The Beloved One (18 page)

"Please, Charles, take my hand and let me lead you away from the edge."

He flung out his arm, palm up, preventing her from coming any closer.  "No, Amy.  I cannot touch you, for I have never needed you as much as I do in this moment, and God help me, if I touch you I may find myself unable to
stop
touching you, and if that were to happen I swear the guilt I already feel will be my undoing —"

"Charles, what are you saying?"

"It doesn't matter what I'm saying, Amy, sweet Jesus, forget I said anything and please —" he plunged his hand into his pocket, found the letter from Juliet, and held it out to her — "please, just read this before any more time passes, I beg of you, please read it and show me that someone in my life still cares for me and that this world has not been turned completely upside down, I beg of you Amy, read it and read it
now
!"

He drew back, trembling, hands pressed against his sightless eyes as he tried to get himself under control.  He felt her hands against his shoulders, heard her soft voice only inches away.

"Charles, please, it's all right —"

"It's
not
all right, can you not see?  My army has rejected me, my own brother toys with me in the name of
discipline
, and here I am in my darkest hour and who is it that I want to reach for, who is it that I want to hold, who is it that I need more than any other person on earth?"

"Charles —"

"It's
you
, Amy, can't you see it, can't you feel it, can't you understand that you are the very center of my existence?!  You, not Juliet.  You.  God damn it,
I need you.
"

He pushed away from her and bent his head to his balled fist, his mouth twisted in pain and self-loathing for these needs he could not control, these feelings he should never have.

"I'm sorry," Amy whispered, reeling with shock at what he'd just confessed.  "I didn't know . . ."

"Juliet is the one I should want right now, not you," he was saying, hoarsely.  "It is she who holds my heart, who wears my ring, who carries my unborn baby . . . Oh, God help me, Amy, read the letter.  Read the damned letter now, so that I may be reminded where my heart lies, so that I may be reminded of my promise to the woman who loves me, so that I may be reminded of who I was and who I seek to remain.  Read it so that I may know that
she
, at least, is still there for me when everyone on whom I thought I could depend, has abandoned me . . ."

Amy, trembling and afraid, put down her packages and silently took the letter from him.  The shadows were long, the pier deserted, even the distant hammering from the Ashton Shipyards had ceased.  Everyone had gone home for the night.  She slowly broke the seal on the letter, scanned its contents, and, her eyes filling with tears, pushed a hand to her mouth.

No.  Please God, no.

"Amy?"  He stood there before her, his body rigid with anticipation, his mouth a slash of pain, his eyes fierce with a desperate hope.  And Amy looked beyond his shoulder, at the wide expanse of water moving slowly toward and past them as it pushed its way out to sea, and suddenly felt a sense of menace.  Dread shivered through her and she took Charles's hand.  It felt stiff.  Cold.

Like that of a man already dead.

He swallowed, and she knew then that he already suspected the worst.  She squeezed her eyes shut on a film of silent tears.  And then she quietly led him off the pier.  Onto the soft bank that held back the river.  Up the slight slope to a patch of grass, where she sat down and bade him to do the same.

She looked over at him.  His face was totally expressionless.

"Go on," he said.  "Read the letter."

She did.

Chapter 12

Dear Charles,

I know it has been some time since you wrote, and I hope you are still at the address you gave, for this letter to reach you.  The time since we last met has been hell for me, and it has been as much as I have been able to do to keep body and mind together, never mind responding to your pitiful writings.

First I heard you were dead, then I received your letter from Newburyport and learned that you were blind.  I am afraid that the shock of these several pieces of news led me to lose our baby, and I nearly died myself in the process.

The fact of the baby has not gone unnoticed, of course, and enough people have associated this news with the liaison I had with a king's officer, that my life, and that of my stepfather, has become almost unbearable.

I realise now that I no longer love you.  You have ruined my life with the baby, I have lost the respect and the trust of our neighbours, and I have no sympathy for the self-pitying letter you wrote after your ridiculous accident at Concord.  You are not the man I thought you were.

