Nicole backed away, her eyes wide, her stomach turning over at his words.
Clay looked her up and down critically. “I guess I could have done worse. I do take it you persuaded the captain to marry us.”
Nicole nodded silently, a lump forming in her throat and tears blurring her eyes.
“Is that a new dress? Did you make Janie believe you? Did you by some chance create yourself a new wardrobe at my expense?” He stood up again. “All right, consider the wardrobe yours. The lost money will keep me from being so naive and trusting next time. But you’ll not get another cent from me. You’ll return to my plantation with me, and this marriage, if it is such, will be annulled. And as soon as it’s ended, you’ll be put on the first ship back to England. Is that clear?”
Nicole swallowed hard. “I would rather sleep in the streets than spend another moment near you,” she said quietly.
Moving to stand in front of her, watching the candlelight make her features golden, he ran one finger firmly over her upper lip. “And where else have you been sleeping?” he asked, but he left the cabin before she could reply.
Nicole leaned against the door, her heart pounding, and more tears came to her eyes. When Frank had run his filthy hands over her she’d kept her pride, but when Clay touched her she’d acted like a woman of the streets. Her grandfather had always reminded her of who she was, that the blood of kings flowed in her veins. She’d learned to walk erect, her head held high, and even when her mother had been carried away by the mob, she’d kept her head high.
What the horror of the French Revolution could not do to a member of the ancient Courtalain family, one rude and overbearing American had done. With shame, she remembered her complete surrender to his touch, how she’d even wanted to remain in bed with him.
Even though she’d nearly lost herself to him, she would do her best to regain her pride. Looking at the trunks with pain, she knew they were full of clothing cut especially for her. If she couldn’t bring the whole fabric back, maybe she could someday repay Mr. Armstrong.
Quickly, she removed the thin muslin dress she wore and donned a heavier, more practical one of light blue calico. She folded the delicate muslin and put it inside one of the top trunks. The dress she’d worn onto the ship had been discarded by Janie after Frank had torn it.
Taking a piece of writing paper from a trunk, she leaned over the corner cabinet and wrote a letter.
Dear Mr. Armstrong,
I hope that by now Janie will have found you and explained some of the circumstances leading to our mistaken marriage.
You are, of course, right about the clothes. It was only my vanity that allowed me, in effect, to steal from you. I will do my best to repay you for the worth of the materials. It may take me a while, but I will try to get it all to you as soon as possible. For the first payment, I will leave a locket that has some monetary value. It is the only thing of worth that I possess. Please forgive me that it is worth so little.
As for our marriage, I will have it annulled as soon as possible and will send you notification.
Sincerely,
Nicole Courtalain Armstrong
Nicole reread the letter and placed it on the cabinet. With shaking hands, she removed the locket. Even in England, when she’d wanted money so badly, she’d refused to part with the gold filigree locket containing oval porcelain disks with portraits of her parents on them. Always, she’d worn it.
Kissing the little portraits, the only thing she had left from her parents, she placed it on top of the letter. Maybe it was better to break completely with the past, for now she must make her way in a new land—alone.
It was completely dark outside, but the big wharf was lighted with blazing torches. Calmly, Nicole walked across the deck and down the gangplank, the sailors too busy, still unloading the frigate, to notice her. The other side of the wharf looked black and frightening, but she knew she had to get to it. Just as she reached the edge of the woods, she saw Clayton and Janie together under a torch. Janie was speaking rather angrily to Clay while the tall man seemed to be listening silently.
There was no time to linger. She had so much to do. She needed to get to the nearest town, find a job and shelter. Once she was away from the bright lights of the wharf, the woods seemed to engulf her, the trees looking especially black, especially tall and formidable. All the stories she’d heard about America came back to her. It was a place of wild, murderous Indians, a place of strange beasts that destroyed people as well as property.
Her footsteps were the only sound on the forest floor, but there seemed to be many others—slithering movements, squeaks and groans, stealthy, heavy footsteps.
