The Promise (28 page)

"Michael?" she shrieked.

Nothing moved, and another thought entered her
head.

"Nick? Is that you, Nick?"

Again, nothing.

Fighting her fear, she stretched her hand out again,
steeling herself against the feel of cold flesh. Slowly, she closed
her fingers over the hand's digits, noting that there was no
reaction, not even a quiver of movement. The skin was cold and
soft.
Soft
. She released a breath she hadn't even realized
she'd been holding. Not Michael's work-worn hand, Nick's
I-never-work-when-I-can-pay-someone-else-to-do-it hand.

She sent a prayer heavenward.

She followed the hand until she felt the adjoining
wrist and arm. Tracing her way up his arm, she felt the solid
barrier of rock before she'd even reached the elbow. He'd been
crushed. She shuddered with revulsion, tears filling her eyes. Not
even Nick deserved to die like that.

A harsh hacking sound filtered through her
terror-numbed mind. She whirled around. "Michael? Is that you?" The
coughing grew louder as she groped her way through the darkness
toward the sound. "Michael?"

"I'm here, Cara."

The tears began to fall in earnest, the dam
threatening to break. She struggled for control, stumbling as she
ran forward, rocks rattling as she fought to regain her
balance.

"Hang on, sweetheart. I'm going to light a
match."

A soft light flared in front of her, illuminating a
small circle around him. Nothing had ever looked so beautiful. She
threw herself at him, mindful of nothing but her overriding need to
feel his arms around her. Surely, now that they were together
everything would be all right.

"Hey, easy now." He laughed as she burrowed close,
the sound of his voice music to her ears. "I'm not going
anywhere."

She winced at the truth in his words. If what she
suspected was right, neither of them would ever go anywhere again.
The match fizzled out and blackness surrounded them once more. He
pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.

She buried her face in his chest, his warm breath
fanning across her hair, her arms circling his waist. He pulled her
onto his lap, cradling her. She sighed and leaned into him, content
for the moment just to feel his even breathing.

"Are you all right?" She shifted, tipping her head up
toward him.

"I think so. Just a knock on the head. How about
you?"

"Same." She felt his hand gently search her skull,
stopping when it found the lump.

"That's a pretty good knot."

"It's nothing, really." She smiled in the
darkness.

He felt for her face and ran his palm along the line
of her cheek, bending his head to find her lips. The kiss was like
an explosion, passion fueled by a wild mixture of fear and relief.
She clung to him, her body melding with his, her lips opening to
his touch, drawing him deeper, closer. Despite her exhaustion, her
need for him crescendoed into hot, burning desire.

She pressed against him, willing his body to become
one with hers, wanting only to be closer. He ran his hand across
her breast and she winced as his fingers came in contact with torn
flesh. He pulled back, his voice tightening with concern. "You're
hurt."

"I don't think so." She blinked in the sudden flare
of light as he lit another match, surprised to see that his hands
were shaking. "I feel fine." She tried to settle back against him,
her thoughts still centered on her need for him.

"I'll be the judge of that." He pushed her back and
held the flame between them. With his other hand, he pulled back
the torn material of her blouse. "There's a cut here." He ran a
gentle finger along the soft peak and she jerked a little at the
contact. He audibly released a breath. "It's all right. It's just a
scratch."

"I told you."

"Damn." He pulled away, dropping the stub of the
match as it burned his thumb, plunging them into darkness in an
instant. He found her hand and linked his fingers with hers, gently
pulling her forward until she was once again nestled against him.
Somehow, like this, the whole thing seemed less frightening.

She settled closer into the curve of his body and
drew in a breath for courage, a vision of Nick filling her brain.
"I…I found Nick."

His arm tightened around her as he waited for her to
say more.

"He's dead." She shivered at the thought of the
lifeless hand.

"Well, I can't say that I'm sorry. What
happened?"

