Yankee Wife (24 page)

He was the head of the Quade household, he made the rules. It was time he impressed this upon Lydia, once and for all.

 

Lydia had gone so far as to set her valise on the bed and open it, but so far she hadn't begun to pack. She wasn't about to go back to Brigham's house, much as she wanted his company; her convictions wouldn't allow it. Nor could she bring herself to leave Quade's Harbor, though that was what she'd intended to do in the first flush of fury.

She couldn't desert Charlotte and Millie, or the other children in her school, or Polly.

She sat, forlorn, in the chair facing the bed. The kitten, Ophelia, had been doing acrobatics in her lap; now the bold little creature climbed the bodice of her dress, digging its claws into the fabric as it went.

Lydia made no move to remove the cat; she was comforted by its presence and amused by its audacity. When Ophelia gained her shoulder, trembled there uncertainly for a moment, like a mountain cumber on a slick rock, and then curled up against her mistress's neck, Lydia's heart was won forever.

Ophelia made a soft sound, a mixture of purring and mewing, as she lent her small comfort. Lydia reached up to caress the tiny bundle of silk with a gentle hand.

This soothing interlude was interrupted by a sudden, crashing knock at the front door.

Ophelia gave a little squeal of alarm and shinnied down Lydia's back, using her claws for purchase as she went. The kitten crouched and wriggled under one of the pillows, until only her ridiculously tiny tail was visible.

“Coward,” Lydia said, smoothing her hair. Any human being, she thought, would have said she was a fine one to be calling names, when she was so scared herself that she would have hidden underneath the bed. Had her dignity allowed it.

“Lydia!” Brigham bellowed her name as she crossed the front room to the door.

She reddened with embarrassment and anger. His behavior would be the talk of Quade's Harbor within minutes, and it might be years before the memory receded.

“Hush!” she cried, wrenching open the door. She was crimson-faced, terrified, and hungry for the sight of this man who had won her heart, if not her intellect.

Brigham looked like a summer storm, compressed into the shape of a person. His eyes glinted like New England icicles, and a lock of his hair tumbled over his forehead. His jawline was stony as the snowy mountains out on the peninsula, and he pushed past her without ceremony.

Lydia closed the door briskly behind him and swallowed hard. It was very important to keep her composure, she told herself, and her dignity.

He stood in the center of her humble parlor, filling the room to the corners with his presence and power, like some dark prince. It was as though a gigantic boulder had rolled down the side of Brigham's precious mountain, crashed through the wall, and stationed itself in the middle of her house, not to be moved except by some force greater than itself.

“You needn't behave like Zeus hurling thunderbolts,” she said, with a moderation and steadiness that surprised her. “I'm perfectly aware that you're annoyed with me.”

Brigham glowered at her, his powerful hands resting on his hips. “I thought I told you to move into our room at the main house,” he said. His voice was low, and its softness was lethal rather than reassuring.

Lydia straightened her spine and took charge, as she had another time, during the war, when a young, fever-crazed Rebel soldier, a patient under her care, had somehow gotten hold of a scalpel. The frightened boy had turned in circles, wavering on his crippled legs, eyes as wild as those of a cornered animal, wielding the blade.

By speaking reasonably, and showing no fear, Lydia had disarmed him and helped him back into bed.

“Yes,” she said, meeting her husband's eyes with a courage she was only assuming. “You
told
me to move into your room. Subsequently, I decided against it.”

“May I ask why?” His words were carefully modulated, and barely above the level of a whisper, yet the force of them seemed to rock the room as an earthquake would.

Lydia straightened her skirts, even though they didn't need straightening. “Of course you may. And I'll answer you, too. Until you close that saloon, Mr. Quade, I will not live under the same roof with you.” It was amazing to Lydia how defiantly she spoke while trembling inside.

He stepped closer, and she could feel the heat and power of his body. She was not afraid physically, for she knew Brigham would never touch her in anger, but he was much the stronger of spirit, as well as muscle. If she weren't careful, he would dominate her thoroughly.

“Are you giving me an ultimatum?” he asked.

Lydia considered the definition of the word. “Yes,” she finally replied.

He smiled, making her heart beat faster and bringing a blush to her cheeks. “I close the saloon and brothel, and you will share my house and my bed?” he inquired politely, even charitably.

“That's right.”

“And if I don't, you'll live here. As long as I allow that, of course.”

Lydia lifted her chin, glad of her long skirts, which hid her unsteady knees. “You are a very discerning man, Mr. Quade,” she replied.