She walked for hours. After a while, she began to hum to herself, a little French song her grandfather had taught her, but it wasn’t long before she realized that her legs wouldn’t be able to carry her any farther if she didn’t rest. But where? She followed a narrow little path, and both ends of it were nothing but black emptiness.
“Nicole,” she whispered to herself, “there is nothing to be afraid of. The forest is the same during the night as it is in the day.”
Her brave words didn’t help much, but she used what courage she had and sat down by a tree. Instantly, she felt damp moss stain her dress. But she was too tired to care. Curling her body, pulling her knees into her chest, her cheek resting on her arm, she went to sleep.
When she woke in the morning, she was aware of eyes staring into hers, enormous eyes. Gasping, she sat up quickly, scaring off the curious little rabbit that had been watching her. Laughing at her silly fears, she looked around her. With the early morning sunlight coming through the trees, the forest looked friendly and inviting. But as she rubbed her stiff neck, and then when she tried to stand, she found her whole body was sore and aching, and her dress was damp, her arms cold. She hadn’t even noticed yesterday how her hair had come unpinned and now hung about her neck in messy tangles. Hastily, she tried to put what pins were left back into her hair.
The few hours of sleep had invigorated her, and she set out on the narrow path with new energy. Last night she hadn’t been so sure of herself, but this morning she knew she’d done the right thing. Mr. Armstrong’s accusations were something she couldn’t have lived with, and now she would be able to repay him and regain her pride.
By midmorning she was very hungry. Both she and Janie had eaten very little the two days before they reached America, and her growling stomach reminded her of this.
At noon, she reached a fence that protected an orchard of hundreds of apple trees, some barely ripe, and a few in the middle of the orchard laden with fat, ripe food. Nicole was halfway over the fence before Clayton Armstrong’s voice accusing her of stealing made her pause in midair. What was happening to her since she had reached America? She was turning into a thief, a generally dishonorable person.
Reluctantly, she backed down from the fence. Although her mind felt good, her stomach gnawed at itself.
At midafternoon, she came to a steep-sided creek, painfully aware of the ache in her legs and feet. It seemed that she’d walked for days and she wasn’t anywhere near civilization. The fence had been the only sign that a human had ever set foot on this land before.
Carefully, she walked down the side of the creek, sat down on a rock, unbuckled her shoes, removed them, and put her feet into the cool water. Her feet were blistered, and the water felt good.
An animal ran out of the bushes behind her and toward the stream. Startled, Nicole jumped and turned around quickly. The little raccoon was as shocked to see her as she was to see it. Immediately, it turned and ran back into the forest as Nicole laughed at herself and her fears. Turning back to get her shoes, she was just in time to see them floating downstream. With her skirts over her arm, she went after them, but the stream was deeper than it looked and much swifter. She’d barely gone ten steps when she slipped and fell, her skirts wrapped around her, tangling her feet, and something sharp bit into her inner thigh.
It
took several minutes for her to right herself and unwrap her skirts, and when she tried to stand her leg gave way under her. Grabbing at an overhanging branch, she used it to help pull herself to shore. On the bank at last, she lifted her skirts to survey the damage. There was a long, jagged cut on the inside of her left thigh, and it was bleeding profusely. She tore off the bottom of her chemise and gingerly daubed at the wound, gritting her teeth against the pain. With another piece of her chemise, she pressed harder on the cut, and after several minutes the bleeding stopped. Finally, she bandaged her leg with more linen.
The pain of her leg, her exhaustion, and the light-headedness from her hunger were all too much for her. She lay back against the sand and gravel of the creek bank and slept.
The rain woke her. The sun was nearly down, and the woods were growing dark again. With a jolt, Nicole sat up, then put her hands to her head until her dizziness passed. Her leg ached, and she felt weak, her whole body aching. It was difficult to stand, but the cold rain made her realize that she had to find shelter. Her blistered feet smarted when she stood on them, but she knew it was no use looking for her shoes in the dark and rain.
