The Gamble (I) (47 page)

There was a wondrous elemental majesty to their mating. It was felt deeply by Marcus and Jube, leaving them exquisitely aroused. They stood with their forearms lining the top rail of the fence, elbows touching, watching the mounting stud and grunting mare before them. Never had they been so aware of each other.

In a life filled with many occasions when arousal had been demanded, Jubilee had experienced none so extreme as the one that gripped her now. In a life filled with few such occasions, Marcus found himself in a similar predicament. As Prince had caught the scent of Cinnamon, Marcus caught the scent of Jube. From the spot where their elbows touched, a current seemed to sizzle to their extremities. He wanted her with a force as primal as Prince’s. But if he approached her now, would she think it was nothing more than lust aroused in him by the horses? If only he could say to her,
It’s not just because of them, Jube, it’s because I’ve loved you for longer than you’d ever guess.
If only he could say to her,
I want solace of heart as well as body, and I believe you’re the only one I can find that with.
If only he could say,
Jube, Jube, I love you more than any man has ever loved you and I can overlook them all, all the ones who pleasured you first and undoubtedly better than I.

But he could say none of these things. His heart was locked within a voiceless body and he could only stand beside the woman he loved and throb.

Prince’s seed was sown. He emerged from Cinnamon glistening, wet, leaving vestiges of their intercourse on her sheeny rump.

Pearl left the fence and ambled toward the house with Leatrice. Jack wandered off toward the woodpile. Ivory and Ruby went in opposite directions. Zach moved off toward his cabin. Gandy lifted Willy off the fence and took him away, answering questions. One by one they left until only Jube and Marcus remained.

Their silence was strained.

“I’ll help you with whatever you were doing in the barn,” Jubilee offered.

She turned and he followed at her shoulder as she sauntered toward the barn, wondering if he’d make a move at last. She’d made it as plain as the blue sky above that she had feelings for him and wanted him in every sense of the word, but he was shy and, in all likelihood, put off by her debauched past. Walking with him, she rued it.

There were ways—blatant ways—to touch a man, to entice him. She knew them all. But because she did, she didn’t want to use them on Marcus. When and if they came together, she wanted it to be because of love, not just lust. And she wanted
him
to be the one to make the first advance.

The barn was quiet. Only the lazy dust motes drifted in the aisle between the stalls. It smelled of leather and hay and the pleasant fecundity that permeated old wood even years after horses were gone.

Jube stopped in the aisle with Marcus behind her. He watched her chin drop, the fine strands of her angel hair caught on the collar of her blue dress, the distortion of her crocheted shawl as she tightened it with knotted fists. In the rafters above their heads a pair of blue-winged swallows with apricot breasts fluttered about, building a mud nest.

“Marcus?” Her voice came, soft and pained. “Is it because I’ve been a prostitute?”

Is that what she thought? Oh, that she should have been laboring under the impression that it mattered to him.

He pivoted her by the shoulders and waved his hands before her eyes, shaking his head passionately.
No, Jube, no. It’s because... because...
The ache in his body was nothing compared to his ache to put voice to all he felt.
Because I love you.

When he told her, the motions were hard, muscular, tempered by a condensed anger at the slight that life had handed him. He touched his breast, thumped a fist on his own heart, and touched a fingertip to hers:
I love you.
He gestured wildly, as if to erase all they’d witnessed in the paddock—not that, this. Again he gestured:
I
...
love... you.

She was in his arms so fast she knocked him a step backward. On tiptoe, she kissed him, flattening her body against his, even as his arms drew her close where he’d wanted her so long. And the tongue that could not speak spoke volumes as it learned the interior of her mouth. And the hands that had become the conveyor of his messages conveyed the most important one of all as they clasped her against his hammering heart, caressing her back, her waist, her head. She drew away and held his cheeks in both hands, her eyes intense and dark.

“Marcus, Marcus, I love you, too. Why did you wait so long to say it? I’ve loved you since that day of the picnic, maybe even before that.”

He wished he could laugh, could know the heady release of the sound against her silky hair. Instead, he kissed her. Again and again and again—a league of impatient strokes that told her all he felt. And while they kissed, his hand fell to her breast, adoring, caressing. Hers stroked his hair, his back, his waist. He found buttons at her nape, freed them, and slipped a hand inside against her smooth skin. Her hands stroked his spine and, lower, until their bodies began moving against each other.

