Renegade (15 page)

His own lips pulled into a rueful grin, and he tapped the palmetto tattoo with his left finger. She didn’t move her hand, but followed his gaze to the fronds. “That’s what this was. I’ve been to China, you know. I’ve sailed—steamed, I guess—across the Atlantic a dozen times. And I realized that I hated it.” He took a deep breath. “Not just because I was at someone else’s mercy. I hated being away from the Lowcountry for so long. This is my home, and I have to keep coming back.”

Becks’ left hand covered his over the tattoo, and she met his eyes again. “Then there’s hope for you yet, McKee Baird.”

She felt him turn his hand over until it was holding hers, but she didn’t move or look away from those incredible eyes. “I’d like to think so, Becks.”

“You might be a criminal, but…”

“I just don’t like being told what to do.”

She had to smile at that. She could understand him, even if she didn’t agree. “But you’ve got a decent streak, too.” His thumb was now rubbing against her palm, and his arm felt slick beneath her other hand.

Oh, yes; that
was
desire she could see in his eyes. It
had
to be. She watched him swallow, and leaned towards him. He smelled faintly of cinnamon, something she’d noticed before. He was wild and exotic and oh-so-touchable.

She wondered if he tasted as good as she remembered.

And then the sun moved behind a cloud, and the sudden shadow surprised them both. They started, and she dragged her gaze away from his to look upward. Sure enough, there were grey clouds drifting in from the east.

She glanced back down at him to see his smile flash and knew that the moment had passed. His voice didn’t sound at all strained when he said, “I guess we’d better get started,” and she had to wonder if she’d imagined that breathless moment they’d shared.

Her hands felt cold when she removed them from his skin, and there was a brief feeling of loss. He sat back and then reached for their poles.

Becks groped the tin bucket beside her foot and pulled out the cast net. She cherished the feel of the individual strands between her fingertips, knowing the time and effort Moses had put into this one. When she’d been twelve, Becks had broken her leg falling—no surprise—out of a tree. Moses had known how hard it was for her to be stuck in bed and had taught her how to tie the intricate little knots required for cast nets. Hers would never be as tight and neat as his, but she thought of him and his care every time she threw a net.

Tucking her feet beneath her bottom, she easily stood on the stern thwart. Her sudden movement caused him to reach for her, but she just smiled down at him. She didn’t have the
best
balance in the world, but falling out of a boat would hardly kill her. Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Taking part of the weighted edge in her mouth, she placed one foot on the transom, grasped the rest of the edge of the net, twisted and
threw
. The net made a perfect little circle when it hit the water. And although she didn’t turn to look at Mac, she heard his quiet grunt of approval.

It took a few casts before she startled a school of mullet, and netted enough for bait. Dumping them into the bucket, she picked out the little mud snails that had found their way into the net, and threw them overboard. They baited their hooks with the mullet and cast as near the fallen oak as possible.

The clouds were soft and intermittently blocked the sun. The morning was otherwise warm, and… surprisingly pleasant. Despite the harsh words she’d thrown at him during their last encounter, and despite the way he made her belly flip-flop when the touched, their fishing interlude was surprisingly peaceful.

They teased each other, and they talked about their pasts. She learned all about his childhood as a middle child, and how his mother seemed to understand him the best. She learned about Baird’s Cove, and how he’d had no interest in the plantation when he was younger, content to leave it to his older brother Holton. He’d rebelled often as a child, chafing under his father’s control. When the war began he’d been only twelve, and his father supported the Southern cause whole-heartedly. By the time his father died, and he was old enough to enlist, his mother had convinced him that he wouldn’t do well in the army, with so many different men giving him orders. Besides, Holton was already off in Virginia with the 4
th
Calvary Battalion, and she needed him at home. He confessed that he’d always appreciated his mother’s insistence, because Mac had never supported the South as fervently as his father had. How could he, when he’d seen the way Samuel Baird and others like him treated men like Robert?

She’d answered all of his questions the other day in the field, so she didn’t feel at all guilty about interrogating him now. After pulling in another particularly fine red drum—that made three for her and four for him—she expertly baited the hook again and flicked the line out into the water.

“And Robert?”

“What about him?” Mac was watching his line, but occasionally sent glances at the clouds overhead. They weren’t thunderclouds, but they’d probably drop some rain on Beckett sometime today. Becks found that she didn’t mind.

“Did you meet him after you left home and went to sea?”

“No. He came with me.” He jiggled the line a bit. “Robert… you know what a whipping boy is?”

Becks swallowed and nodded. It was an old tradition of punishing a slave for the master’s faults.

“My father gave me Robert when I was six. He’s the same age as me, and of course we…” Mac took a deep breath. “The two of us would spend a lot of time away from home, trompin’ through the woods or sailing on the Ashley. Father didn’t have enough time to explain that we weren’t supposed to be friends.”
Thank God for that
, Becks thought. “By the time he got around to instructing me on my proper place as a white, slave-owning. God-fearing gentleman, the damage had been done. I was lookin’ at Robert and seeing a human being. Not the animal my
father,”
Mac fairly spit the word, “and his
friends
saw. Even my mother didn’t understand, but I didn’t care.”

“Did he take your punishments?”

“Once Father figured out I didn’t like following his rules, he started whipping Robert every time I ran off.” Mac shrugged, but Becks wasn’t fooled. She could see the tension across his shoulders and in the way he was staring intently at the old oak. “So I stopped runnin’ off. It damn near killed me to follow his rules, but Robert was there to keep me sane.”

“And you kept him safe.”

