Tempest in Eden (14 page)

"Is that wood ready to light?" he asked, indicating the logs stacked on the grate.

"Even the kindling. I've been waiting for a chance to have a fire."

"No time like the present." He rubbed his hands together before dropping to his knees to check the damper.

By the time the fire was cheerily licking at the logs, she had prepared two mugs of hot chocolate. "This will ward off the chill on the inside," she said, setting the tray on the floor and plopping down beside Ian, who sat staring into the flames.

Minutes passed as they sat there silently, not touching, not even looking at each other, only gazing into the fire while the steaming chocolate cooled. It had become tepid by the time Shay tasted it. Ian turned his head and looked at her with a monumental question in his eyes.

He must have seen an answer in hers. Wordlessly, he moved aside the tray. They came to each other as though a pair of benevolent hands had granted their most heartfelt wish and pushed them together.

Their mouths formed an inseparable bond as Ian lowered them to the rug. As though this coming together were predestined, they adjusted their bodies to each other. Their legs became sandwiched. Their arms competed to gain the most ground. Her soft breasts cushioned his hard chest.

"You're so beautiful … beautiful." Shay gasped in surprise when his tongue found the delicate interior of her ear. "Your skin feels so good against my mouth."

His lips found hers once again as he rolled them over until she was lying on top of him. His head came off the floor to take tiny love bites out of her neck while his hands plunged beneath her cotton knit sweater and caressed the silky warmth of her back.

His fingers coasted down her ribs. His palms barely brushed the sides of her breasts, but it was enough to make them both murmur with longing. With his hands still under her sweater, he rolled them over again. This time he lay on top of her in a timeless embrace.

His eyes drilled into hers as his hand closed gently around her bare breast. "I've relived that morning last summer a million times," he confessed hoarsely. "I thought I was dreaming, but maybe I wasn't. Maybe that was just the excuse I invented for touching you like this. I had wanted to touch you since I first saw you. You feel as beautiful as you are, Shay."

"I was dying for you to touch me," she whispered. "Touch me now." She clasped his head between her palms and brought his mouth down to hers. His fingers fanned the aroused peak of her breast as her tongue brazenly rubbed the tip of his.

Eager to know the feel of his skin, she raised his sweater to bare his stomach. Desire took her beyond inhibition as her fingers combed through the crinkly hair and found the spot where the growth pattern began to narrow and the texture became silky. She followed it to the fly of his jeans.

He drew in a shuddering breath, but she didn't need that sound to alert her to his arousal, which throbbed hard and hot against her thigh even through their jeans. "Shay, Shay. I want you."

He brushed her breast and pushed it upward slightly, then buried his face against the soft mound covered by her sweater. Her nipple was swollen with passion under the cotton. His wayward mouth found it and worried it with a flicking tongue. His teeth scraped it gently and nibbled lightly. Sweater and all, he enfolded it in his mouth and tugged rhythmically. Matching that beat, his hips ground against hers.

"Yes, Ian. Please," she called in sporadic pants. "Ian, please."

Then, just as suddenly and as silently as it had begun, the embrace ended. He bolted up from the floor, crossed his arms on the mantel, and rested his forehead against them.

Like a sprung mechanism, she sat upright, too, her body forming a perfect right angle. Rage crept up her shoulders and neck like a tide to flood her face with angry color.

"You … you jerk!" she screamed. "Get out. This is the last time you're going to do this to me."

He spun around, towering over her. "Shay, listen. You—"

"You
listen. I'm a woman. And I love being human flesh and blood. It beats being a cold-blooded bastard like you."

"I know all too well that you're a woman. I—"

"If making love to me is so loathsome, if I'm not wholesome enough, not good enough—"

He dropped down and gripped her shoulders hard, drawing her up and shaking her ruthlessly. His face was fierce in the firelight, with stark planes and ominous shadows. "Don't say—"

"I'll say anything I like."

"Shay, listen to me."

"No! I've had enough of—"

"I love you, damn it," he roared.

His sudden ferociousness, his curse, not to mention what he'd said, stopped her tirade with reverberating abruptness. When she remained speechless, he said more calmly, "Marry me."

Chapter Eight

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I
f he had just confessed to being a drug addict, a closet pervert, or an axe murderer, she couldn't have been more dumbfounded. Her mouth went slack with disbelief. In his eyes she could see her own reflection, her wide eyes and shocked expression.

When the full impact of his words penetrated, the tears that had been threatening all day finally came. She bowed her head and began to sob.

"Shay, what— Why are you crying?"

She flung off his arms, and disregarding the warning he had issued weeks ago, she both cursed him and pounded his chest with knotted fists. "Damn you! Damn you! You're cruel. Do you hear me, Reverend Douglas? Cruel!"

Tears rolled unceasingly down her face as she continued to pummel him. He accepted the blows, making no effort to stop her. At last she slumped against him exhausted.

"I swear I didn't say that as a way to have sex with you." He framed her face with his hands and tilted it up to look into her swimming eyes. "If that were all I wanted"—he smiled crookedly—"it wouldn't have taken me this long to say a few romantic words."

She gulped, swallowing hard. "Why did you say you loved me? Why did you ask me to marry you?"

