Heartstrings (17 page)

“What? What do I want?”

“I thought you wanted some sleep? You don’t want it anymore?”

“I—”

“Or would you like a kiss first? Consider it my way of paying you back for giving me the answer to all this confounded arithmetic.”

“No, I do not want a—”

“Liar.”

“Liar,” John the Baptist echoed. “No doubt you would like me to sleep naked, Mr. Montana.”

Laughing, Roman leaned back to look at the night sky.

Theodosia watched moonbeams flicker through his dark hair, which flowed down the white trunk of the birch tree behind him. He’d unbuttoned his shirt; the wide V provided her with a tantalizing view of his rippled chest. Moonbeams danced on his smooth brown skin too.

“If you’re finished staring at my chest, Miss Worth, look at that star.” He pointed to the sky.

Theodosia quickly found the star he indicated.

“Wonder why it’s so much brighter than the other ones?” Roman mused aloud. “Kind of reminds you of that song, doesn’t it?”

“To what song do you refer, Mr. Montana?”

“Yeah, you know. That star song. It goes like…uh—I can’t remember the tune, but the words are, ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are, up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky.’”

She pondered the fact that his memory of the song was so vague. “Where did you learn the song?”

He thought for a moment. It must have been his father who’d sung it to him. No other person in his life would have done such a thing with him. “I’ve just always known it,” he hedged.

“I see.” There had obviously been at least one person in his childhood who had shown a bit of kindness toward him, Theodosia mused. Someone had taken the time to teach him a song. And whoever that person was, Roman hadn’t had much time with him or her. Otherwise, his memories would be sharper.

Emotion pulled at her heart as she contemplated the sad and lonely childhood he must have had.

“Don’t start it,” Roman warned, noticing the look of deep concentration on her face. “Whatever it is you’re trying to analyze about me, keep it to yourself.”

She picked up a few of the pebbles he’d tossed to her and rolled them between her fingers. “Very well. What would you like to discuss instead?”

He sought a harmless subject. “We were talking about the star.”

“No, we were talking about the song.”

“All right, we were talking about the song. Do you know the tune to it?”

She brushed away a leaf that floated into her hair. “I have never heard the poem sung, but I have read it. It is a child’s nursery rhyme written by Ann and Jane Taylor in 1806, and I must say that I find it nonsensical. A star is not like a diamond at all. A diamond cannot shine if light is not cast upon it, for it possesses no source of light of its own. A star, on the other hand, is a ball of very hot gas that shines by its own light. The twinkling you describe is caused by disturbances in the air between the star and the earth. The unsteady air bends the light from the star, which then appears to tremble. The air also breaks up the light into the colors often seen to flash from the star.”

He ignored her scientific explanation and continued to stare at the star. “You can make wishes on real bright stars like that, you know.” He decided his father had told him about star wishes too.

Wishes?
Theodosia repeated silently. She glanced at the star once more. “The brightness of stars is measured by means of their magnitude, a usage that has come down from classical antiquity. A star of the first magnitude is two point five times as bright as one of the second magnitude, which in turn, is two point five times as bright as one of the third magnitude—”

“Miss Worth?”

She turned her gaze from the sky and looked at him. “Yes?”

“But what about wishing?”

“Wishing, Mr. Montana?”

“Haven’t you ever wished on a star?”

She lay back down on her rocky bed. “I believe what John Adams had to say about wishing. ‘Facts are stubborn things; and whatever may be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our passions, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.’”

Roman picked up a twig and flicked dirt with its point, then pitched the gnarled stick into the shadows. “Yeah? Well, let me tell you what I think about your Mr. John Adams. He doesn’t keep me company when I’m riding on an endless stretch of road at night. Stars do. John Adams doesn’t give me something to count when I can’t sleep. I don’t look at John Adams when I want to see something that’ll take my mind off anything that’s bothered me during the day. And who the hell cares about what John Adams had to say about wishing? If he’d wished more, maybe he’d’ve been the
first
president instead of the second.”

Seeing no point in continuing with a discussion that made absolutely no sense to her, Theodosia closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

Roman watched her toss and turn. Finally, after about a quarter of an hour, she stilled, and he knew she’d fallen asleep.

He stretched out on his own pallet and looked up at the night sky again.

To Theodosia, flowers weren’t things that were just plain pretty, he mused. They were to be studied, roots and all. To calm herself down, she didn’t just take a deep breath; she quoted Latin words having to do with ruffled minds. She didn’t know what rain tasted like, or what cool bed sheets felt like next to her bare skin. She’d never even wished on a star.

She knew a wealth of things.

But she’d missed out on a whole world of others.

T
heodosia awoke with a start
and saw two big blue circles a mere inch away from her face. It took her a moment to understand they were Roman’s eyes. “What—”

“I didn’t think you’d ever wake up.” He stood but continued looking down at her. “It’s almost eleven. I’ve already hunted, eaten, cleaned my weapons, seen to the horses, and bathed.”

“Awk!” John the Baptist screeched from within his cage, which sat a few feet away from Theodosia’s sleeping pallet. “I work with my hands, Miss Worth. Haven’t you ever wished on a star?”

Theodosia rubbed her eyes, sat up, and raised her gaze to Roman. At the sight of him, a rhythmic pulse began to dance within the deepest part of her.

He wore nothing but his black breeches. Tan-colored sand clung to the dark skin that stretched across his broad chest. His damp hair, shining in the late morning light, fell over his broad shoulders, a few waves sticking to the thick muscles in his arms.

She lowered her gaze. Wet with what she assumed was water from the stream he’d bathed in, his breeches hugged every sleek curve and bulge in his lower torso. She realized that if she were only a bit closer to him, she’d be able to discern what each of those curves and bulges were.

