am right ...'
He was swift on his feet, agile and sure. In a moment he had danced her
out the door and into the shadows on the porch. He swept her against a
supporting pillar, then his mouth descended upon her, lips parted,
parting hers. She had wanted this. this very thing. She had teased and
goaded him, and now she had him. But the kiss was no casual dance-floor
brush. It was a thing so searingly intimate that she lost all hope of
breathing, all hope of standing upon her own two feet. His mouth
encompassed hers, drawing from her all strength and will. The heat of
his mouth filled and infused her, and his tongue swept by all barriers
to ravage and invade.
And she did nothing to stop him, nothing to fight back, nothing to
protest even the shocking intimacy of the invasion.
He kissed her mouth as if he kissed all of her. His 73 tongue touched
every little crevice and nuance of her mouth and thrust with a rhythm
that entered into her pulse, into her bloodstream. It was far different
from anything she had ever experienced before. Anything. It brought
tremors to her limbs and a swirling tempest within her belly; it singed
her breasts and weakened her knees.
And worst of all, perhaps, she felt no remorse, no shame. She allowed
herself to fall into his arms, to feel his strength support her, the
rippling muscles of his chest and thighs. Then his mouth pulled away
from hers. She inhaled raggedly and lifted her eyes to meet his. It had
been a game; she hadn't been expecting this, and she was suddenly very
afraid that her eyes betrayed the depths of her innocence, of her shock,
of the staggering sensations that had taken place within her. His eyes
were heavily shadowed, and he didn't look at all like a man about to
laugh with the pleasure of an easy conquest, but rather like one
consumed with some blinding fury or emotion. But he didn't speak. She
wanted to reach up and touch the sandy tendrils of his hair, fallen
rakishly over his forehead, but she didn't dare move, she didn't dare
touch him again, for there seemed to be something explosive about him.
'There she is!'
The accusing cry seemed to awaken them both. Jamie stepped back,
surprised, frowning, looking around.
A plump woman was coming out on the porch. She was small and seemed
exceedingly broad. Her hair was snow white and swept up beneath a little
cap, and her dress was old-fashioned, her petticoats as wide as they
might have been during the war, her dark fringed stole from an earlier
period.
She wasn't alone. People were spilling out behind her. 'Clara,' Jamie
said softly, still frowning.
'Clara, what on earth is wrong?'
Clara seemed not to hear him. She pointed a finger at Tess.
'You!
You--you harlot! You hussy! You whore!
Attacked by Indians, and crying out that white men fell upon you! How
dare you! You should have been killed! God will smite you down with an
arrow for lying! You trash, you white trash!'
