Homespun Hearts (36 page)

"Have you ever kissed her?"

Cleav's eyes widened in horror at Miss Crabb's complete lack of decorum. "I don't believe you are asking this!"

"Believe it," she said, annoyed at herself and wishing she could call back the foolish question. "I'm curious, that's all," she said. "Since you've kissed me, I wondered if you've kissed her."

Cleav's cheeks puffed with fury and his words were an explosive denial. "I have never kissed you! You kissed me!"

"Same difference." Esme easily shrugged away his dissent. "We've been over this before."

"You . .

The back door opened, and Sophrona came outside, a white wicker tray with a large pitcher of the lemonade in her hands.

"I bet she's wondering when you're going to kiss her," Esme whispered.

"I will not be kissing her with an audience," Cleav snarled back at her.

Esme couldn't have been more pleased to hear that, but she couldn't stop herself from one last prick at his pride.

"Sure wish she'd brought lemonade for me. All this prissy talk sure makes a woman thirsty."

Cleav didn't get a chance to reply. Sophrona was already within earshot, and he rose politely to his feet.

"Here we are," she said lightly as she set the tray on the bench. "All this talk is sure to parch a man's throat."

Unable to stop himself, Cleav glanced up and then wished he hadn't. Esme's I-told-you-so expression was triumphant. Cleav vowed to strangle the infuriating young woman at the very first opportunity.

For a moment he considered informing his companion of their overhead observer but quickly rejected the idea. He could never satisfactorily explain the young woman's presence in the Tewksburys' maple tree. And even if he'd had no care for the irritating little ragamuffin's feelings, Esme Crabb was fast becoming a sore subject between himself and Sophrona.

Sophrona filled his glass with the cool, sweet liquid, and Cleav forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. She was pale and pretty, polished and polite. But Cleav's thoughts continued to stray to the slim, bare legs that he knew were so decadently displayed in the tree above him.

He fixed his eyes on the warm smile of the lady at his side, attentively listening to her soft-toned chatter. He would not look up, he would not . . .

"If, of course, the serpent were some other type of animal," Sophrona continued on her former train of conversation. "Then it would be logical that such an extinct species could have actually had the gift of speech."

Cleav nodded woodenly in agreement. While before he'd tried to participate in the conversation, now his thoughts were fixed on how dull the esoteric theological discussion must sound to Esme. Certainly Miss Crabb was no expert on the affairs of the heart, but he wondered if he did seem terribly dull in comparison with the wild hill boys like Armon Hightower. This thought pricked at him.

Hightower and his like expected, and undoubtedly received, more than an occasional stolen kiss from the young women they courted. In that respect, he was certain Esme was right: It was more fun not to be a gentleman. But being a gentleman was Cleav's intent, and had always been, even if it meant going without kisses from Miss Sophrona and enduring the taunting of Esme Crabb.

Still, Cleav thought as he watched Sophrona's pouty, pale peach lips speak of the Garden of Eden, a man—even a gentleman—deserved a bit of lovespark.

In his mind he could almost hear Esme laughing at him. Was Sophrona laughing, too? Did she, as Esme suggested, long to be kissed? Was she disappointed with his chivalrous behavior? Frustrated with his highest regard?

Through his thoughts once more, the image of long, naked limbs wrapped around thick brown bark tortured him. He shifted his position carefully, disguising his very ungentlemanly reaction from both the woman at his side and the one that dangled like a sinful temptation above him. As Sophrona moved the serving tray to a small table, Cleav made a furtive glance up through the leaves. Esme had sat up, her back against the strong tree trunk, one foot rested on the limb, her leg bent saucily at the knee. The other leg hung casually, her bare pink toes wiggling naughtily not ten yards above him.

His eyes unerringly followed the long line of naked limb upward. Those legs, those beautiful hill-girl legs, were sleekly muscled from innumerable trips up the mountain and lightly sprinkled with color from the occasional and forbidden forays into the warm Tennessee sunshine. Those legs tantalized and teased him, and he followed their length like a hound at a coon running. Oh, how they tempted him, taunted him. . . .

