Counterfeit Lady (James River Trilogy 1)

It had been a long time since they’d been together, not since the party at the Backes’s. Whatever sensible reasons Nicole had for her fears, they fled when Clay kissed her. Her arms went around his neck and pulled his face closer to hers as his hand turned her head and slanted her mouth so that her lips parted. He was hungry for her, starved for the sweet nectar of her that would wash away the filth of the night with Bianca—a night confused with visions of Beth, a pink silk gown, and flecks of blood on a white sheet.

“Clay!” Nicole gasped. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just too much to drink last night. Don’t go away,” he whispered as he pulled her tightly against him. “I need you so much. You are warm and alive, and I am so haunted by people.” He kissed her neck. “Make me forget.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

Clay pulled her down with him to the floor of the cave on top of a quilt. It was warm and sweet-smelling inside the little room. Nicole wanted him urgently, but Clay wanted to take his time. Slowly, he unbuttoned the front of her soft wool dress and put his hand inside, cupping her breast, his thumb teasing the soft crest.

“How I’ve missed you!” he whispered, his mouth following his hand.

Nicole arched beside him, her mind a whirl of flashing colors. As she fumbled with the buttons of his vest, she was unable to remember what she was doing, since his mouth and hands seemed to make her incapable of performing even a simple task.

Smiling at her ineptitude, Clay pulled back. Her eyes were closed, her lashes a thick, lush curve against her cheek. As he caressed her cheek, ran his finger along her lips, his reverie changed from sweetness to passion. His hands quickly unfastened the buttons of his vest, his shirt, boots, and trousers following.

Nicole lay on her back, her head propped on her arm, watching the firelight in the little cave play deliciously with the skin over his muscles, dancing from one indentation to a mound of strength. She ran her finger up his back.

He turned, nude, all golden skin and bronze.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, and he smiled at her before he kissed her again, his hand easily slipping her dress from her shoulders, running over her smooth, firm body, exploring it slowly, as if it weren’t very familiar to him. When he pulled her on top of him, she lifted her hips and guided him into their lovemaking.

“Clay!” she gasped as he moved her hips, slowly at first, building rapidly until she clung to him, her hands clutching at him hungrily. She collapsed on top of him, weak, throbbing, satiated.

“Let me get this straight, lady,” the burly young man said, spitting a thick stream of tobacco juice near her feet. “You want me to give you a baby? Not give you

one of mine what’s already born but to plant one in you?”

Bianca stood rigid, her gaze level. It had taken very few questions to find Oliver Hawthorne, a man who was willing to do something for a price and keep his mouth shut. Her first thought had been to pay him to return Nicole to France, but the Hawthornes didn’t have the reputation of dishonesty that the Simmons did.

After the failed attempt to get Clay to impregnate her, she realized something had to be done or all her future dreams would collapse. It wouldn’t be long before Clay realized she had no power over him. She must get herself with child, no matter what she had to do!

“Yes, Mr. Hawthorne. I want to have a child. I’ve investigated your family, and you seem to be especially prolific.”

“Investigated, huh?” He smiled at the woman, appraising her. He didn’t mind her plumpness, since he liked big women with strong backs, eager, energetic women in bed, but he did mind her look of never having worked in her life. “I reckon you mean that the Hawthornes can make babies even when they can’t get their tobacco to grow.”

She nodded curtly. The less she had to talk to the man, the better she liked it. “This is, of course, to be kept confidential. In public, I will not acknowledge that I have ever met you, and I expect the same treatment.”

Oliver’s eyes twinkled. He was a short, heavyset man with a broken front tooth, and he had a feeling the whole situation was a dream and he was going to wake up very soon. Here was a woman offering to pay him for giving her a tumble, or as many as it took to impregnate her. It made him feel like a horse put out to stud, and he rather liked the idea. “Sure, lady, whatever you say. I’ll act like I never saw you or the kid before, though I warn you that my six kids all look like me.”

It would serve Clay right to claim a child as his when it obviously looked like another man, she thought. The child would be short and sturdy, so unlike Clay’s tall, slim grace. “That’s all right,” she said, the dimple appearing in her left cheek. “Can you meet me tomorrow at three o’clock behind the tannery on the Armstrong plantation?”

“Armstrong, huh? Clay havin’ trouble makin’ his own babies?”

Bianca stiffened. “I don’t plan to answer any questions, and I’d prefer you don’t ask them.”

“Sure,” Oliver said, then looked around them cautiously. They were on a road four miles from the Armstrong plantation, a place she’d chosen in her message to him. As he reached out and touched her arm, she jumped backward as if she’d been burned.

“Don’t touch me!” she said through clenched teeth.

Frowning in puzzlement, he watched her turn and angrily walk down the road toward the driver who waited for her around a bend. She was an odd one, he thought. She didn’t want him to touch her, yet she wanted him to make her pregnant. She sneered at him as if he repulsed her, but she wanted to meet him in the afternoon to make love. In broad daylight! The thought of that made Oliver’s skin glow, and he reached inside his trousers to readjust himself more comfortably. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe more of those la-de-da ladies would need him to make up for their weak men. Maybe Oliver could make a living at this, and to hell with tobacco.

He straightened his shoulders and began to walk home.

For the next month, Nicole felt she was content, if not happy. Clay and she met often in the clearing beside the river. They were joyous meetings, full of love and plans for the trek west. They were like children, talking of what they’d take, how many bedrooms their house would have, how many children they’d have, the names they’d give them. They spoke of when they’d tell the twins and Janie of their plans, for of course they would go with them.

One evening in late February, the sky darkened menacingly and lightning threatened to split the little house in half.

“Why are you so jumpy?” Janie asked. “It’s just a storm comin’ up.”