Lorraine Heath (27 page)

She patted his cheek. “You should have walked out my backdoor years back when you had a chance. You would have had a lot fewer lines in your face.”

“If I’d walked out your backdoor that day, I never would have been able to walk back in through it.”

He bowed his head. A lump knotted in Meg’s throat as she detected a subtle movement of his arms; she guessed that he was holding Mama Warner tighter. They didn’t seem to notice that she hadn’t left yet, but she felt as though she was intruding on an intimate moment that belonged only to the two of them.

Creeping out of the shed, she headed to the house. She knocked lightly and waited several moments before slowly pushing the door open. The amber glow of a dying fire in the hearth and the low flame in a lantern on the table threw a pale light over the room. She stepped into the house and picked up the lantern. The wall to her right contained a closed door, as did the wall to her left. She chose the door to her right. She walked across the room and tapped her fingers on the door. “Lucian?”

Carefully, she opened the door and peered into the room. A familiar scent greeted her. Clay.

Entering, she glanced at the bare furnishings. A cheval glass faced the wall, and she wondered why he didn’t want to look at his reflection in the mirror. Did he see a coward when he met his gaze?

A smaller mirror did hang on the wall above a washstand. She stood on the tips of her toes. She supposed he looked in this mirror when he shaved, although she didn’t think he could see much of his face at one time.

She imagined Clay holding the razor in his large hand, angling his chin, and peering at the mirror as he grazed the sharp edge over his face, removing a night’s growth of thick beard.

She touched the brush with which he tried to manage his hair. He didn’t have the skills with the brush that he had with a chisel and hammer. He could shape stone, but he couldn’t make his hair do anything but fall over his brow.

He’d tucked the quilts neatly into place on his bed. She wondered how far down he sank into the mattress. She wondered if he found sleeping alone as lonely as she did.

Turning to leave, she noticed an object on the dresser as the light of the lantern swung past it. She walked to the dresser and touched the stone.

He had carved a small girl sitting with her elbows on a table and her chin in her hands. The girl looked incredibly sad, as though she’d just lost something precious. One side of the rock was jagged as though whatever Clay had carved had fallen or broken off. She trailed her fingers over the braid along the girl’s back. She knew why the girl was sad; she was the girl.

“What are you doing?” a deep voice demanded.

Meg spun around, her hand pressed to her throat. “Oh, Lucian. I was looking for you.”

“You won’t find me in Clay’s room.”

“I didn’t realize it was his room … not at first, anyway. He needs you in the shed.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Let me get a shirt.”

He disappeared in the darkness. She walked quickly out of the room and quietly closed the door. Lucian walked through a door across the room. “I’m ready.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as she set the lantern on the table and walked to the door. “I didn’t know where you slept.”

“I sleep with the twins, and the little rascals snore.”

He held the door open for her, and she stepped back into the night. They walked in silence to the shed.

Meg crossed to the other side of the shed, and Clay snapped his head up, his brow furrowed. “Mama Warner fell asleep while we were waiting on you.”

Kneeling, Meg gently shook Mama Warner’s shoulder. “Mama Warner, you need to wake up now.”

Mama Warner squinted. “I saw Kirk.”

“No, ma’am. You saw his face carved in the stone.”

“Ah, yes. The monument. It’s not gonna be what you wanted, Meg.”

“I think it’s going to be exactly what I wanted. You wanted to touch Kirk, remember?”

“Of course, I remember. I’m old. I’m not forgetful.”

“Lucian, you hold Mama Warner,” Clay said. “I’ll stand on the stool, and you can hand her up to me.”

Standing, Meg moved aside, and Lucian took Mama Warner from Clay. Clay climbed on the stool and braced his legs. He lifted Mama Warner into his arms and held her toward the statue.

Mama Warner ran her gnarled fingers over Kirk’s carved features. Then she slumped against Clay’s shoulder. “You done good, Clayton. You done good.”

Leaning against the boulder, Meg watched as Clay spread the quilt on the ground. They’d taken Mama Warner home and then come to the swimming hole. With so little moon, the darkness hid most of Clay’s actions.

