After the Frost (30 page)

"Well, nothin' really—ah!" Lydia turned back to them with a smug smile. Belle felt a twinge of discomfort. It only got worse when Lydia walked over to take her arm. "Why don't you come on in the parlor with me, Belle? I'll bet you're thirsty after that trip, and Paula has the best cider."

Belle studied Lydia suspiciously, trying to decide whether to go with her or not. There was a glint in Lydia's eyes that didn't bode well at all.

She hesitated and looked at Paula, thinking to mutter some excuse about wanting to talk to their hostess a bit longer. But just then there was a knock on the door, and Paula rushed to answer it. "Oh, please go in," she threw over her shoulder. "Help yourself, Belle."

The chance was gone. Belle couldn't think of a single excuse not to go with Lydia. Her feeling of dread grew stronger. She tried to ignore it as she turned back to Lydia. "You don't have to watch after me, Lydia. I'm sure you've got—"

"Oh, but I insist." Lydia pulled her toward the crowded parlor.

There was no escaping; Belle felt uncomfortably closed in as they stepped into the room. In the far corner the music master was running his fingers over the keys of the piano, checking the tuning. It was too loud, and the air was too hot, and the musty smell of a room closed up for too long was only barely covered by the nauseating scent of burning oil and orrisroot potpourri. There were people everywhere—sitting, laughing, talking.

She glanced at Lydia, who had dropped her talonlike grip to survey the room again. There was a predatory look on her face that reminded Belle—too much—of the women at church two Sundays ago. Lydia patted her dark hair self-consciously. "Why, it seems as if everyone's here, doesn't it? Now, where did that handsome stepbrother of yours get to?"

The question sounded odd, forced. Belle tensed. The piano pounded in her ears. "He's around somewhere, I guess. Where's—"

"Oh, there he is!" Lydia's voice was high with satisfaction, so much so that Belle turned again to look at her. Charlie's sister was staring toward the piano, and her gray eyes were sharp, her features tight. Feeling again that strange sense of dread, Belle followed her gaze.

And knew instantly what Lydia Boston wanted from her.

Rand stood on the other side of the piano. He looked relaxed, happy as Belle hadn't seen him in—in so long, she couldn't remember. He held a cup of cider in his long fingers, and he was laughing. Laughing while he bent over a songbook spread open on the piano. Laughing while the lamplight shone down on his hair, gilding the tawny, sun-streaked strands with light.

Laughing while he looked into Marie Scholl's smiling face.

Belle's breath stopped. Her chest felt tight, and there was a fierce, burning pain somewhere in the region of her heart. Marie Scholl. Suddenly everything fell into place: the way her mother had introduced Marie at the fair, the subtle smile on Lillian's lips, the way she emphasized the word
friend
. And Rand's invitation of yesterday.
"Marie told me to ask you."

Belle felt the color drain from her face. God, she was going to be sick. Right here, in front of everyone. The realization plunged through her, along with a wave of such intense jealousy and pain, it made her dizzy.

Oh, God. Oh, God, please don't let me care about this
. But she did care. She cared with every part of herself, so much, it made her shake, and before she had a chance to fight it, to shove it back into that dark place in her heart, that place where she was safe, he did the one thing that stripped her defenses clean.

He looked at her.

It was as if the years fell away, as if she were flung back in time to that first night so long ago, when she'd watched him kiss Elizabeth Thornton from across the fire. Belle saw him stiffen, saw the dawning realization in his eyes, and she felt caught in time, trapped in a memory from which there was only pain and no escape. She felt the warm air on her skin; the odor of potpourri faded beneath the scent of firesmoke and Charlie Boston's bay rum. And Belle suddenly knew she'd been lying to herself all these years, that she'd told herself she could harden her heart, make her feelings for Rand disappear in anger, fade away. But they hadn't faded at all.

She was still in love with him.

