A Wild Yearning (34 page)

Part of it was due, he knew, to the roiling effect of the brandy bubbling through his veins so early in the day. But a bigger part, a
very
big part, was filling his breeches right now with the most uncomfortable state of arousal he'd ever experienced. It was all the fault of the explicit sexual advice he had just been pouring into the Reverend Hooker's tender and eager ears. He wasn't sure what sort of effect all that randy talk had had on Caleb, but he sure as hell had managed to talk
himself
into one hell of an erection.

"Damn!" Ty rose up in the stirrups, seeking some relief.
What you need, Savitch, you lustful old bastard, is a woman.

The warm, hard pressure in his crotch was a painful reminder that he hadn't held a woman, a real live woman, in his arms since a certain afternoon in Falmouth woods. The trouble was he didn't want just any woman.

"Delia-girl," he muttered grimly between his clenched teeth, "you'd better hope to God our paths don't cross any time soon." In the condition he was in at the moment, he'd throw her down on the ground and take her, married or not. Willing or not.

Such was Ty's self-absorbtion in his own miserable state that the screams didn't penetrate his consciousness for several seconds. He was just about to kick his horse into a canter, for the noise came from ahead of him, when a movement in the water to his left caught the corner of his eye, and he jerked his head around, hauling on the reins. A body was caught in the current, being swept out toward the bay.

Just then Meg Parkes stumbled around the bend with a screaming Tildy in her arms. She was sobbing something of which Ty heard only one word—but it was enough to freeze his heart.

Delia.

"Stay there!" he flung over his shoulder, pressing his knees hard into the pacer's sides. He urged the horse back along the bank—if he had any hope of pulling Delia from the churning rapids, he was going to have to get downriver from her. Looping the reins around the saddle pommel, he pulled off his coat, casting it aside along with his cocked hat. With his thighs, he maneuvered his horse, sending the panicked animal splashing across the marshy ground and crashing through the brush.

He was ahead of Delia now, but there wasn't much time. Kicking free of the stirrups, he jumped from the horse, landing on his moccasined-feet on the soft ground, knees bending to absorb the shock, and then he was wading fast into the river, pumping his arms hard. When the water reached his chest, he struck out swimming.

He had only one chance to snag her body as it was carried by him and he almost didn't make it. For one terrifying second, his fingers groped nothing but water before becoming entangled in her hair. Even then he almost lost her twice, as they were carried along side by side on the current, before he was able to wrap his arm around her chest and get a good grip. He was sure she was already dead. Her tiny frame was a sodden weight in his arms and her face, from the one glimpse he'd gotten of it, was blanched and lifeless.

He flung her onto the grassy bank and scrambled up after her. He pressed his fingers against the pulse point in her neck... and felt nothing.

"No!"
he screamed, grabbing her shoulders and shaking her, as if he could shake the life back into her. He clutched her face, pressing his mouth onto her blue, lifeless lips. "
No!"
he screamed again.

It wasn't Edinburgh University that had taught Dr. Tyler Savitch how to try to revive a person who had drowned. He had seen his Indian father Assacumbuit do it once, bringing back to life a child who had fallen into the lake near their village. He did to Delia what Assacumbuit had done to the child, pumping her arms up and down in a rowing motion and squeezing her chest.

He did it over and over, unwilling to accept that he had lost her because the reality was unbearable. He had seen Abenaki shamans try to blow life back into the dead and he did that, too —pressing his mouth over hers and breathing into her, hard.

Suddenly her head lolled to the side. She coughed once and then a second time, and then water poured from her mouth and nose, and she was retching.

He held her head up so she wouldn't strangle, making it easier for her to draw air into her heaving lungs. When the choking finally stopped and her breathing slowed, he gathered her into his lap, pressing her head against his chest while he rocked her back and forth. His eyes squeezed tightly shut and he buried his face in her hair. "Ah God, Delia, Delia. You scared the living hell out of me."

"Ty?" Her fists wrapped around the wet linen of his shirt and she clung to him, rubbing her face against his chest, her breasts heaving. She felt so damn small and insubstantial in his arms. Christ, he'd come so close to losing her.

Suddenly she jerked away from him, trying to push to her feet. "Oh God, the girls, Ty! Where are the girls?"

He held her down. "They're all right."

She still hadn't quite recovered her wind and the slight struggle had her gasping again for air. "B-but, Ty..."

"They're upriver a little ways. I told them to stay put. At least Meg had enough sense to run for help rather than try to jump in after you." He ran his hands over her face, reassuring himself that she was all right. "Delia, what happened?"

