Louisa Rawlings (20 page)

“Oh. Of course.” He glanced around at the thick vegetation and leafy trees that crowded the small beach. “Is this the only clear patch on the whole island?”

“No. The center of the island is a big, flat rock covered with moss. It’s a lot higher than this spot. You’ll be able to see Owls Head much better from there.”

“Is there a path?”

“Not so you could pick it out. The whole place is covered with witch-hopple, and it grows so fast. Follow me, but watch where you’re going. It’ll trip you if you’re not careful.” She led the way through the tangled undergrowth of shiny leaves and bright berries, walking cautiously to avoid the ground-level runners and roots that lay hidden beneath the greenery.

When at last they emerged onto the moss-covered clearing, Drew put down his satchel and glanced back at the witch-hopple. “That was rough going,” he said. “I nearly tripped half a dozen times! What did you call it?”

“Witch-hopple. Dr. Marshall calls it hobblebush.” She smiled. “But it helped us win a war.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father used to tell the story all the time. In the War of Independence, when our men had to escape from the British at Ticonderoga. The American troops blocked the road with felled trees, so the British were pushed into the woods. It took them nearly a month just to go fifty miles!”

“Because of the witch-hopple.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

He grinned. “The British must have been city slickers like me.”

Her heart melted. She hadn’t seen him smile like that in weeks. She thought, Maybe I don’t have to trick him. Maybe I can just tell him how I feel, the way Uncle Jack said. “Drew,” she said softly, “you’re going home tomorrow. I’d be very pleased if…if you’d kiss me good-bye.”

His black eyebrows arched cynically. “Really? And could I get a warranty beforehand that my kiss wouldn’t make you cry?”

She was feeling desperate. “I didn’t mean anything by my tears. Truly! It was just a bit of silliness that day. I was missing you! I laughed about it the moment you were gone.”

“I didn’t think you were a liar on top of everything else,” he growled. “I walked back to the river five minutes later that day. The girl who didn’t want me to kiss her anymore was still crying her heart out!” He pulled off his hat and threw it to the ground. “Oh for God’s sake, Marcy, leave me alone. I want to paint. If you stay here, keep your mouth shut and don’t let me see you!”

Dang you, Drew Bradford! she thought miserably. You just brought it on yourself. “I’ll go fishing now,” she said. “I’ll build a fire on the beach and bring you the cooked fish along about noon. Do you have enough water in your canteen?”

He nodded. “And a small tin of biscuits.”

“All right. It could be afternoon before I get back. It depends on the fish.”

From his satchel he pulled out a pad of paper and his box of watercolors, then opened his canteen and poured a bit of water into a small cup. Setting his brushes into the water, he put the cup down on the rock, positioned himself facing Owls Head, and sat cross-legged with his paints spread out in front of him. “I’ll manage,” he said coldly, and bent to his sketch pad.

Though she caught enough fish for lunch—and supper besides—in the first half hour, Marcy stayed out on the water a long time. She wasn’t eager to return to Drew; if lunch was late, he would lose track of the time and linger till almost dark on the rock. And her conscience was gnawing at her for her underhanded scheme. If she spent too much time with him, he would surely sense her uneasiness.

I love him, she thought. I’ve got to keep that in my head.

She beached the boat and carefully unloaded their supplies: the provision basket, extra clothing and blankets, their rifles and gear. She made a small fire and cleaned and cooked up several of the fish, set some coffee to boiling. She packed a few utensils in a knapsack, then scattered the fire so it would go out.

She took a deep breath and turned to the beached boat. “I’m sorry, Drew,” she whispered and set the boat adrift, pushing it far enough into the current so it wouldn’t return to the island. Then she picked up the coffeepot and the skillet of fish, and went off to give Drew his lunch.