Panic crashed over her, caught in her throat, made her knees weak. She felt Lydia's hand on her arm, saw Rand lean down and murmur something to Marie, and then he was leaving the piano, moving through the crowd, and Belle knew why she'd felt that sense of inevitability, of fate. Because just as he had that night so long ago, he was coming to her now.

She jerked away from Lydia. Distractedly she heard Lydia's shocked gasp, but Belle didn't stay to listen, and she didn't give a damn if the others saw or what the hell they thought. All she cared about was getting away. She couldn't bear it if he saw how she felt—it would destroy her to listen to his explanations or his pity. She pushed through the people, desperate to get to the door, to disappear in the darkness where she could gather her strength. All she needed was a minute—just a minute. Enough time to remember who she was and what she wanted. She could face him then, she knew it, when her walls were back in place, when she'd had time to really remember how it was.

Paula was just coming through the parlor. "Belle, where are you going? Mr. Horner is just about to start—"

Belle didn't even listen. She flew past Paula and her violet-water scent, was across the hall before anyone could say a word or even come after her. But by the time she reached the front door, she heard the voices. The murmurs of concern, the hushed, gossipy whispers that fell into the silence left by the piano. All so familiar. All so painful. She wrenched open the door and plunged into the night.

Chapter 21

H
e told himself not to go to her. He told himself it would be madness. But the words were rote and meaningless now. The last few days had been building to this moment, the longing he'd been fighting for days—years—exploded within him. He felt the warmth of Marie's hand beneath his, and knew that he should try to lose himself in her. He also knew he wouldn't.

"I'll be right back," he whispered—a whisper because it took all his strength to do even that. Before she had the chance to answer, he moved away from her.

He told himself he would only talk to Belle. Here in this room he could handle anything. With all these people standing around, he could control himself. But then she bolted, rushing outside, and Rand hesitated, knowing that out there the darkness and the moonlight and the cold would conspire against him.

He should not go after her.

Christ, don't go.

But then he had the other thought, the most powerful one of all.

She is the mother of your child
.

Before he knew it, he was hurrying across the parlor, into the front hall, wrenching open the door. The freezing air hit him with the force of a blow, burning through his lungs, shivering across his skin, and he had the brief thought that it was a good thing Lillian had taken up the potatoes yesterday. Tonight was the killing frost, he knew the smell in the air, the taste. He stood on the porch, searching the yard, the shadows, trying to find Belle, wondering if she'd even bothered to take her coat.

From inside the house the piano sounded. They were starting. He heard the harsh tones of Mr. Horner, heard the rise of voices. They rumbled, muffled, in his ears: "Me, May, Ma, Mo, Moo"—the practice scales. A horse whinnied from the row of wagons. Rand followed the sound with his gaze.

He saw her then. She was leaning against the wagon. The moonlight stole the color from her, she was nothing but a spot of pale in the darkness, a movement of shadow and light. She had forgotten her coat, and she hugged herself against the cold, her head tilted to look at the sky. She hadn't seen him yet, he realized, and for a moment he had the strange, disconcerting thought that she was waiting for him.

But she wouldn't be of course. The only question was why she hadn't run off for home without him. Almost as if she'd heard his thought, her chin came down, and she stepped away from the wagon and toward the horses.

Then she saw him and stopped, and the look she gave him was colder than any killing frost.

But he stepped down the stairs anyway and walked across the yard, past the other wagons, until he was only a few feet away from her. She didn't budge. Didn't even flinch.

"The party's inside," she said.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

She laughed bitterly, softly. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Her mouth tightened, she gave him a quick glance, and then looked away, focusing her gaze on the porch beyond. "Go away, Rand," she said. "Leave me alone."

He hesitated. "Belle—"

She jerked back to look at him. "Things are fine just the way they are," she said, and there was a desperation in her voice that tugged at his heart, made him feel inexplicably sad. "I only came back for Sarah—just Sarah. I hoped . . . you'd be gone. I didn't come back to start things again."

He nodded. "I know."

She went on as if she hadn't even heard him. "I figured—I don't know, I thought—you'd be married by now."