He gave a low, rough shout of laughter. “And a determined one, as you're about to find out.” With that, he slipped one arm under her knees, curved the other behind her back, and lifted her easily, holding her close against his torso.

Lydia had to shut her eyes for a moment and concentrate on controlling her breathing. “Put me down immediately,” she said, once she dared look at him again. The scent of soap and pond water and skin filled her nostrils, and she couldn't help being aware of the unyielding strength of him.

“I intend to,” he replied, carrying her toward her tiny bedroom, where the kitten still cowered beneath the pillow, tail protruding and swinging tentatively back and forth like a pendulum. Brigham laid Lydia on the bed, and Ophelia waddled away and skittered down the side of the blanket to the floor.

Lydia struggled to rise, but Brigham had placed one hand in the middle of her chest, fingers splayed, and he held her in place with such ease that he was able to undo the buttons of his shirt even while subduing her.

“You would force me?” she asked, breathless with frustration and something else she didn't want to name.

He smiled. “I won't have to,” he said cordially, shrugging off his shirt and holding her pinned to the bed at the same time. “You see, I know what you like, Lydia. You showed me last night, remember?”

“Brigham—”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk,” he scolded. “You've set your terms, and now I'm setting mine. If you want to stay here and pretend you're independent, fine. But you are my wife and I will not be denied my rights. Nor will I allow you to blackmail me by withholding yourself.”

Lydia was no longer struggling, and she told herself it was because she knew a hopeless effort when she saw one. She had no more chance against Brigham Quade and his damnable charms than the Confederacy had had against the Union after the fall of New Orleans.

“Take your hand off my bosom,” she said through her teeth.

He did, only to grasp her, through her skirts and petticoat, at the junction of her thighs. Her traitorous legs parted instinctively, and Lydia bit her lip to keep back the low groan that rose into her throat.

“If you can honestly tell me you want me to leave this bed at the end of five minutes,” Brigham said, gesturing toward the small clock ticking loudly on the bureau top, “I will comply with your wishes. Do we have a bargain?”

Lydia stared at him, already partly under his spell, knowing how easily he could defeat her. But if she should manage to meet the dragon of desire and turn away, at the end of those five minutes, she would win the soul battle going on between them. Brigham had not been able to dominate her in any other way.

“We have a bargain,” she said in a shaky voice.

He lifted his hand from her and finished undressing. The blazing sunlight of that summer day, late in the afternoon, gilded his magnificent frame and gave him the golden aura of a god.

Brigham stood beside the bed, unlacing one of her shoes, and then the other, tossing them aside, beginning to roll down her stockings.

Lydia ached as the flames of the dragon's fire heated her skin and seeped through to her soul, creating a hunger even there, in the deepest part of her. “You realize,” she said, with all the quivering primness she could manage, as she lay beneath his skilled, gentle hands, “that you have only five minutes.”

He opened the bodice of her dress, unhurriedly, and slid it off her shoulders, down over her waist and hips. She had only her camisole and drawers for armor now, and she made a desperate glance at the clock. Less than a minute had passed.

“I won't need much time,” he finally replied, pausing to caress each of her breasts in turn before untying the ribbons of her camisole.

Lydia flushed with outrage at his confidence, but it was all she could do to lie still, to keep breathing at an even pace.

When Brigham stretched out on the bed beside her and kissed her, his tongue toying with the seam of her lips and finally persuading them to open, she raised one eyelid to check the time.

Who would have thought a mere five minutes could seem like such an eternity?

His kiss left her weak, but a flicker of determination still glowed in her heart. He began nibbling his way down over her neck, her collarbone, the plump roundness at the top of one breast. In the meantime, with his left hand, he worked her drawers easily down over her hips.

Lydia couldn't hold back a little cry of angry pleasure as he found the nubbin hidden in moist silk and began to tease it with his finger.

His chuckle echoed through his chest.

“Damn you,” Lydia gasped, writhing, unable to focus on the clock's face.

“Oh, I'm surely damned already,” he responded in a gravelly whisper, and then he put his mouth to the hard, straining peak of her breast and conquered it without mercy.

“Are—the f-five minutes—up?” she gasped out as he suckled and, at the same time, teased the very wellspring of her pleasure with velvety, demanding strokes.

Brigham raised himself from her nipple and turned to consult the bureau clock with narrowed eyes. “No. There are still three left.”

“Oh, God,” Lydia moaned as he laved her other nipple with his tongue and simultaneously slipped his finger inside her.