After he had eaten, Drew returned to his watercolors. He had already done half a dozen views of Owls Head, and was now concentrating on Clear Pond and the surrounding hills and trees. Some of the pictures he finished to his satisfaction, putting in the final details with a delicate brush and nearly dry paint. But other pictures, Marcy knew, were meant only as studies for paintings he would later enlarge in his studio, working them up in oils. These pictures were lightly sketched, the colors merely suggested with dabs of paint, the margins filled with notations in his neat, precise hand.

Marcy watched him paint, trying not to disturb him, fascinated equally by his skill and the solemn intensity he brought to his work.

At last the light began to fade. Drew looked up with a start. “Good grief, it must be nearly eight o’clock! We’d better be getting back to the others.” While Marcy gathered their lunch supplies, he packed up his equipment, carefully tucking the finished paintings into the center of the sketch pad. The trek back to the beach was laborious; the leafy gloom had already begun to obscure the treacherous hobblebush.

The beach was still lit by the sun’s afterglow. Drew looked around and frowned. “Where the devil’s our boat?”

“Tarnation!” she said, trying to sound surprised. “Maybe I didn’t pull it in far enough when I came back from fishing! It must have drifted away.”

“Damn! Is there any way we can signal them back at the camp?”

“What do you mean?”

“A bonfire, maybe.”

“They won’t see it from here.”

“What about on top of the rock?”

She shook her head. “No. Too many trees on the other side of the island.”

“I don’t suppose we could fire off a rifle.”

“We’re too far away. They wouldn’t know where the sound was coming from.”

He dropped his hat and satchel to the beach, and began to rebuild the small campfire. “I guess we’re stuck here for the night. And no supplies.” He struck a match to the kindling.

“Don’t worry about it, Drew. They’ll find our boat adrift on the lake in the morning. And Uncle Jack will figure out what happened. I caught enough fish this morning for our supper. I’ll have a mess of flapjacks going in no time to go with them. While there’s still some light left, why don’t you see if you can find a few big logs to keep the fire going all night?”

“Right.” He stood up and headed for the edge of the clearing. “I just hope it doesn’t get too cold tonight.”

She pointed to the mound of supplies. “We’ll be as snug as can be. Look. Blankets and everything. I’ll get supper started right away. Mind you don’t trip on that witch-hopple.”

He returned a few minutes later with his arms full of wood, which he set near the fire. Marcy looked up from the pancake batter she was mixing and smiled at him. She was surprised to see a scowl on his face. He had seemed in good spirits, not at all put out by their being stranded. She put aside the batter and stood up. “Do you want to help me set up our supplies near the fire?”

“I want to talk to you first.”

“About what?” She felt her heart fluttering nervously.

“I’ve been thinking. It was mighty lucky for us you unloaded the boat.”

“Well, I had to. I took out the provision basket to make lunch.”

“And the rifles?”

“I figured they’d be safer out of the boat.” Drat! Her voice was shaking.

He peered into her eyes. “Safer from whom? We’re on an island. If you were concerned, you would have brought them along to the rock. And what about the blankets?”

She turned away from him, fearful of his searching gaze. “Tarnation!” she said belligerently. “What’s all the fuss? It makes the boat lighter for fishing! Now let me get back to my flapjacks.”

He grabbed at her arm and turned her back. “We’ve fished from a loaded boat many times! What’s in that crazy head of yours, Marcy?”

“Let me go, Drew.”

“Was it deliberate?” He put his hand on her other shoulder and shook her. “Was it? Did you let the boat go on purpose?”

She laughed, a forced, silly giggle. “Drew Bradford! What a thing to say!”

“My God, it was! I can see it in your eyes.”

“Bosh!”

“How would you like a good spanking?” he said through clenched teeth.

Her eyes widened in horror. She tried to pull away from his steely grip. “You wouldn’t!”

“Then I want some answers. And pretty damn fast! Did you let the boat go on purpose?” She nodded. “Why?”

“Please, Drew…”

“Was anything supposed to happen here tonight?”

“I…don’t know… I…” She felt her cheeks burning.

“Good God,” he breathed. “I don’t believe it. Am I to be accused in the morning of being a cad? Is that it?” His hands tightened on her arms. “
Is
it?”

