The Letter (12 page)

“Does it hurt?”

“Does what hurt, Jamie?”

“Your chest. You keep rubbing it like it is sore.”

It was sore, but not in the way Jamie thought. Michael reached over and tousled the lad’s hair. “No, I’m fine, truly. How about you, how are you today?”

“I am hungry, and I am worried.”

“And why is that?

Jamie turned midnight blue eyes his way. “Well, I am hungry because my stomach feels empty. I don’t know why. I have more food now than I used to, so I shouldn’t want even more, should I?”

Michael rubbed his chest again. God help him, he would not cry in front of this child. He swallowed hard and attempted to steady his voice. “Quite the opposite, actually.” He poked a finger on Jamie’s stomach. “This belly has a lot of making up to do.”

Jamie laughed. “That tickled.”

“I shall remember that at our next wrestling match. Now, why are you worried?”

“Because I found a book in my room that I think is in Latin, and I couldn’t read it. When I look at the words it doesn’t seem possible to learn such a thing.”

“I see. Well, I have already concluded you are smarter than I at your age, and I learned it, though it was a difficult thing to do. I have no fear you will also succeed.”

Jamie looked at him in amazement. “I don’t think I’m smarter than you.”

“Not now, you aren’t. But you are when compared to me when I was your age.”

“Then if you learned Latin, I can, too?”

“Without a doubt.”

Jamie beamed.

Michael fell a little more in love with the boy who might be his son.

****

Michael glared at the connecting door to Diana’s chamber. First, she hadn’t appeared for luncheon and then had absented herself from dinner, again asking for a tray to be sent up. The only people she had allowed into her chamber had been Jamie and Fanny.

Jamie had spent most of the afternoon with her, and to his chagrin, at dinner Michael found himself quizzing the lad on his mother’s frame of mind. Jamie reported she had a headache and that they had taken a nap. Michael had clamped down on the urge to ask further questions.

Hansen, his valet, arrived with the tutor shortly after dinner and Jamie had taken an instant liking to Mr. Denton. The boy had spent the evening with Mr. Denton, helping him to convert one of the bedrooms into a schoolroom.

Michael spent the evening alone. He had tried to catch up on some of the work Johnston had left with him but couldn’t concentrate. He tried to read. He took an evening walk. He considered helping out with the schoolroom conversion, but thought it best to give Jamie and Mr. Denton time to get acquainted. He had a brandy and tried reading again. Unable to find anything entertaining, he ordered Hansen to attend him even though it was ten at night. After a bath, which he was sure the servants appreciated having to prepare so late, a haircut, a shave, and even a nail trim, he dismissed his valet.

He tore his gaze from the offending door. Still restless, he paced the confines of his room, barefoot, with a glass of brandy dangling from his fingertips. The velvet of his dressing gown seemed strangely sensual tonight, the soft rub of it against his skin as he walked making him want. What, he wasn’t sure.

If he were in London, he would call on Serena. Yet, the idea didn’t quiet appeal. Perhaps he would dress in formal attire and attend some ball or other, find someone new to dance with. He would find a pretty miss with…what color would her eyes be? Green. As they waltzed, he would smile into brown eyes the color of dark chocolate—the devil, they were green, not brown.

He scowled at the connecting door. The brown-eyed woman hiding herself away was disrupting his fantasy. He drank the last sip of brandy and tried to return to the dance floor with his green-eyed lady, closing his eyes and dancing the steps of the waltz. The woman he tried to conjure refused to cooperate on eye color.

It was one in the morning. He should go to bed. After cleaning his teeth, Michael walked around the room and blew out the candles. He leaned down to extinguish the last one near his bed when he heard a scream from Diana’s room.

His heart racing, he picked up the lighted candle and entered her chamber. She thrashed about and held her hands above her face in a protective gesture. Her nightdress was tangled around her thighs, exposing her legs. Michael held up the candle and saw the many scars obviously made by a knife. Rage, unadulterated burning rage flamed his blood to a heat that threatened to consume him. Taking deep breaths, he willed his murderous fury away. This wasn’t the time for it. She needed him. When she screamed again, he set the candle on the bedside table and scooped her up.

