Delilah's Weakness (18 page)

Luke finally had to look away from the small figure kneeling in the straw, desperately trying to save the lamb’s life. It hurt too much to go on looking at her. He felt her pain like an ulcer in his belly—a steady burning that wouldn’t leave him alone. Finally, still without looking at her. he put a hand on her shoulder and said huskily, "‘Lilah, come on, give it up."

She shook his hand away and growled furiously, "Not now."

After a few seconds, though, her frantic movements slowed, then stopped. She gave the still, lifeless form at her knees a poignant little pat and slumped back, exhausted and defeated.

"It was too big." she said in a tiny, drowned voice. "Too big for a first lamb. Why did she have to have a single? Why, damn it? I couldn’t… I couldn’t—"

"Of course you couldn’t," Luke said harshly, unable to take any more. "You’re not God!"

She winced as if he’d struck her, then jerked her head around to pierce him with a stare of bitter resentment. Her nose was red and her mouth swollen and trembling, and tears made glistening trails on her cheeks.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that the only times he’d ever seen her cry had been for her sheep.

"You’re not God," he repeated softly, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture that betrayed his frustration at being unable to ease her anguish. "You can’t save them all."

She shrugged with bravado, and said, "Oh, I know, I—" She broke off, squeezing her eyes shut in a futile attempt to stem a new flood of tears.

Luke watched the struggle in his own private agony, wanting to take her in his arms and comfort her, and knowing he couldn’t allow himself to do that. After the last time he’d held her, he’d known that if he ever held her again he’d have to make love to her. He’d known that he could make love to her—she was his for the taking. It was what he’d worked for, what he was here for. And he’d also known that if he hurt this woman he’d never be able to live with himself again.

Sheep are wonderfully resilient. After an hour’s rest the exhausted two–year–old ewe was up munching hay and searching the straw in a sporadic, absentminded way for the lamb her foggy instincts kept telling her ought to be there somewhere. By morning she would have forgotten even that.

Across the aisle from the two–year–old, the gentle Dorset was busy trying to mother her new triplets—tiny cuties with fuzzy white mutton–chop whiskers. Delilah knew the old ewe would never be able to feed all three lambs, and that, as welcome as the triplets were, it was going to mean another bottle baby to worry about.

The orchard door opened and Luke came in, blowing on his hands. He’d disappeared a short while ago without saying anything, but Delilah had heard the rhythmic scrape–thump of a shovel coming from the orchard and guessed he’d gone to prepare a resting place for the stillborn lamb.

"You didn’t have to do that," she said as he came toward her.

"I know." He stopped beside the gate to the Dorset’s stall. "Cute little devils," he said after a moment. "Can a ewe feed three?"

Delilah shrugged. "Some can. I don’t think she can, though. She’s too old."

Luke gestured toward the stall at Delilah’s elbow and said, "Doesn’t seem fair, does it? Can’t you give one to her?"

"I tried," Delilah said tiredly. "While you were outside. She won’t accept it."

"Won’t accept It? How can she tell the difference?"

"Smell, probably. Somehow or other, after the lambs are born, while the mother is cleaning them, she ‘imprints’ her own lambs. And if she doesn’t get to do that, she won’t claim them or allow them to nurse. Period."

"Hmm," Luke said, crossing the aisle to join her at the two–year–old’s stall. "So if she doesn’t actually clean a lamb, she won’t accept it. I wonder—did she ever try to mother her own lamb?"

"I know what you’re driving at," Delilah said, rubbing her eyes. "I don’t know. I guess she might have. We left it in the stall when we were working with the Dorset, so it’s possible. You’re thinking of ‘grafting’ one of the triplets, aren’t you? Using the skin––"

Luke lifted one shoulder, treading cautiously. "Ever tried it? Would it work?"

"I’ve heard of cases where it has," she said slowly, and swallowed hard. "I’ve never done it. I’ve just never—" She stopped, and Luke put his hand on her shoulder.

"Let’s try it. What’ve we got to lose?"

"I—" she began, and swallowed again. Something big was stuck in her throat and wouldn’t go down.

"Let me help."

