pity! I’ll not—”
“The day I pity you I’ll send you back to Goddamned Maine!”
The roar of temper drove Aidan cringing into her pillow. “Send you back? To what fresh hell? People who discard you like a book whose endin’ they didn’t like? I’d treat a stray mutt with the mange better than they’ve done you!”
Shivering, her breath suspended in her, Aidan waited. She knew that sooner or later a hard hand would come; one always did when such anger powered words. It didn’t matter whether the crime and the punishment fit one another; the crime was awakening the rage, and punishment would be served. Such random service was a quirk of Blackstone character, and Joss was of Blackstone blood.
“I wager they call ’emselves good Christians, too,” Joss growled. “That sort always does, them an’ Effie Richland—always ready to take whatever they think they can steal, right down to your pride an’ your dreams. God damn ’em all to hell!”
Just be done with it and get out and let me— “Oh, no—” It was a moan drawn by a hand at her back; she didn’t feel the gentleness of the touch. She didn’t expect gentleness after such a snarl of words. She only knew Joss Bodett was as strong and hard as tarred rope and could hurt her, and was a Blackstone so probably would. Joss said something, but the roar of blood in her ears blocked all but the buzz of her voice. She didn’t know if she would faint
before she vomited, or after. She felt the mattress shift under the weight of her cousin and she fought not to cry, or cry out.
“Listen to me?” It was a low almost-plea, and a hesitant touch at her back. “Do you fear I’d strike you? I’m not Blackstone enough. Aidan—” Joss’s hand slipped softly across her shoulders.
“Please, Aidan. I’d never—”
Curled around her pillow in instinctive protection of her face and her belly, she managed to breathe.
“Oh, Lord—” Joss’s forehead rested briefly on her shoulder.
“Damn my temper.” The warmth and weight of her went away, but not far; she was still there, touching-close. “I meant but to ease the weight of this, if I could. I didn’t mean to intrude, or frighten you. I’m so sorry if I’ve made it worse for you.” Her finger drew a few errant strands of hair away from Aidan’s mouth, tucking them behind her ear. “How can I leave you alone with such hurt? But it seems I add to it with every word. Should I just leave you be?”
She didn’t want Joss there to see her weakness; she didn’t want to be alone; wordless wants clashed in her, none of them winning her voice. She heard that soft sigh again, sounding much more like resignation as Joss’s hand lifted from her shoulder. “If I can get you anythin’—” That trailed off, as if Joss knew she wouldn’t ask. “I’ll knock in a little while. I’ll just be out at the table.”
Aidan heard the clink of the latch as Joss closed the door. She drove her face into her pillow, trying to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. The ache was huge and hollow, an ache of missing the warmth and nearness of the oddly gentle side of Joss, an ache of residual terror of the coarseness of her cousin’s anger—and an ache of fear that Joss would send her away now that she knew.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, Joss, please, no. No. No—”
The last glow of sunset had almost faded from the window when she heard the soft knock at her door. Dazed by the sodden ache of tears that still refused to be cried, she couldn’t find words; still curled around her pillow, she could only wait until the door opened. “Aidan? Can I come in?”
She managed a nod, not knowing if it could be seen in the fading light, and heard the scrape of Joss’s boots against the hard dirt floor before the bed creaked under her weight as she sat at the edge of the mattress. “I ain’t much good at comfortin’,” Joss said at last. “Brothers don’t want it, an’ the only sisters I had died when
“The day I pity you I’ll send you back to Goddamned Maine!”
The roar of temper drove Aidan cringing into her pillow. “Send you back? To what fresh hell? People who discard you like a book whose endin’ they didn’t like? I’d treat a stray mutt with the mange better than they’ve done you!”
Shivering, her breath suspended in her, Aidan waited. She knew that sooner or later a hard hand would come; one always did when such anger powered words. It didn’t matter whether the crime and the punishment fit one another; the crime was awakening the rage, and punishment would be served. Such random service was a quirk of Blackstone character, and Joss was of Blackstone blood.
“I wager they call ’emselves good Christians, too,” Joss growled. “That sort always does, them an’ Effie Richland—always ready to take whatever they think they can steal, right down to your pride an’ your dreams. God damn ’em all to hell!”
Just be done with it and get out and let me— “Oh, no—” It was a moan drawn by a hand at her back; she didn’t feel the gentleness of the touch. She didn’t expect gentleness after such a snarl of words. She only knew Joss Bodett was as strong and hard as tarred rope and could hurt her, and was a Blackstone so probably would. Joss said something, but the roar of blood in her ears blocked all but the buzz of her voice. She didn’t know if she would faint
before she vomited, or after. She felt the mattress shift under the weight of her cousin and she fought not to cry, or cry out.
“Listen to me?” It was a low almost-plea, and a hesitant touch at her back. “Do you fear I’d strike you? I’m not Blackstone enough. Aidan—” Joss’s hand slipped softly across her shoulders.
“Please, Aidan. I’d never—”
Curled around her pillow in instinctive protection of her face and her belly, she managed to breathe.
“Oh, Lord—” Joss’s forehead rested briefly on her shoulder.
“Damn my temper.” The warmth and weight of her went away, but not far; she was still there, touching-close. “I meant but to ease the weight of this, if I could. I didn’t mean to intrude, or frighten you. I’m so sorry if I’ve made it worse for you.” Her finger drew a few errant strands of hair away from Aidan’s mouth, tucking them behind her ear. “How can I leave you alone with such hurt? But it seems I add to it with every word. Should I just leave you be?”
She didn’t want Joss there to see her weakness; she didn’t want to be alone; wordless wants clashed in her, none of them winning her voice. She heard that soft sigh again, sounding much more like resignation as Joss’s hand lifted from her shoulder. “If I can get you anythin’—” That trailed off, as if Joss knew she wouldn’t ask. “I’ll knock in a little while. I’ll just be out at the table.”
Aidan heard the clink of the latch as Joss closed the door. She drove her face into her pillow, trying to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. The ache was huge and hollow, an ache of missing the warmth and nearness of the oddly gentle side of Joss, an ache of residual terror of the coarseness of her cousin’s anger—and an ache of fear that Joss would send her away now that she knew.
“No,” she whispered. “Oh, Joss, please, no. No. No—”
The last glow of sunset had almost faded from the window when she heard the soft knock at her door. Dazed by the sodden ache of tears that still refused to be cried, she couldn’t find words; still curled around her pillow, she could only wait until the door opened. “Aidan? Can I come in?”
She managed a nod, not knowing if it could be seen in the fading light, and heard the scrape of Joss’s boots against the hard dirt floor before the bed creaked under her weight as she sat at the edge of the mattress. “I ain’t much good at comfortin’,” Joss said at last. “Brothers don’t want it, an’ the only sisters I had died when
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