Louisa Rawlings (22 page)

“Beautiful Marcy,” he whispered. Closing his eyes, he slept.

The smell of coffee woke him. He opened his eyes. Marcy knelt by the fire, tending her skillet. She seemed absorbed in her work, a small frown creasing her forehead; he was able to examine her through half-closed eyes without her being aware of it. It astonished him—as it had since that first day—how breathtakingly beautiful she was, and how little she realized it. It was one of the things he loved about her: her naturalness, her innocence of her own charms. She gave her beauty freely to be scrutinized and enjoyed, because it never occurred to her to be coy. Most of the women he had known had far less beauty—but far more conceit about their looks.

And she gave her body freely. He felt himself growing hot just thinking about their magical night of love. All these weeks he had loved just being with her, laughing and kissing, but last night… He closed his eyes, remembering. He had not thought it was possible to feel such passion for a woman.

No, he thought ruefully. Not a woman. A scheming devil. An imp who probably should have been spanked for her little game. And now he was trapped, forced into a marriage that was wrong for both of them. He had nothing to offer her: no prospects, no real guarantee that he could make a go of it as a painter. He could offer her nothing but the dregs of his own confused search.

And she wanted money. He’d almost forgotten that. She’d only turned to him when she’d found out about the Bradford money. Well, she was in for a rude awakening. He wasn’t ready yet to give up his painting and become a dutiful son—Brian Bradford’s reluctant partner! Still… He felt strangely flattered. It might have been the Bradford name that attracted her, but she could have chosen Heyson or Ed Collins as well. And the passionate creature in his arms last night hadn’t been thinking about money. His beautiful Marcy…

Don’t be a fool! he thought. It was all wrong! A forced marriage. All his reason, all his logic told him it was all wrong. He should be furious with her for ambushing him into this.

Then why did he feel like crowing for joy? Like a child about to take his first ride on a locomotive?

He opened his eyes and sat up. She looked up from her cooking. “If you want a shave, I’ve boiled some water,” she said.

“Not even a good morning?” He moved around her and put his hands about her waist, kissing her gently on the neck.

“Tarnation, Drew! I’ll burn the flapjacks,” she snapped.

He frowned and let her go. Was she regretting last night already? A girl was a virgin only once. She had come to him willingly, true enough. But she was so young, so naive. Had she really known what she was doing? He cursed his own hungers. He hadn’t really thought about it last night. Only his aching love, his need for her. “Where’s that hot water?” he said gruffly.

He shaved in silence, eyeing her in the reflection of the small mirror he had hung up on the broken branch of a tree. Her expression was closed and guarded. Damn! he thought. What’s going on in that head of hers now?

“There are no more fish left,” she said. “I hope pancakes will be enough for breakfast.”

“Look in my knapsack,” he said, toweling dry his face. “I still have a bit of plum conserve left.”

They ate in silence, looking at their food. But once, when he happened to catch her eye, he saw her blush to the roots of her hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered.

He smiled gently. “Someday I’ll paint a picture of you—just as you look now. I’ll call it ‘Marcy blushing.’ If I can ever do justice to that color. To that face. You blushed the first time we met. Do you remember? On the path to the boardinghouse. When you called me ‘greenhorn.’”

“Please, Drew…” she choked.

“What is it?”

“We have to talk. About last night.”

Yes, he thought. She had to understand how things really were. “And about my being a Bradford.”

“Marcy! Heaven be praised—you’re safe!” Old Jack’s voice boomed out from the lake.

They looked up. Five boats were coming toward them, four with occupants, one in tow. Marcy stood up and began to pack away the provisions and blankets, keeping her face averted from Drew and the nearing boats. By the time the party had landed and moved up the beach to where they waited, she had extinguished the fire, dumping out the last of their coffee into the sand.

“Of course we’re safe, Uncle Jack,” she said briskly.