“Yes.” The word dragged out of her.

He let her go, fighting to keep his control. “And Old Jack. Is he in on the game?” he asked in disgust.

She nodded, wishing the earth could swallow her up.

“And what was to be my punishment?”

“Marriage,” she whispered.

“Damn!” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Prodded along by your uncle’s shotgun, of course.” His blue eyes were like ice, burning and chilling her at the same time. “Why?”

She gulped. “Because your name is Bradford.”

“Ah.” Silence. “But my name was always Bradford,” he said at last. “And you looked right through me. When did ‘Bradford’ begin to have the chink of gold about it?”

“When…Mr. Collins told me…”

“Yes. Of course. The afternoon I went fishing with Alonzo. I should have guessed when I saw you bathing at the falls—I
was
meant to see you, wasn’t I?” She looked away, fighting back her tears. “Answer me!” he barked.

“Y-yes.”

“And all those coquettish scenes…like a clumsy, cheap seductress…” He laughed bitterly. “You never saw me as a man.” He turned away, his shoulders sagging. “At first I was your chum, helping you nail your rich man, amusing you with my kisses. Then I was a pile of greenbacks. You never saw me as a man.” He turned back to her, his eyes glowing with hurt and rage. “And now I’m to be tied and spitted in the morning. The reluctant bridegroom. It’s like some shabby melodrama.”

“Drew…I didn’t mean…”

His lip curled in a cruel grimace that made her tremble. “How much am I supposed to do? Is there a limit to my debauchery in Old Jack’s eyes?”

She backed away, fearful of what she read in his face.

He reached for her. “If I’m to be skewered in the morning, I won’t settle for a dumb show. We’ll play out the act tonight, so you can look convincingly violated when Old Jack turns up tomorrow!”

Terrified, she turned and raced down the beach. She was no match for his long strides; he pounded after her and swiftly overtook her. Swinging her around by one arm, he threw her to the sand and fell on top of her. “Now…is
this
what you want?” His hand clutched painfully at her breast. “And this?” His other hand plunged between her legs, pushing upward at the juncture of her trousers. She whimpered and tried to push him off her, but he grabbed her wrists and forced her hands down to the sand. “Damn you, Marcy,” he growled, and closed his mouth over hers. She struggled vainly against him. Her lips hurt from the savagery of his kiss. When he raised his head at last, she could taste blood in her mouth.

“Drew, I beg you…” Her voice was a pitiful cry.

He stared for a moment, then released her and stood up. He bent down and scooped up a blanket. “I’ll sleep on the rock,” he said tiredly. He stormed into the woods; she could hear his crashing progress toward the center of the island.

She sat up shaking, too frightened, too horrified at her own behavior even to cry. She thought, What have I done? She’d been playing a child’s game with a man’s life. A man she loved. She moved unsteadily to the campfire and knelt down, mechanically building up the fire, continuing with her supper preparations, cooking the flapjacks and frying the fish. She made enough for two; he’d never find his way to the rock in the dark. She felt numb, as if her heart had turned to ice.

She ate a bit of supper, though she had no recollection of the taste, then sat, staring dry-eyed into the fire, until Drew stumbled back into the clearing. She was afraid to look at him directly, but she could see out of the corner of her eye that his sleeve was torn and his arm had a long scratch.

He marched to the fire and angrily threw down his blanket, then knelt beside her and reached for some food. He wrapped a fish in a flapjack and ate it silently, washing it down with a cup of coffee.

And then her tears started. She had promised herself she wouldn’t cry: it would only add to her shame. But the tears came anyway. She sniffled quietly—she’d die if he knew she was crying. She sat very still and watched a large teardrop slide down and perch on the tip of her nose. She twitched her nose slightly. The drop remained. It was beginning to tickle. She was afraid she’d sneeze. Very slowly she raised one hand to her nose, poking out a cautious finger to dab at the offending tear. Finger to her nose, she looked up. Drew was watching her.