Yankee Wife (12 page)

L
YDIA WAS SO SHAKEN THAT SHE COULD NOT OFFER A REPLY
until they'd reached the upstairs hallway and the door to her room was within reach. Brigham's blithe assumption that she would eagerly agree to his proposal was singularly infuriating.

“I'd sooner marry the dancing bear at Yesler's Hall!” she hissed, folding her arms and glaring.

He seemed undaunted. “I don't doubt that,” he replied evenly, the light of humor flickering in his gray eyes. “You could teach that mangy, toothless critter some new tricks and make him follow you around by yanking on his leash.” Brigham paused, sighed. “You wouldn't be happy with a man you could dominate, Lydia, and you damn well know it.”

Just being so near this exasperating man made Lydia's rebellious flesh tingle with the desire to be touched, but she hefted her chin another notch and stoked the fire in her eyes. “I am willing to concede that point, Mr. Quade,” she said. “I would not want a man who let me run roughshod over him, but neither do I require one who would do the same to me!”

Brigham leaned closer still, and Lydia felt a flush rise, like a flash flood, from her knees to her forehead.

“Is that what you think?” he drawled. “That I'd be a domineering husband?”

Lydia thought of the stern, efficient way Brigham ran his timber operation, and Quade's Harbor as well. There wasn't a person in the community, with the possible exception of Devon, who didn't have to do as Brigham said or give an accounting for the lapse.

“I have absolutely no doubt that you'd be a domineering husband,” she said. She'd backed up to the door of her room now, trying to gather the momentum to clutch the knob and escape inside.

Brigham braced himself against the woodwork, one hand on either side, fencing Lydia in with his arms. There was a dent in his chin, she noticed, and it accented the square strength of his jaw.

“I'm the master of my house,” he agreed quietly, “and that isn't going to change. But I could give you a fine home, Lydia, and security.” His thundercloud eyes focused disconcertingly on her mouth, causing it to tremble. “I could give you children.”

A sweet shiver went through Lydia, because she knew Brigham wasn't talking about Charlotte and Millie. He was referring to babies he had yet to sire.

Lydia pressed her spine to the door, her heart thudding in her throat. He hadn't mentioned love; she must remember that.

Brigham's lips weren't even an inch from hers. He meant to kiss her again, and if he did, her will would be washed away in a tide of passion and she would probably agree to any scandalous thing he might suggest.

“You want children of your own, don't you, Lydia?” he asked, in a sleepy voice that drained away nearly all of her remaining strength. “Sons. Daughters.” His lips brushed hers, teasing, making her want so much more. “Lots of babies.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting for control of her mind and body. “Yes,” she whispered, in an anguish of yearning. They were still in the hallway, and anyone could have come along and seen them in that compromising stance, but Lydia didn't care. Couldn't move.

Lightly, with a gentleness she wouldn't have suspected of such a large and powerful man, Brigham cupped her right breast in his hand. With the thumb, he made the nipple ready for a pleasure Lydia didn't begin to comprehend and yet wanted with her whole soul.

“Think about it,” Brigham said, touching, just touching, his mouth to hers for the merest part of a moment. Then, unbelievably, he stepped back.

Lydia stared at him for a moment in utter consternation, fearing she'd slide right down the door panel like a rag doll now that he was no longer holding her up, then fumbled in her pocket for the room key and opened the door. When she turned to look, Brigham was already disappearing down the stairs.

She thought of Seattle's infamous Skid Road, which Millie had obligingly pointed out from the deck of the mail boat on their arrival, with its seedy brothels, beer parlors, and gambling dens. And she hoped Brigham wasn't on his way there to find comfort with some woman of unwholesome inclinations.

His last words echoed in her mind as she turned up the wick in the bedside lamp and lit it.
Think about it
, he'd said. What he'd meant was, think about the way you feel when I kiss you—think of how it would be to lie naked under my hands—to make a baby with me.