At last his visual wanderings led to her face, which sported a mocking grin. He was hot with desire, and she was laughing at him. To add insult to injury, she opened her mouth widely and patted it lightly in a mock yawn.

Boring, the gesture implied. Polite, prissy, proper, and boring. Cleav could hear her opinion as if she had shouted it.

Hastily returning his attention to Sophrona, he wondered if she thought the same. Was his courtesy and consideration a source of amusement? Did she long for the unbridled passions of rude hill boys? Worst of all, did she pick Bible discussions because she thought him stiff and unromantic?

His passions were just as ardent, just as consuming as any hill boy's. Was he being penalized for his control? His honor? Would another man, being offered the constant temptation of Esme Crabb, not succumb? Would another man, sitting on an isolated bench with Sophrona Tewksbury, steal a kiss?

By God, Esme was right to laugh at him. He must seem a peculiarly spiritless beau. Well, she wanted to spy on him! He'd give her something to see that would wipe that derisive grin right off her smudgy, freckled face!

Sophrona ceased her chatter in midsentence and stared at him, her large eyes startled. "Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked.

Without looking up Cleav could still see the long expanse of feminine nakedness that dangled so enticingly out of his reach. Before him the pale, pouty lips of Sophrona Tewksbury were accessible. And the soft, lush amplitude of her shapely bosom could so easily be pressed against him.

There was no gentlemanly reticence in Cleav's action. Turning his head slightly to one side, he pulled Sophrona into his arms for a plundering kiss. For a moment the young woman's shock stunned her into complacency, and Cleav took full advantage. Parting her lips with his tongue, he sought the essence of her mouth. His arms tightened around her, flattening her abundant feminine flesh against his chest. He could feel the tiny points of her nipples, and it fired him to moan against her lips and rub his own hard muscled chest against the softness of her own.

In the darkness behind his eyes the pale, bare legs still lured him, and he deepened the kiss to dispel the image. He would exorcise this troublesome demon. He would lose himself in the sweet-smelling warmth of the body in his arms.

Willing himself into oblivion, at first he chose not to hear the murmurs of protest forced against his mouth. Passion, he assured himself. A moment later Sophrona was clearly struggling in his grasp, and he could delude himself no longer. He released her.

As she pulled away from him, her eyes were wide in shock, and her short, uneven breathing had her bosom bouncing before him.

"How could you?" Her question held as much hurt as anger.

"Sophrona, I—"

He wasn't allowed to finish. Miss Tewksbury, instructed in the art of dealing with cads and mashers, brought her right hand up sharply and cracked it full-force, open palm against Cleav's cheek.

His ears ringing, Cleav barely heard her furious "Good day, Mr. Rhy!" as she stomped away in fury.

Cleav sat still as a stone until he heard the back door slam. Rising to his feet with all the dignity he could muster, he, too, began to walk away at a clipped pace.

"Cleavis?" he heard the taunting tree temptress call to him. Ignoring her, he kept walking. She had seen it all. Now she really had something to laugh about!

E
sme was startled
by the unexpected turn of events. He had kissed Sophrona. And what a kiss! Esme's own face was a blistering red, and her heart could not have been pounding more loudly if she had been one of the principals. It was a wonderful kiss, full of passion and spontaneity.

But, Sophrona had slapped him.

Esme felt guilt swell up within her. She had teased Cleav about being a gentleman, but she had intended for him to try out bad behavior on her, not on Sophrona. Sophrona reaped all the rewards from Esme's flirtations, and she didn't even appreciate it.

Moving down, branch by branch, Esme carefully made her way to earth. The lowest limb of the maple was a good eight feet above the ground. Esme swung, tomboy fashion, from the bough for a moment and then dropped to the grass, rolling to deflect the fall.

Rising, she scrambled over to her shoes and stockings at the foot of the tree. Esme gathered them into her arms. Without bothering to put them on, she hurried, barefoot, after Cleav.

He was already out of sight, but Esme had a good idea where he was headed. The proud young man who had worn his homemade cracker clothes despite the cruel taunts of his peers would seek solace in nature as he always had in the past. Esme headed directly for the trout ponds.