Mrs. Marshall smiled, the mother hen come to collect her lost chick. “We were so worried about you, my dear. And then when we found your boat adrift…”

“There was no way of signaling you. But I was quite safe with Mr. Bradford.”

Mrs. Marshall snorted and looked with suspicion at Drew. “I have not found Mr. Bradford the sort to inspire confidence!”

Oh, God, thought Drew. Here it comes. He felt like a silent spectator at a familiar play, waiting for the actors to speak their well-known lines. It was time for the outraged uncle.

“And I sure as blazes don’t like it!” said Old Jack. (Right on cue!) “You’ve played mighty free with my niece’s affections all summer, young man! And now you’ve spent the night with her,
alone
!”

Drew felt completely removed from the scene. His fate was already sealed—he had accepted it. With some uneasiness, but accepted it. Now all he had to do was watch the actors play out their parts.

“Alone under questionable circumstances!” said George Heyson primly.

Well done, thought Drew. Another actor in the melodrama.

“It’s hardly to be expected that you wouldn’t take advantage of Marcy’s tender years,” said Stafford, his suave voice holding just the edge of venom.

Jealous bastard, thought Drew, fighting the urge to smash his fist into the man’s face.

Mrs. Marshall inhaled majestically, pointing a quivering finger at Drew. “It seems to me, Mr. Bradford, that there’s nothing left for it except to do right by this young woman!”

Drew nearly laughed aloud. She was stealing Old Jack’s line!

He looked at Mrs. Marshall with what he hoped was a sincere and contrite expression. “Are you saying I should marry the girl, ma’am?” He was suddenly tired of the play. Let it end.

“You’re darn tootin’ you should!” cried Old Jack, throwing down his hat. “And the sooner the better!”

“Stop it! All of you!” Marcy’s eyes were blazing, her cheeks two bright spots of angry color. “I won’t have this! Mr. Bradford has nothing to be ashamed of!”

Old Jack looked shocked. “Marcy, girl. He’s got to marry you!”

“No!” She turned to Drew, her blue-green eyes like mountain pools, dark and liquid. “No,” she said more softly. “Nothing happened, Uncle Jack. Mr. Bradford is a gentleman.”

“But Marcy…”

“Nothing happened, I tell you.”

Drew stared at her. What was the little fool saying? “Marcy…”

“No, Drew. I won’t have it.”

“I should marry you. It’s only right.”

“I quite agree!” Mrs. Marshall said in a high quaver.

Marcy shook her head. “I won’t have you telling lies to be noble, Mr. Bradford.” She turned to the others, her chin jutting in stubborn defiance. “Mr. Bradford’s a gentleman. I’m not about to ruin a man’s reputation and future over something that never happened.”

“But Marcy…” Old Jack’s voice was a bewildered bleat.

“
Never happened
, Uncle Jack! Now I won’t listen to another danged word on the subject!” She snatched up her knapsack and the provision basket and marched to the boats. “If we don’t get back to camp soon, we’ll never make Long Lake before nightfall!”

Drew watched her go, feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. He thought, I don’t understand you, Marcy Tompkins. I don’t understand a bit of you!

He stared at her in the boat while she averted her eyes from his, watched her at their base camp while they packed up the last of the supplies, searched her face as they loaded up the boats and prepared to return to Long Lake. At the last moment, she remembered she had left her knife in the lean-to. He mumbled an excuse to the others and followed her back, cornering her in the lean-to before she could escape him. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her close, and peered into her eyes. “Why, Marcy?” he asked hoarsely.

She smiled up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “Because I love you, Drew,” she murmured. “I know you don’t want to get married. Rich or poor, you don’t want to get married.” She gulped and blinked, and the tears ran down her cheeks. “I didn’t think love could make you feel so sad…and so happy. And terribly old.” She laughed, a tremulous little laugh. “What a child I was, with my silly plans.”

His heart was aching. “Oh, God.” She was right, of course. He couldn’t marry. Not right now. It would be a disaster.

