Light of Day (18 page)

As Samuel fed small bits of wood to the fire, Arrow moved back and forth between the stove and Lila’s bed, obviously agitated.

“What is it?” Samuel whispered, a sudden fear seizing him. Had someone slipped into the cabin and killed her in her sleep? He crossed to her in an instant. As he reached out to touch her, to make certain of the life of her still body, she made a noise, a chest-deep moan.

His head cleared. No one could get into the cabin with Arrow standing guard, but the dog had known something was amiss with his beloved mistress. He touched her shoulder gently. “Lila, it’s your back, isn’t it?”

Her head peeked out from below the covers. “I’m so cold,” she whispered.

“I’ll be right back.” He ran upstairs for the quilts on his own bed, cursing himself for his selfishness. At least he might have volunteered for fire duty, seeing how badly her back was bothering her earlier. But he’d been too deeply focused on his own internal struggle to see that she faced one of her own.

He remembered now that she had spoken of the hot baths she took at home in Seattle, and realized how difficult it would have been for her to fill a tub here. He swore again. While his thoughts had been centered on avoiding the temptation of her ripe body, hers had been upon avoiding pain.

One by one he spread the quilts over her, then turned his attention to the fire, stoking it carefully until it was roaring. He put water on to boil so that a cup of tea might warm her internally, then sank down on the bed next to her.

“I’m sorry, Lila.” His hand feathered over her wild curls. “I’ve been very selfish. It will be warm in here soon.”

Lila closed her eyes again, unable to move a muscle without agony. Even the delicious sensation of Samuel’s hand, gentle upon her hair, did little to distract her. It would be better when she got warm, she thought.

When Samuel solicitously brought her a cup of tea, she shook her head. “I can’t sit up yet,” she said quietly.

With a muttered curse he put the cup aside, then moved to the end of the bed. Before she really understood his intention, he had climbed in next to her, his velveteen robe soft against her skin. “Samuel,” she protested. She felt oddly shy even through the cloud of pain. She wore only one of her sleeveless T-shirts and a pair of underwear, and although Samuel, too, was clothed, the intimacy was a little overwhelming.

“Shh.” He gently circled her body with his, fitting them together in the ancient spoon fashion. “I will just warm you,” he said with a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Thank you.” She let herself relax against him, welcoming the heat. His arms looped over hers securely, comfortingly, and his knees fit perfectly in the crook of her own. She accepted the moment gratefully, glad to touch him, glad he was so warm.

Thus tucked in, she slept.

* * *

Several times through the night, Samuel rose to restoke the fire, always returning to the torturous but exquisite pleasure of holding her pliant body, smelling the herbal scent of her shampoo, reveling in the silkiness of her skin. He did not sleep.

Nor did he think. For once he allowed himself to simply feel. He rested his face upon her shoulder, let his fingers rest upon her arm—and let his emotions carry him to the truth.

This was no swift and sudden lust. He loved her. Loved her as a woman and a friend—and more. As he held her, he felt the same way he had when he was ten, first discovering the magical properties of light, the way he felt when he learned some particularly delightful bit of wine lore. He loved her with that ethereal part of him men called a soul for lack of any other word.

And for once he did not hold himself aloof from the feeling or try to dilute it with analysis. He simply let himself drift while she slept in his arms.

As the cold dawn, accompanied by the unceasing rain, crept into the room, she stirred, moving her legs a bit, and her toes, then her hands and body. The tiny shifts brought him to instant and furious arousal, but he was loath to leave her. Instead, he eased his hips away from hers so that she would not feel him.

Lila felt the arousal an instant before he moved. She tightened her hand on his and lifted his fingers to her lips, planting kisses on the fine, tawny flesh. He was warm behind her and smelled wonderfully of himself, and for a long moment she forgot why she had awakened to find him in her bed with her, lost only in the delight of it.

When he drew away, she wanted to cry, afraid he was going to leave her. Instead, very slowly, he began to rub her back. He started with her shoulders, his strong hands kneading those muscles with exquisite pressure, his thumbs sliding up the center of her neck and into her hair.