“Do you surrender?” he asked, between nibbles at her breast.

“No!” Lydia cried, with the last of her defiance.

He laughed and moved downward along her trembling, perspiration-moistened body. “Then I'd better make the most of that three minutes,” he said, nuzzling the place he had already stroked into a fever of wanting.

He parted her legs and draped them over his shoulders, then kissed her lower belly, and it was as though he had thrown down the gauntlet.

“Brigham,” Lydia whispered, her fingers already entangled in his hair. “This isn't—f-fair—”

“You promised me five full minutes,” he said, and then he parted the delta and claimed what could only be his.

Lydia's back arched with the violence of her response, and she clasped her breasts with her own hands, as if to protect some part of herself from the onslaught of sensation, and felt the nipples harden against her palms. A low whine escaped her as Brigham tongued her mercilessly; she was consumed in sweet fire.

He suckled her until she was wild with wanting, then withdrew, making her plead to be tasted again. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her over her heaving belly and full breasts. “The time is up,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Shall I take you, Mrs. Quade, or shall I leave you to your lonely bed?”

Lydia had long since forgotten their agreement. She was wet with perspiration and the attentions of Brigham's mouth, and she knew that to have him desert her now would be the worst of all tortures.

“Oh—Brigham—my God—”

He spread her velvet folds again and gave her a brazen stroke of his tongue. “Your decision, Mrs. Quade,” he rumbled insistently.

“Have me!” she shouted.

He poised himself over her, and she felt the magnificence of his masculinity prodding her. “Do you want this?” he teased, pretending to be confused.

Lydia was writhing wildly, trying to take him inside her. “Yes, damn you—”

“Where?” he inquired innocently, placing a light kiss on each of her eyelids. “Tell me where you want it, Yankee.”

“Inside me!” Lydia cried, surrendering at last, defeated by the dragon and her own husband. “Oh, God, Brigham, I want you inside me!”

He gave her one inch, and then another. “How far?”

Lydia was all but delirious as one primordial sensation after another rolled through her. “All the way,” she whispered fitfully, and uttered a loud cry of joy when he complied.

L
YDIA LAY CURLED AGAINST THE HARD WARMTH OF HER HUSBAND'S
side, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for her scattered senses to return. Brigham had taken her outside herself during their lovemaking, shown her other spheres and dimensions, and she was still bedazzled by all she had seen and felt.

He swatted her bare bottom, lightly, and then gave the soft, plump flesh there an affectionate and somewhat proprietary squeeze. “It's all settled, then,” he said after a long sigh.

Alarm slithered into Lydia's consciousness, a snake entering the Garden. She raised herself on one elbow. “What's all settled?”

Brigham pressed her closer against his side, one arm curved around her waist. His other hand cupped the back of his head, and the expression on his face was blissful. “Our disagreement, of course,” he replied, sounding thoroughly untroubled. “You'll mind your business of being a wife and the mistress of my house, and I'll tend to the timber operation and the running of the town.”

A part of Lydia wanted desperately to let the inadvertent challenge pass unremarked. After all, it was'nt such a bad life Brigham was offering. She loved him, and if his feelings for her were not so tender, well, he offered a type of security she had never known before. As his wife, she would have a fine place to live, two lovely stepdaughters, good clothes, and all she needed to eat. Not to mention the glorious experience of fusing herself with him, body and soul, on a fairly regular basis.

But she had seen too much, done too much, learned too much. Hardship and the bitter realities of war had broken many people, but they'd left Lydia strong. She couldn't be otherwise, she found, but if it had been possible, she would have
chosen
to be weak, to rest in the security of someone else's strength.

She studied the confident man beside her. He seemed somehow more than human, as though he belonged on Mount Olympus, with Zeus and Apollo and the other Greek gods. “I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding,” she said bravely, sitting upright now and wrapping her arms around her knees. “I—I admit to a certain weakness where—where intimate relations are concerned. When you touch me, I seem to lose all good sense.…” Her voice trailed off.

Brigham arched one eyebrow. “What are you getting at?”

“Unless you're planning to close the brothel, Mr. Quade—and I have the distinct impression you aren't considering any such thing—I still cannot and will not live with you as your wife.”

Now it was Brigham who sprang up into a sitting position. “But you just—”

“I know,” Lydia said, with a soft sigh. “I just responded to you, without any restraint at all. I can't seem to help that, and I'm sure it will happen again no matter what lofty resolves I might set for myself, but I simply can't turn away from this conflict, Brigham. Don't you see that it would be a betrayal, not only of the women who live and
will
live in this town, but of Charlotte and Millie as well?”