In short, I intend to pick up the pieces and try to make the most of what I have left, and I commend you to do the same; however, do not make things even more unpleasant for either of us by trying to contact me again.

Juliet Paige

Amy lowered the letter.

And then she looked at Charles.

He sat beside her, his hair catching the last rays of the dying sun, his lashes throwing shadows across cheeks that had drained of blood.  His face was frighteningly still.  His fingers were interlocked in a sort of double fist, the knuckles showing white; instinctively, she reached out to touch them.

They were trembling.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, wishing with all her heart that she could take this pain from him.  "About the baby, about Juliet . . ."  She squeezed his hand.  "You deserve so much better than this . . . "

His throat was working.  He blinked in that painfully slow, studied way he had and pulled himself to his feet, where he stood swaying a bit, his gaze fixed on a horizon he could not see.

"You're a fine man, and if Juliet can't see that, then she's not worthy of you . . ."

He stood there, just staring emptily out over the darkening water.

"Please, Charles, say something — you're frightening me."

He looked down at her then, blinked, and for a moment, she almost thought he could see her, so true, so deep, was his gaze.  There were tears in his eyes.  He smiled, gently —

And then, as though he could see exactly where he was going, he began to walk toward the riverbank.

"Charles?"

And straight into the water.

"Charles!
"

She leaped to her feet, grabbed up her skirts, and charged after him.  "Charles, no! 
No!
"

He waded right up to his knees in the salty outgoing tide, up to his thighs, staggering now, one arm thrown out for balance, the other hand pressed to his eyes in a futile attempt to hold back the tears.  Amy plunged in after him and made a desperate grab for his arm.  He gave one raw, choking sob, and then half fell, half threw himself into the current, which quickly caught him and began to sweep him downriver.

"Charles!" Amy screamed.  "
Charles!
"

Terror gripped her.  Heedless of modesty, Amy tore off everything but her stays and shift, leaped onto the pier and pounded down its length as fast as she could run.

"Charles!"

Without breaking stride, she flung herself off the pier and far out into the river, where the current ran faster than it did near shore and would carry her down to him with utmost speed.  Fighting her way to the surface, kicking furiously to speed her progress, Amy angled out away from shore.  Already the current was carrying her down toward the blond head.

Please, dear God, let me get to him in time . . . he's lost everything, he doesn't know what he's doing — please, God, he deserves better than this!

The river bore her steadily down on him, frightening her with the immense power of hundreds of tons of water all around her.  Salt stung her eyes.  Her skin ached with cold.  And now she was coming up to him, now he was thirty feet away . . . fifteen . . . closer in to shore than she was and not at the mercy of as much current. 
Please, God, don't let it sweep me past him!
  She struck out against the flow, swimming diagonally toward shore, crying, shouting, flinging out an arm in a desperate attempt to reach him.  Her fingers hooked in his collar.  Held.  The rest of her body swept past him, so that she was caught on him like a boat at its mooring.

Both of them were going downriver now.

"Damn you, Amy, leave me be!" he shouted hoarsely.

"I won't let you die!"

"Damn you I
want
to die!"

"You can't die, because suicide is the same as throwing God's gift of life right back in His face, and I can't let you do that, Charles, I can't —"

She cried out as his shirt tore and she was swept away from him.

"Amy!"

The current caught her.  Gamely, she tried to fight it, snatched at the mooring line of a schooner as she was carried past, and missed.  Beneath her was some thirty feet of water, and whirling, sucking tornadoes of current that were all going downriver with her.

"
Amy!
" he roared, striking blindly out towards her.  "Amy, call to me, keep calling so that I know where you are!"

"Charles!"

Oh no, oh please God, no!

She tried to swim diagonally back toward shore, to work with the current instead of against it, but it was too strong for her.  It pulled her long braid from its pins and out past her fast-moving body; it dragged at her tiring legs and arms, bore her along like a leaf on the wind.  She saw marshlands slipping past, a moored sloop, and envisioned herself being carried straight out past the mouth of the river and into the sea, never to be found, never to be seen again. 
Oh, God help me, please God, help!

