By Rosemary Rogers
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He let go of her and she leaned over to pick up the clean laundry. “Come to my room tonight,” he said. ” He walked away, straightening his cravat. ” Chapter 3 contents - previous | next “Let me understand what you’re saying,” the senator continued as they walked in the direction of the river. ” Jackson frowned. “The president knows who his friends are. You would have to resign officially as the senator from Mississippi, of course,” he explained. “You’ll have to cutj your ties with your home state.
At the age of seventeen she had been able to match him astride, with a rifle, even at cards. For one lazy, hot Mississippi summer, she had been his constant companion, his equal, his first real love. Later, when he had closed his eyes, when he had tasted another woman’s lips, it was Cameron’s name that had echoed in his head—and he hated her for it. Hated himself. He had let things get out of hand that summer, for he, too, despite his age, had been innocent—innocent of love and its ravages. Even now, he was convinced he had done the right thing in leaving her then, when he could still get away.
Jackson lunged to one side, grabbed the handle of the three-pronged pitchfork and easily wrenched it from her hands. Now she was defenseless. She grasped wildly at the weapon, her heart pounding, her blood pulsing at her temples. She couldn’t stand to be so close to Jackson this way, to smell his clean hair, his shaving soap, his rugged maleness. “Give that back to me,” she ground out from clenched teeth. ” Holding her back with one hand, he set the pitchfork behind him. ” But Cameron was fighting mad.