The Eden Tree (2 page)

Was it really possible, he thought dazedly as she responded to his slightest movement, was it possible that this exquisite, unknown creature would let him make love to her? She wanted him. She was almost crazy with wanting him; he could feel it. Her lips pressed his skin lightly, dazedly, as he reached for the clasp of his belt. He was beyond thought in an instant. With an inarticulate groan, he lifted her into his arms and looked around desperately for a suitable patch of grass. Her hands moved over him restlessly as he strode to a small hillock and set her down gently. He knelt with her, feeling her trembling ardor which met and matched his like a leaping flame.

“Now?” he asked hoarsely. “Here?”

“Yes, yes,” she answered pleadingly. “Make love to me. Make me feel alive again.”

These were the first words she’d uttered, and they betrayed her.

He released her so quickly that she fell back onto her elbows. He stood, breathing harshly, running unsteady hands through his hair and trying to calm down. He was shaking, forcibly stemming the physical and emotional tidal wave that had almost carried them headlong to shore. It was a few seconds before he looked her in the eye and faced her.

“American, are you?” he asked abruptly.

Linn gazed back at him, bemused by passion, uncomprehending.

He bent and shook her arm. “From the main hall?” he demanded, jerking his head in the direction of her grandfather’s house. This time she nodded dumbly. His demeanor had changed completely; he was withdrawn, almost hostile.

“So,” he said slowly, drawing out the vowel as only an Irishman could, “you must have been in a killing hurry.”

“Wh…what?” Linn stammered. What had happened? What was he talking about?

The indigo eyes assessed her with a coldness that bewildered her. “To take possession,” he said. The words were close to a sneer.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Linn said helplessly. He wasn’t being very clear and she had just crashed from the heights of sexual exhilaration to the mundane earth with a resounding thud. She was befuddled in her attempt to recover equilibrium.

“I stop at the gatehouse, there,” he said contemptuously, indicating the cottage at the right. “I didn’t expect you for a fortnight, but it seems Kevin’s daughter was in as big a rush to get here as her father was to leave.”

“Stop,” in the vernacular, meant “stay.” That much she knew. He lived in the gatehouse. She was beginning to see the light.

“Mr. Fitzgibbon, the lawyer in town, said there was a caretaker out here, somebody named Clay,” Linn said questioningly.

“Aye,” he said, inclining his head. “I’m Clay.”

Linn blinked in surprise. When the lawyer had mentioned the groundskeeper, she’d pictured some elderly family retainer in tweeds and a cloth cap. She had hardly imagined this virile dynamo who had taken her, in a few turbulent minutes, to the brink of fulfillment. Rick, her ex-husband, had not managed to do as much in two years.

“I came early; I didn’t even tell Mr. Fitzgibbon. Ildathach is all I have left of my father. I was very anxious to see it.”

Clay walked away from her and picked up his shirt from the ground, where he had evidently discarded it while chopping the wood. He shrugged into it. “Oh, I’m sure you were,” he answered bitterly. “You’ve a perfect right to it, after all.”

“Wait a minute,” Linn began, but he interrupted her.

“You’d best dress yourself as well,” he said calmly, nodding at her disarranged nightgown. “You’re not accustomed to the climate here and you can catch your death in one of these mists.”

Linn glanced down at herself and flushed to the roots of her hair. She’d been having this conversation half-naked, her nightdress pooled in folds at her waist and halfway up her thighs. She got up hastily, drawing the flimsy material about her as best she could. It didn’t help much. Whether from his statement or from adrenaline reaction to their passionate encounter, she began to shiver. She wrapped her arms about herself and stood still, trying not to tremble.

He was not fooled. “Come over a bit chilly?” he asked mildly. “It’s no surprise, with you in that tissue thing.” He took off his shirt, which he hadn’t buttoned. “Here, have this,” he said, walking back to her and extending the garment.

Linn shook her head. This was a bad idea for two reasons: the thought of his clothing next to her skin called up images that unnerved her, and also he was now uncovered again. She tore her gaze away from his body.

“Don’t be a fool, girl,” he said abruptly. “Take it. You’ll shake yourself to cinders before you get back to the house.” He held it up to help her into it and she had no choice but to comply. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, which dropped over her wrists. The tails hung almost to her knees.

“You look grand,” he said dryly.

“Yeah,” Linn muttered. “I can imagine.”

Clay met her eyes. There was a slight smile in his. Her awareness of the picture she made had amused him. Linn was hopeful. Perhaps they could be friends after all.
 

They’d come close to being lovers.

She was relieved to see him bend and retrieve a sort of sweatshirt from the grass. He’d obviously been wearing both before he’d stripped for the work. He pulled the garment over his head and waited for her while she buttoned his shirt and rolled the sleeves up her forearms.

“Why were you running so?” he asked curiously, when she looked up to find his penetrating gaze on her.

“I…had a bad dream.”

“You were sleeping in the house?”

“Yes. I arrived late today and Mr. Fitzgibbon drove me out here and let me in with his key. I was so tired from the trip that I went right to bed.” She looked down. “There was the nightmare and then I heard a noise in the house. A crash. I’m afraid I ran right out and just kept running.”

He looked disturbed at the possibility of an intruder. “What kind of a crash?” he asked.

“Like something falling, breaking. I thought somebody was there.”

His brow cleared. “I doubt it. The cat, more likely. He jumps through the ground floor window in the parlor. Bridie leaves it open for him. It wouldn’t be the first time he tipped something onto the floor. It’s stone, you know. The vases don’t bounce.” He eyed her quizzically. “Did Bridie not tell you about the cat?”

“I don’t know anybody named Bridie.”

“She’s the housekeeper,” Clay explained. “Comes in daily; walks up from town. You must have arrived after she left for the day. You’ll meet her tomorrow.”