Brigham clearly did not understand or sympathize. He tossed back the covers, reached for his trousers, and began wrenching them on with furious motions. “That's exactly the kind of soft-headed logic I would expect from a woman,” he muttered. He snatched his shirt from the floor and thrust his arms, one after the other, into the sleeves. “Without a saloon, this place would be a ghost town in five years!” He began to fasten his shirt, mismatching buttons and holes. “What good would
that
do Charlotte and Millie?”

Lydia rose to her knees on the mattress, clutching the sheet around her in a somewhat belated attempt at modesty.

“You are being utterly unreasonable, Mr. Quade,” she said moderately. She could feel her lower lip quivering, but that core of strength was still there inside her, refusing to be denied. “This is your town. You have a remarkable opportunity to fashion something really fine and good!”

“I am not trying to start a new society,” he interrupted crisply, sitting down hard on the edge of the bed and shaking mattress, frame, and wife as he jerked on one boot, then the other. He stood, and his steely eyes glinted with glacial sincerity as he gazed down at her. “I want to cut, process, and sell timber, and raise sons who will cut, process, and sell timber after I'm gone. To do that, I have to be able to keep the workmen I hire, and frankly, they aren't happy without whiskey and women!”

“You could bring in
good
women!” Lydia argued, grappling for her own clothes and, at the same time, trying to keep the sheet in place around her. “Brigham,
there has just been a war
! The East is full of ladies who want to marry but can't find husbands.”

He waggled a finger at her. “Don't you start yammering about that damn war,” he warned, completely missing the point of her statement. “As far as I'm concerned, it was a fool's fight on both sides!”

Lydia's face flooded with hot color. “Only fools would go to battle to save the Union? Is that what you're saying?”

Brigham sighed. “Were you saving the Union, Yank?” he asked hoarsely from the doorway of the bedroom. He pulled his suspenders up onto his shoulders, one at a time, in measured, angry motions. “Or were you just holding on to a lot of very valuable property?”

With that, he turned away. Tears brimmed in Lydia's eyes.

His attitude about the war was just one more reason why she should never have hoped for a harmonious marriage to this man. And then there was his cavalier manner of making a pronouncement and then striding off.

She couldn't let him go, and even though she knew her words were foolish before she uttered them, Lydia called after him, “Were you building a timber dynasty? Or were you just trying to stay out of the line of fire?”

Brigham came back to the bedroom doorway, his hands gripping the door. His expression was dark and ominous, and while every fiber of Lydia's being was aware and alive with the energy of his silent challenge, she knew he would not harm her physically.

For a long time he just glared at her. Then he arched one eyebrow and said in a dangerous drawl, “Are you saying I didn't take part in that idiotic war because I was yellow?”

Lydia swallowed, reaching for her drawers and camisole without ever letting go of the sheet. “This is your country,” she said in an even and, she hoped, reasonable voice. “You should have been on one side or the other.”

Brigham seemed to be looking off into some distance invisible to Lydia. “It would be like taking up a rifle and going after Devon,” he said, just when Lydia was beginning to wonder if he meant to speak at all. “‘Nation against nation, brother against brother.'”

She had scrambled into her underthings and was edging toward the place where Brigham had tossed her dress earlier. She snatched it up, furious with herself because she couldn't think of a remark to counter her husband's.

He lingered, even after she had turned her back to him to brush and arrange her love-tangled hair, his reflection hovering like a storm cloud in the mirror. “You needn't think, Mrs. Quade,” he said gruffly, “that you are going to get your way by being hard-headed and obstinate. As far as I'm concerned, you can live in this cottage for the rest of your natural life if you wish, but when I want you, I will come to you, and you will not refuse me.”

Lydia gulped, putting the last hairpin in place. “You won't send the saloon women away?”

Brigham shook his head, then said, “No,” in a hoarse and firmly decided voice.

She whirled, waving her hairbrush at him as though it were a saber. “Don't you dare visit that dreadful place, Brigham Quade!” she blurted, amazed at her own courage even as the words were hurled from her throat. “If you do, you can be sure I'll hear of it, and I swear by God's suspenders, I'll come after you with a horsewhip!”

The image made Brigham chuckle, which only infuriated her more. “So you do care a little, Mrs. Quade?” he countered quietly. His hands dropped from the framework of the door to his sides, in a motion of weary acceptance and the profoundest of frustrations. “You can be sure I'll be very careful of what reaches your ears.”