She’d tried to maintain a wall of hatred, but he’d chipped away at the wall little by little. He’d begun innocently the day she saw him playing with the naked twins in the river. She could recall each and every unselfish act that had served as his chisel, each kindness as his hammer.

Now she watched his silhouette stretch and pull the corners of the quilt across the grass. He knelt on the quilt and braced his hands on his thighs. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Would you rather I take you home?”

Meg walked across the small space separating them, dropped to her knees, and wrapped her hand around the back of his neck. “I’m not certain I want you to take me home at all tonight.”

She pressed her mouth to his, and he lifted his hands to her face, the only place he ever touched her. She slid her hand around and began to unbutton his shirt. He moved his mouth from hers with lightning speed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I want to remove your shirt.”

“Why?”

She ran her hand along his shirt. “Because I want to touch your chest, your bare back.”

Clay looked at his hand touching her cheek. He could see the outline of her face, but he couldn’t make out the smooth unmarred surface. He hoped the shadows hid his imperfections as easily as they hid her perfection. He brushed his lips over hers, hoping she’d find the permission she needed.

She did.

She worked the buttons free on his shirt as he groaned and deepened the kiss. Easing his shirt free from his trousers, she lifted the ends.

Clay didn’t want to withdraw from the kiss, didn’t want to give her a clear view of his chest, but she tugged on the shirt, giving him no choice. He took one last taste of her with him before leaning away and lifting his arms. He felt the warm night air touch every inch of his chest and back as she slowly pulled his shirt over his head. He wondered if she was taking her time because she was considering covering him up again. The shirt had risen up to hide his face so he could no longer see Meg, and he didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.

He felt her curves brush against his chest as she worked the shirt free of his arms. He’d never realized how damn long his arms were. His hands gained their freedom, and he dropped them to his side. Then she whipped the shirt off his head, and he found himself staring at her face in the darkness. He couldn’t tell a damn thing about what she was thinking. He cursed the blessed darkness. He wished he could see her clearly without her seeing him.

With trembling fingers, she outlined his shoulders. “You feel just as I thought you would,” she said softly. “It gets so hot in the shed. I kept hoping you’d take your shirt off so I could watch you work. It’s as though when you shape the stone, it shapes you.”

She trailed her hands along to his back and pressed her fingers against every muscle and bone he had while he sat like a statue. She had such small hands, such gentle hands. He’d never in his life had someone touch him with such tenderness. He wanted to return the favor, but was afraid she’d stop if he moved.

“I never realized how incredibly strong you have to be to chip away at the stone. You move with such grace, showing so little effort, but I can see the strength in your hands, feel it in your shoulders and back. I could easily spend the rest of my life watching you cut into stone.”

He could easily have spent the rest of his life watching her watch him, having her sit in that chair, filling the shed with the scent of honeysuckle. If he slowed his pace on the monument, perhaps he could keep her with him for three years, but he knew once he finished the monument, the chair would remain empty, the honeysuckle would fade away, and all he’d have were memories of a woman who’d touched him one night as though she no longer hated him.

She ran her hands back up to his shoulders before slowly moving her splayed fingers toward his chest. He wrapped his hands around hers to stop the exploration. He feared, even in the darkness, she’d discover things about him that he’d rather she didn’t know. “I like it when you touch my back,” he said as he guided her hands around his sides.

Leaning forward, she trailed little kisses along his throat, branding him with the heat from her mouth. “You can touch me, too,” she whispered just before she nibbled on his ear.

He flexed his fingers and touched them lightly to her cheeks. He angled her head away from his ear and covered her mouth with his own. She sighed softly, and he held back an answering groan. She’d probably think he was in pain if he continued to sound like an animal every time she touched him.

She shifted her body, and he felt her breasts whisper along his chest. She moved her hands off his flesh, and he felt them working between their bodies. He snapped his head back. “What are you doing?”

She ducked her head as though embarrassed. “I’m hot.”

He watched in amazement as the material of her blouse parted and her throat came into view.