“Lie on your stomach,” he whispered.

Lila complied. He brushed away her hair and continued his massage, running his hands down the length of her back to the vulnerable lower muscles. He paused there, rolling his hands with expert attention over the injured places. Lila felt a bloom of relaxing heat in each spot and sighed softly.

For a long time he simply massaged every dip and rise of her spine, every hollow and muscle in her back and shoulders and neck. Lila drifted on a sensual plane, her arousal growing as the stiffness in her body receded.

When his lips, firm and hot, lit upon the nape of her neck, Lila felt a swoop of intense hunger sweep through her, and she sighed, about to turn. He stilled her, holding her shoulders gently with his hands. With infinite gentleness his mouth traveled the places his hands had explored, over the back of her neck and along her shoulders, along the length of her arms. Her heart slowed to a lazy, booming rhythm, but every nerve seemed to leap into electric thrumming, nerves she wasn’t even aware of owning.

He paused in his ministrations long enough to push her T-shirt up. When he bent his head once more to her back, it was his tongue that roamed the dip of her spine, circled the tiny bones, teased into life a roaring aliveness that left her breathless.

And now his fingers trailed up the bare flesh of her side, teasing the edges of her breasts with the pale swirls of a mist before swooping back down to trace the upper curve of her hips.

Lila could no longer bear it without touching him, seeing him. She turned over, slipping free of her shirt with one quick motion, and held open her arms for him, her beloved Samuel, come at last to her in this gloomy morning.

But he did not immediately respond to her invitation. He knelt over her, his black hair mussed, his eyes molten with the desire she’d awaited so long. His robe had fallen open at the top, showing a broad stretch of tawny, hair-dusted skin, rippling with powerful muscle. She reached for that chest, opening her palms over the flesh, and as she did so, Samuel followed suit, his hands spreading open over her bared breasts. His eyes followed his fingers as they traced the full swelling of her breasts and stopped at the aching, pointed tip. With a sigh he bent reverently to lay the bare heat of his tongue against her rigid nipples. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted you so long…” His lips lifted to claim her mouth with barely controlled violence.

She pushed the robe from his arms to run her hands over the supple skin of his shoulders and back. He straightened, shaking the fabric away from his torso, and Lila fumbled impatiently with the tie at his waist. When at last it was freed, she sat up, eagerly running her hands from his shoulders, down his chest to his flat waist, and lower still to the curiously silken skin of his rigid manhood.

“Lila,” he breathed, grasping her arms. She filled her eyes with the glorious sight of him, his black eyes no longer glassy obsidian, but deep, soft pools. The severe lines in his face were gentle with love, unmarred by any tinge of regret. She pulled him to her, sighing as their bared chests met gently. “Love me, Samuel,” she murmured huskily.

Samuel thought of his shoulder, not yet strong enough for the kind of activity just ahead, and thought, too, of Lila’s back. He slipped off her panties, then gripped her slender body in his strong left arm. “With both of us handicapped,” he whispered against her neck, “we shall have to be inventive.”

Lila’s lips curled in her impish grin as they turned, reversing the usual order of lovers. The smile faded, her eyes growing heavy lidded as they joined, at last, in the cold, rainy morning.

And as they moved together, the darkened places in Samuel’s heart and soul shed their shadows, bit by bit, until everything within him shimmered and blazed with pure white light, a light as perfect and wondrous as the sun that teased tiny plants into sturdy vines, heavy with ripe grapes. His hands slid over her rib cage, over her soft white arms and into her springy hair, until he could pull her full lips to his own. Her breaths came in shallow, airy pants, and a small sound escaped her throat as his lips touched hers.

With the power lent him by his passion, he turned her again with a growl, watching her curls splay against the pillows. He paused a moment to taste the hollow of her throat, then grasped her shoulders and thrust powerfully into her, feeling the light build into an energy too great to be contained. At the instant Lila’s quivering turned into a great arch of her body, the light exploded and Samuel gathered her close. “I love you, Lila,” he whispered, and let the light carry him away, beyond all earthly care.

T
hey dozed lightly, warm beneath the heavy quilts in the cabin, the rain outside insulating them from the world beyond.