She was right, of course. When she topped the rise near his house, she saw him. Standing alone and lonely, staring at the trickling rush of water across the tops of the ponds.

She slowed her pace to a leisurely walk as she came up behind him.

"I'm sorry," she said as she neared him.

Cleav glanced back at her, his face devoid of feeling. "Whatever for?" he asked tonelessly. "For spying? Apology accepted." He shook his head as he continued to gaze into the depths of the water.

"I meant for getting your face slapped," she said.

There was no humor in his answering chuckle. "You were neither the kisser or the slapper," he observed. "Doesn't seem as if you have a great deal for which to apologize."

Esme took a step toward him. Wincing, she stopped abruptly.

"Ouch!" Her exclamation was like an oath whispered under her breath. When Cleav turned to see what had happened, she had raised her leg, intent on examining the bottom of her foot.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just a goat-head," she answered, pulling at the pale blue cocklebur that was lodged in the tender flesh of her instep.

"You shouldn't be running around here barefoot."

"I've seen plenty of summers when I had no shoes at all," she said lightly.

Gritting her teeth, she grasped the painful thorn in her fingernails and jerked it free. Goat-heads were long and sharp and had a poison in them that sometimes raised a welt. Esme watched the rising blossom of a bead of blood. Relying on the common cure, she spat on the wound and hurriedly rubbed it into the soreness.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Cleav said. "That's not the way you treat it."

In two strides he was beside her and casually swept her off her feet. "You need to wash it off and sprinkle some alum on it."

"I always use spit," Esme insisted. She enjoyed being held in his arms.

"Well, you're about to learn something new. Here," he said, seating her at the edge of the pond. "Dunk your foot in there and let me go get some alum from the shed."

Esme watched him walk away, but her mind was not on the slight sting of her instep. All she could feel was the warmth that had been his arms around her. He had held her, and her heart was still pounding from the experience.

It was only when she saw him on his way back that she remembered what he'd told her to do. Thrusting her foot in the freezing mountain water, she attempted to wash. The cold, however, raised gooseflesh all over her and dissuaded her from any thorough cleansing.

"Are you usually so adverse to washing?"

"The water's like ice!" she complained.

Cleav nodded as he sat down beside her. "It's got to be cold to raise trout," he told her. "That's the way they like it."

"Well, I'm no trout," Esme snapped. "And it's too dang cold for me!"

"Let me see if I can help," Cleav answered and began rubbing his hands together rapidly. After a few seconds he dipped them in the water and quickly brought them out to wash Esme's feet.

"Better?" he asked.

"Some."

"It's the friction," he explained. "When I rub my hands together, it creates heat. The water's just as cold as it was, but the heat of my hands makes it seem warmer."

Esme didn't answer. At that moment she was feeling much warmer, indeed. Cleavis Rhy was sitting cross-legged beside her, draping her knee casually across his own. His hands so tenderly touched her foot, stroking and strong. The warmth of it was greater than friction and rushed right up her leg to a soft and secret place.

Esme took a deep breath. Cleav looked into her eyes. A fire burned there between them. Only Cleav sought to bank it. "It's time for the alum, I think," he told her, his words strangely gruff.

After pulling her injured foot into his lap, he removed the lid from the can he'd brought and sprinkled the white powder.

Esme flinched. "Save to graces! That hurts worse than the goat-head!" she complained.

Cleav nodded like a stern father. "It draws the wound up and burns the poison out," he told her. "It hurts a lot at first, but it's over soon. In an hour you'll forget all about that goat-head."

Esme wanted to tell him that she would never forget one moment she'd spent with him, but something in his eyes made her hold her tongue.

"Let me get your shoes," he said, rising to walk away from her.

"I'm sorry that Sophrona slapped you," she blurted out when his back was turned.

Cleav hesitated an instant but didn't turn around. He went on to gather up her stockings and shoes before walking back to her. Then he dropped her things on the ground beside her. His grin was wry and humorless.

"Why be sorry?" he answered stonily. "It was quite a show for you, I think."

Esme jerked up her skirts and began pulling on her stockings. Without being asked, Cleav hurriedly turned his back.