Lydia sat down on the edge of her bed with a miserable sigh. Thanks to Brigham Quade and his improper effect on her senses, she would think of little else throughout the night.

 

It was a fine, sunny day for sailing, and there was a steamboat anchored in the bay, as well as a majestic clipper ship. Charlotte imagined boarding that clipper and racing over the seas, seeing faraway lands and exotic people, and all of a sudden she felt like a bird shut up in a bread box. She loved her father, her Uncle Devon, and even Millie, but she longed to fly away, too. As long as she could remember, she'd ached to leave Quade's Harbor and all its unromantic dullness behind her.

Aunt Persephone was about to board a small tug that would carry her and the other passengers out to the steamer, and Charlotte longed to stow away in a lifeboat on the big, lumbering ship, or in a corner of the hold. Sometimes she thought if something exciting didn't happen to her soon, she was going to go stark-raving mad.

Even with her talent for fancy, however, she couldn't imagine how she could manage such an escapade, with her father standing close by and the steamer way out there in the harbor. She wouldn't be able to board the tug unobserved, and swimming to the steamboat was out of the question, too, even though she had a strong, sure stroke.

She hugged and kissed her tearful great-aunt, but her mind was roving over the seaport, back to the big clipper ship in the harbor. She turned, while Aunt Persephone was walking up the ramp to the deck of the tugboat and everyone was calling farewells and waving, and admired the clipper's tall mast and the netting of rope stretching from there to the deck. On the sleek hull someone had painted the word
Enchantress
in ornate gold letters.

Charlotte was charmed.

She walked, unnoticed, along the wharf to the boardwalk that edged the shore, to stand beside the
Enchantress
's berth, shading her eyes from the sun as she drank in the pure splendor of the vessel. Her papa had once remarked that clipper ships would soon be mere relics of the past, replaced by the able steamers, and the idea filled Charlotte with bitter sadness.

She imagined that the captain of this glorious ship was a handsome pirate, a man as at home in the crow's nest as Aunt Persephone was in the front parlor. Uncontrollable and largely unrecognizable emotion rode high in her throat, and tears filled her eyes.

It seemed to Charlotte that everyone was traveling somewhere, doing something, having grand adventures. Everyone except her.

“Charlotte!” The familiar voice rang across the short distance between the two wharfs, blending with the squawks of the gulls and the whistles of boats entering and leaving the harbor.

Shading her eyes from the sun, Charlotte turned and faced her father. “Coming, Papa,” she called back obediently. Perhaps it was then that the plan began to take shape in her mind; she would never know for sure.

“We're going to see the bear now!” Millie cried, her small face bright with excitement, when Charlotte joined her family and Miss McQuire on the other dock. “It costs a whole nickel, just to go inside for a look.”

Charlotte sighed. Some people were so easily entertained.

Miss McQuire smiled at Charlotte, warming her in the same special way the sun did when it made an unexpected appearance during the long gray months of winter. She wanted Lydia for a friend, but she was afraid to like her too much, for fear she'd leave.

They took the midday meal in the dining room at the Imperial Hotel, and then made the short walk to Yesler's Hall to pay their admission and see the bear.

Charlotte's melancholia deepened when she saw that poor creature awkwardly dancing on top of an old washtub. It had a worn red collar around its neck, and patches of the animal's coat had rubbed away in places, leaving bare spots. On instructions from his handler, the bear opened his muzzle and “talked,” and his mouth was void of teeth.

Charlotte, seated on a bench like all the other spectators, turned and rested her forehead against the outer part of her papa's muscled arm for a moment.

Her father gave her a brief squeeze. “It's all right, Charlie,” he whispered, using the nickname that was a secret between them. “Nobody's hurting the bear.”

Charlotte felt her eyes fill with tears. It wasn't the animal's performing that troubled her, but his lack of freedom and dignity. He should have been roaming the high country, hunting in summer and hibernating in winter.…

“May I go out?” she asked.