When Lila sleepily opened her eyes, Samuel was wrapped around her securely, his bare chest against her back, his arm looped around her waist. She held his hand close to her breast and smiled, then pressed her lips against the fine sinews of his fingers. He loved her, this man who’d fallen into her life by mistake, whose life had been tangled with hers through a queer series of events. He loved her, this man born to parents who’d been brought together only through historical accident. He loved Lila, daughter of ranchers and Indians, Italians and Irishmen.

The press of his lips against her shoulder made her smile, and she turned in his arms to look at him. “Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning.” His smile was rich with warmth, his voice deeply accented.

“How’s your shoulder?” She touched the ragged line of stitches with the tip of her finger. The wound had a pinkish look now, the pink of healing skin.

“Good,” he replied. “And your back?”

“Much better, thank you. Making love is a rather unusual cure, but it seems to have been very effective.”

Propping himself up on his strong left elbow, he said, “Is that so?” His hand moved in a lazy circle on her stomach. “What about a second cure, hmm?”

Leaning close, he brushed her lower lip with his mouth. He kissed her without closing his eyes, his hand creeping over her ribs to cup a breast in a swirling, gentle caress. The tip of his tongue flitted over the tip of hers, teasing her like the light in his eyes. His leg moved over hers lightly, the rough hairs of his calf against the tenderness of her thigh.

Still his black eyes fixed hers, drawing her into him, the teasing light gone. His teeth caught her lip at the exact instant his exploring fingers plucked the hard tip of nipple, and Lila gasped. His hand slid over her belly, his mouth over her neck. His fingers parted her legs as his mouth fell hot on her breast, and slipped gently into the secret harbor of her womanhood. And thus they began again.

His passion she had expected, even his expertise, for a man of his years would not have been without women. She had even, in the long days of yearning, suspected his tenderness, which led him now to kiss her temples and the inner crook of her elbow with the same loving attention he gave to her lips and breasts.

What she had not anticipated was that he would be vulnerable, as well. It was as if making love had shattered some hard shell he used to protect himself and the man behind the shield was all the more exposed for having been hidden. As he made love to her again, she felt a ferocious protectiveness stir within her. She thought of the chess queen, freely moving in defense of the king, and it seemed to her that had always been the way of women, whatever men thought to the contrary.

* * *

Later she managed to convince Samuel of the benefits of eating, and, donning his robe, she gathered an array of grapes and crackers and cheese, then put a pot of coffee on the stove. Arrow moaned at the door, wanting out in spite of the rain, and Lila let him go. She stuffed the stove full of logs, then climbed back on the bed with her plates of food.

“You don’t mind if I wear this, do you?” she asked, gesturing to the robe. Samuel leaned against the pine wall, his shoulders bare, his chest magnificent.

He smiled. “No.” He plucked a grape from the cluster and ate it. Touching the charms on the chain around her neck, he asked, “Which of these religions do you claim, Lila?”

“None of them, and all of them. I had to take Catholic instruction because my mother insisted, but it didn’t really click. So then I went to church with my father, who is a Methodist, but that didn’t work for me, either.” She sliced a wedge of cheese. “I think I like Granny’s way best—it’s very simple and pure.” She grinned, shrugging. “But even that doesn’t cover everything, so I kind of made up my own.”

“Ah. Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Is your family religious, Samuel?”

“Not really. Mustapha and I were taught both religions, but I never felt compelled to make a choice. They are both part of the same tradition.”

“Judaism goes through the mother, Islam through the father, right?”

“That’s right.” He smiled. “Have you studied them?”

“Not really. But like war, you have to know religion if you’re going to understand history.”

“Science always seemed to me the best religion. There is wonder in the universe, in the order of atoms and the spectrum of light.” His eyes focused on something far away, and a musing expression crossed his face. “Energy cannot be destroyed. It only changes into something else. If that is not a miracle, I don’t know what is.”

Lila grinned. “And I thought all scientists were atheists.”

“I’m no scientist.” Carefully he brushed a few stray crumbs from the quilt to the empty plate.