Kary, Elizabeth (67 page)

Hayes
came to the edge of the blanket and stared down at her. She was like some pale,
exotic blossom spread out before him, her skirts furled wide like opening
petals, her smiling face turned up to his. He could feel her enticing him
closer, promising ease and pleasure with her eyes. But he was terrifyingly
aware of the danger in accepting the things she offered and the unutterable
pain that yielding could bring.

When
he hesitated, Leigh reached up to catch his hand, pulling him down beside her
as if it were where he belonged. He went reluctantly, knowing there was no help
for it, fighting the spiral of excitement that wound through him at her touch.

"The
pond is pretty, isn't it?" she began quietly, trying not to notice the way
he had settled at the very edge of the blanket.

He
nodded in agreement. "Very pretty, indeed."

"I
wonder if there are ducks."

"It
seems a likely place for some."

The
silence that had plagued their ride into the country threatened again, and
Leigh continued almost compulsively, anxious to fill the void with
conversation. "Mother Bickerdyke found someone who knew the countryside
around Wilmington and got directions," she explained unnecessarily.
"She thought we needed time alone."

Hayes
gave a gust of bitter laughter. "Now, why would she think that?"

For
a moment Leigh stared at him, stung by his tone. "I suppose it's because
we're married, because we're husband and wife."

The
spectrum of their relationship was suddenly laid bare, and in spite of himself
Hayes had a need to mock the vows they had made. "Oh, I hardly think
there's enough left of our marriage for her to be concerned about providing us
solitude."

Before
Leigh could think of a reply, he continued, plucking a blade of grass and fingering
it thoughtfully. "I just hope my untimely 'resurrection' won't prove
inconvenient for you."

Leigh
paled visibly at his words. What on earth was going through his mind? she
wondered. Did he think she had been relieved when he was reported missing, that
she preferred to be free? Since he had come into Wilmington, he had been the
one avoiding her. And his indifference hurt when she cared so much.

With
an effort she kept her voice steady. "Inconvenient? Why, no. I'm quite
glad you've turned up here."

"Are
you?" he asked skeptically. "I was under the impression you had given
up being my wife."

"What?"
she gasped. "Why would you think that?"

He
pointed to the hand lying lax in her lap. "You've stopped wearing your
wedding ring," he noted. "That seemed a clear indication to me."

Leigh
glanced down at the third finger of her left hand, thinking of the signet ring
she had worn so long and faithfully. He had no way of knowing how precious that
ring had become to her, even more when she thought him dead than when he had
made her his wife. But from something he said, she had gleaned a flicker of
insight and sensed the doubt behind his accusation. Perhaps this was a chance
to show her husband just how much she had changed.

"I
gave the ring to a woman I met in the hospital at Chattanooga," she began
softly. "Somehow, I thought you wouldn't mind."

"Not
mind?" Hayes's voice was incredulous. "What made you think I wouldn't
mind?"

"Because
the woman was Justin Dean's widow."

"Sarah?"
he murmured the name.

"Yes,
Sarah. That's what you'd always intended, wasn't it? You'd always meant to give
the signet ring to Justin's wife and son."

"Yes,
but—"

"When
I met her," Leigh went on, watching her husband's face, "it seemed
the only right thing to do. I had memories of you, and Sarah had her memories
of Justin, but David is too young to have known his father."

Hayes
paused before nodding. "Yes, you're right; he would have been. How old is
David now, anyway?"

"He
must be all of five. Sarah brought him to the camp not long before Mother
Bickerdyke and I left for Atlanta. David is a fine, strong boy, and Sarah has
every right to be proud of him. He looks a bit like you, you know?"

One
corner of Hayes's mouth lifted. "Does he? Does he really? They always said
I was more a Dean than a Banister."

Hayes
had smiled as they talked of his cousin's wife and son, and that spark of
sincere emotion drew Leigh to him. For in that moment, he was not the cool,
distant stranger who had wandered into Wilmington seeking shelter, but the man
she loved. He was not the confusing enigma whose presence filled her with
misgivings, but someone with whom she had shared the joys and trials of life.
Driven by an urge she could find no way to deny, Leigh reached across to touch
him, desperate for a bit of reassurance.

Hayes
watched her approach as if mesmerized, anticipating her touch with eagerness
and trepidation. She came slowly, tentatively, but even before he felt the
brush of her hand, her essence had begun to envelop him. He was aware of the
sweet orange and spice scent in his nostrils, saw the fire spun through her
cinnamon hair, heard the breath of his name on her lips like an audible caress.
The touch came gently, the lingering stroke of her fingers drifting from his
cheek to where his throat lay bared and vulnerable. At even that simple contact
his palms went wet, his mouth went dry, and his heart began to thunder.

As
if sensing the welcome he could not deny, Leigh seized the moment and crept
nearer, brushing her lips across his mouth. The kiss was soft, tender, gentle,
but it overwhelmed Hayes, loosing emotions in him he had vowed to deny. Of
their own volition his arms swept around her, drawing her close in a gesture of
desperate longing. His mouth took hers, crushing, tasting, pressing, seeking
the sweep of remembered rapture. A rush of desire came to swamp his senses, and
he was helplessly beguiled as Leigh fluttered a wave of eager kisses over the
surface of his skin. She kissed his temples, his eyes, and the lobe of his ear,
his dimples, his chin, and the line of his jaw. She dipped lower, nibbling down
the curve of his throat, sending waves of shivers skimming along his spine.

Then
Hayes claimed her mouth again, forcing her lips apart under the scalding
onslaught of his own. He felt her tremble and knew that he was trembling, too.
She sighed, and he felt the brush of her breath against him. There was
excitement and consolation in the deepening fervor of their kiss, and Hayes
drank in all her sweetness, feeling at once deprived and satisfied.