She walked for a long time, and she was beginning to feel as if she were out of her body and the misery did not affect her. Her feet were cut and bleeding, but she kept walking. The rain had never gone beyond a cold drizzle, and now it looked as if it might stop. Long ago, she’d lost the pins from her hair, and it hung coldly and wetly to her waist.
Two large animals approached her, their lips curled back into snarls, their eyes firelight bright. Backing away from them, she pressed her back against a tree and looked at them in terror. “Wolves,” she whispered.
The animals advanced on her, and she pressed closer to the tree, knowing these were her last moments of life, feeling that she was dying very young and there was so much she’d never done.
Suddenly, a large shape—a man—appeared on horseback. She tried to see if he were real or a figment of her imagination, but her head was spinning so badly she couldn’t tell.
The man, or the apparition—whichever it was—dismounted and picked up some stones from the ground. “Get out of here!” he yelled, and threw the stones at the dogs. The dogs turned quickly and ran away.
The man walked to Nicole. “Why the hell didn’t you just tell them to go away?”
Nicole looked at him. Even in the darkness, Clayton Armstrong’s demanding tones were unmistakable. “I thought they were wolves,” she whispered.
“Wolves!” he snorted. “Far from it. Just mongrels looking for a handout. All right, I’ve had enough of your nonsense. You’re coming home with me.”
He turned away as if he assumed she would follow him. Nicole didn’t have the strength to argue. In fact, she had no strength whatsoever. She moved a foot away from the tree; then her legs gave out from under her and she collapsed.
Chapter 4
CLAY BARELY HAD TIME TO CATCH HER BEFORE SHE HIT the ground. He refrained from a tirade on the stupidity of females when he saw that she was nearly unconscious. Her bare arms were cold, wet, and clammy. Kneeling, he leaned her against his chest and removed his coat, which he wrapped around her. When he picked her up in his arms, he was amazed at how light she was. He set her on his horse, holding her while he mounted behind her.
It was a long ride to his plantation.
Nicole tried to sit up straight to avoid contact with him. Even in her exhausted state, she could feel his hatred for her.
“Here, lean back, relax. I promise I won’t bite you.”
“No,” she whispered. “You hate me. You should have let the wolves have me. Better for everyone.”
“I told you they weren’t wolves, and I don’t hate you. Do you think I’d have spent so much time looking for you if I hated you? Now, lean back.”
His arms around her were strong, and when she put her head on his chest she was glad to be near any human again. The events of the last few days whirled in her head. She seemed to be swimming in a river, and there were red shoes all around her. The shoes had eyes and were snarling at her.
“Hush. You’re safe now. The shoes or the wolves can’t get you. I’m with you, and you’re safe.”
Even in her sleep, she heard him and relaxed as she felt his hand rubbing her arm, the motion good and warm.
When he stopped the horse, she opened her eyes and looked up at the tall house that loomed over them. Dismounting behind her, he held up his arms for her. Nicole, somewhat refreshed by her sleep, tried to regain her dignity. “Thank you, but I need no help,” she said, then started to dismount. The weakness of her exhausted, starved body betrayed her, and she fell against him quite hard, nearly losing her breath, but Clay merely bent and swept her into his arms.
“You are more trouble than any six females combined,” he said as he walked toward the door.
Closing her eyes and leaning against him, she could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart.
Inside the house, he set her down in a large leather chair and pulled his coat closer around her before handing her a large glass of brandy. “I want you to sit there and drink that. Do you understand? I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve got to take care of my horse. If you’ve moved while I’m gone, I’ll turn you over my knee. Is that clear to you?”
