To Dream Again (40 page)

His arm tightened beneath her head and his hand moved to caress her shoulder in aimless circles as his lips pressed against her hair.

She stirred again, rubbing her thigh against his. Lust rocked through him, and he slowly rolled on top of her, pushing her hand out of the way.

She awoke instantly, her body stiffening at the feel of his weight. He moved against her, savoring the way she felt. Lush, warm, and so enticing.

She shifted beneath him and said his name, a little squeak of protest that held a hint of panic. But when he rose on his elbows and opened one hand over her breast, her head fell back and she made the sweet sound of acquiescence. He kissed her lips, he nuzzled her throat, he caressed her until he felt the yielding of her form, the willing arch that beckoned him with irresistible, feminine force and sent him to the place beyond all reason.

Then he entered her, felt the quick convulsions deep within her as she closed around him. A visceral sound escaped his throat; he felt the unbearable tension rise and peak, hurling him over the edge. He climaxed in a rush that left him falling into a languorous aftermath, like sinking into a bed of feathers. He gave her a long, lingering kiss, then rolled to one side, taking her with him.

His arms tightened around her, then slowly relaxed, and he settled into lethargy. He felt drugged by the warmth and softness of her, wrapped in a sated peace. Just as he drifted off to sleep, he whispered in her ear, "We can be married before Christmas."

When he woke again, the first thing he felt was the emptiness, and he knew before he opened his eyes that he was alone in the bed. The feeble light of a typical English dawn filtered in around the closed shutter, casting an anemic glow over the room.

He turned his head and saw Mara sitting on a stool beside the armoire, clad in her chemise and drawers, her remaining clothes in a neat pile on the floor beside her. In profile, her face was hidden by the curtain of her hair.

He rolled to his side and leaned on his elbow to watch as she lifted one slender leg to put on her stocking, toe pointed and knee bent in a graceful arc. He watched her pull it slowly over her calf, knowing the sight was now his to enjoy, wanting to begin every morning of his life with it.

"You know," he murmured sleepily, "there might be a better sight for a man to wake up to than that, but I can't imagine what it would be."

His voice, drowsy and satisfied, flustered her. Her fingers fumbled with the garter, and although he couldn't see her face, he'd have bet his last quid she was blushing. Without looking at him, she scooped up her corset and rose, turning her back to him as she began to fasten the hooks.

She kept her back to him as she dressed. At first, he thought she was just embarrassed, but as he watched her, his drowsy senses began to sharpen and he realized something was very wrong. He tossed back the covers and rose from the bed. She heard his approach and stiffened, her fingers stilled in the act of buttoning her shirtwaist as he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed her shoulder. "Good morning."

"I have to go," she mumbled, head bent, all her attention on fastening buttons, putting up all the barriers he'd stripped away the night before, barriers he thought he'd destroyed. "It's nearly seven."

He didn't reply. Instead, he pulled back her hair and turned his head to kiss the side of her neck. She slid out of his hold and bent to reach for her skirt. She pulled it over her head, buttoned it. With her back to him, she pulled on her gloves. She still would not look at him.

Dread filled him, and he reached for her, held her tight.
Not now
, he thought, feeling her inexorable withdrawal like water through his hands, knowing he couldn't hold her tight enough to stop it. "What's wrong, Mara?"

"Nothing. I have to go to work. We both do." She brought her hands up between them and tried to push him away, a bit more forcefully this time.

"Nothing?" His arms tightened. "Mara, why are you doing this? Last night, I thought—" He broke off, feeling like an utter fool.

"Last night was a mistake," she said, but she didn't look in his eyes. She stared past his shoulder at some vague part of the room behind him.

"A mistake," he repeated in disbelief. Anger rose within him, sudden, hot, vital, at the way she couldn't even meet his eyes, couldn't bear to look at him. "I wasn't the one who went to your room. You came to me, remember?"

"I shouldn't have!" she exclaimed, pressing her gloved hands to her flushed cheeks, finally looking at him, her eyes wide with dismay and—what hurt him more— regret. "It was very wrong of me. I don't know what I was thinking, to behave so shamelessly. And James not even dead half a year."