She twisted her head aside and pushed against him, harder. "G-girls... have to go... They'll be... terrified."

Ty hesitated, torn between his unwillingness to leave Delia and the knowledge that he was going to have to go back for the Parkes girls, when his problem was solved. He spotted Meg running down the road above them, Tildy still in her arms.

"There they are. You stay still."

"But—"

He clutched her shoulders. "Delia, for the love of God, will you for once, just once, do what I ask?"

He reached the girls before they could start down the bank. Meg stood at the top and watched him come with huge, frightened brown eyes. "Is she... is she...?"

"She's all right," he said quickly. "What happened?" He squatted down to get a look at Tildy. The little girl had lasped into intermittent, hiccupping sobs, but beyond that she appeared to be all right.

"W-we w-were f-fishing and—" Meg's throat caught on a sob.

"Never mind," Ty said, to head off her growing hysteria. He squeezed her shoulder. "You take Tildy back to the house and put some water on the fire. I'll bring Delia along in a minute. She's all right now, but she needs to get her wind back."

Meg nodded and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then she turned and started obediently back down the road.

Delia tried to stand as Ty returned to her. "Don't get up," he ordered, more sharply that he'd intended. "I want you just to sit there in the hot sun a moment and recover your breath."

He sat down alongside her, letting his eyes fill with the sight of her. Her wet hair was plastered tight to her head and her tawny eyes looked huge in her white face. Her lips still had a bluish tinge and occasional tremors shook her chest. Her soaked clothes were molded to her curves. He could see the outline of her full breasts and her nipples, puckered tight from the cold water, stood out sharply beneath the thin, wet material. Christ, even half drowned she was adorable.

Their eyes met and slowly a smile spread across her face. "You saved me from drowning again, Ty. Thank you."

His mouth slanted up in answer. "Who were you trying to kiss this time, brat?"

She started to laugh, but ended up coughing. She sucked in a deep breath, then sniffed, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand, the way Meg had done a moment before. "It was Gretchen who fell in the river. I tried to go after her."

"Gretchen?" Ty's heart skipped a beat and he whipped around, searching the white-capped water for more floating bodies, even though by now it would be far too late.

Delia reached out, clinging to his shirt again. "Don't, Ty. Gretchen's a doll." Suddenly her chest jerked and she started to cry. "Oh, poor Tildy. I've lost her doll."

"A
doll!
You jumped in the river to rescue a doll?" Unconsciously, his hands closed around her upper arms and he shook her. "Jesus God, Delia, you can't even swim!"

"I f-forgot."

He crushed her against him, so hard she grunted. "Godsake, Delia!"

She wriggled out of his arms. "Don't shout at me, Ty." Wincing, she pressed her palm against her midriff. "My ribs hurt. I think you bruised them."

Furious anger washed over Ty, so powerful he started to shake with it. My God, he'd almost lost her over a doll! What the hell was she thinking to go jumping in the river after a doll when she couldn't even swim!

"I ought to put bruises on your backside is what I ought to do," he said through gritted teeth.

She glared at him, while he breathed fire back at her. Then her mouth puckered and she started to laugh.

"It's not funny!" he bellowed. Did she have any idea what it would have done to him to lose her?

"Oh, but, Ty, it is." She pressed her hand to her mouth to stop another laugh. "You look so cute when you're angry."

"Cute!"

"You ought to see yourself. Your eyes get all dark and stormy, and your brows soar up, and your nostrils flare—there, see, just like that, like a bull what's getting ready to charge."

"That's not anger you're seeing, Delia. That's lust."

Now he wanted to laugh at the look on
her
face. "Lust?" she squeaked, scrambling to her feet and backing away from him, her arms pressed across her breasts like a frightened virgin guarding her virtue.

He came up after her, slowly, inexorably.

"Lust," he said, his face set with determination. "I've been lusting after you for so damn long I've forgotten what it's like to feel normal. Do you know what an Abenaki warrior does when he wants a woman, Delia?"

"Oh, Lord above us..."

"He takes her."

"But, Ty, I'm... Ty, you can't!"

"Can. Will, Delia."

It had started out as a teasing game, a way to pay her back for calling him cute. But at some point it had stopped being a game. He wanted her beneath him, screaming with passion. He wanted her and he was going to have her.