"Charles!"

"Keep calling me, Amy, for God's sake keep calling!"

"Charles! 
Charles!
"

She clawed her way around to face him, and there he was, ten feet away . . . five . . . an arm's length . . . reaching blindly out for her, his face a mask of desperation and terror that he would lose her.  Amy, crying out, lunged toward him.  Their fingers met, were ripped apart once more.  "Charles!"  And then his hand lashed out and seized hers in a grip that nearly broke every bone in her wrist with the force with which he claimed her.

Together they struggled toward shore.  Amy's strength was all but gone.  Her lungs were heaving, her skin felt brittle with cold, salt water blinded her.  But the grip Charles had on her wrist would've anchored any one of the boats that they were slipping past.  A powerful swimmer, he angled straight across the swift outgoing tide and brought them safely toward shore.

And then there was mud beneath their feet, then grass, and he had her in his arms and against his chest as he waded out of the river, water streaming from his loose hair.

"Damn you for a little fool!" he rasped, staggering up onto the bank with her.  And then, on a harsh, anguished sob, "What the
hell
do you think you were doing?"

His voice broke and Amy had no time to answer him, for his mouth came crashing down on hers and she was tumbling down to the soft bank.

"Charles!"

He buried his face in her shoulder, great, racking sobs convulsing his body.  "Christ, to think I nearly just lost you as well . . . I need you so badly . . . you're the only one left to me . . .  I don't know what I'm doing, I don't want to live anymore, I have nothing left to live for, I cannot go on —"

"Stop it!"

"I cannot fight this anymore, I just don't have it in me, it's too much, just too much . . ."

"Yes you
can
!"

She pulled his head down and wrapped her arms fiercely around the back of his neck.  He struggled for the briefest of moments; then, with a harsh sound of defeat, he drove his mouth against hers, his hand plunging into the sleek wet hair behind her ear, his lips crushing hers with the desperation of the damned.  Amy's head fell backwards, into grass and sand.  She felt his weight come down alongside of and atop her, pressing her further into the damp earth, and now water was running out of his hair, down his cheeks, around and into their open, searching mouths.  She tasted salt, and the tears of his anguish; felt the heat of his hand through her stays and the drenched cotton shift, and gasped as splinters of delight shot through her blood, bursting out in all directions, centering in a spot between her legs until she began to pant and writhe beneath him.

He tore his face away, his breathing as harsh as hers, his expression anguished.

"Dear
God
, what am I doing?"

She locked her arms around his shoulders as he tried to move away, fearing he'd throw himself straight back into the river.  "Charles, please!  I can't let you go!"

"You must, I need you — I
want
you — I fear my despair, I fear my need, I fear the control they have over me and my intentions . . . But oh, God, I need you . . . I want you . . ."

"I want you too, Charles."

"You don't know what you want, you don't know what you
ask
!"

"I love you, Charles. 
I love you.
"

He gave a harsh sob, and then his mouth was against hers once more, kissing her hard and deep, his tongue thrusting into her mouth and plundering it ruthlessly.  Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and then he was tearing his face away, only to drag fervent kisses down the salty, chilled skin of her jaw, her throat, the point of her collarbone.  He had her stays unlaced, the soaked, boned garment ripped open before she knew what he was about, and now she felt his broad hand warming her flesh, cupping her breast, his mouth and tongue hot against her skin, moving lower and lower before finally fastening over her nipple and drawing both it and the gauzy wet shift up into his mouth.  He suckled her hard.  Amy arched upwards, a moan tearing from her throat as sensation exploded inside her.  She drove her hands into his wet hair, holding him close, pushing herself wantonly into him.  In seconds her skin was on fire, her insides a boiling cauldron, her breathing raw and raspy.  And now his other hand was peeling the wet clinging cotton from her legs, driving between her thighs, caressing them up the inside and splaying fingers into the soft mound of curls between them, already slick with desire for him.