Runabout (36 page)

"Yes, of course. What else?"

"I thought maybe you were hoping to give up on youth, skip the dull life of the matron, and move directly into your dotage."

Her laughing reply was just the encouragement he needed. Like the young, mischievous boy he once had been, Luther jerked the cap from her head.

"Luther?"

He held it tauntingly out of reach. "I've got it and you can't have it," he declared in a sing-song manner more familiar to the schoolyard than the wedding bower.

"Give me that back!" Tulsa May insisted, quickly following along with the game.

For reply, Luther laughed and waved the dainty piece of lace under her nose. Tulsa May made a grab for it, but she was not quick enough. She pulled at his arm, but he twirled out of her grasp and hurried across the room, still waving the lace cap like a flag.

"Come and get it, Tulsy," he teased. "Come and get your dotage cap, if you can."

With a growl of irritation, Tulsa May took up the challenge. Unexpectedly, she rushed toward him, nearly catching him unawares. Luther jumped out of the way; once, twice, three times he managed to feint, only to find himself blocked into the corner.

With the bed on one side and the window on the other, Luther clearly had no place to go.

"I've got you now," Tulsa May said in triumph.

Luther grinned. He hesitated only a minute before throwing himself across the bed in an escape attempt. Tulsa May threw herself on top of him.

In a wild, rolling tussle, like two young pups let out to play, Luther and Tulsa May struggled against each other on the bouncing bedsprings. The lace cap was still in Luther's hand, but Tulsa May held a firm grasp on his wrist. Laughing, they turned over and over from one end of the bed to the other, both teasing and threatening and determined to win the tiny lace headpiece that neither really wanted.

It was happenstance that Luther was on top when they reached the footboard. The iron bedstead stilled their movement; both took stock of where
they lay. Luther felt the warmth of a soft, smooth body with delicate feminine curves beneath him. Tulsa May was surrounded by the hardened strength and masculine aroma of the handsome lover of her dreams. He stared down into her eyes with some emotion she couldn't fathom.

It was a long moment, punctuated only by the sound of two young bodies breathing quickly and uneasily.

Luther pulled away first. Rising to his feet, he hurried to the window and cast the lace cap out to the wind.

"Luther!"

He shrugged and offered an uneasy grin. "It looks better on the catalpa tree than it does on you, Tulsy."

Tulsa May stared after it for only a moment, before her eyes returned to Luther. Nervously, she brought her hands to the neat little bun the cap had been so good at keeping tidy. To her dismay, the bun had almost completely unraveled and long curly strands of carrot-colored hair waved around her shoulders.

"Oh, I must look a fright!" she said, hurriedly trying to repair the damage.

Luther reached for her hands. He held them for a minute in his own. "I like your hair down, Tulsy," he said. "I've told you that more than once now."

She shook her head. "Nobody likes orange hair."

He made a face. "I've been accused of being a lot of things," he answered. "But this is the first time I've been nobody."

"Oh, Luther," she protested with a laugh.

Gently he grasped a handful of the vivid curls in each of his hands. He held it there surveying it for a moment before he looked back into her eyes.

"I don't love
orange
hair, Tulsy," he said. "But I love this hair because it's yours. Because it's part of you. And I guess I must love most everything about you."

Tulsa May dropped her gaze, fearful that he would see the tears that glistened in her eyes. "You are so sweet," she whispered.

Luther used a finger to raise her chin. "I certainly am sweet, ma'am," he said. "I'll undoubtedly make some lucky lady a wonderful husband."

She managed to smile and regain her composure.

Luther looked past her for a second. She could almost see the gleam come into his eye.

"Here, sit on the bed," he told her. Luther hurried to the far corner of the room. A freestanding oval beveled mirror of the new French style stood in the corner. Luther grabbed it from its swivelhooks and began to carry it across the room.

"Oh!" Tulsa May exclaimed. "Mama'll have a fit if you break that new mirror."

Luther only smiled. "I don't intend to break it," he said as he set it at an inward angle at the foot of the bed. "Besides, if your mama was going to have a fit at me, I suspect she would have had it tonight."

Luther stepped back, surveying the arrangement. "Perfect," he declared with some satisfaction. He walked over to Tulsa May's dressing table and retrieved the Russian bristle hairbrush.

"What are you doing?" she asked him.

"I'm going to brush your hair," Luther answered as he sat down beside her on the bed. He pointed to the glimmering image reflected in the sleek oval at the end of the bed. "You just watch in the mirror," he said. "I want you to see what I see."

As Tulsa May was not overly fond of mirrors, she had a difficult time keeping her attention on her own reflection.

"Eyes straight ahead," Luther insisted as he languidly drew the bristles through her hair. "Watch, Tulsy. Try to see what I see."

She raised her chin determinedly. She could do it, she assured herself. She would just imagine she was looking at someone else.

In the mirror a young couple sat on the edge of a girlishly beribboned pink quilt that covered a somewhat narrow iron-framed bed. The bed was so high that the young woman's feet did not quite reach the floor and her charming little pink toes peeked out from beneath her simple muslin nightgown. The young man sat behind her. He was somewhat taller than she. And one long, well-muscled leg jutted out from the bed at an angle while the other was bent at the knee and crossed casually to lay a booted ankle upon his thigh.

Calmly, carefully, as if he did it every day, he was brushing the young woman's hair. The hair was long and thick with curls of bright golden red.

