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meal. Such a man ought to have a long and elegant-sounding name.
"I am those simple things," he said. "In addition, I am a farmer, a contractor of supplies to the
canal project, a hunter, a carpenter, and a physician to the horses and cows when necessary. In
short, a jack-of-all-trades. Therefore, I am in truth Jack."
"You aren't going to tell me, are you?"
"I am Jack Martin."
So sure was she that his name was not Jack Martin that she almost called him a liar, until she
remembered the blazing anger he had displayed in Madam Rose's house when she had dared to
question his word of honor. She looked up at his stark profile against the western sky and
knew instinctively that he would never break down under feminine questioning. He was too
elusively mysterious to give up his secrets until he was ready to do so.
"Have it your way," she said. "I'll call you Jack. You may call me Clarissa. I give you permission,
sir." She tried to sound lighthearted.
"I find Clarissa much too formal for so informal and unusual a lady." Unmistakable humor
warmed his voice. "I shall call you Clary."
"Clary." She tested the sound of it, swallowed a little more wine, and said it again. "Clary. Yes, I
like it."
"It suits you," he said. "Soft and light and quick. And not at all formal."
"You mean, not well behaved."
"Say, rather, unaccustomed to our ways. That will change if you remain here long. You are too
clever not to adapt yourself quickly."
"No one has ever called me clever before." She finished her Madeira. "As for staying here, on a
night like this, remaining in the past doesn't seem so terrible. I just wish I knew whether I can
stay here or what will happen if I have to go back." She fell silent when he laid a hand on her
shoulder.
"Have you considered the possibility that in the other time, in the future, you may be dead? If, as
you claim, your cart fell into the canal, you may have died in that accident."
"Not cart. Car," she said, not wanting to think about his suggestion. "It was a car with an internal
combustion engine. Don't ask me to explain
it to you, because I don't know how it works. There are a lot of things in the twentieth century that
I don't understand."
"Clary."
"I can't be dead." Her voice rose on a frightened note. "I'm here. I'm breathing and talking and
you can feel my shoulder beneath your hand."
"Yes," he murmured, his hand sliding around to the back of her neck. "You are here, and you do
appear to be solid. Perhaps I ought to perform an experiment to make absolutely certain of your
apparent presence." Before Clarissa could pull away, his lips brushed lightly across hers.
"No," she whimpered.
"Yes," he whispered. "Now, once more, just to be sure."
This second kiss was not a test. It was the real thing. Her hand with the wineglass still in it was
crushed between them, but that didn't stop him. He held her head so she could not pull away
while his mouth worked a long, slow magic on hers. Clarissa was so amazed by her own
welcoming reaction to him that she did not try to stop what was happening until his tongue slid
along the edge of her lower lip. Only then did she begin to fight him. He released her at once.
"How dare you?" she cried. "I do not want to be kissed or handled in any way at all by any man."
"Now you begin to sound like a woman of my time," he said. "What a pity."
"Here. Take your damned wineglass!" She thrust it at him. "Don't try to ply me with liquor a
second time, because I won't fall for it again."
"Ply you with liquor?" He was laughing at her. "'Twas but a single, very small glass of wine. A
baby could drink it and feel no ill effect."
"Just keep your hands off me!" She was shaking so hard that she was afraid she would fall to the
ground, thus giving him an excuse to touch her again. She was horrified to realize that she
wanted him to touch her. But she couldn't trust-- not ever again, not after what Rich had done, not
after what she had seen.
"At least we both know now that you are truly alive," Jack said. "Clary, if I offended you, I
apologize. I thought you were willing to be kissed."
"Well, I am not willing!"
"I did not force you, Clary. I stopped the moment you resisted. Your reaction to what happened is
greatly exaggerated." He paused, as if considering. Then, he asked, "Why is that? Did someone
hurt you once? Or more than once? Is that why you are afraid of men? Or is it just me you find
repulsive?"
"Yes. No. It's none of your business. I don't want to talk about this."
"It seems we both have secrets," he said. "Shall we agree not to question each other too closely?
In that way, we ought to be able to continue a pleasant association while you are here."
"Why do you want me here anyway?" she demanded.
"I have told you why. There is no other suitable place for you to go."
"I don't believe that for one minute. There must be a town where I could find a room."
"You have seen Bohemia Village. There is another town just a bit larger at Newbold's Landing,
which is the eastern end of the canal, and there are other settlements south of here. Most of the
land in this area is forest or farmland. I fear you have no choice but to remain with me, Clary. I
have promised that no harm will come to you, and I will keep my word."
"You still haven't explained why you want me here."
"How could I fail to be intrigued by a story such as yours? I would like to help you unravel the
mystery of your sudden appearance at Bohemia Village."
"Is that really all that interests you?"
"I do confess to a certain sympathy toward young women who find themselves alone and
abandoned through no fault of their own. Such women need the protection of a strong man."
"I don't!"
"Do you not?" When she made no response to his softly uttered question, he added, "Go to bed,
Clary. After a day such as this one, you must be exhausted, and morning comes early at Afon
Farm."
"I am tired." In fact, suddenly she wasn't sure she would be able to walk across the veranda
and into her room. She could not remember ever being so tired in all her life, and her head was
aching. She moved slowly, heavily, dragging her feet.
"Good night, Clary."
She did not answer. She felt too drained to speak. It took all of her remaining energy to close her
bedroom door and pull off her dress and underwear. Someone--most likely Sarah-- had emptied
and dried the basin on the wash-stand and unpacked her bandbox. The covers on the bed were
turned down, and the white cotton nightgown and robe Madam Rose had given her were draped
across the snowy sheets. Clarissa pulled the pins out of her hair, but she was too tired to brush
it. She slipped the nightgown over her head. She was asleep before she fell onto the bed.
She wakened much later to the sound of a booted foot crunching on the gravel at the front of the
house. The smell of tobacco came to her on the still night air. She heard a sigh, a footfall on the
front veranda, a step in the hall, and then all was silent and she slipped back into sleep. She did
not open her eyes again until a rooster crowed just before dawn to start the new day.
Chapter Six
"You don't need to come to the kitchen for breakfast, Miz Clary." Sarah looked up from the biscuit
dough she was rolling out on the scrubbed pine table. "I'll gladly carry it to you in the dining
room."
"I like it better here." Clary smiled to herself at the way Sarah addressed her. Apparently, Jack
had informed his staff that they were to use his new name for her. She didn't mind a bit. With a
new name she felt almost reborn, fresh and clean, with no unhappy past to shadow her days. She
looked appreciatively at the whitewashed kitchen walls and the yellow-and-white-checkered
curtains. A pot of chives sat on the wide windowsill next to a peach pie fresh from the oven, set
there to cool. "The kitchen is so pretty with the morning sun coming in the window." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]