"Is that what you wanted? For me to be married?" he asked even though he thought—knew—he didn't want to know the answer.

She licked her lips. "Yeah," she said, but there was a touch of hesitation in her voice, as if she were trying to convince herself she believed it. She swallowed; her mouth moved as if she were trying to fight back tears. "But I see I was just a few months too early."

He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You mean Marie."

"She's the one, isn't she? She's who you're goin' to marry?"

No. I don't know
. "Yes."

She laughed slightly, looked up at the sky. The movement sent her profile into relief, he saw the shadows from the house play across her features, the short, straight nose, the slight overbite, the angle of her cheekbone. The moonlight reflected off the wetness in her eyes. "Well, that's good," she said. "She seems nice. You'll be happy with her."

"I hope so."

"Mama must be overjoyed."

"She likes Marie."

"I guess everybody does." She looked at him and— incredibly—she smiled. It was weak, he saw it tremble even in the moonlight, and it surprised him. But not as much as what she said next. "I'd like to get to know her better. If we're goin' to be . . . related, I s'pose I should."

Her words took his breath and twisted his heart, and he looked at her and saw again the change. He'd expected defiance and anger. What he got was acceptance —and the strange, foreign sense that she wanted him to be happy, that it didn't matter to her with whom he made a life so long as he was content.

It shocked him even more than what she'd said, and once again he remembered that first kiss six years ago, the way she'd curled her arms around his neck and urged him closer, the way she touched her lips to his, and he knew that girl would never have let him go like this—not ever so easily. The girl she'd been would have tried to hold on to him, would have seduced him because

he was so easily seduced, would have smiled at him and cajoled him with a word, would have made him forget Marie even existed.

It was that girl he'd expected tonight.

Instead he had the woman of yesterday.

And she was more compelling than ever.

Run away. Run. Run
. But he couldn't. God help him, he couldn't run away. Couldn't look away. Because Belle was again that woman, and she was both familiar and strange—a woman he wanted—needed—to know. The realization brought his fear into sharp, bitter focus. It hovered between them; he saw it in the shadows on her face, in the intensity of her eyes. It crept into her stance and her mouth and shimmered on her skin.

His control was slipping away, falling from his grasp. He thought of all the things he didn't know about her, all the things she'd been and done and seen the last six years, all the ways she'd looked.

And then he thought of the things he did know about her: the way she felt, soft and hard, yielding and solid. He thought of the clean, astringent scent of soap. He thought of the heated wetness of her mouth and the heavy satin of her hair.

He thought of how much she'd loved him once.

It broke him.

Before he could think, before she could react, Rand surged forward. He took her face in his hands, ran his fingers over her jaw, touched his thumbs to her mouth. He heard her gasp of shock with some part of him, felt her shudder—with pain or fear or passion, he didn't know, didn't care. He held her tightly, so tightly he knew she couldn't move or protest, molding his hands to her face, plunging his fingers into her hair, lifting her chin. He felt her breath against his skin, heated, moist, and it pulled at the desire he'd kept buried for six long years, the desire that had haunted his dreams and had him waking, wet and hard, in the middle of the night, wanting and knowing he shouldn't want, needing and knowing he couldn't have.

She made a sound, and he bent and took it from her. Brushed his lips across hers, feeling the softness of her mouth, a softness that tingled on his, that made him want to force her lips open to find the sweetness he knew was there. He wondered what she would taste like tonight—apple cider and gingerbread or sweet coffee— and found that he wanted none of those. He wanted just the taste of her alone. Just that heady, humid taste he'd kept in his memory all these years.

The thought made him almost insane with longing. Rand deepened the kiss, pressed her mouth open, touched his tongue to hers—

She jerked away. He heard the sharp, desperate sound she made in her throat, and with a start Rand realized she was shoving at him, pounding her palms against his chest. He dropped his hands, sluggish and dazed from the force of his desire. She scrambled away from him; he caught a whiff of soap just before she slipped beneath his arms, and he grabbed for her, suddenly panicked that she would run, needing her to stay.