The Rebel and His Bride (8 page)

As if you didn’t know I would!
“Mm, yeah,” she
murmured. “You know, Gran, I think I’ll run out to Magda’s later this afternoon. Daisy and I haven’t had much of a chance to just sit and talk.”

“Did you get along all right?”

She pretended to misunderstand. “Daisy and I get along fine, Gran.”

“I mean you and the reverend.”

Annabelle gritted her teeth, but kept her expression impassive. “We get along fine, too, Gran. Why shouldn’t we? He’s a preacher. It’s his job to get along with everyone. I’m not sure I remember how to get to Magda’s, so you’ll need to tell me before I go. I never can remember whether it’s the first road after Denning’s Creek or the second.”

“When do you see him again?”

“See who?” she asked in an innocent voice.

“Why, the reverend, of course.”

“How should I know? I may run into him tomorrow night at rehearsal. If not, I’ll probably see him on Sunday at church.
If
I decide not to sleep in,” she added deliberately, hoping her grandmother was astute enough to hear the exasperation in her voice.

Apparently her grandmother
was
astute enough, because she dropped the subject. Annabelle was grateful for the reprieve, though she knew it was only temporary. But she really didn’t want to talk about Gregory. She didn’t want to think about him, either. What a shame she could ask her grandmother to drop the subject, but couldn’t make her own brain click off.

She worked hard the rest of the day to think of something other than Gregory, and with the distractions posed by her drive out to Magda’s, she managed to repair some, though not all, of the chinks in her emotional armor.

She smiled as she drove down the dirt road, riddled with mud puddles, that led to Magda’s. She’d always loved this part of White Creek. The long dirt road was bordered on either side by the fields of strawberries that Magda tended. She sold the fruit at a couple of roadside stands over in Waverly, and used the money to help pay for food for the dozens of stray cats she made a home for.

Annabelle could remember spending many a summer afternoon here with Magda’s daughters, surrounded by purring cats and stuffed with sweet juicy strawberries. She missed those days, especially since she’d developed an allergy to strawberries about five or six years ago.

When they were teenagers, she and Danni had spent hot summer evenings with the girls giggling over one boy or another. If she remembered correctly, Lily, not Daisy, had had a crush on Buddy Wilson throughout high school.

As she negotiated the potholes in the road Annabelle quickly called a few clichés to mind, in case Daisy wanted to know how she was handling seeing Gregory again.
Honestly, it’s fine. We’re just good friends now
. No, too vague.
It was over long ago
. The problem was she wasn’t sure it was over.
Oh, come
on, let’s talk about something more interesting—like your love life.
Maybe that one would work.

Unfortunately, no one except the cats were home at Magda’s, and Annabelle certainly didn’t want to go back to Gran’s and stare at the walls. She needed distraction, so she headed farther down the dirt road to Ferndale, Lem Petrie’s fancy-sounding, but dilapidated farmhouse. She chatted with Lem a while, admired his horses Sally and Pepper, and left with a bushel basket half-full of baby squash and early cucumbers.

On the way home, she stopped by Caterina’s shop and visited, then went by Bosco’s and treated herself to a Bosco Sunrise Special—a lemon Sno-Kone with a swirl of orange and a squirt of cherry in the center. She spent a few more minutes chatting with Bosco’s mother, Ada, who cashiered for Bosco two days a week.

It took some effort, but she managed to keep her mind off Gregory, even during an evening spent with Gran and Lute watching television. Gran, bless her heart, was more interested in hearing about Lute’s drive up to Richmond than in pumping Annabelle for more information about her relationship, such as it was, with Gregory.

By bedtime she was feeling pretty pleased with herself. Every time Gregory’s face had popped into her mind during the evening, she’d been able to distract herself long enough to get past it. She wasn’t just pleased, she was downright proud of herself. Maybe she’d survive this summer after all.

She should have known, she told herself later, that pride goeth before a fall. Her conscious mind had been moderately successful in not dwelling on Gregory, but her subconscious mind didn’t even try to fight it. She couldn’t have been asleep long before a vivid dream—a memory, really—swept her back into the past.

Gregory unlocked the door to the tiny one-room apartment he rented off campus. Before he entered, he turned to Annabelle. “Are you sure, babe?”

