Read Online The Randolph Legacy by Eileen Charbonneau - Free Book Online
Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
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The hazy film of a vision enshrouded them all.
Judith glanced desperately past the men’s faces to seek her stability in the sight of the miniature ships. Their masts were shredding. Her hair strands whipped and lashed at the fine cloth sails. The ships plowed into each other, then shattered as they hit the floor. A voice, abandoned and lost, repeated the French words over and over.
“Catch her, Fayette.” Washington’s urgent whisper cut through the haze of Judith Mercer’s vision. Too late. She fell on the bones.
J udith felt a cold wetness at her temples, and the familiar scent of cloves. She opened her eyes. Washington returned her smile. She was not lying on bones, but on his hammock stretched out there on the floor. The vision was over, her eyes clear, everything in place again. Washington’s deft hands were both at work, one fanning her face with a torn page of one of their precious books, the other gliding something over her lips. “Sip, Judith,” he urged.
She did. “What is it?”
“Ice. Fayette went into the officers’ provisions for it. He’s locking up now, and fetching your father.”
The sliver of ice melted. Washington’s fingertips tasted of the steel of his needles. “There,” he said. “Your color returns.”
Judith took his arm and sat up slowly. She felt better there, on the floor with him, away from the pomp of Fayette’s chair. How tenderly, how calmly he cared for her, after she must have frightened him to the marrow. What a wonderful doctor he would make, her Washington. She raised her hand to her brow. “I was saying something, wasn’t I? Something foolish … .”
“Not foolish. You were making us the artists of our lives. Fayette was the foolish one, comparing you to the Grecian queen, embarrassing a religious woman by calling attention to her beauty. It was rude, and he has taught me better. I apologize for him.”
The face that had been forlorn and drifting all night now found its focus in indignation. Judith let out a small rush of laughter that somehow ended in a sob.
“Now, don’t do that,” he admonished. “Fayette will think I was not a gentleman, and made you cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“No? What is this?” He turned her face to the candlelight.
“The ice. The last drops of the ice.”
Washington came closer. His tongue swiped her cheek and followed up the side of her face. “Salt,” he declared. “Tears. For whom do you weep, Judith? What did you see in your vision?”
How could she hide it from him? “Thy ships, falling from the shelf, breaking,” she whispered. “Bones, all the bones broken. And French words. Plus tard. What does that mean, Washington?”
He spoke gently. “‘Later,’ it means only later. Some rough seas ahead, is it? We must tie the ships down to the shelf, yes? Do not cry. They are not worth your tears.”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice shook out the words. “Foolish. Didn’t I tell thee I was being—”
“I love you, Judith,” Washington whispered. “Across the water, beyond time and the stars and remembrance, I love you.”
She swept his gleaming hair off his brow. It was a mother’s or sister’s gesture, and he knew it. Judith felt the searing heat of his anger as he caught her hand, pressed it to his face, kissed into its palm. Deeply, tasting her sweat, her skin. He traced her life line with the tip of his hard, unyielding tongue, leaving her breasts tingling, her body faint with longing. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly.
“Washington,” she gasped out. “Stop.”
He did, lowering his head until she could only see the spiraling crown of his hair.
“I do not please you,” he whispered.
“You do please me. And you know you do,” she said, abandoning her Quaker “thou.” “Washington, you are not an innocent.”
He raised his head. His man-child eyes, already too wide, too beautiful, went wider still. “Is that required in your religion?”
“When? How?” she
Judith glanced desperately past the men’s faces to seek her stability in the sight of the miniature ships. Their masts were shredding. Her hair strands whipped and lashed at the fine cloth sails. The ships plowed into each other, then shattered as they hit the floor. A voice, abandoned and lost, repeated the French words over and over.
“Catch her, Fayette.” Washington’s urgent whisper cut through the haze of Judith Mercer’s vision. Too late. She fell on the bones.
J udith felt a cold wetness at her temples, and the familiar scent of cloves. She opened her eyes. Washington returned her smile. She was not lying on bones, but on his hammock stretched out there on the floor. The vision was over, her eyes clear, everything in place again. Washington’s deft hands were both at work, one fanning her face with a torn page of one of their precious books, the other gliding something over her lips. “Sip, Judith,” he urged.
She did. “What is it?”
“Ice. Fayette went into the officers’ provisions for it. He’s locking up now, and fetching your father.”
The sliver of ice melted. Washington’s fingertips tasted of the steel of his needles. “There,” he said. “Your color returns.”
Judith took his arm and sat up slowly. She felt better there, on the floor with him, away from the pomp of Fayette’s chair. How tenderly, how calmly he cared for her, after she must have frightened him to the marrow. What a wonderful doctor he would make, her Washington. She raised her hand to her brow. “I was saying something, wasn’t I? Something foolish … .”
“Not foolish. You were making us the artists of our lives. Fayette was the foolish one, comparing you to the Grecian queen, embarrassing a religious woman by calling attention to her beauty. It was rude, and he has taught me better. I apologize for him.”
The face that had been forlorn and drifting all night now found its focus in indignation. Judith let out a small rush of laughter that somehow ended in a sob.
“Now, don’t do that,” he admonished. “Fayette will think I was not a gentleman, and made you cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“No? What is this?” He turned her face to the candlelight.
“The ice. The last drops of the ice.”
Washington came closer. His tongue swiped her cheek and followed up the side of her face. “Salt,” he declared. “Tears. For whom do you weep, Judith? What did you see in your vision?”
How could she hide it from him? “Thy ships, falling from the shelf, breaking,” she whispered. “Bones, all the bones broken. And French words. Plus tard. What does that mean, Washington?”
He spoke gently. “‘Later,’ it means only later. Some rough seas ahead, is it? We must tie the ships down to the shelf, yes? Do not cry. They are not worth your tears.”
“Yes, of course.” Her voice shook out the words. “Foolish. Didn’t I tell thee I was being—”
“I love you, Judith,” Washington whispered. “Across the water, beyond time and the stars and remembrance, I love you.”
She swept his gleaming hair off his brow. It was a mother’s or sister’s gesture, and he knew it. Judith felt the searing heat of his anger as he caught her hand, pressed it to his face, kissed into its palm. Deeply, tasting her sweat, her skin. He traced her life line with the tip of his hard, unyielding tongue, leaving her breasts tingling, her body faint with longing. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly.
“Washington,” she gasped out. “Stop.”
He did, lowering his head until she could only see the spiraling crown of his hair.
“I do not please you,” he whispered.
“You do please me. And you know you do,” she said, abandoning her Quaker “thou.” “Washington, you are not an innocent.”
He raised his head. His man-child eyes, already too wide, too beautiful, went wider still. “Is that required in your religion?”
“When? How?” she
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