She nodded her head, and he was gone. She couldn’t see the room she was in—it was too dark—but she guessed it was a library since it smelled of leather, tobacco, and linseed oil. She inhaled deeply. It was definitely a man’s room. Looking at the brandy glass in her hand, she saw he’d nearly filled it. She sipped it slowly. Delicious! It had been so long since she’d tasted anything. As the first sip of the brandy began to warm her, she took a deeper drink. The two days of fasting had emptied her completely, and now the brandy went straight to her head. When Clay returned, she was smiling devilishly, the crystal brandy snifter dangling at the ends of her fingers.
“All gone,” she said. “Every drop gone.” Her words were not slurred like those of an ordinary drunk but were heavily accented.
Clay took the glass from her. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Days,” she said, “weeks, years, never, always.”
“That’s all I need,” he grumbled. “Two o’clock in the morning, and I’ve got a drunken woman on my hands. Come on, get up, and let’s get something to eat.” He took her hand and pulled her up.
Nicole smiled at him, but her injured leg would not support her. When she collapsed against him, she smiled apologetically. “I hurt my leg,” she said.
He bent and picked her up. “Did the red shoes do it or the wolves?” he asked sarcastically.
Rubbing her cheek against his neck, she giggled. “Were they really dogs? Were the red shoes really chasing me?”
“They were really dogs, and the shoes were a dream, but you talk in your sleep. Now be quiet or you’ll wake the whole house.”
She felt so deliciously light-headed as she leaned closer to him and put her arms around his neck. Her lips were close to his ear as she tried to whisper. “Are you really the awful Mr. Armstrong? You don’t seem at all like him. You’re my rescuing knight, so you can’t be that horrid man.”
“You think he’s that awful?”
“Oh, yes,” she said firmly. “He said I was a thief. He said I stole clothes meant for someone else. And he was right! I did. But I showed him.”
“How did you do that?” Clay asked quietly.
“I was very hungry, and I saw some apples in an orchard, but I didn’t take them. No, I wouldn’t steal them. I’m not a thief.”
“So, you starved yourself just to prove to him that you weren’t a thief.”
“And for me. I count, too.”
Clay didn’t answer as he came to a door at the end of a hallway. He opened it and carried Nicole outside toward the kitchen, which was separate from the house.
Nicole lifted her head from Clay’s shoulder and sniffed. “What is that smell?”
“Honeysuckle,” he said succinctly.
“I want some,” she demanded. “Would you please carry me to it so I may cut a piece?”
Closing his mouth on a retort, he obeyed her.
There was a six-foot brick wall covered with the fragrant honeysuckle, and Nicole tore off six branches before Clay said she had enough and carried her to the kitchen. Inside the large room, he set her on the big table in the center of the room as if she were a child and started the fire that had been banked for the night.
Lazily, Nicole toyed with the honeysuckle in her lap.
Turning from the fire to look at her, Clay saw that her dress was muddy and torn, her feet bare, cut, and bleeding in places. Her long hair hung down her back, the blackness of it playing with the firelight, and she didn’t look more than twelve years old. As he looked at her, he noticed a darker stain on the light-colored fabric.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asked harshly. “That looks like blood.”
Startled, she looked up at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. “I fell,” she said simply, watching him. “You are Mr. Armstrong. I’d recognize that frown anywhere. Tell me, do you ever smile?”
“Only when there’s something to smile about, which is not at the moment,” he answered, lifting her left leg and propping her heel on top of his belt. Then he rolled her skirt back to expose her thigh.
“Am I really such a burden, Mr. Armstrong?”
“You haven’t exactly added any peace and quiet to my life,” he said as he gently pulled the bloody piece of linen from the cut. “Sorry,” he said when she winced and grabbed his shoulder. It was an ugly, dirty cut but not deep. He thought it would heal properly if it were washed well. He swung her around so her leg was stretched out on the table and went to heat some water.
“Janie said you had half the women in Virginia after you. Is that true?”
“Janie talks too much. I think we’d better get some food in you. You know you’re drunk, don’t you?”