She saw it in his eyes. She whirled to run and he grabbed her. He closed his fingers tightly around her scalp and slammed his open mouth down hard on hers. For a moment she melted against him and met his thrusting tongue with her own, and

God, but she tasted so hot and wet and sweet. He thought he'd die from the hunger she unleashed in him.

Then suddenly she bucked against him, her two clenched fists pushing at his chest as she struggled to tear her mouth from his. He kept his hand pressed against the back of her head, but he lifted his lips a scant inch off hers to speak. "Delia, my love, don't fight—"

"Bastard! Let go of m—"

He kissed her again. But there was no surrender this time. She fought him with all her might, flailing, kicking, panting raggedly against his open mouth. Her chest heaved and she began to choke.

He let her go. She backed away from him, pressing a shaking hand to her mouth, coughing as she tried to gulp in breathfuls of air. He reached out to help her, but she flinched away from him.

"Delia..."

At last she turned her face toward his... and he had never seen so much hurt in a woman's eyes. It filled him with such self-loathing that he shuddered.

"How could you do that to me, Ty?" she asked in a strained, tormented voice. "You have no right. No right to treat me that way."

"Ah God, Delia, you've got it wrong. I didn't—"

She stumbled away from him, trying to run, and fell to her knees. He swung her up into his arms.

Sobbing, she beat against his chest. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

His arms tightened around her. He welcomed her blows; he only wished she'd hit him harder. He spoke gruffly to hide his emotion. "Shut up, Delia. I'm done assaulting your damn virtue for today."

She went quiet as he carried her up the bank and down the cart trail toward the farm.

"I'm not that kind of girl, Ty," she finally said in a hurt, quavering voice that broke his heart.

"Aw, Delia-girl, I know you're not. It's me. I'm the bastard, remember?"

She breathed a tiny sigh and relaxed against him. After
a
moment she nestled her cheek against his chest. It felt good, Ty thought, to hold her like this in his arms.

Simply hold her.

The barn smelled of grain dust and manure. Delia paused in the doorway and watched Nat as he threshed wheat with a hand flail. The air echoed with a steady thumping sound as he knocked the kernels out of their heads and onto the floor. He had just reached for a hayfork to toss aside the straw when he looked up and noticed her standing there. She carried his musket across her shoulder and wore his hat on her head, cocked at a jaunty angle.

He leaned on the hayfork, his chest pumping as he regained his breath. A tentative smile stretched his wide mouth. "You look like you're fixing to attend the muster days in my stead, Delia. Are the others here already then?" he asked, and she saluted in reply. It actually made him laugh.

He set the pitchfork aside and plucked his coat off a nearby hay bale, shrugging into it. "Are you sure you don't mind my leaving you and the girls alone?"

"We'll be all right, Nat. You mustn't worry." Delia stepped forward to help him on with his fly coat, smoothing it across his shoulders. It reached halfway down his thighs and was of a bright blue wool, the color of a summer sky. His wife had made it for him. His first wife.

Delia couldn't resist adding, "After all, you attended the muster days when your Mary was alive and she didn't mind."

The coat clashed sharply with the dark green of his buckskin breeches, which were part of his militia uniform. Delia had been surprised when Nat had told her he was to attend the muster days in Wells tomorrow with the other able-bodied men of Merrymeeting. "The fine's five shillings if you don't turn up," he had said when she questioned him.

"But surely a man who's missing a foot should be exempted," she protested, forgetting to guard her tongue. Nat had reacted predictably.

His chin jutted forward with pride. "I might not be able to rehearse the military manual with the others, Delia, but I can still contribute my time. Colonel Bishop has me serving as his adjutant. My Mary and I thought it was the least I could do."

Delia started to explain that she hadn't meant her comment as a criticism of his physical abilities, but she held her tongue. She had learned from bitter experience that with Nat her explanations only made matters worse.

Now, Delia wordlessly took the hat off her dark head and put it on her husband's blond one. She'd decorated the brim with a sprig of pine and a ribbon cockade. Handing him his musket, she followed him out the barn door. A group of men waited in the yard, their hearty laughter filling the air. They were like young boys, Delia thought, all set to go on an outing and wound up tight with the excitement of it.

For the men of Merrymeeting the muster meant a five-day excursion. A day by coastal sloop to get to Wells, three days there, and another day back. From what the other women had said, Delia suspected the muster was an excuse for the men to carouse away from their wives' censoring eyes as much as to rehearse the military manual. The mornings were reserved for drilling, true, but the afternoons were filled with horse races, shooting matches, and other manly sporting pursuits. The evenings were spent in drinking bouts during which gallons of flips were consumed. Only Colonel Bishop, who had command responsibilities, and Nat, who didn't drink anything stronger than spruce beer, seemed to take the militia muster seriously.