She peered at him. “Would you like to do this?”

“I’ve … I’ve never unbuttoned a lady’s blouse before.”

“It’s not much different than unbuttoning your shirt. You just slip the button through the hole.” He could hear the laughter in her voice as she demonstrated with ease and exposed a little bit more of her flesh.

Clay felt as though someone had just stuffed cotton into his mouth. Rubbing his hands along his thighs, he tried to calm their trembling. He reached for the button, and his knuckles grazed the inside swells of her breasts. He jerked his hands back. “Maybe you’d better unbutton that one.”

She shook her head slightly. “I want you to.”

He took a deep breath and returned his fingers to the button. His hands didn’t want to cooperate. They didn’t want to push a button through a hole. They wanted to open and cup her breasts. He tried to force them to forget they were nestled between the lush valley of her breasts. Her button went flying out into the night.

“Damn!” He moved his hands away from her blouse. “If we find it, I can sew it back on.”

She wrapped her hands around his. “I’m not worried about my button. I’m worried that maybe you don’t want what I’m offering.”

He swallowed hard. “What are you offering?”

“All of me.”

“Oh, Lord.” He bowed his head. “I want you so bad, Meg, that it hurts. I’ve loved you so long that I can’t remember when I didn’t.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You won’t even say my name.”

“I will.” She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise I will.”

“When?”

“When it’ll mean the most.”

“Do you still hate me?”

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t hated you for a long time. I tried to hate you. I pretended that I did because it frightened me to have all these feelings again. I loved Kirk. I wanted to die when he did. I didn’t think I’d ever fall in love with anyone else.” She laid her palm against his cheek and smiled tenderly, with tears welling in her eyes. “But I have.”

Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss into the heart of her palm. “I don’t know how to show you what I feel without fumbling all over myself … and you.”

“Then I’ll show you,” she said in a voice as sultry as the night.

He didn’t know if he’d survive her showing him, but he was willing to chance it. She presented him with her profile as she worked her shoes off. He tugged off his boots and tossed them aside. He’d worry about finding them later. She touched his knee and might just as well have touched his heart, so tender was her caress.

“I’ll finish undressing you in a minute,” she said.

She hiked her skirt over her knee, and he watched as she slowly peeled her stocking down her calf, over her ankle, and past her toes. Where was a full moon when he needed one? One that would shine on her and not on him.

Abruptly, she spun around and placed her stocking-covered foot in his lap. “You can take this one off.”

He wrapped his hand around her calf. “You’re so smooth, so soft.” He rolled the stocking down, slipped it off, and covered her foot with his hand. “You have such small feet.”

“And small ears.”

He lifted his gaze to her chest where her fingers were busily giving freedom to her buttons. The valley widened. “I don’t think they’re as small as I thought.”

She eased out of her blouse, exposing her shoulders to the night. He tugged on the ribbon holding her chemise together. The bow disappeared, and the material parted.

She rose to her knees and slipped the straps off her shoulders. “You do the rest.”

He fumbled with the buttons, ribbons, lace, and cotton, but she didn’t seem to mind. She moved slightly to accommodate his needs, to give him easier access to her clothes. He didn’t know how his trembling hands managed to remove her clothes and pile them up beside her, but they did.

Unbraiding her hair and fanning it over her bare shoulders, she laughed lightly. “I’ve never been quite so bold.”

“I’ve never felt quite so timid. I wish you didn’t have any experience at this.”

She pressed on his shoulders until his back hit the quilt. “You’re not competing with anyone tonight. It’s only you and me.” She skimmed her hand over the front of his trousers. “No ghosts from my past.” She unbuttoned his trousers. He lifted his hips, and she deftly removed his remaining clothes.

Clay was breathing as though he’d just run to the top of a mountain, and she was sitting there as calm as the dawn, trailing her fingers up and down his thigh, touching his knee and moving her fingers closer to his groin with each sweep. The woman was an expert at torture.

“Has any woman ever touched you?” she asked as she splayed her fingers over his thigh.