Annabelle had loved Gregory for nearly all the three months she’d known him, but going to bed with him was still a big step. When she looked into his eyes and saw the tender yearning there, her answer was clear. “I’m sure.”

When he closed the door, she burrowed into his arms and he kissed her. She opened her mouth to him, shivering when he deepened the kiss. His kisses had always been a wonderful end to their evenings, but tonight she knew it was just the beginning. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, pressing her suddenly sensitive breasts to his chest
.

He pulled back far enough for his gaze to search hers. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he lowered his head and kissed her again. He kissed her until she pushed away and began to unbutton the denim shirt she wore. Gregory brushed her hands aside and finished the job himself, then drew her shirt down her arms
.

She felt her face flush when he unfastened her plain white bra and tossed it aside and she fought the urge to cover herself with her hands. All her self-consciousness
disappeared when she saw Gregory’s face. He looked at her in awe as he cupped each breast in his hands and groaned. “Beautiful,” he murmured. “You’re so beautiful.”

She felt beautiful as he caressed her breasts, kissed them, sucked the aching tips into his mouth. She also felt things she’d never felt before. She felt as if all the blood coursing through her veins had suddenly pooled low in her body and heated to the boiling point. She whispered his name, but didn’t know how to say what she was feeling, didn’t know how to ask for what she needed
.

Gregory, with flawless intuition, seemed to know. He took her by the hand and led her next to the bed. Instead of pulling her back into his arms, he pressed a kiss on the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist and elbow, her shoulder. He pressed tiny kisses up the side of her neck before taking her lips again and filing his hands with her breasts. He circled his thumbs around her nipples until she moaned and clutched at him for support. Then he quickly removed her jeans and panties and lay with her on the bed
.

He caressed her again and again, as if he couldn’t get enough. He caressed the hollow of her throat, the curve of her shoulder, the valley between her breasts. He caressed her rosy nipples, the flat smoothness of her stomach, then finally the silky nest of curls between her legs. When he’d found her slick heat, he caressed her until she shivered and clutched at him, until her eyes widened in joyous pleasure and she cried out his name.
Only then did he shed his jeans, removing a foil packet from his back pocket.

“That sure of yourself,” she murmured breathlessly
.

“Where you’re concerned?” His voice was hoarse with passion. “No. Just hopeful. Eternally hopeful.” He hurriedly rolled on the protection, then returned to her waiting arms. “I’ve been ready for this since the day we met,” he said against her throat. “Are you ready?”

She nodded and braced herself for the sharp pain she expected. What she didn’t expect were the shivers of pleasure that followed. She opened her eyes and saw Gregory’s face above her, his eyes closed, his jaw tight, as he fought a battle of self-control. Finally, he opened his eyes and smiled at her as he began to move against her. She knew that for as long as she lived, she’d never be able to forget his face—strong and tender, his eyes hazy with desire
.

He slid a hand between their bodies and stroked her until she cried out again. She felt as though she were coming apart and the only thing keeping her together was his arms around her
.

Later she lay with her head on his chest as he cuddled her close, his hands caressing her. He pressed little kisses to the top of her head, and she smiled as she tunneled her fingers through the soft curls on his chest and nuzzled his neck. Gradually their caresses became more serious as the passion flared again, but Annabelle winced when he touched her. “Oh Gregory, I don’t know if I can so soon.”

He smiled tenderly and kissed her. “That’s okay,
babe. There are other ways to make love,” he said and slowly began to move down her body, his lips—

“What?” Annabelle sat up in bed, her heart pounding, her body slick with perspiration. Her gaze met the inscrutable glowing eyes of the cat, who’d apparently just jumped onto the bed, jostling her awake.

She sighed and hugged her knees. Some dream, she thought. Her breasts felt swollen, aching to be touched. The rest of her felt warm and slick and ready—and frustrated as hell. She sighed again and flopped back onto her pillow, staring up at the ceiling. After about five minutes of this unproductive activity, she sat back up, turned on her light and searched through her nightstand for a book, all the while wondering why her traitorous body couldn’t listen to her infinitely more sensible head. For once.

