Heart of Winter (30 page)

Her wounded eyes lifted to his, and he drew in a sharp breath.

“You shouldn't be on your feet this soon,” he said, his hard mouth compressing into a thin line as he studied her thin figure in the tight jeans and top.

“The sooner, the better,” she said quietly. “I have to go home.”

“When you're able,” he agreed. His eyes narrowed, glittered, on her face. “My God, little one, you look so thin. As if a breeze would blow you all the way home.”

He clouded in her vision, and she averted her face from the concern she read briefly in his gaze. “Don't feel sorry for me,” she said tightly.

“Is that how it sounded?” he asked. His lean fingers came out to close over her shoulders. “I've got a pot of coffee in the study, and a roaring fire. Come keep me company until Mrs. Brodie gets back. I don't want you staggering around alone.”

“I'm not drunk, you know,” she whispered, unnerved by his closeness, the electrifying touch of his warm, caressing hands on the delicate bones of her upper arms.

He drew her imperceptibly closer, and she could feel his smoky, warm breath against her forehead, the bridge of her nose. “Would you like to be?” he asked in a bitter, brooding tone. “Maybe it's what we both need. To get staggering drunk and hold a wake over the past.”

She pulled away from him before he could read the submission in her eyes. “I…I would like some coffee,” she agreed.

He hesitated for just an instant before he took her arm and guided her into the study.

She hadn't realized it was the same room; she'd been too wrapped up in Moreland. But as she recognized the fireplace and the rug, her face went white, and she stood like an ice sculpture in the doorway, just staring at it. The pain of memory was in her eyes, her face, her whole posture. A muffled sob escaped from her tight throat as she remembered with vivid clarity the sight of the two of them lying in each other's arms on the soft rug, the feel of his big arms warming her, loving her.

“I can't,” she said on a broken gasp, turning away. “Please I'd like to lie back down.”

He caught her flushed face in his big hands and turned her shimmering eyes up to his. “Lie with me, then,” he said in a soft, haunted tone. “Go back with me.”

Tears ran down her cheeks as her hands pressed warmly against his chest. “We can't,” she whispered achingly. Her eyes touched every line of his face. “I ruined everything,” she murmured bitterly. “I killed it.”

“Did you?” He bent, his mouth touching her own lightly, teasingly, tasting the tears that had trickled down from her eyes.

“The story…” she whispered. Her eyes closed, as she savored the feel of him against her, the tangy scent of him—cologne mixed with soap…. “Bryan,” she breathed as his lips touched and lifted against hers.

“We made love on that rug,” he whispered deeply. “Do you remember?”

A sob broke from her throbbing throat. “Every second,” she said without pretense. “The story…had nothing to do with it. I loved you….”

His open mouth caught hers, pressing her lips apart as he bent and lifted her completely off the floor, cradling her trembling body against him as if she were some gentle, fragile treasure.

“Don't talk,” he whispered against her soft, yielding mouth as he carried her toward the fireplace. “Make love with me. We'll heal each other.”

A sob was muffled under his hard, devouring mouth. Her warm arms clutched at him, holding him as he laid her gently on the rug and came down beside her.

“I love you,” she whispered softly.

“I'm years too old for you,” he murmured against her cheek, his lips maddeningly slow and enticing.

“I'll push your wheelchair,” she gasped as his mouth burned against her throat. “I'll polish your crutches. Bryan…I want children with you….”

She moaned under the hard, uncontrolled passion of his mouth as it forced hers open and searched it with an unfamiliar intimacy that made her blood run hot. This kind of ardor was something she'd never experienced before; she stiffened in instinctive fear at first. But his arms tightened, and his ardor became suddenly gentler, coaxing, and with a sigh, she gave herself over to him completely. She wouldn't fight anymore. Whatever he wanted. Anything. Everything. Her cool fingers moved under the hem of his soft burgundy shirt and ran over his firm, hair-covered chest with a sense of awe. It was so good to touch him, to savor the powerful masculinity that drew her like a magnet. She loved him so. If all he wanted was a mistress, even that didn't matter. She moaned, her fingers digging into his muscular flesh as the kiss deepened sensuously.

Abruptly he drew back and rolled away from her to lie breathing heavily, his hands under his head, one knee drawn up.

She turned her head on the rug, staring at him not comprehending. “Did I do something wrong?” she asked softly.

“Pour me a cup of coffee,” he said roughly. “It's behind you, on the table.”