Her fire still burned, so he took her to the chair in front of it and sat. She sobbed and tried to push away from him.

“I won’t do it again,” she whimpered.

“Hush, love,” he murmured. He pulled her nightdress over her legs, covering the hideous scars and then caressed her head and face. Picking up the long tail of her braided hair, he draped it over her shoulder. She moaned, and he leaned close to her ear. “Hush, you are safe.”

He rocked her gently. He had one hand resting on her belly and she slid both her hands under his. By teaching her to hold his hand, had he made her feel protected? He applied a gentle pressure, hoping even in sleep she sensed he was keeping her safe.

“Shhhh. Rest now. I won’t leave you.”

“Michael?” Jamie approached, tears falling down his cheeks.

“Everything is all right, Jamie. She had a bad dream, but it is over now.”

Jamie wiped away his tears. “I know. Sometimes she has them. If Father was away, I would get in bed with her and then they go away.”

How much more history could he bear to hear from these two? “Then sit down next to me and touch your mother. She will know you are here.” Michael wished he could hug Jamie, but didn’t want to let go of Diana. “Do you ever have bad dreams, son?”

Son.
The word resonated around the room, and Jamie gave him a strange look before answering. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember having any.”

That was something good for a change. “I am happy to hear it. Would you do me the favor of poking the fire? Let’s see if we can get your mother warm.”

“Michael?”

“Hmm?”

“I liked it when you called me son. I wish you were my father.”

Between the two of them, he was going to bawl like a newborn babe. “I would have been proud to call you son. Now, see to the fire.”

Jamie poked at the logs, bringing the flames back to life. Sitting again, he leaned his head on Michael’s leg. Diana finally fell into a peaceful sleep with her face pressed against his chest and her hands snugly resting under his.

His family, finally where they belonged.

Why did he keep thinking these things? Diana and Jamie were a part of his life now, but they couldn’t stay with him indefinitely. He needed to start thinking of finding someplace where they could live.

But not yet. They still needed his care. He and Jamie sat in silence and watched the red and orange flames for a while. Michael tried to identify what he felt at this moment and finally decided it was contentment. It was a dangerous feeling. It made him think of possibilities. He leaned his head back on the chair and closed his eyes. It was impossible. There was no future for him and Diana.

She mumbled something and her hands twitched under his. “I have you, love.” He began to rock her again and she quieted. The fire sputtered, the flames dying.

“Jamie, your mother is better now. Go on back to bed. I will see you in the morning.”

Jamie stood, kissed his mother, then Michael on the cheek and left.
Sweet, merciful Jesus. What am I to do with these two?

Michael held the woman who should have been his wife for another few minutes. When he was sure the dream had passed, he stood and carried her to the bed.

“Michael?”

He sat on the edge of the mattress, taking her hand in his. “I’m here. You cried out in your sleep, and I only wanted to make sure you were well.”

Sad, so very sad, brown eyes looked up at him. “I’m sorry to have awakened you. It must have been reading the letter that brought everything back.”

He slid the back of his knuckles down one cheek and smiled. “You didn’t wake me. Even if you had, I would ask that you not be sorry for it. Are you all right now?”

In the flickering candlelight, her beloved face smiled back at him. “I am. Thank you for taking care of me.”

He would always take care of her. Always. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, only intending to kiss that one part of her.

“Please stay,” she said, her voice a soft plea.

His confounded heart didn’t know whether to beat faster or stop beating at all. “What do you want from me, Diana?” He carefully watched her eyes for the truth in her answer.

Her gaze never left his. “I need to feel alive. I need you to make me feel wanted again. I want to feel hands touching me in kindness. Once, you did all of that for me. I want you to do it again.”

His heart decided they were running the mile on a racetrack. “Diana?”

“Michael?”