He loves me!
she marveled.
Marcus really loves me.

She loves me!
he rejoiced.
Jube really loves me.

But he wouldn’t take her here in a stable, as if they, too, were merely animals in heat. She deserved better, and so did he, after all the time they’d waited.

Gripping her shoulders, he pushed her from him. Much like Prince’s, his nostrils were dilated, his eyes turbulent. Much like Cinnamon, Jube stood docile, waiting, her lips open, the breath rushing between them in short, hard beats.

He pointed to a vacant stall and slashed the air with his hand—
not here, not like this.
He whipped her around and rebuttoned her dress, tucked two loose pins into her hair, then hauled her toward the door before she realized his intentions. With masterful footsteps and a firm grip on her hand, he led her across the beaten grass from the barn to the yard, along the worn wagon track past outbuildings, beside the formal gardens and the strutting peacocks, who lifted their heads to watch the couple pass. Up the back steps
they went, across the deep veranda, and into the vast hall, where their footsteps echoed as they mounted the stairs.

Scotty stepped from his office, reading a letter. “Oh, Marcus, would you mind...”

The question died on his lips. His astounded eyes followed the pair, their footsteps reverberating from the magnificent staircase as Marcus tugged Jube along behind him. She glanced over her shoulder at Scotty—helplessly—and blushed to the roots of her hair. Then they disappeared above the turn of stairs and Gandy retreated quietly inside his office, closed the door, and smiled to himself.

Upstairs, Marcus took Jube straight to his room—the one he shared with Jack. He deposited her inside and without ado gripped an enormous armoire that appeared as if it would take Herculean strength to be budged. He slid it in front of the door as if it were a toy. But the screech echoed all through the house.

He turned, panting, and found a teasing smile on her face.

“You’ve scratched the freshly waxed floor,” she said softly. “Leatrice will make us do it again.”

His answer was to undo two shirt buttons, then jerk the tails from his pants before crossing the room to lift her off her feet. He carried her to the spooled bed and fell with her onto the soft coverlets. With his first kiss his hand found her breast, and before it ended he lay pressing her into the deep tick. As his body lay stretched upon hers, Jube learned that nothing had been lost between the barn and this room.

The only love Marcus had ever known had been bought. But this... this by some miracle had been won. With each caress he showed her how he prized her. His Jube, his beautiful, unattainable Jube, attainable, after all. She murmured in his ear, pouring out for both of them the words only one could say. He spoke with his roaming hands, his idolizing mouth, his eloquent eyes. When their clothing lay strewn, he worshipped her duly. Other men had words at their disposal, words that they might employ at will to seduce and tantalize. Because he had none, Marcus used only his body.

But he used it so adroitly that Jube heard his voice in each lingering touch.

Jube, my beautiful Jube. How I love your hair, your skin, your eyes, your dark lashes, darling nose, beautiful lips, soft neck, your breasts, the mole between them, the shadow beneath them, your white, white stomach, and this... this, too, Jube... ahhh, Jube...

Many times in her past she had produced counterfeit ardor, but with Marcus, sham was not necessary. What she felt for him turned this act, for the first time ever, into one of love.

And when he rose above her and linked their bodies with a single smooth stroke, it was as foregone as the mating of the swallows in the rafters, the dragonflies in midair, the horses in the paddock.

When it was over and the tumult had been reached and moved beyond, they rested with their sweating brows touching. Jack tried the door and went away grumbling, and the smell of freshly fried hush puppies drifted up from the dining room below, and Leatrice’s voice thundered out a warning that they were late for supper, and they laughed into each other’s eyes and draped their spent arms over each other. Then Marcus knew they were not like Prince and Cinnamon. They could not separate and trot their individual ways as if this meant little more than the sating of animal drives.

Excited, he scrambled off the bed, leaving Jube so suddenly she shrieked and clutched herself. He had to ask her now, quickly, before they even went down to supper. He rummaged frantically for a pencil and paper—through the armoire, the pockets of his discarded jacket, two drawers, the top of a refectory table between the windows. Finally, impatiently, he thrust the fire screen aside and found a chunk of charcoal, pushed Jube off the far side of the bed, threw back the coverlets, and wrote on the rumpled bottom sheet:

Will you—

“Marcus, what are you doing! Leatrice will behead you!”

marry me?