She sat up, feeling vaguely rejected, and turned around to the coffee table. She poured coffee into the two china cups and added cream in his, remembering how he liked it. She lifted his and set it on the rug beside him, then turned back to get her own, grimacing with the movement.

“Now do you know why I stopped?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he sat up and lifted his cup.

She stared at him, lost in the warm darkness of his eyes.

He chuckled softly. All the hard lines were gone from his face. He looked years younger, carefree—loving.

“Your ribs, darling,” he said gently, as he sipped his hot coffee. “You aren't up to violent lovemaking yet.”

The “yet” made her pulses go wild. She stared down into her black coffee. “You don't…hate me?” she asked.

“Look at me, country mouse,” he breathed.

She lifted her shimmering, soft eyes to his and caught her breath at the emotion she read in them.

“I love you to the furtherest corner of my soul,” he said quietly. “I've never loved this deeply, this completely. But you were a baby, and I was afraid of you. I didn't think you were capable of feeling deeply at your age.”

She felt the warm glow wash over her body like scented water, and she smiled at him. “And now?”

He chuckled deeply. “If you could have seen the look on your face when you walked in here…it told me everything. That you cared. That you'd been hurting the way I had. That you loved me. It was like waking out of a nightmare.”

“I'm so sorry,” she began.

He pressed a long forefinger against her lips. “It's over—forgotten.” His finger traced her soft, pink mouth. “Kiss me.”

She leaned forward and drew her lips against his slowly, teasingly. “Like that?” she whispered saucily.

He caught the back of her head and ground her mouth into his for a long moment, making her ache with the barely contained passion in his kiss. “More like that,” he replied with a mocking smile when she drew back, blushing.

She dropped her eyes to her coffee. “Did you really want me here?”

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked conversationally. “It was all I could think about. I reasoned that if I could get you here, keep you here long enough, you might be able to forgive me.”

Her eyes misted once again as she looked at him. “For what?” she asked incredulously.

“For almost costing you your life,” he said, and his face went rigid with remembrance. “Oh, God, when I saw that taxi heading for you…” He stopped and caught his breath deeply. “I prayed every step of the way until I got to you, and I swore that if you lived I'd make it all up to you somehow.”

“But it was I who'd caused you so much pain,” she countered.

“We hurt each other,” he said, summing it up. “But that's over. I want you to live with me.”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“Aren't you going to ask me about the terms?” he asked with a slow grin.

She shook her head.

“Unconditional surrender?” he probed.

She nodded with a smile.

He caught her hand and took it to his lips. “Marry me, then.”

“You don't have to.”

He gave her a measuring glance. “I thought you just said you wanted children with me?”

She blushed wildly. “Well…”

“Yes or no?”

She met his teasing eyes levelly. “Yes. A boy, and maybe another girl,” she added gently, sensing his pain.

He nodded. “The farm will be a good place for them to grow up.”

She clutched his hand as if all the past few minutes were a delicious dream she was afraid of losing. “Oh, I only wish my father was home so that I could tell him.”

“He is, and I already have,” he said.

She gaped at him, tugging her hand loose. “He is?” she burst out.

He nodded. “I called him. He was here for those first few critical hours until we were sure you were going to be all right. Then I persuaded him to pretend he was still on vacation so I could take you home with me.”

“However did you get him to agree?” she asked, aghast.

He touched her cheek gently. “I told him I was in love with you, country mouse, and that I was reasonably certain you were in love with me.”

Her eyes closed briefly. “Is it real, or am I just dreaming again?” she said, more poignantly than she knew.

He stood up, drawing her with him. His face was strained. “We'd better go call your father before I give in to the temptation to show you how real it is. Think how shocked Mrs. Brodie would be,” he added wickedly.

She reached up and touched his cheek. “Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “I'm not worldly, and…”

“Hush.” He brushed her mouth with his. “You're my priceless treasure, and I'll treat you like paper-thin glass. All right?”

She flushed and turned away from his mischievous smile. “I thought we were going to call Dad.”

He drew her into his arms. “In just a minute,” he agreed, bending his head. “I think it can wait that long, don't you?”

She went on tiptoe to meet him halfway, her warm smile disappearing under the slow, expert pressure of his mouth. Yes, the phone call could wait. Everything could wait. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the one man in all the world whom she could love forever. In the back of her mind were the lines of a poem…“Keep spring within your heart, if winter comes, to warm the cold of disillusion.” The winter approaching would find spring flowering in her soft eyes.

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