Gregory flopped over on his stomach, though he was careful not to land on the erection that he’d awakened with after an especially sexy dream. He pulled his pillow over his head, but that didn’t shut out the memories—or shut off his brain.

He’d dreamed about the first time he’d made love with Annabelle. She’d been shy and self-conscious and so sweetly passionate that he’d nearly lost his mind. He’d known it was her first time and he’d been determined to take it slow for her. His efforts had been hampered by a desire that had
grown to nearly painful proportions in the past three months he’d known her, a desire fed by his equally intense love.

Though he hadn’t said anything, it had been a first for him as well—the first time he’d ever made love with someone he was really in love with. The experience had been shattering in its intensity, and as he’d lain awake long after she’d fallen asleep in his arms, he’d allowed himself to dream and to plan.

First they’d move in together. After he graduated and secured a job—maybe with Greenpeace or the Save the Bay Foundation—they’d get married. It would be tough financially for a while, at least until Annabelle had finished college, too, but they’d make it. They’d make it because their love would last forever. They would last forever.

They’d only lasted four more months.

Gregory peered out from beneath his pillow at the lighted dial of his clock. It was a quarter past three, only ten minutes since he’d last checked. He grunted and sat up, running his hand through his hair, then swung his feet out of bed. He’d never been one to sit idly, especially when his brain was wide-awake. And right now his brain seemed intent on torturing him with thoughts of Annabelle. Death by Annabelle, he thought wryly.

He tugged on a T-shirt, shorts, and tennis shoes, intending to try jogging. When he began his jog, he didn’t intentionally head in Annabelle’s direction, but suddenly found himself more than
halfway there. He gave a mental shrug. Since he’d already come this far, he might as well go the rest of the way.

It would be interesting to see if all the lights were out as Virgie and Annabelle slumbered peacefully or if somewhere, in some window, a light burned that would indicate Annabelle wasn’t sleeping any better than he. And, with a distinct lack of Christian charity, he hoped it was the latter.

Charity was important, but fair was fair. If he couldn’t sleep, neither should she.

She
was
awake. Gregory stood on the street outside Virgie’s hundred-year-old farmhouse and looked at the lighted window, the lacy curtains filtering the soft glow into floral patterns on the lawn. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stared up at the light. He knew it wasn’t Virgie’s bedroom. It had to be Annabelle.

Maybe she’d simply fallen asleep reading. She used to do that, usually over some textbook she’d been studying. He would save her place, lay the book aside, and slide off her shoes before tucking her into his bed. Often she’d awaken then and they’d put the time to better use than studying. It was a wonder neither of them had flunked a single subject that year. He’d certainly done less studying once he’d met her. He’d been more intrigued with Annabelle—intrigued with the passion between them, but also with her ideas and opinions.

He wondered what she was doing now. Maybe she’d only gotten up to get a drink of water. He pictured her stumbling downstairs to the kitchen, hair tousled, eyes at half-mast. She had always been so cute when she’d awakened from a dead sleep—as soft and cuddly and boneless as a drowsy kitten. She’d also been a danger to herself, always walking into doors or stubbing her toes. He’d loved playing knight to his sleepy-eyed lady, leading her in the right direction while she mumbled that her eyes didn’t function when she first woke up.

She used to sleep in his T-shirts—on the rare occasions she wore anything at all. Did she still sleep in the nude? His body quickened again at the thought. Maybe she wore lacy nightgowns. No, she wasn’t the type. She was more the silky pajamas or the cotton nightshirt type.

It was silly to stand down here on the street and wonder. Chances were, she’d fallen asleep on her bed still dressed in jeans, with an open book in her hands. He turned to jog back home, then froze as he saw a figure moving in her room. Yes, she was awake, after all.

She moved closer to the window, and Gregory withdrew into the shadows as she pulled back the lace curtains and opened the window higher. She leaned out, bracing her hands on the sill.

Gregory drew in his breath. Well, that was one question answered. It wasn’t satin pajamas or a cotton nightshirt that she slept in. His gaze caressed
the spaghetti straps and minuscule bodice of the slinky nightgown that skimmed over the generous curves of her breasts. He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. This was certainly enough to keep him awake for the rest of the night.