The Horsemaster's Daughter (43 page)

H
unter awoke with the bitterness of guilt and old rum in his mouth. Judging by the position of the sun, it was early still. He unfolded his long form from the hammock with utmost care. The way his head felt, it would be too easy to dump himself unceremoniously onto the porch. He wobbled a little and had to grab the railing to steady his swaying.

Each pounding pulse of the headache hammered home the message of what he had done.

He had ruined the girl who had saved his horse.

There was probably a special place in hell for him. He was probably headed there right now, he thought as he walked barefoot and muzzy-headed into the small house.

Empty. She was gone. Maybe she took the dinghy to Eastwick to cry up a lynch mob for him. Maybe she’d fled to a witch-woman in the wood who, young ladies whispered, had a magical means of “restoring” a woman’s lost virginity.

At the cistern outside, he washed himself and tried to rinse the sour taste from his mouth. He was glad she had no mirror, for he didn’t want to see his bloodshot eyes, his ashen face and the corners of his mouth turned down in self-disgust. Her accusing stare, when she saw him next, would be mirror enough.

Last night before he had left her, he should have shown a little restraint. A decent man would have done so. But any explanation would be a lie, of course. The truth was, he’d taken her because he was selfish and accustomed to taking what he wanted. And she was so damn pretty. And the way she felt when he touched her seemed to fill the aching void in his heart. Mostly, he made love to her because she was so alone.

The way she lived out here, all by herself, tending her animals and grieving for her father, nearly put Hunter out of his head with pity, and made him want to hold her close and comfort her. Still, it didn’t excuse what he had done.

Making love to Eliza—Lord, he had almost lost himself inside her—had sucked all coherent thought from his head. Afterward, words had failed him and he’d had to settle for touching her cheek, touching that milk-white skin and feeling the dampness where her tears had been.

She hadn’t spoken to him, but had turned away and gone to the cistern. The moon was high by then, and her face had a bluish caste as she took a cloth and dipped it in the water and bathed herself, never looking at him, never speaking, simply washing her face and her neck, her arms and her legs, up under her skirts. She had looked strangely lovely to him, so silent, so solemn, so intent on her task. But part of him knew what she was doing. She was washing away his touch, trying to regain the purity that had never been breached until that night.

After a while he could no longer look at her. It hurt too much to see this beautiful, damaged girl trying to reclaim herself after what he’d done.

He had drunk rum straight from the jug, hoping to blind himself to the image of the trusting young woman he had destroyed. Stumbling, staggering, he had somehow managed to find his way to the hammock, where he collapsed and knew no more.

Now by the harsh light of day, he had to face up to what he had done. He had to find Eliza and see if there was a way to smooth things out with her. But when he encountered her on the beach, she scarcely acknowledged him, so intent was she on riding the stallion.

“We’re using the hackamore today,” she said, cantering up to him. Finn whistled lightly and tossed his head. “He took to it well enough.”

“Eliza—”

But she had already ridden off, urging the horse to a wild gallop that hurled sand and spray in their wake. Hunter could see that she was lost in the world of the stallion, and he knew there would be no talking to her now. Perhaps she wasn’t ready to discuss last night, and this was her way of showing it. He stood watching her for a while, and as always her unusual dark beauty took his breath away. Her hair, the color of ink, thick as the stallion’s mane, streamed out on the wind like a banner. Her small, lithe body moved with the gallop as if girl and horse were one.

Hunter’s thoughts turned hot and wayward, and he had to force his gaze away from her. This wasn’t doing any good at all. He decided to keep busy with chores. The burned-out barn needed plenty of attention, so he decided to remove the charred timbers from another part of the arena. It was hot, dirty work, and he was grateful for the occupation. The thoughts that nagged at him while he labored were not pleasant. This, after all, was the place where her father had died.

The ghost of Henry Flyte was bound to take offense at the man who had violated his only daughter. Though he knew it was foolish, Hunter kept looking over his shoulder. He found himself wondering about Henry Flyte. So adored by his daughter.