Let me help.
It was his solution to every problem. Every challenge she faced, every trouble, he had to be the one to fix things for her. The trouble was, it was becoming so easy to accept it.

** ** **

"Well, well," Luke said sometime later with an unmistakable air of pride. "Would you look at that?"

Beneath his overcoat of mottled gray lambskin, the Dorset triplet’s little white tail quivered ecstatically as warm nourishment trickled down his throat and into his belly. The young Suffolk ewe nickered softly, then went on unconcernedly snuffling grain from a shallow pan while her adopted baby drank his fill.

"It worked," Luke said smugly.

Delilah glanced up at him, but couldn’t see his face. It was backlit by the fluorescent light in the ceiling, a bright halo around his dark head.
My guardian angel.
She smiled wryly. "Don’t you ever get tired of being right? Oh––"

She had risen too quickly, and discovered in the process that her legs had been replaced with blocks of wood. She clutched at the stall divider for support and got Luke’s arm instead.

"You okay?"

"My feet are asleep," she muttered huskily. "Give me a minute."

"I’ve got a better idea," he said, and deftly scooped her up into his arms.

Delilah gave a breathless whoop of surprise, then lifted her arms, clasping her hands together at the back of his neck. "You have a solution for everything, don’t you?"

"I used to think so." His eyes stared broodingly back at her from inches away, and the muscle in his jaw jumped. He cleared his throat and asked abruptly, "How are your feet coming along?"

"Fine," she whispered. "You can put me down now. If you want to…"

There was silence, eerie and absolute. Though Delilah knew there must be stirrings all around them, it was as if they existed in a vacuum.

At the back of his neck her fingers, with minds of their own, slowly unclasped and crept over the collar of his jacket to play with the raw–silk coolness of hair. Something flared in his eyes, like coals coming to life with a breath of wind. Delilah’s lips parted. They had minds of their own too. Slowly, hesitantly, she touched his face with the backs of her fingers.

Luke’s arms tightened reflexively. He muttered something under his breath and lowered his head, claiming her mouth in an explosion of pent–up passion that shocked them both. For Delilah the shock was a lightning bolt of pure desire. It convulsed her body, arching it up and into his, and brought from deep in her throat a small whimpering sound of need.

This was no sensual, erotic preliminary or declaration of intent. It was an unconditional surrender to elements out of control.

Delilah knew that—and discovered she didn’t care. Nothing mattered, nothing existed, there was no reality except Luke’s mouth—moist heat and a building pressure and persistent, all–consuming rhythms. She existed in the eye of a whirlwind, revolving slowly, weightlessly, carried away by something too powerful to understand and pointless to resist. Under the circumstances, all she could do was surrender. So she did—and discovered it was what she’d wanted to do all along.

How many times had he kissed her? Four? Five? In how many different ways? He’d kissed her deeply before, intending to arouse, but never like this. And never before had she kissed him back without restraint, matching him passion for passion. They ignited each other, fed each other’s flames, consumed each other.

Delilah broke first, sobbing for breath. Her head fell back, and with a growl of masculine domination he claimed the vulnerable curve of her throat with his mouth. She felt herself revolving again, and weightless, but this time she knew she moved through time and space. When she felt the rough caress of blankets and straw under her back, reality returned, even if reason did not. She reached up to touch his mouth with her fingers and murmured drunkenly, "Luke…?"

"Yes, love," he said thickly against her throat, trailing fire along her neck to her ear before lifting his head to look down at her. His hand was on her forehead, gently stroking. "What is it?"

"Luke…" She tried to focus on his face, then gave up and let her heavy eyelids fall. "Please," she whispered, breathing in sobs. "Please…"

For a long moment his body was motionless except for the heartbeat that drummed against the palm of her hand. One of his hands lay on her forehead, the other at the curve of her waist. He said hoarsely, "‘Lilah—" and then, muttering something she couldn’t quite hear, raked his fingers through her hair and lifted her hard into his kiss.

His hand at her waist slid under her, lifting and locking her close to his body, so that when he rolled onto his back she moved with him. He drove his tongue deep again, and yet again, then withdrew, leaving her gasping. But he stopped only long enough to lift her sweat shirt over her head and toss it aside.

