intently. “However, I’m wise enough to know that once this war is over and the men start drifting, I can’t exist here alone. I don’t suppose you’re looking for a wife who owns a hundred-acre farm?”
“No,” said Alexander gently. “Indiana isn’t journey’s end for me, nor will I ever be a farmer.”
She shrugged, the corners of her lush mouth turned down. “It was worth a try. You’ll make some woman a good husband.”
The meal done, he sharpened her axe and chopped wood for an hour by lamplight, swinging the instrument easily, tirelessly. Toward the end, she appeared at the back door and watched him.
“You’ve worked up a sweat,” she said when he put the axe down, sharpened it again. “It’s cold, so I’ve put a little hot water in my tin kitchen bath tub. If you bring in more water from the well, you can have a bath in the warmth while I wash your clothes. They won’t dry before morning, and that means you can’t sleep in the barn. You can sleep in my bed.”
The kitchen, wherein they had eaten, was spotless again when he entered, the dishes done, the big cast-iron cooking range giving off enough heat to make the air comfortable; her tin tub stood before it, the bottom filled with hot water from her huge iron kettle, which he refilled from the well before adding more water to the tub. Her hand out, she stood while he gave her his clothes—jean trousers, jean shirt, flannel long johns—then smiled appreciatively.
“You’re very well made, Alexander,” she said, turning to a small wash-tub on the deal table.
It felt so good to squash himself down into warm water that he lingered, sitting hunched with his chin on his knees; his eyelids drooped, closed.
The feel of her strong, rough hand on his back woke him.
“It’s the one bit you can’t do for yourself,” she said, fingers kneading his flesh.
She spread a big braided rag rug on the floor under his wet feet, draped a huckaback towel around him, rubbed briskly.
Where before he had been exhausted, now he was alive, alert, all his senses leaping. He turned inside the towel to face her, and kissed her awkwardly. That brought a huge response from her, deepening the kiss to a dark web of the most intensely physical emotion he had ever known. Her shabby dress came off, her shift and drawers, her home-knitted stockings, and for the first time in his life Alexander Kinross felt a naked woman against him. Her full breasts enthralled him, he couldn’t get enough of them, buried his face between them, brushed her nipples with his palms. It all progressed so naturally; he didn’t need prior experience to sense what she wanted, what he wanted, and the climax when it came was shared, a light-filled ecstasy that bore no relation to the shame of stimulating himself to climax.
At some time during the night they transferred to her bed, but Alexander kept on making love to this wonderful, passionate, beautiful woman who was as starved as he.
“Stay here with me,” she pleaded at dawn when he started to put on his clothes.
“I can’t,” he said through his teeth. “This isn’t my fate, it isn’t my destiny. Were I to stay here, it would be Napoleon electing to stay on Elba.”
She didn’t weep or protest, but rose to make him breakfast while he went out to saddle his horse, load his mule. For the first and only time during his American odyssey, the gold had lain forgotten all night under the straw in the barn.
“Destiny,” she said thoughtfully, loading his plate with eggs, bacon, grits. “It’s a funny word. I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t know men could think about it the way you do. If you can, tell me what your destiny is.”
“My destiny is to become great, Honoria. I have to show a narrow, vindictive old Presbyterian minister what he tried to destroy, and prove to him that a man can rise above his birth.” Frowning, he gazed at her rosy face, all aglow from the splendor of the night. “My dear, get yourself four
“No,” said Alexander gently. “Indiana isn’t journey’s end for me, nor will I ever be a farmer.”
She shrugged, the corners of her lush mouth turned down. “It was worth a try. You’ll make some woman a good husband.”
The meal done, he sharpened her axe and chopped wood for an hour by lamplight, swinging the instrument easily, tirelessly. Toward the end, she appeared at the back door and watched him.
“You’ve worked up a sweat,” she said when he put the axe down, sharpened it again. “It’s cold, so I’ve put a little hot water in my tin kitchen bath tub. If you bring in more water from the well, you can have a bath in the warmth while I wash your clothes. They won’t dry before morning, and that means you can’t sleep in the barn. You can sleep in my bed.”
The kitchen, wherein they had eaten, was spotless again when he entered, the dishes done, the big cast-iron cooking range giving off enough heat to make the air comfortable; her tin tub stood before it, the bottom filled with hot water from her huge iron kettle, which he refilled from the well before adding more water to the tub. Her hand out, she stood while he gave her his clothes—jean trousers, jean shirt, flannel long johns—then smiled appreciatively.
“You’re very well made, Alexander,” she said, turning to a small wash-tub on the deal table.
It felt so good to squash himself down into warm water that he lingered, sitting hunched with his chin on his knees; his eyelids drooped, closed.
The feel of her strong, rough hand on his back woke him.
“It’s the one bit you can’t do for yourself,” she said, fingers kneading his flesh.
She spread a big braided rag rug on the floor under his wet feet, draped a huckaback towel around him, rubbed briskly.
Where before he had been exhausted, now he was alive, alert, all his senses leaping. He turned inside the towel to face her, and kissed her awkwardly. That brought a huge response from her, deepening the kiss to a dark web of the most intensely physical emotion he had ever known. Her shabby dress came off, her shift and drawers, her home-knitted stockings, and for the first time in his life Alexander Kinross felt a naked woman against him. Her full breasts enthralled him, he couldn’t get enough of them, buried his face between them, brushed her nipples with his palms. It all progressed so naturally; he didn’t need prior experience to sense what she wanted, what he wanted, and the climax when it came was shared, a light-filled ecstasy that bore no relation to the shame of stimulating himself to climax.
At some time during the night they transferred to her bed, but Alexander kept on making love to this wonderful, passionate, beautiful woman who was as starved as he.
“Stay here with me,” she pleaded at dawn when he started to put on his clothes.
“I can’t,” he said through his teeth. “This isn’t my fate, it isn’t my destiny. Were I to stay here, it would be Napoleon electing to stay on Elba.”
She didn’t weep or protest, but rose to make him breakfast while he went out to saddle his horse, load his mule. For the first and only time during his American odyssey, the gold had lain forgotten all night under the straw in the barn.
“Destiny,” she said thoughtfully, loading his plate with eggs, bacon, grits. “It’s a funny word. I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t know men could think about it the way you do. If you can, tell me what your destiny is.”
“My destiny is to become great, Honoria. I have to show a narrow, vindictive old Presbyterian minister what he tried to destroy, and prove to him that a man can rise above his birth.” Frowning, he gazed at her rosy face, all aglow from the splendor of the night. “My dear, get yourself four
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