But someone had hated him enough to murder him.

That night over supper, Eliza spoke to Hunter of the stallion’s progress, and her pleasure in the newly cleared corner of the arena, and the possibility of rain because the silver maple leaves had been blowing wrong-side up.

Her voice was pleasant and cordial. She sounded little different than she had…before. She sounded completely normal.

She had made love to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Was it possible a woman could actually feel that way? The idea boggled his mind.

He kept trying to think of a way to bring up the subject, but he didn’t know how to approach it. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure exactly what had happened between them.

No, that was lying to himself. He knew exactly what had happened. He had raped her.

He knew what rape was. Not always a violent act, but always a violation.

It was true that their mating had not been savage. But he had violated her. He had stolen her innocence. No matter that she had offered it freely, as freely as the face of a flower turning to the sun. No matter that she had kept her eyes wide open, looking up at him, and that he had seen the reflection of thousands of stars in her eyes.

When it came to women, Hunter had always been careless. Quick to love them, quick to stop. But never, ever had he bedded a virgin.

Even Lacey had not been a virgin—

He pushed aside the thought of his late wife.

Maybe Eliza was untroubled. Maybe what he had done to her was so horrible that she refused to think of it or speak of it at all.

He didn’t know what to think, what to say, how to act around her. He had worried the subject like a dog with a bone all day, but he’d failed to arrive at a solution. Well, he thought, if she was not going to bring up the subject, maybe he wouldn’t either.

She finished tidying the kitchen, then lit her lamp and brought it to the carved wooden bench by the fireplace. Hunter’s gaze tracked her around the room, and when she settled into her seat and opened
Jane Eyre,
he couldn’t stand it anymore. He burst out, “Hell, I don’t understand you, Eliza Flyte. I don’t understand you at all.”

She glanced up, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean. I’m talking about last night.”

A softness stole over her, almost like a trick of the light. Her eyes grew cloudy and unfocused, and her mouth slackened almost imperceptibly. The look made Hunter want to forget caution and manners and propriety, and ravish her all over again. He made himself stay where he was, planted like a tree in the middle of the room.

“What about last night?” she asked quietly.

“You haven’t mentioned it at all.”

“Was I supposed to?” From anyone else the question might have been coy, but coming from Eliza, it sounded completely guileless.

Irritated, he said, “I didn’t expect you to pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Oh!” She shut her book. “I’m not pretending at all. I thought about it all day. Didn’t you?”

Yes.

She set aside her book and hugged her knees up to her chest. “When I woke up this morning, I felt different. In a good way, I think. As if I had been someplace completely new, and then came home to discover that the whole world had changed.” Her gaze was direct, unwavering. “Did you feel that way too?”

Trapped. He felt trapped by her probing questions and by her innocent stare. What in God’s name did she want from him, need from him? An apology? Dear God—a proposal?

She didn’t wait for his answer, but carefully changed position on the wooden bench, lowering her knees and crossing her ankles. “When I was riding the horse today, it felt…a little uncomfortable. Not unbearable,” she hastened to add. “But in a way that kept me thinking about last night.”

It was all he could do to keep from leaping across the room and clamping his hand over her mouth to shut her up. Didn’t she know how frank she was being, how inappropriate?

No, of course not. How could she? Raised by a man alone, she couldn’t know what was proper and what wasn’t. Still, some things were so obvious.

“Is that the sort of thing you expected me to do?” she asked him. “Talk about it like that? Tell you everything I’ve been thinking?”

“Christ, no. I meant…by doing…what we did—”

“What do you call it anyway?” she asked. “Surely there’s a term for it other than mating.”

Hunter sat down on the wooden crab trap across from her. He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. Speaking of last night made him uncomfortable and peevish too, because he knew he could not allow himself to repeat the experience. He shouldn’t even want to, but he couldn’t help himself.