Tulsa May's brow furrowed. "It's the lamplight," she said, almost to herself.

"What?"

"It's the lamplight that makes it look this color."

Luther's gaze caught hers in the mirror. "Yes, it's lamplight that makes it this color," he said. "Sunshine makes it glimmer more gold and at dusk it looks like it's lit with fire."

Tulsa May tried to look away.

Luther dropped the hairbrush and grasped her chin. "Look, Tulsy," he said. "Look and see what you look like. You've been seeing yourself through your mother's eyes and the eyes of the people of this town. You've believed what they saw, what Miss Maimie saw." He turned her to face the mirror once again. "Tulsy, look at yourself, look at the truth. This is what I see."

Tulsa May still felt awkward.

"I remember you told me once that you like the countryside in winter, because the landscape isn't hidden by the leaves of trees or decorated with wildflowers and tall grasses. You always wanted to see the truth, to see what was really there and find beauty in that."

He grasped her hair into one long, thick, twisted coil and laid it along her shoulder until it hung nearly to her waist.

"This is the truth about you, Tulsy. Can't you look and see the beauty here? Can't you see the beauty that I see?"

Tulsa May stared at her reflection. She had not changed. The miracle she knew her mother had prayed for had not occurred. But Luther was right. She could see the truth. And the truth had flaws. But the truth was not the flaws, it was only enhanced by them.

The words formed on her lips, but she hesitated to speak them.

"Say it," Luther coaxed quietly next to her ear.

"I'm ... I'm almost pretty in your eyes," she admitted.

Luther smiled. It was a warm and loving smile. A smile that she knew very well. "Not 'almost pretty'," he said. "Almost beautiful. Do you want to see yourself as beautiful?"

"What?"

"Do you want to see yourself beautiful as I see you beautiful?"

She tried to look away from the mirror again, but he wouldn't let her.

"Do you want to see my beautiful Tulsy?" he asked.

"Yes," she admitted finally, nervously.

She heard Luther take a deep gulp of air beside her and then felt the flurry of his breath exhaling against her neck. She watched in the mirror as slowly, so slowly, he brought his hand to the button of her nightgown.

It was Tulsa May who gasped then as he released the tiny pearl buttons from the delicate braid frogs.

"Luther," she whispered uneasily.

"Shhh, Tulsy," he answered. "I want to show you something beautiful, someone beautiful. I believe it is far too beautiful for me not to share it with you."

Slowly, inch by inch as each button was released, the pale flesh beneath her gown showed itself. She was trembling now, and there was gooseflesh on her arms and neck though the room was not cold. Through the thin muslin of her gown, Tulsa May saw the nipples that she had tried so hard to hide standing firm and dark and impudent against the thin cloth.

She wanted to stop him, to cover herself, to jump up and run away. But like a mesmerist's victim she sat stiffly staring at the reflection in the glass.

When the last button had been opened, Luther tenderly grasped each side of the button placket and slowly, almost reverently, parted the fabric of the gown.

Tulsa May watched, spellbound, as the generous cleavage of her bosom was displayed. Then the round, soft inner curves of her breasts were in view. She wanted to close her eyes. She wanted not to see. But as he pulled the cloth away from her thick, stiffened nipples they both became entranced.

"Tulsy," he sighed. "You are more beautiful than even I imagined."

She jerked her gaze away from her own exposed reflection to see the look in Luther's eyes. There was no hint of condolence in his expression, only ... admiration.

"I... I.. . well... Mama says my ... well that I have ... that it means I can suckle a lot of babies."

Luther's gaze warmed into the gentlest of smiles. "Tulsy, I do hope so," he whispered. "But what about husbands?" He brought one long sun-browned finger up to caress a thick nipple. "Does Mama say that husbands get to suckle too?"

"What?" Tulsa May's jaw slacked in shock. But the meaning of his words zinged through her veins like lightning. She was breathing heavily as she watched the mirrored reflection of the labored rise and fall of her breasts.

Luther teased and tickled the nipple into hardness, then he smoothed it gently with the pad of his finger.

"I wish I could taste you now, Tulsy," he whispered. "You're so sweet and soft," he said as he palmed her breast. "And so hard." He tugged her nipple between his fingers. "I wish I could kiss you where you are soft. And also where you are hard."

Tulsa May closed her eyes against the wicked image she saw in the mirror. In her imagination she could almost feel his warm, damp lips where his fingers were now.

She opened her eyes to meet his own in the reflection. She saw hunger there, hunger, desire, need, all of it. And it was all directed toward her. An alarming, dissolute, wicked thrill surged through her, dropping with frightful hunger to the little ball of fear in her stomach and then lower.

Her breath caught in her throat. "Luther, I don't think
—" she began, jerking the sides of her nightgown back together modestly.

"Tulsy, I
—" He reached out a hand to touch her. She was trembling. "Don't be afraid of me, Tulsy. I don't want to hurt you. I just want you."

She wanted him too. The frightening fear now quivered between her legs like an ache. She wanted him to soothe her. But as he reached out a hand to caress her cheek, fear overwhelmed desire.

"We're not really married," she said.

Luther's hand stopped in mid-motion. His eyes were glazed with want and he closed them to the sight of her. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his throat and nodded.

Abruptly, he got up from the bed and walked to the window. Pulling it open, he leaned outward, wishing it was a cold winter night instead of a mild spring one.