"Because I do love you. And I want more than anything for you to be my wife."

She sobbed again, pushing away from him and rising to her feet. "That's impossible! You know it is. Why are you doing this to me?"

He followed her up and grasped her shoulders from behind. "Shay," he said quietly, "do you love me?"

She stopped sobbing, though tears still fell silently down her cheeks. She turned to him and met his inquiring eyes solemnly. "Yes." Her lips trembled, and her hands were shaky as she raised them to his shoulders. She rested her wet cheek against his heart. "Yes, yes, yes." She celebrated the words, chanting them. "It's crazy, ridiculous, but I do love you. I've known I was falling in love with you for weeks, but I didn't want to be." She looked sadly back up at him. "It's hopeless, Ian. Impossible."

He pressed her head back down to his chest and hugged her tightly. His lips moved in her hair. "It's not. We won't let it be impossible."

"But you're you and I'm me and—"

"We complement each other beautifully."

"I can't be a pastor's wife."

"How do you know? You've never tried it. You said yourself that you enjoyed this weekend."

"But a weekend isn't a lifetime."

"And it would be for life, Shay."

"Yes. You'd be stuck with me that long. I'm impetuous, impulsive, irreverent, flamboyant. I have only one dress I can wear to church services, and I wore that today."

He laughed then, rocking her back and forth. "When a woman starts worrying about what she's going to wear, she's as good as convinced."

He stepped back and looked down at her. "Shay, I was happy in my work, but there was no joy in my life. Do you understand? I was becoming staid, placid. You were like an earthquake that shook everything up, turned everything upside down. You gave me an energy I didn't even know I was lacking. I had even come to resent my responsibilities, my church, because they dominated my life so completely. I was busy, but there was no one to share the quiet hours with. You won't be a detriment to my work. You'll add a new dimension to it. You'll balance my world. You're already in my heart, Shay, but I need you in my life, in my bed."

He kissed her gently. She felt powerless to fight him. She was even more ineffectual against the dictates of her own heart. Married life with him would be thoroughly unexpected, but it would be life. Without him, she'd merely go on existing in the wasteland her world had become.

But for their clothes, they would have been making love only moments ago. As her body had arched up to receive the thrusts of his, she had known that she was seeking more than sexual fulfillment. Her heart needed the balm of his love. With him she felt whole, not someone in costume playing out an assigned part.

Being married to him wouldn't be without risks, disappointments, and heartaches. But what marriage was? Perhaps she and Ian had more working against them than for them, but they were both forceful people who didn't back down from challenges.

And they loved each other. Surely that love was worth a few sacrifices.

Her lips opened under his sweet insistence. Once again his hands lifted her sweater and smothered her breasts, which were full and throbbing with love. He lifted his mouth from hers only long enough to say, "Will you marry me, Shay? I'll give you thirty seconds to make up your mind."

Actually he allotted her three days. It was a game. They both knew what her answer would be.

"Shay, if you don't marry me," he said into the telephone late at night on the third day, "you're going to cause me to commit a grievous sin that could curse me to perdition. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"Put that way, you leave me with no choice. Yes, I'll marry you."

He shouted and whooped into the phone for a full five minutes before he settled down to make wedding plans. He didn't want to waste any time, but conceded her two weeks.

The next day she told Vandiveer she was resigning. He took the news as she knew he would—badly.

"Why? Someone else offer to pay you a higher commission? Did you get a permanent modeling job?" His pointed face was pinched with jealous anger.

"No," she said calmly, "I'm taking on the permanent job of being a wife."

"A … a wife!To whom?"

"To the man I told you about a few weeks ago."

"The minister!" Shay cringed at his hoot of laughter. "Oh, that's rich. That's the best laugh I've had in months." He eyed her snidely, taking in her mid-calf-length skirt, maroon suede boots, long sweater, and cord belt that was slung low on her hips. "Forgive me for pointing out, my dear, that you're not quite the minister's wife type."

His comment didn't faze her. Grinning broadly, she placed her hands on her hips, tossed back her mane of wheat-colored hair, and said, "The hell I'm not."

"I can't tell you how happy John and I are," Celia cooed as she helped Shay into her gold satin slip with lace cups that molded her breasts.

Their wedding day had dawned crisp, sunny, and cold. John and Ian's bishop had retired to the living room after the prewedding lunch Mrs. Higgins had provided. Ian had gone into his bedroom to change for the ceremony. Shay had been given one of the spare bedrooms of the parsonage in which to dress.

Shay stilled her mother's busy hands and asked her earnestly, "Are you really happy about it, Mom? Do you think we're doing the right thing? Your endorsement, and John's, mean so much to both of us."

"Of course, we're thrilled about this marriage, Shay dear," Celia exclaimed. "I'll admit to being shocked by your behavior at the cabin that weekend last summer, but then, when hasn't your behavior shocked me? John and I had no idea you and Ian had even seen each other again until you called and told us you were going to spend the weekend here in Brookside. The next thing we knew you were getting married."

"We're so different." Shay voiced aloud the worries she had pondered silently for the last two weeks. Was she making a mistake? Would she be hurt again as she had been by Anson? Worse still, would she hurt Ian in some way?

