voice to give it what she hoped was a sensual huskiness. "'The rose did caper on her cheek, her bodice rose and fell, her pretty speech, like drunken men, did stagger pitiful . . .'"

Bartholomew's gaze fell automatically to Ariah's prim bodice where her shirtwaist rose and fell with the swift rhythm of her breathing. His pulse quickened.

"' . . .what ailed so smart a little maid, it puzzled me to know, Till opposite I spied a cheek that bore another rose, just opposite, another speech that like the drunkard goes . . .'"

Bartholomew leaned closer, longing to kiss her flushed cheeks and the full lush lips that now imprisoned his gaze.

"'A vest that, like the bodice, danced to the immortal tune, till those two troubled little clocks ticked softly into one.'" Ariah's gaze lifted as she finished. Her breath caught in her throat at the passion in his dark eyes. Feeling awkward, she closed the book. "Now you."

"Very well." He took her hand and gazed intently into her eyes. "'My beloved spake, and said unto me, rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.'"

Entranced by the deep hypnotic resonance of his voice, Ariah watched the movements of his mouth and wished she could feel it pressed to hers again.

"' . . .and the vines with the tender grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.'"

After a moment of silence, she said, "That was beautiful. Who wrote it? I've never heard it before."

"It's from the Old Testament, actually."

The soft expression on her face and the warmth of her gaze fanned the coals of need smoldering deep inside him. Ruthlessly he ignored the voice in his head that had more than once, since he first heard it at the age of five, accurately warned him of disaster and danger. He was beyond fear. Lord, he was even beyond caring. In the blue of her incredible eyes he saw a need as strong as his own and that was all that mattered.

Slowly he drew her toward him. Ariah held her breath, her bones turning to water as she waited, willing him to do whatever he would with her. He settled her across his lap, half turned toward him, lowered his head to hers and took her mouth in a tender, lingering kiss.

Against her lips, he whispered, "'How delicious is the winning—'" he nibbled his way to her ear "'—of a kiss at love's beginning—'" nipped the lobe "'—when two mutual hearts are sighing—'" returned to her mouth "'—for the knot there's no untying.'"

Her mouth opened on a sigh and he filled it with his tongue, pillaging her sweetness like a love-starved pirate. His searching fingers tangled in her hair, scattering pins everywhere. When the honeyed mass tumbled down, he spread searing kisses across her cheek to her temple, and buried his face in the silken tresses, inhaling their scent.

Ariah moaned and squirmed, wanting more of his mouth, of his kisses. She savored his taste, with its hint of coffee and oregano, the sleek texture of his lips, and the slightly rougher one of his tongue as it explored her mouth, creating a tingle that vibrated all through her body. One hand slipped around his back to discover the taut muscles and uneven ridge of his spine. The other hand went to his shoulder. The hard bulge of his upper arm amazed her. His apparent strength both unnerved and excited her.

Bartholomew's lips reclaimed hers, hotter and more demanding now, one hand cupping her head, the fingers entwined in her hair. Need roiled inside him like breakers on the sand. He felt the undertow pulling him under, drugging his senses. Instinctively, he came up for air.

Ariah's full lips were as red as wild cranberries in October, plump with passion. Her blue eyes deepened to the color of gentians on a stream bank. She was so lovely it brought a lump to his throat merely to look at her. The feel of her in his arms was like an aphrodisiac. Emotionally, the miracle of being able to hold her was more than he'd hoped for. But physically, he was aroused beyond anything he had ever known. If any man were to try to take her from him at this moment, he would find himself in a fight to the death.

She moaned and tried to draw his mouth back down to hers. He gladly surrendered. Mentally, he was doing his best to ignore the scolding of his conscience.

You're touching what doesn't belong to you.

Defiantly, he caressed her waist, above the gentle flare of her hip, and noted with joy the lack of a corset.

Thou must not covet.

His thumb slid to the under curve of her breast.

Think of Pritchard.

He swallowed her gasp of shock and moved his hand to cup her fullness.

Think of Hester.

Her moan of pleasure nearly undid him. When he brought his thumb across the peak of her breast, she went wild. Her lips nipped his, her tongue delved, and her breast lifted to press more intimately into his hand.

The adulterer shall surely be put to death.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he lowered his head and laid claim to a nipple through the fabric of her shirtwaist. He heard her rapid, hissing intake of air and felt the shudder that shot all the way to her toes. In one easy move, he eased her from his lap and stretched them both out on the wolf pelt to allow easier access to her treasures. While he caressed one breast, he suckled the other through the thickness of her shirtwaist and chemise. There was a certain lack of satisfaction to it, yet he was unwilling to let her go long enough to get rid of the barrier.

The rubbing of the moistened cloth on her sensitized flesh created sensations Ariah never imagined could exist. Needs spiraled inside her that she felt helpless to understand or satisfy. They frightened and thrilled her at the same time.

"Bartholomew?"

"Hmm?" He switched breasts.

"I feel . . .strange. What are you doing to me?"

"I'm loving you, nymph, don't you like it?"

"Oh yes, very much." She stroked his rugged face and felt the intriguing scrape of evening stubble on her palms. "But I-I want something . . .more. I simply don't know what."His chuckle was hoarse. "I know what it is you want, little nymph." He inched upward to kiss her. "And, oh Lord, I want it too. You've no idea how much."

The sight of her sweet mouth was more than he could resist. He kissed her again, a long, intoxicating kiss that heated his blood to fever pitch and created images in his head of her lying naked beneath him, his body united with hers, knowing it would feel right in a way nothing in his life ever had before.

He drew back and his hand went to the buttons down the front of her shirtwaist.

"Is all of this a part of seed planting?"

Her voice was tremulous. Whether from fear or excitement, he wasn't sure. "Yes, nymph."

"But there's more?"

"Much more."

Ariah's expression left him uncertain as to her thinking. She appeared confused, unsure. He hesitated. And into the void leaped his conscience.

She's a virgin. To take her innocence could ruin her life.

That was something he could not do. Would not do. He had no right. Uttering a sigh of frustration, he ran his thumb over her swollen lips. Then he forced himself to move away.

"Bartholomew? What is it?"

Avoiding her gaze, he hauled himself to his feet and went to the door. The rustling of fabric told him that she also had risen.

"Bartholomew, please. What have I done?"

He turned to face her and she saw in his eyes the wild, dark emotions ravaging his insides.

"You've done nothing. It's me. I had no right to touch you that way." His voice broke and he glanced away. "Forgive me. Forgive me."