She stared at the question, so shocked her wide eyes seemed to tilt nearly to her hairline.

“Will I marry you?” she read, amazed.

He nodded, blue eyes bright, certain, blond hair mussed.

“When?”

He wrote on the sheet, underlining emphatically:

NOW!

“But what about a minister and a dress and a wedding feast and a—”

He landed on his knees in the middle of the bed, covering the word
marry,
grabbing her arms and tugging Jube to her knees before him. His eyes evoked a wondrous thump from her heart before he slammed his mouth down on hers and kissed her with the same authority he’d used when marching her up the stairs forty-five minutes ago.

He drew back, his unrelenting eyes holding her as forcefully as his grip upon her elbows.

“Yes!” she rejoiced, throwing her arms around his neck. “Yes, oh, yes, Marcus, I’ll marry you. But in two weeks. Please, Marcus. I’ve never been courted before and I think I’m going to love it.”

He kissed her again, starting hard, ending soft, wondering if joy this great could be fatal.

They were so late for dinner the hush puppies were all gone. Leatrice waddled around the table, collecting plates and scowling. She came to a halt at the sight of them careening to a breathless halt inside the dining room doorway, their faces shining with joy.

Scott looked up over his coffee cup and met Jube’s eyes. Everyone else turned watermelon-pink and took a sudden interest in the crumbs on the tablecloth.

Where Marcus had towed Jube earlier, she now took the lead. Clutching his hand, she looked squarely at Gandy and announced, “Marcus and I are going to get married.”

Six heads snapped up in surprise. Gandy set down his cup.

“In two weeks,” Jube added quickly.

Every eye turned to Gandy, gauging his reaction.

A slow grin climbed his cheeks. When it reached his eyes and dimpled his face, the tension eased from the room.

“Well, it’s about time,” he drawled.

Jube catapulted into his arms. “Oh, Scotty, I’m so happy.”

“And I’m happy for you.”

He shook hands with Marcus and clapped him on the back, while Jube was passed around for hugs. When the congratulations ended, Scott stood with an arm around Jube’s waist again. “I insist that the nuptials be spoken in the weddin’ alcove,” he told her.

Jube looked Gandy square in the eye and threw him into one of the major emotional upheavals of his life by declaring, “And I insist on inviting Agatha to the wedding.”

Oh, that winter, that endless unmitigated winter while Agatha’s aloneness smote her daily. She had been alone before, but never as mercilessly as this. Before the advent of Scott, Willy, and Gandy’s extended family into her life, her aloneness had been pacific. She had learned to accept the fact that her life would be a string of invariable days whose zeniths and nadirs fluctuated so minimally as to be almost indistinguishable, one from the other. She had learned to accept the blandness, the orderliness, the conformity. And the lovelessness.

Then
they
had come, bringing music and confusion and nonconformity and laughter. In terms of a lifetime, their presence had lasted but a brief heart flash, a few measly months out of years and years of solitariness. But in terms of living, she’d condensed more emotional vitality into those numbered days than she would experience in the remainder of her life, she was sure. Having lost it—and them—she was doomed to be forever aching.

Oh, the dullness after they were gone. The dullness had teeth and talons. It tore at her. She would never again be reconciled to it.

Sunset was the worst, that time of day between occupation and preoccupation, the time of long shadows and kindling lanterns when merchants drew their shades, women set their tables, and broods gathered in kitchens where warm fires glowed, fathers said grace, children spilled milk, and mothers scolded.

She watched the rest of the world end their days with these homely blessings and repined that they would never be hers. She bade Violet good-bye, went upstairs, lit her own lamp, and sometimes on a good day its shade would need washing. She sat down to read
The Temperance Banner
and sometimes on a good day one of its articles would interest her. She checked the clock after each article and sometimes on a good day she looked at it only five times before it was time to get ready to walk down to Paulie’s. She touched up her already perfect hair and sometimes on a good day found enough strands out of place to justify taking it down and reshaping it. She limped down to Paulie’s to eat her lonely supper and sometimes on a good day a child would sit at a nearby table and make eyes at her over the back of his chair. She drank her final cup of coffee with nobody to converse with and sometimes on a good day a man at a nearby table would light a cigar after his meal. And for a few moments she would gaze into the middle distance and pretend.