"I wouldn't let that bother me," Celia said absently, whisking an imaginary piece of lint from Shay's wedding dress. "Those little personality differences add spice to a marriage. Your dress is really lovely, dear."

Shay could argue that their differences weren't exclusively those of personality, nor were they "little." But her mother had diverted her attention to the dress she had selected. It was made of champagne-colored silk and had a slightly blouson bodice. The long sleeves sloped down from the boat neckline and were narrow to her wrists. The skirt was slender with a tulip hem just below her knees. Her mother had loaned her a string of pearls and matching earrings to wear with it. Shay had already pulled her hair into a softly curled topknot.

She was sitting at an old-fashioned vanity table, applying the last touches to her makeup when her mother said, "John has been worried about Ian for years. A man in his position shouldn't be without a wife. He carries a tremendous responsibility, and it isn't healthy for a young man like him not to have an outlet for … well, you know," her mother finished, flustered and blushing.

Shay grinned wickedly. "Yes, I know."

"He's been alone for far too long. John said he didn't think Ian would ever get over losing Mary after she was so tragically killed." A sudden pain shafted through Shay, and she set aside her eye crayon and stared blankly at her image in the mirror. "Mary must have been a very special person," Celia went on. "John said she was a precious girl. He said Ian adored her and nearly went mad when she died. She was—"

"Mother," Shay interrupted quickly, "will you excuse me for a minute? I'd like some time to myself."

Celia's chatter broke off, and she looked at Shay, perplexed. "But I wanted to help you dress," she said, hurt showing in her eyes.

"Oh, yes, certainly. I couldn't dress without you. I'll call you when I'm ready. I just need a few minutes alone. You understand. Please?"

"All right," Celia said, going to the door. "I'll be downstairs with Bishop Collins and John. Call when you need me." The door closed softly behind her.

Mary. Mary. Shay had all but forgotten Ian's late wife. Now the memory of their conversation came flooding back. He'd been angry, said he hadn't been intimate with any woman but his wife, said he'd loved her, hadn't remarried…

She jumped to her feet and, regardless of her skimpy, sheer attire, walked in stockinged feet down the hall to the door of Ian's room and knocked softly.

"Come on in, Dad," he called.

He was standing at a bureau with his knees bent in order to see into the mirror, brushing his hair. A tight pair of briefs were his only garment. His skin was glowing moistly from his recent shower. The hair dusting his legs and matting his chest was damp and curly. When Shay walked in, he dropped his hairbrush on the dressing table and rushed across the room, his face turning pale at her expression.

"What's the matter, Shay?"

"I have to talk to you."

He pulled her inside and closed the door. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her to face him. "About what?"

"Mary." She could tell by the sudden jumping motion of his dark brows that she'd surprised him. He swallowed hard. Her heart twisted painfully.

"What about her?"

"Everything. I want to know what she was like. How much you … how much you loved her. Everything."

"Shay," he said solicitously and raked the line of her jaw with his knuckles, "Mary has nothing to do with us."

"I want to know," she said with a trace of hysteria in her voice. "Now."

He looked intently into her dark eyes. "She was a sweet, lovely woman. Delicate, petite, soft-spoken. She played the piano."

Shay's heart sank to the bottom of her soul like a lead ball. Mary Douglas had been everything she wasn't, the perfect wife for a dedicated clergyman.

"How long were you married?" she whispered.

"Four years before she was killed." She nodded automatically, dazed. Ian shook her shoulders, and his fingers bit into her tender flesh. "Shay." When she didn't respond, he repeated her name more sharply until she focused her eyes on him. "I loved my wife. I grieved when I lost her. I missed her, but now I love you. Mary is my past and I remember it fondly, but it's over and will never come back. You're my present and my future."

She clutched his naked biceps with frantic hands. "Don't you see, Ian, that we can't go through with this. It's a mistake. I'm nothing like her."

"Absolutely. You're nothing like Mary." She felt the impact of his words like a stabbing dagger, but he went on before she could pull away. "She had none of your marvelous unpredictability. Her emotions weren't erratic and exciting to watch as yours are. She was serene and never expressed herself with fierce passion the way you do."

He closed his arms around her and drew her against the steely length of his body. His breath fanned her neck as he whispered urgently, "Yes, I loved her, Shay. But she was like a milky, polished opal whereas you're a mysterious topaz full of fire, with a thousand dazzling facets. I want us to spend the rest of our lives discovering each one."

He smothered her glad cry with lips that were hot and eager for hers. His tongue probed deeply as though he wanted to touch her soul to convince her of his consummate love.

"I love you, Shay, love you. With all that I am," he said as he tantalized her mouth with airy kisses and flicks of his capricious tongue.

"Ian, I love you so much that I get afraid."

"Never doubt that you aren't everything I want in a wife and in a woman."

The hands closing over her satin-covered derrière were testimony to that. Her arms locked behind his waist as he pressed her against the rigid proof of his love. Like malleable clay, her body conformed to it and harbored it between her thighs. Their heavy sighs of longing harmonized above them only a thudding heartbeat before someone knocked on the door.