You Belong to My Heart (13 page)

When the warm October sun began to slide toward the deep blue Mediterranean, guests began departing.

It had been decided by Daniel and his parents that he and Mary Ellen would honeymoon in the villa. Well before the ceremony, the Lawtons’ and the Prebles’ luggage had been packed, taken, and stowed on a chartered yacht in the harbor. The elders would spend the night on the yacht and come morning leave the port of Monaco, return to London, and begin the journey home to Tennessee.

Within minutes all the guests had gone. The Lawtons then said their good-byes. They were descending the steps to a waiting carriage when Mary Ellen’s mother, tears shining in her eyes, hugged Mary Ellen tightly. She stepped back and dabbed at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

John Thomas took Mary Ellen in his arms, and she clung to him, trembling. She longed to leave with her parents. It was all she could do to keep from begging her father to take her with him. To take her home. She wanted to go home. Home to Memphis. Home to Longwood.

“I hope you’ll be very happy, sweetheart,” John Thomas whispered in her ear. He kissed her. “Take good care of her, Daniel,” he said then, handing her over to her beaming bridegroom.

“I will, sir,” Daniel replied. He put his arm around Mary Ellen, shook John Thomas’s hand, and said, “Mary Ellen and I will honeymoon here at the villa for a few weeks, then go to Paris. After that perhaps a trip the Greek isles and anywhere else my beautiful bride wishes to go.” Smiling, he drew Mary Ellen closer. To her father he said, “Don’t look for us home for at least six months.”

“No hurry,” said John Thomas, and ushered his teary-eyed wife out the door and down the steps to the carriage.

Mary Ellen and Daniel were left alone.

It was five-thirty in the afternoon.

Mary Ellen cleared her throat needlessly. “I really should change out of my wedding dress,” she said, her hands nervously skimming over the full satin skirts. “I’ve a lovely new Paris gown that will be perfect for dinner tonight.” She started to move away. Daniel stopped her.

“It
is
time you undress,” he said, smiling, looking down at her, “but you won’t be dressing again. At least not before tomorrow.” A strange new light came into his green eyes, and Mary cringed inwardly.

“But Daniel,” she said, “the sun’s up.”

“Well, so am I,” he replied, repelling her with his unexpected crudity. He laid a hand on his straining groin and told her, “It’s been half-up all afternoon. Just being with you does it to me.”

Before she could protest further, Daniel swept her into his arms and strode directly toward the staircase. Mary Ellen was filled with dread as he determinedly carried her up the stairs. Never once had she entertained the displeasing prospect of having to make love with him in the naked light of day. She had assumed that their first time would be in the covering darkness of midnight.

As they neared the enormous master suite, she knew just how wrong she had been.

Within minutes Mary Ellen, stark naked and so shamed and embarrassed that her face was beet red, lay trapped beneath a nude, panting Daniel while the dying October sunlight streamed into the room and directly across the bed.

She was incensed and disappointed that Daniel had made absolutely no effort to woo and ready her for the act of lovemaking. She was completely shocked by his uncaring behavior. He had been so thoughtful and understanding over the past few terrible weeks. Unfailingly compassionate, he had never pressed her; he had vowed he would never rush her. She had counted on that tolerance and patience now.

But it was missing.

Insensitive to her feelings, Daniel insisted, as soon as they got inside the bedroom, that they hurriedly undress. He stripped down to the skin right there before her, unmindful of her modesty. And he insisted she do the same. When her disrobing had gone too slowly to suit him, he had stepped in to lend a hand. She was mortified when he forcefully yanked down her lace-trimmed satin pantalets.

Once they were naked he drew her to the bed and after only three or four less-than-stirring kisses, he had climbed atop her, fumbled around for a few agonizingly awkward seconds, then given a forceful push and penetrated, despite the obvious fact that her body was not ready to receive him. Deaf to her quick intake of breath and the wince of pain she couldn’t suppress, he immediately began to thrust deeply, rapidly.

As he moved atop her now, Mary Ellen felt only disgust and mild discomfort and self-loathing. Her head turned to the side, her gaze was fixed an ornate gold-and-porcelain clock that rested on the night table beside the bed. Oblivious of her feelings, Daniel drove into her eagerly, and Mary Ellen couldn’t help but question his glaring ineptness in the art of lovemaking.

