The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) (28 page)

  He snorted and shook his head. “I’ve made love now a few more times than would be considered thoughtful.” He looked up at me suddenly. “But I’ll never do it again. With another woman. And I only performed with a lamb’s skin on my—do you know what I mean by that?”

I nodded. I’d had a recent visit to the midwife who had educated me in many of the devices that might protect a woman from pregnancy.

If I didn’t know better and if the light had been brighter I would have sworn that Mathew was blushing, but he just continued. “I’ll never lie with another woman again. I promise.”

I swallowed, feeling his words pierce through all the mutilated pieces of my heart. “Do you love her?”

He shook his head vehemently. “No! Lord, no. I—she was–she knew I came to her for you.”

“Oh,” I could only whisper, “well.”

“Do you despise me?”

I shook my head and looked down at my tortured hands as I contorted them in my hold. “I—no.”

“Yes, and well you should. I am a rake of a man, a—”

“No, I don’t despise you. I’m dreadfully jealous.”

I glanced up at him. He blinked a few times then shook his head.

“I’m sorry.”

I nodded.

“I should have waited for you, as you have done for me.”

I shrugged.

“Do you think you could still love me?”

I smiled. “Mathew . . . my darling, if having intimate relations with another woman is your worst crime, than I’m a very lucky woman. Most men have mistresses and—”

He’d snorted when I’d said the words “worst crime.” And now he appeared to be fuming. He kept giving his head a fierce shake. He flung the purple cushion to the bed, and rushed to one of the windows, where he stood looking out at the waxing moon. It was now more than half full, and shone enough to illuminate Mathew’s tense face.

I finally stood and walked to him, but he side stepped my advances.

“I carried on about my virginity, or lack of it rather, when truly I am . . . I—I am a monster.”

I reached for him, but he wouldn’t let me touch him and turned his back to me.

“Mathew, you had carnal intimacies with another woman. I’m jealous, yes, but—”

He swiveled back to me, his mouth in a snarl. “I love you so much, you know? I’ve loved you since I was about ten years of age. I liked you a lot before that, you were my best mate, but it was about then that I decided I’d marry you.”

“And you have, darling. I am married to you now.”

He shook his head slowly. “We could get a divorce. You could still own the land, of course. I’d give it to you. You wouldn’t have to contact me ever again.”

I let out a shock of a breath. “What? You love me, but you want a divorce? What did I do?”

But I knew what I’d done. I was just too much a coward to admit it. I was forcing him to admit my sin. God, I was a wretch.

“’Tis not you, Violet.” He lashed out with his voice, but then quieted his tone as he said, “’Tis me that is the beast.” He leaned forward slightly, and that was when I heard a familiar thud-thud, a heartbeat. Only, it wasn’t mine. I distinctly heard Mathew’s heart racing. Oh, how the man must have been in pain. I tried to reach out for him one more time, but he continued speedily talking. “I have a demon inside me now.” 

“Demon?”

He nodded, then turned away from me again. “If you want a divorce, I’ll understand.”

Finally I grasped for his coat’s arm and yanked him to me. “What on earth are you talking about, Mathew? I don’t want a divorce.”

He shook his head. “Nay, ‘tis too disgraceful for you.” He tentatively touched my chin. “You did nothing. You even saved yourself for me. We don’t have to make love. I understand.”

I growled at him. “Mathew, you are wearing on my last nerve. I just married you.
You
, damn it! I know I will be getting the land, but I finally set the date because—because,” it pained me to admit how selfish I had been all these years, but I had to, for him, “I finally saw you. I saw who you really are when you were arguing with that magistrate from Boston. I finally saw how loving and kind and determined you are, but more than that I saw you, how much you love me. Why on earth would I want to turn away from that?”

He let his hands drop to his sides. “I murdered Kimball.”

He turned from me again.