Mac closed his eyes briefly, and she admired his profile. The thick brows over that slightly crooked nose gave him a lawless look, but there was a strength to his jaw that reflected his spirit. He was a stubborn man who wanted to make his own way in life, by his own rules.

Then he cleared his throat. “Robert’s my brother as much as Holt and Ramsey are. He understands me better than any of ‘em. We’re partners.”

Becks nodded, and looked back at her cork, bobbing in the current. “I think I can see that.”

He turned then, those copper eyes piercing her down to her heart. “I think you do, Becks. I think you
do
see that, and… and that’s remarkable.”

“Not
so
remarkable.” The pole dropped, almost unbidden, to the bottom of the boat as she leaned towards him. Her whisper had drawn him closer too, and she watched his lips part slightly in what she hoped was anticipation. She was aching to taste him again.

And then his cork ducked under water, and the pole was nearly pulled from his hands, and the moment was lost. Laughing, she helped him heave a fat trout over the side.

Later, they hauled in the painter and let the tide carry them back down towards the main dock. Mac pulled only a few lazy strokes to keep them in the center of the river, and Becks pointed out Beckett landmarks as they passed.

“We used to plant rice along here, but it wasn’t enough to be worth it. You can see the start of the back cotton fields over there. And this stretch of woods is the best place to hunt small game.” Mac’s smile flashed, and she wondered what he thought of her hunting. “The old slave cabins are down that grove of pines.” She pointed. “But most of them have been fixed up enough now for people to actually live in them.”

“You’ve got a bit of an abolitionist streak in you, too, I see.”

Becks shrugged. “The sea islands have always been different. At least, that’s what Mother says. She was raised in this house, too, you know. My family kept slaves, and my father…” She bit off the thought, not willing to let a man she barely remembered ruin the lovely day. “The Africans were my family when I was a girl. Things changed after the war, but when we came back, many of them did, too. Now… we’re equals.”

“Not many people think that way, you know.”

Becks shrugged again, embarrassed by the attention. “Not even around here. The neighbors put up with us because my mother comes from an old Edisto family. But they don’t exactly agree.”

Maybe he could see her discomfort, because he pulled again on the oars. He nodded towards one of the grand oaks standing a ways from the bank. “That looks like one you’ve climbed.”

Remembering her comment to him all those weeks ago about being a good climber, Becks smiled. “My mother used to climb that one, too, when she was a girl. Nearly gave Grandmama a conniption when she found out.” They drifted by. “I fell out of that tree when I was twelve and broke my leg.”

He snorted and rolled his eyes. She pretended to be offended. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Only that you have a propensity for falling out of trees.”

“Twice, Mac.
Twice
.”

He laughed, and she reached over the side to splash him with water, which made him laugh harder.

When the first raindrops hit her head and shoulders, she thought for a moment that he was splashing her back. But then he looked up at the clouds, and she understood.

He bent back over the oars, saying, “I should get you home.”

“Why?” Becks lifted her face to the droplets. “I’m not afraid of gettin’ a little wet.” She inhaled, relishing the taste of the rain mixed with the salt. “It feels good.” Then she opened her eyes and met his and damn near fell off of her seat.

There was such a look of… of
want
in his expression that she had trouble catching her breath. His eyes devoured her, pulling away all pretense and
knowing
her the way no one else ever had. She could feel her own pulse in her temple, and she swallowed, breathless.

The gentle shower soon soaked them both, but neither cared. Rain was one of Becks’ favorite things about Beckett: the sounds of rain on the river and the sight of those millions of tiny pockmarks in the water, each swallowed instantaneously to be replaced by another droplet.

But right now, right here, she had no attention to spare. Her entire being was focused on this man. The rain had plastered his shirt to his broad chest, and she decided that she liked cotton after all. She could see each and every line of muscle and contour of skin, and she wanted—more than anything else—to touch him. To touch this man.

And this time—thank God!—nothing interrupted them. He reached for her as she leaned towards him, and his hands felt warm and heavy on her cheeks. Their lips met, and he tasted of salt and rain and cinnamon and adventure.

He tasted even better than she remembered.

His lips nibbled at hers, and when his tongue pressed between them, a shiver passed through her. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this, and she
loved
it. He was the perfect teacher, gentle and relentless, and soon she grew bold enough to caress his lips the way he caressed hers.

Mac groaned then and pulled her closer, and they both forgot about the rain and the boat and Beckett for a bit longer.

When they finally pulled apart, she was sitting on his lap, and,
Lord
, but that made her even hotter. They were both soaked and might as well have been naked with the way the rain had plastered their clothes to them. He was breathing heavily with one hand resting at her waist and the other still against her cheek. Her arms were around his neck, her fingers wrapped through the hair at the base of his neck, and she could feel his hardness around her. She could feel his hardness
under
her, pressed against her rear end, and knew what that meant. She wiggled slightly, and he groaned and pulled her in for another kiss.

He left her breathless, and it was better than anything she could’ve imagined. It was like the feeling she got as she raced her small skiff up the Sound, or when she reached the highest branches of one of the oaks, or when she snuck up on a herd of deer. Only much, much better. Her heart was beating fast enough to hear, and she was close to panting. So was he, and that exhilarated her even more. She’d been waiting months for him, and now he was here and she could have him.

No man had ever made her feel this way. She couldn’t imagine that there was another man who
could
make her feel this way..

Wrapped around him in that small rowboat, the fish at their feet and the rain caressing them, Becks made a decision. Mac Baird was the man for her. No matter his past, no matter his future, she had him
now
. She had his present, and she would take all of him.