Linn couldn’t believe they were chatting this way, in the middle of the night, after that explosive meeting. She shifted position to take advantage of the flooding moonlight and see him as well as she could. His coloring was high, vivid, and complemented his blunt, almost harsh features. He wasn’t conventionally handsome but arresting in a way no merely handsome man could be. She knew instinctively that in any gathering her eyes would bypass the pretty boys and be drawn to him. It was hard to say why, exactly; she just recognized that it was so.

“I’m sorry that I startled you like that,” she said falteringly. “I behaved stupidly, I suppose, charging out into the dark. I didn’t think I would see anyone.” She glanced around uncertainly. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Never trouble yourself,” he said shortly. “I’ll walk you back to the house.”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” she asked anxiously.

He shrugged slightly. “I sleep badly myself,” he said, without explanation. “I’m often about the place at night.”

Linn remembered his first remarks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Clay, but I get the impression you resent my presence here. Why is that?”

Clay stared at her. How could she ask that question? Didn’t she know what her father had done? Had she no idea why the man had left Ireland? She gazed back at him innocently, waiting for an answer.
 

Apparently not.

When he didn’t reply she said, “I will not inconvenience you, Mr. Clay. I want you to go on as usual. I didn’t realize that the cottage was your home. I misunderstood Mr. Fitzgibbon. When he said there was a caretaker I thought he meant someone who lived elsewhere and came in by day, as you say Bridie does.”

He looked at her a long moment, as if to see if she were sincere, and then said, “Do as you please. I’m the man by the wall in this anyway.” He walked ahead of her, onto a dirt path.

The man by the wall? What did that mean? Linn hesitated to reply, and he glanced back at her. “Shall you come along, then?” he said impatiently. “You’ll not find your way alone.”

Linn followed him slowly, keeping to the depression in the earth worn bare of grass by the passage of many feet. It threaded through the trees. She could not remember if she had come along this way or not. Everything looked the same. Clay walked steadily in front of her, not glancing around, pushing overhanging branches out of the way, snapping off twigs and tossing them aside, making it easier for her as she came behind him. Linn studied the back of his head, thinking that his hair was attractive, the color of bittersweet chocolate, curling in soft profusion down to his collar. It had felt very silky, smelled very clean. Her glance moved downward over his strong torso, now concealed by the shirt. There was a fluidity to his movements, an economy of effort, that made her feel secure approaching the house from which she had fled. If anything or anybody was inside it Linn was certain he could handle the situation.

Clay deviated from the path and took her arm. It was the first time he’d really touched her since he found out who she was, and she started at the contact. He looked down at her, and his eyes were twin blue coals smoldering in his still face. She realized she’d been deceived by his deliberately casual manner when he offered to take her back. He was as constantly aware of what had passed between them as she was.

“Walk with me,” he said. “This is shorter than the way you came but the ground is covered with rocks and fallen branches. You might trip. Stay close and hang on.”

Linn did as he said, clinging to his arm and stepping only where he did. After a few minutes of picking their way through the beeches and maples they came within sight of the house. As soon as they were out of the trees he released her.

“Here you are, my lady,” he said. There was an undertone of irony in his voice which did not escape her.

“Why do you call me that?” she asked sharply.

“You’re the mistress of the manor,” he answered simply.

And for some reason you’re convinced I don’t deserve to be, Linn thought. Aloud she said, “Hardly that.”

“I’ll have a look ‘round,” he said. “Just in case.” He circled the exterior of the house and then followed her inside through the front door, which she had left ajar in her flight. The interior looked ghostly with most of the furniture draped in protective sheets. He went ahead of her into the parlor and returned carrying a large striped tabby. It purred loudly as he stroked its fur.

“This is your intruder,” Clay announced. “Fearful looking demon, isn’t he? A scourge to every mouse in the parish. Meet Ned.”

Linn felt ridiculous, as he had intended. “How was I supposed to know it was a cat?” she asked defensively.

He let the cat drop to the floor, where it rubbed against his legs affectionately and then stalked back into the living room, its tail held haughtily in the air.
 

“You weren’t,” he replied kindly. “The night is full of terrors in a strange place.”

Linn melted at the gentleness in his voice. He was a contradiction: comforting one moment, ablaze with passion at another, aloof and resentful the next. The elements were certainly mixed in him, Linn reflected. She wanted to put the light on in the hall to see him but as she reached for it, he said, “I’ll leave you now.”

“Let me return your shirt,” Linn said, taking it off. He came to stand behind her and when she turned to give it to him, he was closer than she’d thought. His hands sought her immediately and the shirt slipped to the floor.

Clay embraced her with one arm, tangling the fingers of his other hand in her hair. He bent and brushed his lips lightly across her throat. Linn went limp and closed her eyes, arching to meet him.

“You see how it is with us,” Clay said softly. “I can take you anytime I want. And I do want. So have a care.” He let her go and walked soundlessly to the door. “Good night,” he added quietly, and went out. She heard his footsteps in the cobbled yard, fading, then gone.

Linn sagged against the wall of the entry hall, her heart pounding. So that was passion, she thought. She’d heard about it all her life but had never experienced it until this night. And with a volatile stranger who’d just left her with a whispered warning. Would it be more appropriate to laugh or cry? She had no idea.

When she felt recovered enough she made her way slowly to the guest room. She didn’t realize that he’d left his shirt behind until she stepped on it. She picked it up and put her face against the cambric linen. It smelled like him. Then she shook herself and tossed the shirt on the entry hall table. She was not going to behave like a puppy with its master’s blanket. She marched straight into the bedroom and climbed under the covers.

She was worn out and fell asleep almost immediately. Her last thought before drowsiness overcame her was, I wonder what his first name is?