“I murdered a man, Violet. ‘Twasn’t the way I thought it would be. It was . . . The Lord knows how I admired your father and his Quaker sensibilities and yours. Still, I found out where Kimball was jailed. He was here–well, close to Concord, if you can believe that. As if someone among the redcoats wanted that man dead.” He paused and I noticed his hands trembling. “I found him. He was roped to a tree, sleeping, and like a coward I reached around the tree and slit his neck. It was . . . not what I thought. I—I—” He sucked in a breath and bowed his head.

As dark a deed as murder is, a devious side of me gurgled in appreciation.

He
was the one that beat me to Kimball.
He
was the one that bought my family’s farm for me.
He
was the one.

During the wedding ceremony I’d mimicked the reverend, not even listening to the words I swore to God and before all of Concord. By doing so I was a blasphemer now too, to add to my ugly list of sins, but not anymore.

I would be a good wife to Mathew. I would–over the years, no doubt–somehow make it up to Mathew for my indiscretion and my insincere vows. I made my own promise at that moment. I would love Mathew. I would be devoted to him and him alone. He deserved that. He was my family now. He was the one.

Tentatively I wrapped my arms around his waist, arms and all. He didn’t struggle, but held his breath.

“I do not share my father’s Quaker sensibilities, Mathew, for I must confess to you: you beat me to him,” I whispered, “to Kimball.”

He spun around and my arms hung loose beside me as he searched my face. I continued. “I found Kimball, and, aye, Colonel Devlin came to me in private to see about . . . justice, I think he called it, for that rapist. I went to kill Kimball myself, but you were there first. What you call yourself a monster for, I am also guilty of.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out of his perfect lips.

I reached up, softly holding his lightly whiskered cheeks between my palms. I forced him to bend to me, to lower his head, so I wouldn’t have to stand on my tip toes anymore, but he stiffly stepped back.

I heaved for air, my arms still outstretched, suddenly realizing how I needed his body’s warmth against me, to feel something other than dead inside.

“Am I understanding you correctly?”

I nodded.

“You think me no demon?”

I shook my head. “As demonic as I.”

He blinked then slowly swallowed.

He flopped back, luckily within reach of my parent’s bed. He sat with shock rippling through his face.

“You don’t despise me?”

I shook my head again as I gingerly approached him. His legs were wide apart, as if helping him with his balance, and I lowered myself between his long limbs. Tentatively I wrapped my hands around his knees. The warmth from his body spread its way up my fingers, like the way whisky can race its heat into the belly. I smoothed my hands up a few more inches, feeling the steel structure of his thighs. I let myself gaze upon his body for once. I’d always felt hesitant and wondered what he might think of me, what others might think, if I’d let myself investigate what might lie under his clothes. His legs seemed impossibly long and muscular. I wondered what it would be like to touch every inch of them. At that thought my breasts ached against the constraints of my stay; the apex of my legs became lusciously warm. My eyes ventured onward to his flat stomach and the way he breathed. He seemed to be struggling for air, and I looked up at his angst-ridden face. 

His voice strained when he said, “Do you—do you think you could love me, after all?”

I nodded.

His hands were in fists beside his hips, and I didn’t pause for a moment when I reached out for them. First I stretched out his fingers, then I clutched onto his right hand and curled its palm and fingers around my cheek. I closed my eyes, caressing further into his hand. When I looked up, I saw Mathew’s eyebrows still furrowed.

“Mathew,” I whispered. “My Mathew,
you
are the one I choose.”

I thought I heard a twin boom from two cannons then, but it dawned in me that I was listening to Mathew’s heart again. His brows lifted, but his countenance was still tormented. I released his hand, and he immediately withdrew it to his lap. I reached around and began to unbutton my dress. His heart thundered. His eyes widened, but he didn’t move, didn’t seem to breath, and it took me forever to finally unhinge myself from the top of my dress. He sucked in a sip of air as he looked me over, but he still didn’t move. It took me another eternity to loosen my corset, and even longer to wiggle myself free from my outer clothing. I sat on my shins in my shift, loving the rhythm Mathew was offering me in his fast paced heartbeat.