The thought was highly stimulating, as was the knowing gleam in his bold and steady stare.

“Care to name the part of my anatomy that’s got such a strong hold on your attention, Miss Worth?”

His husky voice worked the same magic as did the sight of his half-clothed body. “How long had you been watching me before I awakened?”

Quickly, she looked away from his penetrating blue eyes and attempted to tame her emotions before he could stir them further.

God, she was beautiful in the morning, Roman thought. As if a golden cloud had descended upon her from the sky, her bright hair crowned her head in an unruly mass of fluffy curls and tumbled playfully over her slim shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed, and her thickly lashed eyes still held the luminous glaze of sleep. “For a while,” he finally answered. “You snore. Not loud. Just little noises like the kind pigs make when they’re rooting around.”

She’d never smiled so soon after awakening. “The sound you describe is a grunt, not a snort. Snoring is a noise made during sleep when the soft palate is vibrated. A grunt is—”

“How can you think of that scientific junk so soon after waking up? What do you do, dream about it?”

“I was only—”

“Yeah, I know. You were only being a genius. Come on. I’ll show you where the stream is.” He reached for her hand, but when he couldn’t find it, he realized it was beneath her covers. With one smooth motion, he pulled the blanket off.

Theodosia gasped.

Roman stared. Her nightgown was bunched up around her upper thighs, providing him with an unhindered view of her pale white legs.

“Mr. Montana—” She started to pull her nightgown down.

He knelt, caught her wrists, then captured her wide-eyed gaze as well.

She tried to pull her hands away; his grip was too strong. She attempted to look away from his eyes and failed at that too. “Sir, you are seeing my legs.”

“Miss, I’m looking into your eyes.”

“You cannot lie to me, Mr. Montana. It’s true you are looking into my eyes, but your peripheral vision is allowing you to see my legs at the same time.”

With a lopsided grin, he silently admitted she was right. “Peripheral vision, huh? Never knew I had any. But right now, I’m damned glad to have my fair share.”

Try as she did, she couldn’t keep herself from smiling. The man was filled to the very brim with a devilish charm she found no way to resist. “Yes, the sense of sight is truly remarkable. Would you free my hands now?”

“Of course.” He let go of her wrists, and then, very slowly, he lowered his arm toward her legs. “I’m not aiming my hand for any special target,” he informed her. “Just letting it drop wherever it will while I keep looking straight into your eyes.”

The moment she felt his warm palm meet her thigh, the pulse inside her became an ache that was sweet and tormenting at once.

“Well, what do you know about that, Miss Worth? I’m still looking into your eyes, but because of good ole peripheral vision, I can see that my hand has landed right on your leg. How do people see, anyway?” he asked quickly, hoping to distract her mind while he did delicious things to her body. “I’ve always wanted to know about sight, but I never found anything out.”

She placed her hand over his, intending to move it away. “Mr. Mon—”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” Gently, he wrapped his long fingers around her thigh and felt her skin quiver. “Just keep all that knowledge about eyes to yourself. I’ll go through life without ever knowing how people see. I’ll be lowered into my grave never having learned how—”

John the Baptist screeched and flapped his wings.
“Att Ingrid gifte sig sd tidigt, gjorde det lattare for hennes far att dra sig tillbaka frdn affarema,”
he declared.

Roman looked at the parrot. “What did he say?”

“He’s speaking Swedish. He said, ‘Ingrid’s marrying so early made it easier for her father to retire from business.’”

“Who the hell is Ingrid?”

“Mr. Montana, Ingrid is only the name used in the sentence, which is a line John the Baptist must have heard me practicing when I studied Swedish last year.”

“The bird speaks Swedish,” Roman said. “See? Even your parrot is smarter than I am. I bet he knows everything there is to know about sight. Too bad I don’t.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “Do you really want to know about the sense of sight?”

“Oh, I do,” Roman replied in all seriousness. “I can’t remember wanting to know about something as much as I want to know about sight.”

She took a deep breath. “The initial process in seeing is induced by the action of light on the highly sensitive retina. If light were to act uniformly over the entire retina—”

“Yeah, real interesting things, the eyes, huh? Come to think of it, all the senses are worth learning about. Take the sense of touch, for example. Even if I didn’t have that peripheral vision, I’d still know I was touching your leg because I can feel it. How do people feel things?”

“Please take your hand off my—”

“Miss Worth, I am not a genius like you are. You’ve probably spent years studying the senses. Would you refuse to teach me things I don’t know anything about?”

“No, but I—oh, very well. Sensory functions are carried out through a rich variety of nerve endings, which bring the primary sensory modalities of touch, heat, cold, and pain into consciousness from discrete receptor points—”

“Yeah, I think I remember reading that somewhere. Let’s move on to hearing.” He slid his palm down her leg, all the way to her ankle, then glided it back up again. “Well, what do you know? Not only can I see and feel that I’m touching your leg, I can hear it too. Skin against skin. Has a sound to it. How do people hear?”

She laid her hand over his to keep it still. “The ear is considered in three parts, the outer, middle, and inner ear. The outer ear receives sounds in the atmosphere, the middle ear conducts said sounds inwards, and the inner ear, through its receptor cells, translates their effects into patterns—”

“Amazing things, ears, huh?” Slowly, he traced her earlobe with his finger.

“You are trying to arouse me, Mr. Montana.”

“Miss Worth, I’m only experimenting with my senses. Arousing you is the furthest thing from my mind.” He leaned nearer to her, so close that the curls around her face brushed his lips. “With just a little bit more experimenting, I’ll be a professional sense-understander.”