Patricia Potter (21 page)

He reached out a hand to her cheek, indifferent to the sympathetic stares around them. “One month,” he said, “and no more for someone as determined as you.”

“You will write, won’t you?” she persisted, part of her aching and frustrated over his refusal to commit, another part reacting to the ever-so-tender touch.

“It may be impossible.”

“Do you want
me
to write?”

She watched him as a nerve moved in his cheek. “It’ll be a very long war. I don’t want you to wait for me. There will be others—”

“No,” she replied with absolute certainty, and she saw his jaw tighten again.

“It’s the island,” he tried again. “If we’d met someplace else…”

“The same thing would have happened,” she finished for him. “At least for me.” There was a note of pain in her voice.

His face closed, and she could no longer tell what he was thinking. Instead, he signaled for a waiter, quickly paid the bill, and rose, his hand taking her elbow protectively. She measured her step to his limp, although she was learning that even that uneven gait was fast when he was so minded.

When they arrived back at the dock, Michael excused himself and disappeared in a boat store for several moments. When he emerged, he took her hand and helped her back into the boat, his clasp firm but casual.

The water was still choppy, the clouds even fuller than before, almost as if they wanted to drop from the sky. The earlier pleasant wind was cool, almost stinging, as it swept in from the open sea.

Meara looked at his profile. It was harsh and withdrawn, and she knew achingly that nothing had been settled, that she was just as uncertain as ever about his real feelings.

“Where are we going now?”

“Back.”

Meara hesitated. Tomorrow was Good Friday. She would spend much of the day watching the children, and she planned to attend special services at Faith Chapel in the afternoon. Although she and the Connors were Catholic, they attended Faith Chapel, the only church on the island, during the season.

And Michael was leaving Sunday.

“Can we stop at the beach on the way back?” The question was open and blatant and one she had never dreamed she would make. But then nothing was as it had been. She would never again be as she was two weeks ago.

Michael looked down at her, his eyes that unfathomable blue, protective and uncommunicative, and she started to wilt before the unblinking gaze. But then, miraculously, his face relaxed although his expression was wry as he finally nodded. His hand was warm and reassuring as he helped her into the boat which was moving jerkily in the waves.

When the boat was underway, he held his arm out and she moved over, inside it, feeling the warmth of his light embrace. She snuggled up against his chest, knowing that her question had been right, that this was right.

The wind caressed her face, the drops from the sea washing her with a salty mist. Despite the uncomfortable and unsatisfying discussion at the Cloister, she felt reborn, exultant, hopeful. He could no more stay away from her than she could him. She knew it now. No matter how much he tried, something in him wouldn’t, couldn’t let go.

She looked up at him, and just then a gust of wind shook the ribbon from her hair and it streamed out, wild and free. He looked down at her, and she saw raw naked longing in it. His lips touched her face, his tongue licking the mist away, while one hand continued to steer the boat through the cresting waves. A hard, jolting thump threw them against each other, and he eased the speed until they were at a bare crawl, just enough to keep the motor running. He took his belt from his slacks and tied the wheel to an arm rest, aiming the boat toward the now gray island that was Jekyll.

Mist was all around them, the sky was as gray as the sea, all different shades of gray—from pearl to pewter. The boat strained at its tether but kept going, slowly, very slowly, toward the island as Michael pulled her completely into his arms, his mouth hungrily tracing the lines of her cheeks and then her neck before seeking her mouth.

She heard thunder but knew it was not from the sky. She felt the searing heat of lightning and knew it was not from nature. Piercing streaks of need thundered and burned inside her, and her arms went around Michael with the urgency of impending loss. She felt the same desperate desire in him as his arms possessed her as completely as his lips. He was trembling. So was she, but she had never expected it of a man, especially one as sure and strong as Michael. Her heart slammed against her ribcage and she opened her eyes to look at his face. The corners of his eyes were wet, and she wondered for the briefest of seconds whether it could possibly be tears. But no, it must be sea mist, the tiny drops of water carried by the wind. His tongue felt salty as it explored her mouth greedily, seeking every little hollow to tease and inflame.

Just as their bodies blended together across the seat, the boat leapt upward, falling straight down, and a huge wave washed into the boat. Michael grabbed the wheel, a part chuckle, part curse exploding from deep in his throat as he sought to bring the boat back under control.

“That was damned stupid,” he said with such sheer self-disgust, she had to laugh at him despite being soaked from head to foot.

“I think it was wonderful.” She giggled, unable to help herself. She felt free, freer than she’d ever felt before in her life. Free and wild and at one with the elements, part of the rushing wind and the churning sea and the sheer perversity of both.

He shook his head at her exclamation, but a smile replaced the frown.

“Let’s not go back yet,” she yelled through the wind.

“You’ll freeze to death.”

“Not if we build a fire.”

Michael looked toward the horizon. Although the light mist appeared to encompass everything now, it wasn’t heavy enough to soak potential firewood. The time must be around six in the evening. The boat carrying Hans back to Brunswick would leave around six-thirty. It would be far better if he and Meara did not return before the man left, particularly looking this way.

Meara’s hair was wild, and her face flushed from the wind and his kiss. Their clothes were soaked. He felt inside his jacket pocket for matches and brought them out. They were, through some miracle, still dry.

He didn’t want to leave her. God help him. He couldn’t leave her. Not now. Not when she looked so enchanting with that hopeful smile and passion-glazed eyes and hair dancing like flames in the wind.

As they neared the island, he looked for a small cove where the water wasn’t too shallow and the sand wouldn’t choke the motor. He finally found what he was seeking, the entrance to a small creek, and he cut the motor, letting the boat drift to the shore until the propeller hit sand. He rolled up the legs of his slacks and went over the side, shivering slightly as the cold water hit his skin. He kept his hand on the rope attached to the back of the boat and he held his arms out to Meara.

