After the Frost (42 page)

Then he began to move. Slowly, so slowly. Sinking inside her, and easing back, rocking against her hips until she relaxed, until her body accommodated him easily. She heard herself groan—it sounded so far away —and a tremor raced through her, she felt him everywhere, inside her, around her. Felt his hands on her body, and in her hair. It was nothing like that time so long ago, nothing like the hurried fumblings in the cold barn, there was nothing like the pain. She looked up to find him staring at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the night, and heat enveloped her, a yearning so intense, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer, wanting him deeper inside her, so deep he couldn't ever escape, so close no one could ever tear them apart. The throbbing began again, deep and sweet, hot and slick, and Belle closed her eyes and arched against him, felt his fingers close around her hips, holding her tightly as he stroked, long, hard thrusts that rocked them both, that brought the pressure building again, building until Belle thought she would go mad with it, until she dug her fingers into his shoulders and gasped his name and knew—knew—there would never be anything like this again for her.

And when release burst over her again and she felt him stiffen, heard his hoarse, strangled cry and felt the hot, wet flood inside her, she knew something else, too, something that sent despair crashing through her, sent desperation creeping into her soul. One night would never be enough.

Chapter 28

S
he was gone in the morning. He would have thought last night was all a dream, except she'd left behind her fragrance, an elusive scent that clung to his sheets, his skin: soft musk and lavender- scented lye. Just that and a long blond hair that trailed across his pillow, a strand that shone in the morning light.

He wondered when she'd left his bed. He hadn't felt her go, had fallen into a deep, relaxing sleep the likes of which he hadn't had for years. Maybe never. But he wished she'd stayed, wished he was waking up to look into her face, to see her hair, rumpled and tangled from their lovemaking. He wanted to see her smile down at him, wanted to feel her warm fingers against his chest, in his hair. He, wanted to bury himself inside her again, to love her with the slow, languid touches of morning.

But he knew it was probably best that she'd gone. It was probably better that no one saw her leave his room in the early morning hours. At least for now. He thought of yesterday, of Lillian's shock over their kiss, and he wondered again what she and Belle had talked about, if they'd discussed him at all, if they'd come to any understanding. He tried to remember supper last night, the change he'd noticed between them, but he couldn't concentrate on it. All he could remember was the touch of Belle's eyes, the hunger for her that had driven away his appetite and his peace of mind.

That hunger was still there. Last night hadn't appeased it at all, but only honed it to a razor-sharp edge that had him hard and wanting again this morning. He thought of how she'd looked standing at the door, with the white lawn floating around her body. He thought of how her breasts had felt heavier, more rounded, how the curve of her hips had a maturity he'd only dreamed about. And then he thought of the way she'd tried to hide the marks on her skin from him, her uncomfortable embarrassment, and it made him weak, made him want to kiss every scar, to show her how much they meant to him, to make her understand how much he wished he had been with her when she was carrying Sarah.

He wished he had done that last night, but he had been too consumed with desire, too ruled by his need. But the next time he would. The next time he would go more slowly, would calm the beast inside him long enough to show her what she meant to him.

Yes, the next time.

Rand swallowed and sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. He remembered how she'd cried out beneath his hands last night, how her body had arched against his. Remembered how it had felt to be inside her, how she'd pulsed around him, and he remembered how he slammed himself against her, how he hadn't been able to get enough of her, not the taste or the feel of her. He'd driven himself in deeper and deeper, and when his release crashed over him, when he finally surrendered, it was to a sweetness so overwhelming and complete that he was stunned at the intensity of it.

And suddenly Rand knew that he'd loved her with his soul last night—that he'd done more than that. He'd given her his heart.

He wanted her for an eternity.

For six years he'd felt only half alive. He'd thought it was because of the dreams he'd given up, the things he'd put aside to take care of his responsibilities, his obligations.

But he knew now it wasn't that. Now he knew what he had yearned for all those sleepless nights. He'd wanted her. Wanted her smile and her laughter, wanted those days spent in the sun by the canal. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her ridiculous stories and the honest way she spoke, to see her in the morning and know she was his forever.

He'd thought she was his obsession, and maybe she was. Maybe he was destined to turn into his mother, to destroy them both with that darkness he was so afraid of. But after last night he began to believe maybe he wouldn't. Last night the madness had finally fallen away in the touch of her skin, the smell of her. It had disappeared, leaving behind gentleness and care, leaving behind a reverence for every inch of her. And he wondered suddenly if maybe it was only the denial that had blinded him, if maybe he was trying so hard not to want her that he'd forgotten there were no longer any reasons to deny himself. She was no longer fifteen. She was no longer his responsibility.

And this was no longer obsession.

There was no darkness in how he felt for Belle, and no danger. There was only need, and heated desire. He should have seen it long ago, should have recognized it when he saw her walking hand in hand with their daughter that day on the canal. The day he'd realized she was a woman, the mother of his child. The day he told himself all he wanted back was their friendship.

Yes, he wanted to be friends with her again. Friends who laughed and joked together. Friends who talked through the days. Friends who told secrets far into the night, and made tender, passionate love until morning. That was all he'd ever wanted. Not adventure, not faraway places. Just Belle. In his bed and in his heart.

Sweet Christ, he loved her.

It was that he'd been so afraid of.

But now the fear was gone.

T
he orchard was quiet. The sun had only just broken over the horizon, and the birds were starting to sing, but there was a stillness about the trees, a strange, seductive tranquillity that filled Belle's mind, her heart.