"He was…" She swallowed, trying to find the words.
"Buried…in the cave-in. All I found was…his hand." The tears
started again. She was nothing more than a blubbering baby. "I
thought…Oh God, Michael…I thought it was yours."

He pulled her close, rocking her soothingly in his
arms. "I'm here, Cara. I'm fine. It's going to be all right,
sweetheart, I promise. Somehow, it's going to be all right."

She tried to nod, to rally, to let him know she was
okay, but the tears just kept coming. Reaction. That's all it was.
Reaction. She'd just let them come and
then
she'd pull it
all together.

But right now, this minute, she just wanted him to
hold her. She'd be strong in little while, she solemnly promised
herself—in just a little while.

*****

Michael felt Cara stir in her sleep and
reached to smooth a wayward curl from her face, stunned to realize
just how much she'd come to mean to him. He didn't know when it had
happened, but somewhere along the way, she'd become a part of
him.

He sighed, pushing his feelings away. Now wasn't the
time.

Time
.

He groaned at the irony of his thought. Unless he'd
missed something, their time was running out. He leaned over the
small lantern, adjusting the wick so that it would continue to burn
slowly. The little light was the one good thing he'd found in his
search of the tunnel.

He turned again to survey the space around him. The
light faded to black long before the rubble from the cave-in began,
but even though he couldn't see the wall, it taunted him with its
impenetrable mass.

There was no way out.

The flame in the lantern flickered and Cara moaned in
her sleep. He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his hair,
wondering how fate could possibly have allowed them to survive all
that they had, only to leave them trapped here until the air ran
out.

He cast a glance upwards. It seemed that somebody up
there had a vicious sense of humor. He swallowed bitter laughter.
And Patrick. What of Patrick? Was he still alive? Clenching a fist,
Michael swung at the air.

He had never felt so helpless.

He was the one who was supposed to take care of
everyone. Fine job he was doing. His father was dead and Patrick
was…well, if not already dead, then certainly on his way to being
so.

And Cara… His eyes dropped to her sleeping form. Oh
dear God, what had he done to Cara? He'd sent her right into the
arms of that sniveling excuse for a human, Vargas. And then he'd
only managed to rescue her after the bastard… He felt bile rise in
his throat as the scene between Cara and Nick replayed itself in
his mind.

At least the son of a bitch was dead, but not because
of anything he'd done. Michael sighed. Some protector he'd turned
out to be.

"Where'd you get the light?" Her eyes flickered open
and she smiled up at him.

"I found it by the wall."

She nodded sleepily. "So what's the prognosis?" She
sat up and yawned delicately, stretching her body so that her arms
were above her head, her breasts thrusting upwards as she arched
back.

His body tightened in response. Hell, all she had to
do was move and he was hard. He squatted down beside her, the
warmth of her smile easing the pain in his gut. He strove to keep
his voice light. "We're stuck here, I'm afraid."

She met his gaze unflinchingly. "Forever?"

He nodded, unable to say the words.

"I see." She nibbled at her lower lip.

"I'm sorry, Cara."

She frowned up at him, the delicate arches of her
eyebrows flattening. "For what?"

He shook his head and shrugged. "Everything."

She reached out, laying a gentle hand on his cheek.
"This isn't your fault, Michael."

He covered her hand with his, still holding her gaze.
"Of course it is. If I hadn't gotten shot then none of this would
have happened."

She laughed, the light tinkle echoing through the
shadows. "Right. You purposely got shot so that you could travel a
hundred years through time and screw up my life. I'm sorry you were
shot. I'm sorry your father was killed. But I'm not sorry I found
you again."

He studied her face, trying to understand how she
could possibly mean what she was saying. She turned her palm,
capturing his fingers and pulling his hand to her lips. With a soft
slow movement, she kissed it, the gesture sending shivers of desire
shooting through him.

With a groan he pulled her into his arms, crushing
her to him, wanting nothing more than to pull her deep within him
and hold her there, safe and secure. He covered her face with
kisses, touching each crevice and plane with his lips, memorizing
the feel of her as her heart beat in syncopated rhythm with
his.