Having said that, Brigham turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing as he crossed the small parlor, opened the front door and went out.

 

Lydia was sure he would come back and that he would see reason and agree, on humanitarian grounds if nothing else, to close the saloon.

Brigham didn't appear the next day, or the day after that. Lydia saw him at a distance sometimes, and he gazed at her from the depths of Millie's troubled gray eyes during daily lessons, but he did not return to her bed.

Another day passed, then a week, then, incredibly,
another
week. Joe's combination office and house was completed on the outside and habitable on the inside, and a boatload of goods arrived to stock Polly's general store. More families came and cabins began to go up at the edge of town, and Brigham's clerk, Mr. Harrington, ran off to Seattle with Esther and got himself married.

The work went on on the mountain, and in the mill at its foot. The saloon-brothel, now called the Satin Hammer, thrived on its spit of sawdust-littered land. Bawdy piano music flowed through its doors and windows day and night, and sometimes, late, Lydia lay in bed and tormented herself with images of Brigham carousing there with one of the strumpets.

Still, she waited.

 

As a doctor, Joe McCauley knew enough to catch a good night's sleep wherever he could, but his mind was full of Lydia as he lay beneath the rough cover of his army blanket. The house was small and new around him, raw with freshly planed wood.

It had been a month since Lydia had left her husband, and even the hardened, tobacco-chewing lumberjacks gossiped and speculated, wondering if it would be safe to go back to courting the lady. There were those who said Brigham Quade had already gone to a judge and had the thing nullified, while others said he had taken up with Clover O'Keefe, the lady who ran the Satin Hammer, and planned to keep Lydia at the same time.

Joe sat up on the edge of his cot. The straw-filled mattress was supported by a net of creaky new rope, and the wooden bedposts were still splintery.

“Damn,” he said, reaching for his trousers. He pulled them on, raised the suspenders to his bare shoulders, and made his way through the dark house to the back door. The outhouse loomed in the moonlight, and the path leading toward it was still just a shadow in the grass.

He supposed he could just have stood on the back porch and pissed on the ground, but between his genteel upbringing and the years he'd spent in the cavalry and in that Yankee prison hospital, Joe McCauley had had his fill of living like a vagabond. He started toward the privy, the quack grass cool under his bare feet.

Reaching his destination, he grabbed the crude wooden handle and yanked open the door. The bright silvery light of the moon flooded the little shack, revealing a figure crouched on the bench, trying to fade into one corner.

“I'll be goddammed,” Joe muttered, though he wasn't a man to swear. He'd already unbuttoned his trousers, and it was embarrassing to be caught in such an ungentlemanly state.

The figure made a whimpering sound and shriveled like a wet spiderweb.

Joe made out that the trespasser was a girl. She wore a ragged dress, and her blond hair hung straggly around a thin, defiant, and thoroughly filthy face.

“Come out of there,” Joe ordered.

The girl hesitated, then obeyed, standing square in front of Joe on the pathway. She was older than he'd thought, eighteen at least, and nearly as tall as he was. Her jaw trembled as she looked straight into his eyes, but the set of her face was as obdurate as a Yankee picket on his own ground.

“You've gotta help me, mister,” she said, but she was throwing down a challenge, not begging. “My pa means to sell me to those folks over at the Satin Hammer. He says all I'd have to do is sing once in a while and bring the men their beer, but I don't believe him.”

Joe's southern gallantry was stirred. He took the girl's arm and shuffled her toward the house, forgetting all about the need to empty his bladder.

“What's your name?”

“Frodine Hearn,” the young woman answered, willingly enough. “You're not plannin' to use me or nothin' like that, are you? I didn't come here to get myself used, you know.”

Joe smiled as he put his hand to the small of Frodine's slender back and guided her over the threshold. She stood just to one side of the door, shivering and barefoot, while Joe lit the kerosene lamp in the middle of the huge wire spool that served as a table.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said.

Frodine folded her arms. God-have-mercy but she needed a bath, and those clothes of hers weren't fit to serve as rags. “I'll carve a hole in your belly if you try,” she said.

Joe laughed. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing toward one of the two upturned crates that were his only chairs.

Warily, the girl took a seat, and Joe busied himself building up the fire in the small cookstove and setting the kettle on to boil. He found preserves in his pitch-scented pantry, along with a loaf of bread he'd bought from Mrs. Holmetz.