Now she held his face between her hands and lowered her mouth to his. His lips parted, and she found herself exploring him, learning to go deep with her own tongue, responding to the growl that rumbled in his throat. His hands were free now to roam where they liked—upward under the camisole to stroke her ribs, the sides of her breasts, her back; down over the swell of her jeans–clad bottom. He made an impatient sound and brought his hands back to her waist, probing inside the restricting denim. She responded instantly, lifting her body away from him so he could reach her fastenings, and his.

When they were naked and he rolled her back under him, she tore her mouth from his and cried out his name, overwhelmed.

His voice came, tense and urgent. "Don’t fight it, sweetheart. Stay with me. Stay with me."

S
he opened her
eyes and saw his face, his eyes smoldering with passion, his mouth curved with tenderness, his forehead creased with concern. She made a low sound, a calming sound, and said huskily, rapidly, "It’s okay. I’m okay. I just—"

"I know." His lips brushed her forehead, then her lips, and she felt the heat of his slowly released breath. "I think I’d better try…to slow things down."

She heard the vibrancy of restraint in his voice and felt it quiver through his muscles. He brushed her mouth again, and this time she tilted her head, nudging him with her lips. His tongue bathed her mouth with moisture, warm and sweet. She gave a hungry little chuckle and closed her eyes.

"Not too slow," she murmured against his mouth, adjusting her legs to make a place for him. He gave an answering laugh and sank into her kiss, resting his body for a tender, tremulous moment in the cradle of hers. The kiss became rhythmic, slow and hypnotic as jungle drums. Her body began to swell and ache and burn with a strange and compelling restlessness. She moaned and stirred, searching…until the muscles beneath her hands tensed and tightened, and Luke bowed his back, bringing himself into her at last.

She felt one small spasm of shock, and tore her mouth free to release a long, shuddering sigh. She’d never known such a sense of completion, as if, for the first time in her life, she was all in one piece.

It was impossible for either of them to maintain the slower pace. After those few tender and critical moments, precious though they were, they didn’t even want to try. Luke tried to hold back until he was sure of her fulfillment, but he knew it was a lost cause. The storm gathered quickly, and burst over him with a violence that left him drained and shaken. But as the mists of passion slowly cleared, he was delighted and humbled to feel her body swell and throb, and to hear her small cry of release.

As he held Delilah’s trembling body, stroked and petted and whispered soothing phrases of endearment, he was thinking how lucky he was that it had turned out so well—no thanks, he told himself with some chagrin, to any particular skill or finesse on his part.

The small hand on his chest curled, and fingers burrowed through his hair to stroke his skin. He caught her hand and squeezed it, and planted a fervent kiss on the top of her head.

"Was that—" She stopped, then managed to ask in a very small voice, "Was that what I think it was?"

Luke was stunned to silence. Dear Lord, he thought, could that possibly have been her first? He was fairly sure she hadn’t been a virgin, but a first nevertheless?

Next time, he vowed silently, hugging her to him with a fierceness that made his chest hurt and his eyes sting.
Next time.

** ** **

Luke clawed his way out of unconsciousness, fighting through layers of thick, suffocating sleep. For days now he’d been running on sexual tension alone, and last night it had finally caught up with him, in more ways than one. He couldn’t remember a time in all his life, including college finals and round–the–clock shifts on the oil rigs, when he’d felt so tired. He’d always been an early riser, but right now he’d have given a lot for an extra couple of hours of sleep.

It was pride that finally got him up. The baaing of hungry sheep and the clank of grain buckets colored his semi–dreams with visions of a small, dark–haired woman struggling to carry a heavy load of hay all alone. He groaned and hauled himself into a more–or–less vertical position, railing at the morning. Sheer macho pride.

He pulled on the first things he could find—his flight jacket and the jeans he’d discarded in such haste last night—and stumbled to the door. The sun was bright, the frost had long since melted, and Delilah was coming toward him through the sheep–run, carrying the empty buckets. The instant he saw her he knew it wasn’t only pride that had dragged him out half–asleep into the sunshine. He was hungry. And for once, it wasn’t for food. He was hungry for the sight, the feel, the taste of Delilah. He’d thought last night had been the culmination of something. Now he knew it had only been the beginning.