He ran his hands along the curve of her neck and
shoulder, smoothing his fingers across the swell of her breast. She
gasped and pushed against his hand, demanding that he take her. He
bent his head, circling her nipple with his tongue, waves of
passion threatening to upend him.

God, he wanted this woman, wanted her on a level far
beyond the physical. It was almost as if she were a newly
discovered part of him, and without her, he would never be whole
again. He groaned and lay down against the rubble strewn floor,
pulling her with him, nestling her atop the hard length of his
body, his tongue exploring the soft hollows of her ear.

He found the zipper of her jeans, and with a gentle
tug, he exposed the filmy lace of her underwear. Her mouth found
his and her tongue playfully traced the line of his teeth. He
gently slid a finger between the soft folds of her skin, feeling
the heat of her envelope him. He lightly flicked the tiny nub and
felt her bite down on his lip in response.

She sat up, the motion taking his finger deeper, and
shrugged out of her shirt, the soft yellow light of the lantern
washing her bare breasts in its pale glow. "Make love to me,
Michael." She moved against his finger and tightened herself around
it, then leaned down, her hair curling around them, her fingers
fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. Finally, with a moan, she
pressed herself against him, rubbing her nipples against the
hair-roughened skin of his chest.

He stroked her, gently rubbing the center of her
passion until she moaned his name and pressed her mouth to his, her
tongue mimicking the rhythm of his finger. Twining his other hand
through her hair, he drank greedily from her lips and then pulled
her up, inching her forward, until his tongue replaced his finger,
never breaking the rhythm.

She writhed above him, her breath coming in short
gasps that made his blood burn for her. She breathed his name and
fell against him, her body boneless, her warmth enveloping him.

With a sensuous smile, she slid downward, her hand
freeing him from the confines of his jeans, firmly kneading him,
stroking, up and down. She moved lower, her lips replacing her
hand, the sweet heat of her surrounding him, driving him wild,
until he was the one writhing.

With a groan, he pulled away, and they rolled apart,
both clumsy in their need, tearing off clothing, making a crude bed
of their discards. Finally, skin to skin, he took possession of her
mouth again, his tongue thrusting deep, the fire in his belly
pulsing out of control.

She sat up, straddling him, and with a shy smile, she
leaned forward, placing her hands on his shoulders, her eyes locked
on his. With shaking hands, he cupped her buttocks and raised her
gently, groaning as she slowly slid down, impaling herself on him.
Then, just when he thought he couldn't hold on for another minute,
she was moving up again, and he fought to keep from pulling her
back into place.

They continued the languorous dance—in and out, up
and down—until the pleasure almost became pain. With a cry, he
wrapped his hands around her waist, bringing her down around him
until he was sheathed to the hilt.

She bent and kissed him then, her breasts dancing
against his chest and together they found a rhythm that carried
them higher and higher, until the world disappeared. Michael called
her name as fragments of light and color twirled around him like a
kaleidoscope gone wild. He locked his arms around her, feeling her
body quiver around his and knew that this moment was perfect.
Absolutely perfect.

*****

Cara opened her eyes, her gaze fixing on the
hypnotic dance of the flame in the little lantern. She smiled as
the memory of their lovemaking swept her away again, allowing her
to lose herself in their passion. She wondered idly if it would
always be like this between them.

The thought brought reality crashing in. There wasn't
going to be a future. She bit her lip to keep the tears at bay.
Michael shifted in his sleep, one leg thrown possessively across
her thighs, a hard muscled arm wrapped securely around her waist.
His hair fell forward into his eyes and she resisted the urge to
straighten it. With a sigh, she closed her eyes, the lantern's
golden flame still etched across her vision. How wonderful light
was. How comforting.

How wrong.

She sat up, her heart beating faster, her eyes
searching the lantern for signs of age. She'd seen this lantern.
When she'd rescued Michael. But it had been older, rusted.

And broken.