He seized her hands, dragged them down, held them tight in his. "When did James's ghost visit us?" he asked. "I thought last night it was just the two of us in that bed."

She pressed her lips tightly together and didn't reply.

He looked into her face, studied her closed expression, and frustration fueled his anger. "There it is again."

"What?"

"That damnable armor you use whenever you want to hide what you're really thinking and feeling. It won't work. I know what's running through your mind. You're as easy to read as a book. You came to me last night because you needed to believe me. You needed me to love you, to say it, to mean it. I did. I do. I love you."

"Words, words, words. I'm sick of words of love. Don't you understand? I had eight years of words from James that didn't mean anything. He did what he pleased, when he pleased, and never asked me what I wanted."

"I'll ask. What do you want? Do you want me on my knees, bleeding, with my heart in my hands?"

"I want to be left alone!"

"No, you don't. If you did, you would never have come to me."

"I wish I hadn't."

"Why? Because I showed you how it could be with us? When did it happen, Mara? When during the night was I classified, labeled, and filed away like a page in your ledger, dismissed as just another man to hurt you?"

She tried to jerk free, but he held her fast. "I'm not like James. How many times do I have to say it, how many ways do I have to prove it before you believe me? You wanted me, but you're too stubborn to admit it, even now, even to yourself. And whether you realize it or not, whether you admit it or not, you need me. Want, need, love. It's all part of the whole."

"I don't need you," she said, shaking her head, fighting him with all she had. "I will never allow myself to need anyone again. I can't bear it." Her voice broke. "I can't bear it. Why can't you understand?"

"Do you think I don't?" he demanded, his voice rising with his own frustration, refusing to hear the pain and fear in hers. "I understand perfectly. There was a time when I liked James, but do you know what I think of him now? I hate him. I hate him because he was the one who hurt you, he was the one who was always leaving you, but I'm the one receiving all the blame!"

He took a deep breath. "I love you. For that, I am condemned."

She yanked her hands out of his and took a step back.

"You want what I can't give you. You want all of me, every piece of my soul, my heart, my mind, my body. I can't give them to you. I won't!"

She whirled around and ran from the bedroom. He started to follow her, but he suddenly realized he was naked. With a muttered curse, he fell back onto the bed, and he heard the front door slam. She was gone.

Foolish woman, when would she stop running away? He wasn't James, damn it all, but she still couldn't trust him. He'd been certain last night that she loved him, but now he wasn't even certain of that.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed, wondering if perhaps it were he, not Mara, who was the fool.

***

Mara tried to tell herself that she was a strumpet. She'd gone to him, she'd lain with him, she'd let him do things to her that her own husband had never done. Just the memory of his hands on her made her burn. She studied her face in the tiny mirror above her washstand, wondering how she could look exactly the same when she felt so different.

She should be ashamed of what they had done, but try as she might, she felt no shame. She couldn't see herself as a strumpet. All she felt was the aching sweet happiness of loving him and the horrible panic of needing him, warring within her for control, each trying to overpower her.

The rightness of it was the thing that frightened her the most. When he'd held her, and kissed her, and touched her, it had felt so right. Lying beside him, feeling the safety and warmth of his arms around her had been like coming home. She loved him, and she hated the power that love gave him, the power to give her a home, the power to take it away.

It surprised her now, when she gazed at herself in the mirror that she should look so calm, when everything inside her was in tumult. All the ramifications, the possible consequences, raced through her mind. Nathaniel had said he loved her, but what did that mean? James had said the same, and what had love brought either of them?

When he'd mentioned marriage, the panic had come over her like a shower of icy water. After the love died, marriage was a trap. She didn't want to be married again, not ever. Then she thought of a home again and wavered. Did she?

What if there were a child as a result of last night? Until this moment, that thought hadn't even occurred to her, but now that very real possibility made her sick with dread. If there were a child, they would have to marry. She sank into a chair with a miserable little moan, wrapping her arms around her ribs. "Oh, God," she whispered, "what have I done?"