Her papa considered briefly, then nodded. “Stay close by, though. The mail boat puts in in about an hour, and we'll be leaving for home then.”

Charlotte nodded, cast one last pitying look at the bear, and hurried along the board floor to the open doorway at the back of the building.

The towering masts of the
Enchantress
immediately caught her eye, drew her thoughts away from the bear. The berth was not far from where she stood—she could go and have a closer look and be back long before the others came out of Yesler's Hall.

Minutes later Charlotte was standing at the base of a narrow wooden ramp, gazing up at the clipper ship in wonderment. She supposed it had sailed to China, and Hawaii, and maybe Europe and Australia, too. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine what it would be like to stand at the railing and watch some grand and exotic city take shape on the horizon.

A peculiar kind of excitement jiggled in the pit of Charlotte's stomach. If anyone was aboard the ship, they weren't visible, and one glance back over her shoulder told her no one was paying particular attention to her.

She started up the ramp, holding onto the rope railings on either side as she went, and then she was on the deck. It rocked slightly under her feet, that ship, but Charlotte loved the sensation. She pretended to be on her way to London to have tea with the Queen.

“Hello?” she called, as a salty breeze slapped at the skirts of her best dress, a blue taffeta trimmed in lace at the collar and cuffs.

No one answered, and Charlotte tilted her head back to look up at the mast and the netting of rope. Suddenly, the craving to see far and wide overwhelmed her. Pretending to be Maid Marian, scaling a network of vines to warn Robin Hood that the sheriff of Nottingham had laid a dastardly trap for him, Charlotte began to climb.

The feeling of power, of freedom, was glorious. Charlotte tilted her head back, clinging nimbly to the ropes, and let the wind rush through her light brown hair. Higher and higher she went, until she could see homesteads and Indians' shacks in the forest.

“Hey!” a voice shouted. “You! What are you doing up there?”

Charlotte looked down, and that was her mistake. She might as well have been on a mountaintop, so far away did the deck seem to be. There was a young man standing down there, with longish dark hair, fitted britches, and a flowing seaman's shirt.

She gulped, and her hands froze on the ropes. She had the terrifying feeling that no matter how tightly she held on, it wouldn't be tight enough to keep her from plunging to her death.

“Help me,” she said, but the words were only a whisper, and the man on the deck couldn't possibly have heard them.

Still, Charlotte felt motion in the ropes, and when she could bring herself to look again, she saw that he was climbing toward her as nimbly as a spider on a web. She slipped her arms through the spaces in the net and hugged herself.

Soon he was beside her. “Come on, little girl,” he said, with exasperated gentleness. “I'll get you down.”

Charlotte ran her tongue over dry lips. “Are you the captain of this ship?” she asked, her voice shaking. It was that or give in to panic and start screaming like a saw tearing into gnarled wood.

He did look like a pirate, with his dark hair tied back at his nape. His eyes were so blue that Charlotte thought for a moment that she'd tumble into them, instead of downward to the hard wooden deck, and his straight white teeth made a jolting contrast to his tanned skin when he grinned. He looked to be twenty-two or so.

“No, lass,” he said, putting one arm firmly around her waist. “But the
Enchantress
will be mine someday, when my uncle is satisfied that I can handle her. Come on, now. Let's go down.”

Charlotte started to tremble. “I'm scared.”

“Too bad you didn't have sense enough to get scared sooner,” he observed impatiently. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Ch-Charlotte,” she stammered. “Charlotte Quade.”

Again the grin, blinding and bright. “Hello, Charlotte. I'm Patrick Trevarren. May I have this dance?”

She stared at him, baffled, then realized he was trying to make things easier by jesting. She held onto the ropes as she would the rungs of the ladder and took a faltering step downward, thankful to the core of her spirit for the hard strength of Patrick's arm around her waist. “I d-don't know how to dance,” she answered, and instantly hated herself for sounding like a stupid child.