She should leave, she knew. It had been a mistake to go to him last night, a mistake to think she could give him up after one night, that after it she could go back to just being his stepsister, a casual friend. She had not thought it through, and now she wished she had. Wished for once that she wasn't so impulsive, that she had more of Rand's thoughtful steadiness. She would never have gone to him if she'd been more honest with herself.

She loved him, and love didn't go away after a night like that. It only grew stronger.

What a fool she'd been to think anything else.

Belle leaned her head back against the trunk of an apple tree, looking up through the nearly bare branches to the sky. Her body ached, not just because of the way he'd played her last night, but because she wanted him still. Just the thought of the way he touched her made her stomach flip, sent erotic shivers racing through her. It was nothing like six years ago, nothing like anything she could ever have imagined. She still felt the wonder of it, the sensations that crashed over her, the tender seduction of his kiss. She had not known it could be like that, and she wished now she had known, wished she'd had some idea. Oh, God, if she'd known, she never would have gone to him.

Because now she didn't know how she could bear to be without him, how she could be around him without remembering, without wanting. She didn't know how she could watch him marry Marie and know he was taking the pretty schoolteacher to his bed each night, and not hate him for it.

How the hell could she do that?

Leave,
a small voice told her, but it was no longer so easy, and she knew it. If it had only been Rand, then maybe she could leave. Maybe she could get on the next train and run fast and far away. But it wasn't just Rand. There was Sarah too, and Belle knew that she couldn't leave Sarah behind. She couldn't wave good-bye to that little girl and go away. Not for a year. Not even for a week. Not ever.

But she couldn't take Sarah either. She'd abandoned that plan the day she'd seen those marks on the door and realized how much Sarah belonged here, how much Rand loved her. This was Sarah's home, this was her family.

And Belle could either be part of that family or leave it behind forever—alone.

There was no choice, and she knew it. She was bound here, as tied to the land and its rhythms as she was to Sarah. New York City had never been home, Cincinnati had never been home. Home was right here, in the gentle sway of the oak trees circling the house, in the cool dark of the canal. She belonged here in Lancaster. Even the gossip that surrounded her was as much a part of the ebb and flow of life as the corn; it linked her forever to the people she'd grown up with.

No, she could not leave.

She did not want to leave.

But she didn't know how to stay either.

Staying meant watching life go on around her; it meant watching things change, watching Rand's family grow up, being an aunt but never a mother. A few days ago she had thought it would be enough. She thought she could bear being a part of their lives without being necessary, to be the spinster aunt, the best friend, the wayward daughter. They were all roles she knew she could play, roles that required nothing but her presence. But after making love with Rand, she knew she wanted to really belong, to be an important part of their lives, to be as necessary as breathing. She could never be that for Rand. His life was planned already, and it included Marie, not Belle. He might want her, but he didn't love her, and she had no choice but to live with that.

Though there would never be anyone else for her. Since the day she and her mother had arrived, and Belle had seen him watching from the porch—a long, lanky eighteen year-old with hazel eyes full of dreams—she had loved him. First with the innocent love of a child, then with the curious infatuation of a girl, and now, finally, with the kind of lasting, soul-deep love that would be with her forever.

Belle sighed, closing her eyes against the rosy haze filling the sky, against the steady ache of tears. She didn't know how to live with that land of love, but there was no other choice, not really. She would stay because she couldn't go. She would stay and try to make her life as complete as she could, try to take her joy from Sarah and the farm—and hell, even from her mother. All she could do was try.

S
he had disappeared. No one knew where she was. Not Lillian, not Sarah. Rand was so afraid she'd left for good that he checked her room, rifled through her things until he reassured himself that wherever she'd gone, it wasn't for long. Her coat and hat were still on the peg by the door, and the meager collection of dresses she owned still hung in the wardrobe. But it wasn't until he saw the small pile of coins on her bed-stand that he felt relieved enough to go back to the fields and cut corn. She wasn't going anywhere without money, and he suspected that pile was all she had. But even then he watched the road all day, searching every wagon for a sign of her.

He tried to work through his worry, put his body and his mind into cutting corn, but he couldn't ignore the nagging sense that something was wrong, and when Lillian called him in the late afternoon to come get ready for the Alspaughs' husking bee, he dropped the corn knife and went inside eagerly, anxious to see Belle again, determined to talk to her.

She wasn't there. The house was empty except for Lillian, who was busy wrapping a buttermilk pie to take over to the party. She glanced up when he came through the door, watched him quizzically as he raced to the hallway and called upstairs for Belle.

"She's not here," Lillian said. "She and Sarah went over already. They took the baked beans."

The relief that raced through him at her words nearly left him faint. "So she was here, then."

Lillian frowned. "Of course she was here. Where else would she be?"

Where else?
Cincinnati or Cleveland or even Columbus. Anyplace else. But he didn't bother to answer. He felt a sudden, desperate need to get dressed and get to a party he'd been dreading until this moment. He started for the stairs.

"Rand?" Lillian called him back. She looked up at him, her smooth forehead wrinkled with worry. "Rand, is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing's wrong," he lied.

Her eyes were sharp. "I don't believe you," she said slowly. "Just as I didn't believe Isabelle when she came in today after being gone all morning." Her fingers tightened on the edge of the pie plate. "Please do me the courtesy of telling me what's going on in this house, Randall. Did something happen between the two of you? Did you have a fight?"

He swallowed. "No. There was no fight."

Lillian's gaze seemed to cut through him; he had the strange feeling that she could see what he was thinking, that she could look at him and know he and Belle had spent the night wrapped in each other's arms.

Lillian took a deep breath and looked down, and when he saw the flush moving over her cheeks, he knew he was right. She was aware of everything, there could be no more illusions between them.

"I see," she said slowly. "What about Marie?"