“Your leg.” She demurred. “I can walk myself.”

“No,” he said with such emphasis and sureness that she didn’t question his silent order further. She felt his arms go around her, felt their confidence and strength as they held her firmly.

His gait was surprisingly graceful, and she sensed it was through sheer determination. In seconds he lowered her to the beach, his grin smugly satisfied.

She shook her head sadly. “Masculine ego.”

He grinned back, more carefree than she had seen him in several days, almost as if he, as she had, felt more in tune with the wild private world they were sharing than the calm civilized one they usually inhabited.

“I feel like Robinson Crusoe,” she said.

“As long as Friday doesn’t come along,” he qualified, and Meara loved the light, laughing sensuality in his voice.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“But then we have to build our own fire,” he warned.

“Small price.”

His hands went around her waist and he pulled her to him. Her clothes were drenched and clung to her body like a second skin. He felt her shiver and reluctantly released her. “I’ll secure the boat and get some wood.”

“I’ll help,” she said, not willing to let him out of her sight.

He pulled the boat in as far as he could, then secured the long rope to a heavy log on the beach. He held out his hand and she took it, their fingers entwining in both an intimate and companionable way.

The underbrush was heavy, and it didn’t take them long to gather enough twigs and thick branches to start a fire. In minutes, Michael had one blazing, and they sat in front of it, savoring the warmth of the flames and of each other. He held her in front of him, her back to his chest, his arms around her waist as they watched the curling, flickering streaks of orange-and-crimson flame reach for the sky.

A cinnamon glow colored the horizon as the cloud-shrouded sun set, and even the sea took on the shade, glints of gold flashing on pewter. Gulls hopefully swept the sea for one last meal of the day, their mournful cries echoing in the quiet, muted dusk.

Meara felt tears at the back of her eyes. Her fingers played along the blond hairs of his wrists, and she looked up at him, knowing that he, at the same instant, had lowered his lips to kiss her. Lazily at first, they kissed, lips touching lips with featherlike gentleness, each prolonging every exquisite magical moment.

The kiss deepened, slowly, each step relished and treasured before proceeding to the next one, as if they both had decided separately that the majesty of the mountain was that much greater when climbed slowly, when each plateau was reward in itself. To touch and be touched was enough at first. Meara’s hands lost themselves in his thick hair which curled with the sea air, locks wrapping themselves around her fingers as if they longed to be there.

Meara lifted her eyes and saw the flames of the fire reflected in his dark blue ones. Then she felt his hands moving toward the back of her dress, opening it and unhooking the brassiere under it. His fingers cradled her breasts for a moment, then pulled the dress off, his gaze running over her body with a fierce possessiveness. Slowly his hands touched everywhere, sending increasingly urgent sensations cascading through her body. His lips followed them as one of his hands unbuttoned his shirt and then his slacks. Without actually taking them off, he pulled her body close to his, and the combined friction of cloth and skin against her own naked body did things to her that she could not quite comprehend. She had thought she had reached the summit of feelings the other day, but they seemed pale compared to those she now experienced.

Her skin was alive with feeling, with wanting, and the core of her was a mass of writhing nerve ends, the pain sweet and exquisite in anticipation. She felt him shudder and knew his own body was reacting in similar fashion, hardening and trembling with a need that went beyond lust or passion.

Their bodies came together, and he entered, deep and throbbing but carefully, tenderly, as if each touch was to be savored and collected and remembered. But as he went deeper, the urgency became greater and Meara felt him love her inside, felt him reaching for more and more of her, and she joined him in his movements, her legs going around his, helping him to reach the core of her, to become completely one with her. Without consciousness, she gave him every part of her, every piece of her body and heart and soul. “My love,” she whispered.

She felt his response, not in words, but in his body, the way his hands moved and the way he moved inside her, like a dance of love with sensual, prolonged movements, each designed to prolong pleasure, to incite each hidden feeling and exploit it until the dance turned wild and uncontrollable, reaching beyond familiar feelings, rocketing to places unknown in flashes of white hot splendor….

Meara lay silently, Michael still fused to her, his hands moving gently over her body as if he didn’t really believe she was here. The urgency was gone, but a honeyed sweetness remained, a quiet contented joy. Completion.

She had never realized anything was missing from her life before, but she knew now the peace of being as one with another, the joining of heart and soul. She knew the ultimate in pleasure, the ultimate in happiness, the ultimate in loving. She sighed with the new knowledge, a low purr that hummed in the still night air.

Michael heard the sound with his ears and his heart, and he felt pain arcing through him. For a few moments he had felt whole and alive and vibrant, but now reality slowly crept in, flooding him with guilt. But still his hands would not leave her.

He withdrew slowly, gently from her body, but he cradled her in his arms, not wanting to let her go. She moved in them so trustingly, so completely giving of herself, that his pain deepened. This would be the last time he would see her like this, and he wanted the memories, not only his but hers, to be soft and gentle. He wanted her to know, in the days ahead, that he had truly cared for her, had loved her. Did love her. Would always love her. He knew that now. He knew it as he held her, as his lips touched the damp softness of her hair.

But he could not have her. Not at the price of his mother’s and brother’s lives.

Michael moved back imperceptively, his hand resting on her breast. Its shape fit perfectly into his hand and responded once more to his touch. He swallowed with need. The need to hold onto her, to this brief but intense discovery of life, real life, of giving and taking and loving. Of feeling weak, of feeling strong, of just feeling. Only now did he fully realize how little he had really felt anything in the past.