There might have been questions there from each of them. He no longer knew. No longer cared. He slid under the covers with her. He still wore his burgundy dressing gown. She still wore her virginal white cotton nightrail. Would she allow him to remove it?

“Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, I’m sure, but you must blow out the candle.”

He obliged her and sent them into the dark, but he regretted her request. He wanted to see her, all of her. No matter how badly she was marked by the madman he called cousin, she was beautiful, had never been anything but exquisite.

Once, she had been his.

For one brief, one very brief moment, he thought he shouldn’t be doing this. He was going to marry someone else. Then, she lifted her nightdress to her waist and pressed against him. For as many times in as many days, his reason left him. She said she needed him. Nothing else but that mattered. In all of his six and thirty years, there had never been anyone but her.

Chapter Ten

The dream had been so real. She had been back in her bedroom at Brantley Hall, once again tied to her bed while her husband amused himself with his knife. Opening her eyes to see Michael sitting next to her, the fear faded. He would keep her safe.

She had only done this once before, many years ago, and with him. She still remembered how alive she had felt, how loved. She needed that now, craved it.

He slid his hand over her stomach toward her breast. She grabbed his arm before he could touch her there. “No.”

“I want to touch you, Diana.”

She brought his hand up over the cloth and pressed his palm over a breast. “Like this, you can only touch me like this.”

Soft lips touched hers. He kissed each corner of her mouth and then moved to her eyes, and then down one cheek. Finding her lips again, he traced their outline with his tongue. He was so gentle, his touches as soft as a feather.

His hand tenderly molded a breast, and his clever fingers played with her nipple. She wished her breast were perfect so she could feel him skin to skin. She sighed in regret.

A low chuckle rumbled from him. “Like that, do you?”

The reason for her sigh had been misunderstood, but she did like it. “Yes.”

He deepened the kiss and when his tongue begged entrance, she parted her lips, allowing him in. One arm slipped under her, wrapping around her back and holding her close against him. She pushed his dressing gown aside and trailed her fingers over his chest, found a nipple and flicked it.

“Ah,” he murmured into her mouth.

She did it again. He pushed his erection against her thigh in response.

His hand trailed down her stomach, probing her curls, then stroking her. His finger slipped inside her while his thumb did miraculous things to that most secret of spots. The pleasure began slowly; an enjoyable thing, a bearable thing, and then it grew and grew until she could no longer contain it. She bit down on her lip to keep from calling out his name as waves of ecstasy crashed through her.

The drought was over. It had rained in the desert. Flowers bloomed in a riot of colors. For the first time in eleven years, a man touched her skin, her breasts, and her most secret of places with a loving hand, his only intention to bring her pleasure. If she were God, she would stop time.

He lifted his head, and she sensed he was trying to see her face through the gloom. “I wish I could watch you come for me.”

She wished she could see him, too. His hand left her mons and he traced her lips with a finger, the one that had been inside her. She touched her tongue to the tip and tasted herself.

“Let’s make magic, shall we?” he whispered softly against her ear.

“Yes, please.”

He turned her onto her back and came over her, between her legs, and she felt his member probing her entrance, felt him wrap his hand around himself as he pushed into her. Slowly he entered, an inch at a time, stopping, waiting for her to accommodate him before moving again.

Lowering his face, he rested it against hers. His jaw and cheek were smooth as if he had recently shaved. She inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent. He smelled of fine milled soap and bay, fresh, as if he had just come from his bath.

Her hands gripped his upper arms, his muscles flexing against the pressure of the fingers she dug into his skin. He was so very strong, and she wanted to bring his strength into her body, wanted to own his power. Impatient with his gentle care, she moved her hands to his buttocks and tried to pull him all the way into her.

“Easy,” he breathed, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” She pressed harder on his taut buttocks.

Her words seemed to be all the encouragement he needed. He filled her, and for the first time in years and years she was blessedly warm inside. He stilled and sighed. Was he feeling it, too? This sense of belonging. She could live in this bed forever, covered by his blanket of heat, filled to her very core by him, forever safe. He began to move, slowly withdrawing, coming back, withdrawing.