He made to touch me, but stopped himself before he did. His arm was frozen in the air, but I caught it and urged his hand to my shoulder. My wide necked shift, seeming to know my wishes, moved and revealed my shoulder the second before I forced Mathew’s hand on me.

His fingers burned my skin, but I welcomed the too hot touch. He, again, didn’t move. He looked like a drowning man, needing to gasp for breath, yet not free to do so. I panicked, wondering if he would ever respond to me. But it was then that my eyes fell on his breeches, at the apex of his legs. Men’s anatomy wasn’t a complete mystery to me. After all, I’d been raised on a farm, but I must admit that what I saw in one instant both intimidated and fascinated me. The fabric of his breeches tented toward me, and between my own legs heated more. Curiosity got the better of me. I once more wrapped my hands around his thighs and slowly ascended toward his narrow hips. He clutched at my shoulder. Raising myself on my knees, I pleaded with my eyes, for I knew not the words to ask.

“Mathew.”

He swallowed.

My hands discovered the crease between his legs and his stomach on either side of him, then, finally, he grabbed me and lifted me in an all encompassing kiss.   

I woke with a start, swearing I heard a wolf howling. Mathew stirred in our dark chamber as I moved from his bare arms and chest, but he never wakened.

It was now four days into our marriage. I found I would wake each morning with a heavy arm or leg flung over me, and snoring in place of my sister’s giggles. I would shove my still raw grief down into the pit of my stomach, yet find a smile easy enough for my husband as he would awaken and hold me.

But at that moment it was the middle of night, and I didn’t know what scream or unrest had alerted me to be awake, but was sure I couldn’t go back to sleep. I smiled at Mathew’s large, muscular form as he stretched into a more comfortable position in his sleep. Then I found a linen shift, let it fall over my shoulders, and tiptoed from what I now considered Mathew’s and my bedchamber.

I glanced once more at my husband’s sleeping form, remembering the morning after our wedding. The sun had been so warm, so cheerfully yellow; it had baptized me from all thoughts centered around betrayal or any other sin I’d committed in my life. I think it did the same for him. Mathew had woken me with fresh coffee and a prideful smile spread wide on his face, making the fine lines around his blue eyes crinkle.

“I made coffee. It’s a first for me. I’ve tasted it, and, although it’s not the best, I doubt it will kill you. I feel so domesticated now. I’ve managed to make coffee, Violet! Are you proud of me?”

I’d smiled and nodded, took the coffee, and, after sipping the powerful brew that almost knocked the wind out of me, I had managed a convincing smile.

“It’s wonderful . . . dear.”

His smile had widened to what I was sure would be a breaking point, then he took my coffee to the nightstand, and made love to me for the tenth time in our marriage. I should’ve stopped counting by then, but each time was still so new and adventurous and was a wicked heaven.

As I strolled down the stairs I thought of the past four days of our wedded bliss. I’d found myself drawn to his body more and more. Throughout the day, I’d plow the fields, weed, get the seed ready to be sown, and all the other work needed to be accomplished on a farm, even if one is a newlywed. However, all the labor I had found so rewarding when my mother and sister were alive was now cruel and arduous. But making love . . . oh, that was nice. Instead of feeling numb or on the verge of a glacier-like existence, when Mathew made love to me, I was warm, no, hot, and then I would bubble and break into a million pieces, feeling like I had become glowing white flower petals dancing in a warm summer breeze. How I loved gasping for air, clutching to Mathew’s muscularly squared shoulders, and shuddering with my body’s pleasure.

I walked to the kitchen’s window and held Mathew’s pocket watch up to the moonlight. It was a very bright moon, and showed that it was 1:30 in the morning on April the 19
th
in the year 1775. We’d made love forty-three times now, and I wondered if I could rouse Mathew for our forty-fourth.