Nat went inside to tell the girls goodbye and pick up the rest of his equipment—shot pouch, powder horn, tomahawk, and wooden canteen. Delia searched the men in the yard, looking for a particular dark head and sharp-boned, handsome face Instead a flash of distinctive red hair caught her eye.

She advanced on the burly blacksmith with her fists on her hips. "What are you doing here, Sam Randolf? I thought your Hannah was expecting any day now."

Sam whipped around to face her, his big jowls coloring. "Aw shucks, Mrs. Parkes..."

"She's already freshening," Obadiah Kemble put in, his tiny black eyes darting back and forth. "And it's a breech birth, so it's hard tellin' when the brat'll get here. We got ourselves a pool going and right now your Nat looks to be the winner if it comes tomorrow, as the doc's predictin'."

Delia scowled, not bothering to hide her disapproval. "All the more reason for you to remain at your wife's side, Mr. Randolf."

Sam looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. "Aw heck, Mrs. Parkes. Hannah'll be all right. She's birthed me seven lusty boys with barely a whimper. She don't need me. I'd only get in the way. An' Doc is stayin' with her."

"Hunh! I'm surprised
he
isn't going with the lot of you."

"Normally he does," Obadiah put in. "Even though physicians are supposed to be excused from the militia. But him being so wilderness-wise and all, the colonel likes to use him as a scout. Besides, you know the doc. He doesn't want to miss out on all the, er, mustering."

Nat emerged from the house just then, carrying a chattering Tildy in his arms and with Meg at his side. Tildy clutched her new doll tightly in her fist, an Indian girl with a deerskin dress, a tiny shell necklace, and a cap made of wampum—the purple-dyed seashells the Abenaki used for money.

Ty had brought the doll around the day after Gretchen had been lost, but Delia missed him because she had been inside, trying to work Mary's spinning wheel and producing nothing but slubs. Later, when Tildy had proudly shown her the doll, Delia had astounded everyone by bursting into tears and running into the inner room, slamming the door behind her.

When she emerged later that evening, Nat told her Tildy had named the doll Hildegarde. "Where does she come up with these names?" he'd asked her with a nervous laugh, eyeing her askance and no doubt wondering if she were about to start blubbering again.

Delia couldn't explain even to herself why Ty's generosity had made her behave like a wooden-headed fool. Every time she looked at the doll, she wanted to weep with a mixture of pride in Ty and an aching regret that she would never have the joy of presenting him with a child of their own to cuddle and spoil.

But Delia wore a smile now as Nat and the girls came out of the house. He kissed Tildy before handing her to Delia, squatting to give Meg a hug. "You girls behave and mind Delia."

Meg said nothing, but Delia saw the girl's chin take on a stubborn jut and she repressed a sigh.

Nat shouldered his musket as he and the men started down the trail toward the bay, where the coastal sloop waited to sail down the estuary on the forenoon tide. At the edge of the forest, he turned and waved. Delia and the girls waved back.

"Bye, bye Papa!" Tildy cried, blasting Delia's eardrum.

When Nat's figure had disappeared around the bend, Meg turned to Delia, a slight smirk on her face. "How come you aren't crying? Ma always cried when Papa went to Wells for muster days."

"She did?" Delia asked, surprised. She couldn't imagine the paragon Mary Parkes succumbing to the weakness of tears.

"He didn't kiss you goodbye," Meg said, her eyes on Delia's face to gauge her reaction. "He
always
kissed Ma goodbye."

Delia decided to chop wood that afternoon.

The morning had begun with a dense fog that left everything wet and smelling of the sea. But by the time Nat left, the fog had been melted by the sun, although a shimmering haze still swathed the horizon. It was September now; the days were growing shorter and the trees were beginning to get a tinge of color on the ridges. The corn was high in the fields; it would be tasseling soon.

Delia had thought this morning that the nights were coming on cool and it would soon be time to take the extra blankets out of the calfskin chest in the inner room. She decided to surprise

Nat by laying up a good stack of firewood while he was gone— hickory, because it produced the best and hottest fire.

She worked behind the barn, piling the chopped wood onto a sledge to be hauled into the shed and stacked later. The thunk of the ax biting into the wood bounced off the thick trees of the surrounding forest. When she paused to rest, Delia could detect the pungent smell of moldering pine needles and hear a partridge rustling through the nearby cornrows.