For years she’d heard whispered stories of Daniel Lawton’s great appeal and attraction to women. A number of Memphis’s prettiest belles were said to be madly in love with him, and some of the city’s most sophisticated divorcées and widows were known to have enjoyed dalliances with him. The glamorous Brandy Templeton had never made a secret of her intimacy with Daniel.

He was almost five years older than Clay and had had numerous women, yet he seemingly knew nothing about pleasing a woman. He was a terrible lover, and she was repulsed. There was only one aspect of his lovemaking of which Mary fully approved: the blessed brevity.

The act had hardly begun before it was finished. Her dark, unhappy eyes stayed riveted on the gold-and-porcelain clock, so she knew exactly how long the unpleasant ordeal lasted. From the moment Daniel had impatiently climbed atop her until he groaned in his shuddering release took a few seconds less than three minutes.

Daniel sighed loudly, pulled out of her quickly, and fell over onto his back, exhausted and satisfied.

Breathing hard but smiling foolishly with pleasure, he said, “Wasn’t that wonderful.”

It was more of a statement than a question, so Mary Ellen felt no need to reply. She turned her head slowly, looked at him. Already his eyes were closing and his breath was slowing. She held her own breath, hoping that he was tired and would fall asleep for a while.

Without opening his eyes, Daniel reached over and clamped a big hand atop her bare left thigh. She recoiled involuntarily, terrified he might already be wanting her again. But he only patted her and repeated, “Ah, yes, that was good, darling.” His fingers stroked her thigh. “Let me catch my breath for a minute and we’ll make love again. We’ll make love all night long. How does that sound?”

Mary tensed, sickened by the idea. “Daniel, I really don’t…I…” She fell silent when his spread hand went limp upon her bare thigh.

She looked hopefully at him and felt a great sense of relief when she saw that his naked chest had begun to rise and fall evenly. In seconds he began to snore softly. Mary Ellen waited until she was certain he had fallen into a deep slumber. It was only a few short minutes; it seemed like hours. She carefully lifted his hand from her thigh, placed it on the bed. Her eyes never leaving his sleeping face, she scooted away from him cautiously and rose from the bed.

Her bare feet making no sound on the plush carpet, she hurried to the spacious bath and dressing room. A hot bath awaited, prepared for her earlier by one of the servants. Gratefully she stepped into the tub and sank into its warm, soothing depths.

Shivering despite the heat of the water, she raised her knees and wrapped her arms around them. She bit her lip hard, but the tears still came. A knifelike pain stabbed through her naked breast as she recalled Clay’s sweet, sensual, satisfying lovemaking. Her body ached for him just as her heart did. She yearned to have his arms around her, his lips on hers.

She was so unhappy, she felt as if she wanted to die. She sat there in the tub, realizing with startling clarity that never again would she be in Clay’s arms. Worse, she would be in the arms of the inept lover who was her husband, again and again for years.

Tears of sorrow and regret spilling down her cheeks, Mary Ellen laid her head on her raised knees.

And she wept.

But when finally she stopped crying and raised her aching head, the deep hurt that had shone in her eyes was gone. A peculiar coldness had replaced it, and Mary Ellen vowed silently she would never again cry for Clay Knight. She would stop grieving for the past and look to the future. She had married Daniel Lawton, and she was going to be a good and faithful wife to him.

It wouldn’t be that hard, because she no longer loved Clay Knight. She hated him. She hated him as fiercely as she had loved him, and her only prayer was that he would one day suffer the way he had made her suffer.

“Mary Ellen, where are you, dear?” Daniel’s sleep-heavy voice came through the open bath door.

“I’ll be right with you, darling.”

Memphis Appeal

Sunday, October 22, 1848

Miss Mary Ellen Preble and Mr. Daniel Lawton were married abroad on Saturday, October 14th.

The morning ceremony took place in Monaco, where the couple will honeymoon for several months before returning to their Memphis home.

The seventeen-year-old bride is the only daughter of prominent cotton producer John Thomas Preble and his wife, Julie. The twenty-three-year-old bridegroom is the son of…

Clay stopped reading.