But
somehow Hayes knew he could not succumb, could not let her magic engulf him.
There was danger in mindlessly accepting all she had to give him when so much
lay unresolved between them.

"Leigh,
wait," he said, his voice husky and low. "Leigh, please. Please stop.
I don't want this to happen."

As
she raised her head, he could see her face was marked with confusion.
"Why, Hayes? Why can't we come together? We're man and wife, and I love
you so."

He
went totally still at her words, watching her intently as he searched for truth
or insincerity in the shadowed depths of her eyes. "Do you love me,
Leigh?" he demanded. "Do you care? And if you do, why weren't there
ever any letters, none in all the months we were apart."

She
saw in him the disillusionment and hurt she had come to know so well, the
mistrust and pain another man had caused. "I did write," she assured
him, "and I know now you did, too."

"Of
course I wrote, as often as I could. But you never answered. You never sent me
any word at all."

"Yes,
I did write! I wrote you to say how much I loved you, to tell you I was going
to have your child—"

"My
child?" Hayes was plainly shaken by her revelation and seemed suddenly
paler than before.

"And
I wrote when I miscarried it. But Aaron Crawford intercepted our mail."

"Crawford?
What reason would Crawford have for doing that?"

"Think,
Hayes! Think of the suspicions he had about your loyalty; think about his
reasons for hating both of us."

There
were emotions warring in Hayes's face, and she knew she was expecting him to
assimilate more in these few minutes than anyone could take in. Still, she felt
compelled to continue, compelled to tell him everything while she had the
chance.

"Hayes,
please! I never meant to hurt you. I know that much of what you're feeling is
based on how we parted in St. Louis. But please, Hayes, believe me; so much has
changed since then. I understand things now that I never expected to
understand. I can accept things now that I thought were unacceptable. When I
lost the baby, I came to realize what you felt for Monica's son, realize that
your actions at Vicksburg were honorable and based in nobility. I care for you,
Hayes. I love you more than I can say. I want for us to be together. Now that
the war is all but over, we can start again."

He
closed his eyes to shut out the sight of her, tried to deafen himself to her
words. She was offering him everything a man could wish for, a future sweet
with promise, a lifetime of security and love. But he was terrified of caring,
of the pain loving her could bring.

Too
much was happening too quickly. Her revelations about Crawford and the letters,
the news of the child she had carried and lost filled him with doubt and hope
and uncertainty that seemed impossible to reconcile. If he allowed himself to
believe what she promised, if he let himself accept that she cared, he would be
yielding everything, surrendering the last of his reserve.

There
was so much trapped inside him, things he did not want to remember or share. If
he relinquished his self-control, those memories would surface too, returning
to hurt and haunt him. He felt helpless, buffeted, lost. He needed time to
consider all she had revealed. He needed time to think about all she wanted and
assess his ability to give.

As
if sensitive to his turmoil, Leigh was suddenly withdrawing, rising to stand
over him, her expression both tender and marked with concern.

"For
all this sunshine," she remarked off-handedly, "the wind is
surprisingly cool. I'm going to get the shawl I left back in the buggy."

Without
waiting for a reply, Leigh turned away and headed up the path. It was not
difficult to discern what Hayes was thinking. She had told him too much,
expected him to accept in one afternoon things it had taken her months and
months to grasp. Patience was in order, and she meant to give Hayes all the
time he needed, just as he had given her.

While
she had wrestled with her guilt and doubts, Hayes had maintained his faith in
what they shared. He had kept his love burning bright to help her find her way.
Now it was Hayes who was lost and uncertain when she was sure, his needs that
must be satisfied while hers were set aside. It was what Mother Bickerdyke had
tried to make her understand this morning, what her own mother had tried to
tell her nearly two years before. Because she loved Hayes, because she believed
they were meant to be together, she would give him all the time he needed. It
was her turn to be strong. With a sense of purpose, she took the shawl from the
carriage seat and threaded it through her arms.

Hayes
had watched Leigh's retreat into the trees with a strange sense of relief. He
needed to be alone to sort out his jumbled feelings. He desperately wanted to
believe what she had told him: that in those terrible, lonely months there had
been letters for him somewhere, that she had carried and lost his child.

His
child, the idea astounded him. It must have been conceived that last night in
St. Louis, that night so filled with sweetness and conflict. How had Leigh felt
about carrying his baby? he wondered. Had she wanted the child of a man she
said she loved but could not trust or understand?

Never
in his life had Hayes felt so shaken and unsure, as if all he'd known as truth
were now like shifting sand. Absently he noticed the neck of a bottle
protruding from the picnic basket and delved inside, hoping it contained
something stronger than lemonade or cider. It was a bottle of vintage wine,
perhaps one of the last in the Confederacy, but fastened around the bottle was
a dog-eared piece of paper. Curious, he slipped the string that bound it and
glanced at the closely written page. It was a letter addressed to him.

November 4, 1863—Bridgeport, Alabama

Dearest
Hayes,

This
may prove to be the most difficult letter I will ever write, and as I pen these
words, I am aware of the fullness of my emotions. When I wrote that I was
carrying your child, I was filled with excitement and joy. But now I must tell
you of our loss. After a fall at Vicksburg, I miscarried our child. And though
we all tried very hard to save it, there was nothing we could do.

I
had such hopes for that child, and I so longed to hold it in my arms. I had
wanted with all my heart to find a way to prove my love. I thought a baby might
help to mend the rift between us and give us a reason to resolve our
differences. The miscarriage is the end to those dreams, and I mourn their
passing just as I do the child's.