Law, Susan Kay (45 page)

It was the spring of
1783, and Colonel Jonathan Schuyler
Leighton was finally coming home from war.

The road he trudged down, just outside of New Wexford, was rutted
and frozen. He didn't notice. His eyes, his attention, his entire being was
focused on one thing: the modest, whitewashed frame house settled prettily
among bare, towering maples at the edge of Finnigan's Wood.

The windows of the house, like the door, were oversize, slightly
out of proportion. He liked that; the house seemed to suit its occupants.

The house was bathed in silver light from a narrow crescent moon.
Branches rubbed and squeaked together in the chill wind that seemed to have
forgotten spring was on its way.

But Jon wasn't cold. In one of the upper windows, through diamond
panes polished to startling clarity, a single candle glowed. He could nearly
feel its warmth from here. The flame was small, steady, burning with golden
light. Burning for him.

He knew that small blaze had been glowing there for more than
eight years, night and day. It had been there, never wavering, never fading,
every time he'd been able to come home on leave, a symbol of the belief that he
would indeed come home.

He was nearly there, and the bone-deep, soul-searing weariness of
so many years of war began to lift, replaced by a burgeoning, swelling joy. For
this time he didn't have to leave again.

Quietly, unwilling to wake the occupants of the house, he pushed
open the front door. Once inside, he just stood there, absorbing the soft
sounds of a resting house and breathing in the scents of beeswax and cooking
spices that meant home.

He mounted up the center stairs that swept up in front of him, his
footsteps light. His hand slid easily over the glossy surface of the handrail,
and he remembered the day he had spent rubbing it to that fine-grained finish.
He'd only been able to work on bits of the house himself; his father-in-law had
built most of it, helped occasionally by whichever Jones male had been home on
leave, and with more assistance from Beth than she probably should have been
giving. But he was glad that there were parts of the house that bore his mark,
that showed the labor of his hands and the care he'd put into it.

He paused at the first bedroom to the right. Two small beds,
dressed in frilly white, were filled. His girls. He didn't know how long he
stood there, noting all the changes, how much they'd grown since he'd seen them
last.

Six and four years old! God, where had it all gone? His eyes stung
as he thought of what he'd missed, all the things he'd never get to see. The
times when their white, baby-fine curls had turned to thick, gold sunshine;
when their chubby little bodies had begun to slim and lengthen into childhood.
It was nearly beyond his strength not to scoop them right into his arms and
hold them close. They'd squeal then, he knew; when he came back after he'd been
away, he always squeezed them just a little too tight.

He let them sleep. In the next room, milky moonlight pouring
through the window illuminated a small tester bed. Cadwallader Leighton was the
pride of his grandfather, who, after two girls that he adored, had all but
given up hope that his daughter would produce a grandson, and who had nearly
burst his buttons when he heard his newest grandchild's name.

The Jones men had not been impervious to war after all. They'd
lost David at Valley Forge, and his widow and child had moved in with Cad and
Mary.

And, of course, they'd also lost Brendan, who was never mentioned
in the Jones house. Jon knew Beth received occasional letters from her brother,
who was in Montreal and had found work cataloguing the library for a community
of monks. Brendan seemed content with the books and the silence.

Henry had lost a leg at Princeton and had come home bitter and
angry, drained of every bit of exuberance and joy.

Little Cadwallader was nearly a year old now, his head covered
with swirls of fine, light brown hair that gleamed almost white in the
moonlight. His skin was smooth, flawless, and Jon couldn't resist running the
back of one finger over the plump curve of his cheek. His eyes were closed,
outrageously long lashes resting gently against his cheek. Jon knew those eyes
were big and brown and shiny with the wonder of the world and the knowledge
that he was loved.

Jon shuddered slightly and felt a drop of moisture slip out of the
corner of his eye. He hadn't seen his son for nearly eight months and had never
been there when one of his children was born. But he felt a deep satisfaction
that they would grow up in a place where freedom was more than a word.

He stepped out in to the hall and heard the faint whisper of bare
feet on the polished wood floor.

"Jonathan?" she said uncertainly.

She was standing in the doorway of their bedroom, the place she'd
slept far too many nights alone. The rich spill of her curls tumbled down her
back, and the pale sweep of her nightdress swirled around her lush, strong
body.

"Jonathan!" she cried.

He didn't remember how she got there, he only knew that suddenly
she was in his arms, clutching him tightly around the neck, trembling as he
held her.

"Can you stay this time?" she asked, her voice muffled
against his chest.

"Yes," he said hoarsely. "This time, I'm home for
good."

And then he found her mouth, a kiss flavored with desperation and
emotion and feelings pent up over far too much time. His lips slanted and his
tongue swirled with hers, going deeper, farther, more. He had to have more.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her clear of the
floor, walking her back into the bedroom without breaking the contact. He
leaned over the bed, bracing himself with one arm while holding her with the
other, and lowered her to it, still without ever moving his mouth from hers.

There was no time for preliminaries. He was quick, nearly crazed,
as he kept his lips firmly on hers while he shoved her nightdress up to her
waist and fumbled with the fastenings of his breeches.

He touched her once, briefly, to assure himself he wouldn't hurt
her. Then he thrust inside her, quickly, one strong flex of his hips and he was
buried as deeply as he could go.

He went still. There was no longer any necessity for speed, for he
was where he needed to be. Now there was time for caressing and stroking and
touches, time for sliding his tongue along her collarbone and kissing the place
where her pulse beat in the hollow of her throat. Time for gentleness, time for
tenderness. For now he was with Beth, in her, surrounded by her.

For now, at last, he was home.

It was over. Finally, completely over. No more would her husband
leave her after only a few days of heaven. No more waking up in the middle of
the night, trembling and drenched with sweat after living through dreams that
were drenched with blood. No more standing watching their children sleep and
wondering if they were going to grow up without a father. No more rumors of
battle that obliterated anything but icy fear.

It was over at last. Jonathan had come home to her.

She placed her hand along the slope of his jaw. The stubble rasped
against her palm as he turned his head to gently place a kiss there.

Beth looked up at the man who lay over her in the dark, whose body
filled hers and whose presence filled her heart. His face was illuminated by
moonlight and the wavering flame of the solitary candle. His features were
sharpened, made even more handsome by the hardships of war and command. There
was strength there, and harshness, and an aching, extraordinary tenderness.

He was the most beautiful man in the world.

And he was hers.

Susan Kay Law
lives
in Minnesota with her husband and two sons. Her first novel,
Journey Home,
won
the 1992 Romance Writers of America Golden Heart Award. This is her second
novel.