She thought of Ty. Thunk! The ax split the wood with a resounding blow. She imagined it was his head she pounded.

He was at the Randolf house right now, attending to Hannah. Delia was tempted to walk there, to call on Hannah and offer her help, maybe bring a pot of baked beans or a pan of pone with jelly. But she knew if she did such a thing it would really be an excuse to see Ty and she couldn't lie to herself in that way.

Thunk! This time it was her own head she imagined she struck.

It had been three weeks since Ty had fished her from the Kennebec and though she hadn't seen him once during all that time, there wasn't a minute when she hadn't thought about him, reliving that kiss over and over in her mind. She could still feel the heat of his lips on hers, as if he had left a permanent, searing brand. She was furious with him for thinking he could use her in that way—as a happy answer to his manly desires. She was furious with herself for still loving him, for kissing him back and wanting him so shamelessly. Was she no better than he thought her to be—no better than a two-shilling tart, a way for a man to spend a quick hour or two of his time?

Thunk! She worked her frustration out on Nat's head now. Nat, her so-called husband, who still slept on the shakedown in the linter. Who couldn't even give her a peck on the cheek when he was going away for five whole days. There might not be any love between them, but they were man and wife. Maybe if Nat became her husband in fact as well as name, she could get Tyler Savitch out of her blood, out of her mind, out of her heart.

Out—thunk! Out—thunk! Out—thunk!

The ax Delia used had a head made of brittle iron that often cracked in cold weather. It was heavy and hard to swing, wobbling as it approached the mark. Delia didn't notice that the wobbling was becoming worse and worse with each swing she made... until the head came flying off the helve.

The ax head flew through the air, slicing into Delia's petticoat and thigh in passing. She stood looking at the headless handle in shock, feeling nothing—and then a burning, searing pain tore a scream from her throat.

She pressed a hand to her thigh. It came away dripping with blood. Flinging the ax helve to the ground, she limped over to lean against the bevel of the chopping stump. The pain was so fierce it darkened her vision and sent the breath wheezing from her lungs. She set her teeth to keep from fainting and lifted her skirt, afraid of what she would see.

What she saw made her reel dizzily and she almost fell off the stump. The cut was jagged and deep, and blood welled out of it, satiny and glutinous, so dark a red it looked almost black. Shuddering, she pressed the heel of her hand to the gash, trying to stop the bleeding.

She heard the linter door slam and Meg's high-pitched voice, calling her name. She opened her mouth to answer, but couldn't summon the strength. The dark edges around her vision were spreading. She blinked and looked into Meg's horrified face. "Get Dr. Ty... he's at... baby... Hannah Randolf..."

The darkness covered the world now except for two tiny pinpricks of light. Then even they winked out.

Minutes, or perhaps it was only seconds later, Delia felt wet lips brush her cheek. She forced open her eyes to find a dimpled face pressed close to hers. "Did you cut yourself with the ax, Delia?" Tildy whispered loudly. "Are you going to have to get a wooden foot like Papa?"

Dr. Tyler Savitch willed his hands to stop shaking as he tied the tourniquet around Delia's slender thigh. He tried not to think that if the ax had sliced so much as an inch deeper, it would have severed the artery and she would have bled to death long before he could have gotten to her in time.

Christ, why did she keep
doing
this to him? He had tried so hard to protect his heart, to distance himself from her so that he couldn't be hurt. But it had all been to no avail—he cared, cared too damn much, in spite of himself. It was as if she were deliberately dancing with death to flaunt in his face the fact that if he lost her he wouldn't be able to bear it.

Against his will, his bloodied fingers drifted up, hovering over her precious features. They were twisted in pain and Ty would have sawed off his own leg to spare her this. He suddenly realized she was more valuable to him than his own life. He would sacrifice anything for her. Anything.

Her lids fluttered open. "Ty...?"

He leaned over, pressing his lips to her forehead. "I'm here, my love."

"The ax broke, Ty. It cut my leg."

"You'll be all right. I'm going to sew it up in a minute. But first I'll have to carry you into the house."

He positioned her arms around his neck and lifted her slowly, but still she cried out. He thought she might have fainted again by the time he got her inside and laid her down on the inner room bed, but he saw that her eyes were open, although they were dark with pain.

"I'm sorry I keep gettin' myself into these predicaments, Ty. I'm such trouble t' ye all the time."

"I'm used to trouble from you," he said, brushing her cheek with his knuckles. "You and trouble seem to go together like fleas on a mule."