The thoughts swirling around in her head were making her dizzy, and Nathaniel was making her crazy. She wanted to run back to him. She wanted to scream, she wanted to weep.

She didn't do any of those things. She took some deep breaths. She rose to her feet. She dressed with methodical precision, trying to regain some semblance of order within herself as she donned fresh clothes and put up her hair. But when she left the lodging house and walked to the factory, the questions and doubts still swirled round and round in her mind, and her emotions were so tightly strung, she felt that if someone touched her, she'd snap.

She unlocked the front door and stepped inside the factory. But her steps faltered and her thoughts dissipated into numbness at the sight before her. All three steam engines had been dismantled and the pieces lay on the floor, a montage of pistons, connecting rods, and crankshafts. The place looked like a junkyard.

She heard a clinking sound and jumped, turning from side to side in a desperate search for the noise until she realized it came from herself. She was shaking so badly, it rattled the ring of keys in her hand.

The keys fell from her fingers. She walked forward slowly, staring at the mess as if in a dream. She glanced toward the door Boggs had put in that led through assembly, and she began walking that way without thought.

Assembly had been completely ransacked. Train parts and half-completed locomotives lay scattered everywhere. Crates had been opened and overturned, their contents dumped on the floor. She retraced her steps, moving like an automaton, until she was back on the production floor.

Her shaking legs gave way, and Mara fell to her knees. Right before her, she could see a swath of red velvet and a smashed locomotive and a white card. She began to whimper.

Rooted to the spot, her body rocked like a willow in a storm until shock set in, and she jumped to her feet, her teeth chattering, her body chilled, and her breath coming in little gasps. Blindly, she ran for the door, stumbling over pieces of the steam engines. She grabbed the handle with a shaking hand and jerked open the door.

Leaving it hanging open, she raced up the street. She dodged around the pedestrians that crowded the sidewalk and ignored the odd stares she received, wanting only to reach Nathaniel, wanting only to cling to the man she'd run from in fear half an hour before.

She stumbled up the stairs at Mrs. O'Brien's until she was at his door, and she flung it open, trying to call his name, but unable to utter any sound beyond choked little whimpers.

Nathaniel was dressing, tucking the ends of his shirt into his trousers, when he heard the sound of his door hitting the wall with a bang.

"What the hell?" he muttered, fastening his trouser buttons as he strode toward the bedroom door.

Mara collided with him in the doorway, falling heavily into his arms. "N...n...n... "

"Mara?" Her incoherent syllables and the way her body shook in his arms told him something terrible had happened, and he held her close. She gave a shuddering sob and clung to him, burying her face against his chest.

"S...s...some..." She couldn't say it.

"What is it? What's happened?" He pulled back, and his hands closed on her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and glassy. "What happened?" he repeated, his heart jumping in alarm at the shock in her eyes.

She tried to answer, but she could only stammer out tiny sounds. The tight fabric of her control was unraveling; she was coming apart in his hands.

He pulled her back against him, holding her tight. "It's all right," he murmured against her hair. "Take deep breaths. Slow and easy."

He could hear her rapid breathing and feel the panicky rise and fall of her breasts against his ribs. He waited, listening as her breaths deepened to a more steady cant, his fingers moving in soothing circles against her spine as he pulled back again to look into her face. "Tell me what happened."

"S...somebody broke in...into the factory," she choked.

His hands stilled for a second, then resumed their reassuring strokes. "Are you all right? You're not hurt?"

She nodded to answer the first question, then shook her head to answer the second. She swallowed hard, fighting to regain control, and went on, "I went in and f...found it. Oh, Nathaniel, it's a mess!"

He maneuvered her gently to the bed and sat down beside her on the edge of the mattress. He pushed back a loose wisp of hair from her cheek. "It's all right," he murmured, his fingers brushing gently across her cheekbone to tuck the tendril of hair behind her ear. "Don't move. I'll be right back."