“That depends,” he said in answer to her question, “on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

How was it that this weird, rag-clad girl had such a disruptive effect on him? He was Hunter Calhoun, who had a reputation for handling beautiful women and blooded horses. Cold control had always been his stock-in-trade. Yet when he considered Eliza Flyte, he could think only of heat and surrender and a wanting so pure that he almost couldn’t look at her for fear she would see the passion in his eyes.

“I could tell you some pretty rough terms for it, but in mixed company I reckon I’d call it ‘making love,”’ he said, forcing an easy nonchalance into his tone.

“Making love,” she repeated, tasting the words as if sipping a drop of nectar from a blossom. “I like that better than simply ‘mating.’ Which is accurate but not terribly poetic. In biblical terms, it’s ‘fornication,’ which is a sin.” She folded her hands in her lap, fingers twisting together. “So if…last night…was a sin, that makes me an unrepentant sinner.”

“Why unrepentant, Eliza?” He gaped at her, wondering if he had heard correctly. All day long he had been thinking she regretted what they had done.

“Because I’m not the least bit sorry. I loved what we did. I loved the way you made me feel. I’d do it again. You only have to say the word, and—”

“Damn it.” He stood up and went to the window, staring out at the blackness of the night. “You shouldn’t talk like that, Eliza. You know damn well that what we did is wrong, and that it’s my fault.” He forced himself to turn to her. “I took advantage of you,” he said. “I could stand here all night, blaming the rum and saying I wanted to hold you on account of you being all alone, but the truth is, I took advantage of you.”

“Why do you say that?” She rubbed her temples as if a headache had started there. “What was wrong with what you did?”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “There are those who would call it rape, Eliza. I stole your virginity.”

“You can’t steal what I freely gave.”

“I ruined you for any other man.”

She laughed. “Do you see men lining up at my door?”

It was even remotely possible that he’d made her pregnant, he thought with a sick lurch of his stomach. And here she sat, wondering what was wrong with that.

“We acted according to our nature,” she said matter-of-factly. “How can that be wrong?”

“It won’t happen again,” he said.

“Don’t you want it to?”

“Wanting has nothing to do with it.” He drew a long, deep breath, hoping absurdly to suck wisdom from the air around him. “Eliza, where I come from, there are rules about this sort of thing.”

“About making love,” she prompted.

“Yeah, that. And the rules are, a woman doesn’t let a man make love to her unless she’s married to him.”

“You consider it a biblical matter, then,” she said. “Fornication. A sin.”

She was frustrating him with her simple logic.

“It’s best forgotten by both of us,” he said brusquely. “But first, I want you to know—I’m sorry.”

“Sorry you made love to me, or sorry it’s a sin?”

“I’m sorry I took advantage of you.”

“I can’t forgive you,” she whispered.

Damn. “Why not?” he demanded.

“Because there is nothing to forgive. I wanted everything you gave me last night, Hunter, and if you say you’re sorry, it ruins it for me. I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to be glad.” She inhaled slowly, raised her voice. “I want you to want me again.”

His body had an instant response, which he quickly concealed by turning back to the window. “You didn’t want that,” he said. “The things I did…the way I touched you…I made you desire me. I took your will away with my touch. It wasn’t fair.”

She fell silent. He could see her reflection in the wavy glass of the window, and her face was set in thoughtful lines. “Up until last night, I thought I had determined the sort of life that would be mine.”

“And what life is that?”

“The isolation of this island. The company of the wild things here. But then you touched me—made love to me. I don’t care if they were tricks. You made me feel warm and alive and filled with wanting. If that’s a sin, then I’m the worst of sinners. I’m not sorry, and I’d do it again at the slightest opportunity.”

“Well, it’s not going to happen,” he said, a cruel edge sharpening his voice. “What if we made a baby?”

“What if we did?” she said wryly.

“I’d never marry you, and you’d be saddled with a child all alone out here.”

His harsh statement kept her silent for much longer this time. He had told her the truth, which was the honorable thing to do. So why did he feel as if he had stepped on a kitten? The silence drew out with unbearable tension, and finally he went to the door, pausing before he left.