His hand reflexively wadded the newspaper article that had been clipped neatly from the society page of the
Memphis Appeal.
He didn’t bother to read his mother’s accompanying letter.

The crushed clipping gripped tightly in the palm of his hand, Clay pushed back his chair and rose from the small student desk where his books lay open. He crossed the compact, Spartan dormitory room to the window, his teeth clamped together so tightly he felt the pain in his jaw. He stood and stared out at the windswept quadrangle, where uniformed midshipmen rushed to and from their morning classes. His eyes lifted and he gazed sadly out at Chesapeake Bay.

He told himself it didn’t matter that Mary had married Daniel Lawton. He didn’t care. He had what he’d always wanted. He was here at the Naval Academy, and he was determined to excel. A bright future lay ahead of him.

But despite his firm resolve, tears gathered in his pain-filled gray eyes.

Without Mary, even the long dreamed of appointment to Annapolis didn’t mean as much to him. Without her to share in his triumph, the victory was hollow.

Abruptly the painful knowledge that Mary would never again share in his triumphs and tragedies struck him with such force, it weakened him.
His
Mary was another man’s wife. Another man’s lover. And he would
never
hold her in his arms again.

Mary…
His trembling lips formed her name soundlessly.
Oh, Mary.

Clay’s wide shoulders were beginning to shake, and his throat hurt so badly he could hardly swallow. He raised a long arm, placed his hand on the wooden window frame, and laid his tanned face on his forearm.

And he cried.

When at last he stopped and straightened, the tears and the pain were gone from his red-rimmed gray eyes. Replaced by a distinct coldness.

Clay never cried again.

But the coldness in his eyes and in his heart would remain for years to come.

F
ROM HIS VERY FIRST
hours as a lonely plebe at Annapolis, Clay directed all his time and energy to being a model midshipman. The regimen was extremely rigorous. Rugged physical fitness began ten minutes after reveille on his first full day at the “Yard.” Before sunup he and the other green plebes assembled for the punishing calisthenics designed to build finely honed brawn. Clay gave it everything he had, eager to strengthen his still boyishly slim body.

His introduction to the sea came on his second day. In a small boat on the Severn River, he learned the rudiments of hull, mast, boom, tiller, and sail. Soon he was practicing the basics of navigation and piloting, the practical uses of charts and navigation, and the importance of command and responsibility.

Clay worked hard and studied hard. Along with celestial navigation, seamanship, ballistics, and cannonry, he became proficient in Greek, Latin, botany, geology, zoology, philosophy, and the great literatures.

A natural athlete, he quickly learned such things as precision drill, immediate obedience to proper commands, and the ability to perform—and to lead—under pressure.

His few free hours were spent mostly alone, either in his Spartan room at the old stone dormitory or at the academy’s vast nautical library. He rarely joined his boisterous classmates on their treks “landward” into the town of Annapolis. And he took severe teasing because of it.

“What’s wrong with you, Knight?” a fellow midshipman would ask. “Don’t you like women and whiskey?”

“Love ’em both.”

“Well, come on, then. It’s Saturday night and liberty’s already begun. Let’s go buy some wild women a drink.”

“Not this time.”

“Not this time, not this time,” they’d all mimic, chuckling, elbowing each other in the ribs. And one of the bunch would inevitably say, “Know what I think about old Tennessee Knight here? I think he’s afraid. I believe he’s scared to death of women.” Loud laughter and then: “How about it, Knight? You scared? That it?”

Clay would just smile at their taunts and let them have their fun. Then he’d turn back to his books as soon as they left on their adventure, uncaring that there wouldn’t be another liberty call for a month.

Despite his seeming indifference and continued refusal to their offers of companionship, both his roommates and the other midshipmen liked Clay. They respected him for his tenacity and steely determination. They envied and admired him the total lack of concern he showed when bullying upperclassmen attempted to get his goat and make him lose his temper.

But none of his mates understood him.

Clay Knight seemed older than his years. He was never one of the gang. There was an aura of coolness about him that kept everyone at arm’s length. Nobody got close to Clay Knight. He was a true loner with chilly gray eyes and an I-couldn’t-care-less-what-you-think manner.