She forced a bright smile, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “Tarnation, Drew! If we don’t get back to the boats soon, Mrs. Marshall will start clucking again, the old hen!”

It was twilight when they drew up at the landing of Long Lake. He had sat in a daze the whole way, thinking of her words. She loved him! If it had been torture to love her in silence, it was doubly agonizing to know she loved him in return. Nothing could come of it. Not right now. Maybe…if he could get to Paris, come home a success…he could marry her. He groaned inwardly. But how could he ask her to wait? He sighed. Thank God he was leaving tomorrow morning. Maybe, away from the North Woods, he could begin to forget her.

The boats were unloaded at last. The guides had been paid and, one by one, had said their good-byes and gone home. It was dark. Drew stood on the veranda of Sabattis’s Boardinghouse and gazed out at the evening star. Marcy had wept at the evening star, he recalled with longing.
Fool
! If he had any sense, he’d be inside with the rest of them, changing into his “city” clothes, preparing for supper. There was a movement in the bushes. Marcy stepped into the glow of the lantern that hung from the veranda roof.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. Hadn’t she tormented him enough?

“Mrs. Sabattis always closes up at nine. I’ll come to your room at ten. You’re in the end room, aren’t you? I’ll be there at ten.”

“Good God, Marcy! No!”

“Yes.” Her voice was firm and quiet.

“I can’t marry you now. You know that.”

“I don’t care.”

“I can’t support a wife. I’m not even sure I can support myself. If you still want that rich husband, you ought to search elsewhere. Look, my name may be Bradford, but I’ve no money of my own. Only a father who’s reluctant to support me as long as I’m involved with the foolishness of my painting.”

“I don’t care!”

“Dammit, you’re not listening! I have no prospects beyond what my paintings might bring, and I’m not sure they’re worth anything. But they’re important to me. Try to understand. All my life I’ve had love, approval, acceptance…all unqualified, anything I wanted. Not just because of my father’s money. I don’t even know why. I never had to
earn
anything! Do you understand? But the painting is mine. It’s not money or mills or businesses that I’ll inherit from my father. It’s
mine
! And I’m not sure right now that I have room in my heart for anything else. Even you.”

“
I don’t care
!”

He wanted to shake her. “You’re the most stubborn… Look. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to Paris just as soon as I can make my arrangements.”

“Drew, I don’t care,” she said softly. “I love you. If you go away tomorrow and I never see you again, if I live and die in these mountains, I want tonight. I want one more memory.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “What have I done?”

“You didn’t do it. Love did. I’ll come to your room at ten.”

He shook his head. “Marcy…no. No.”

She smiled gently. “Yes,” she said.

The moon hung high that night, turning the Sabattis’s veranda to silver. The breeze was cool, blowing Marcy’s skirt and waist. She shivered. What would Uncle Jack think if he knew she’d come out without her drawers and shift? She opened the front door of the boardinghouse, moved quietly up the staircase, and tiptoed down the long, moonlit corridor. Drew’s room was at the end, next to the Sabattis boys. But Tom had taken his summer earnings and gone off to see his girl at North Creek tonight, and the other two boys were out guiding a party of sportsmen. No one was nearby. She passed a room that still showed a light under the door, then two rooms from which snoring emanated, then the empty room; Drew’s room was dark. She felt a moment’s panic. If he were asleep, she could wake him. But what if he were gone…the room empty? She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Drew stood by the window in the darkened room, his tall form bathed in moonlight. He turned as she entered. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come,” he said. “I’ve only got to send you away.”

“What makes you think I’ll listen to you?”

“You’re a stubborn little…”

She cut him short. “I’m going to love you tonight, Drew Bradford, whether you want me to or not.”

“Damn you, get out of here!”

She shook her head. “And I’m going to kiss you, for starters!” She marched across the room, backing him into a corner, and put her arms about his neck. She pulled his head down to hers and planted her lips firmly on his. He yielded for a moment, his lips soft and warm, and then he went rigid. He pushed her away from him and cursed under his breath.