To Dream Again (35 page)

"I doubt that'll happen," he answered. "This limb is only about eight feet off the ground."

That wasn't reassuring. "Nathaniel..."

"Spoilsport." Even upside down, his eyes could tease. Before she knew what was happening, his hand reached out to rest on the back of her neck, and he swayed forward, closing the inches that separated them. He planted a quick, hard kiss on her mouth, then released her and swayed away again before she could even assimilate what he'd done. "You have to move."

Her lips still tingled from the brief contact, and it took a few seconds to realize he'd spoken to her. "What?"

"If you want me to come down, you have to move out of the way."

"Oh. Of course." She stepped back a few feet and watched him curl his body upward to wrap one arm around the branch. His legs slid off, and he jumped lightly to the ground. Smoothing back his ruffled hair, he turned around and smiled that special, reassuring smile. "Safe, sound, and all in one piece. Let's eat."

"Don't ever do that to me again," she said, but the impact of her order was negated by the answering smile that tugged the corners of her mouth.

"I can't make you a promise like that." Taking the

spool from her hand, he began winding string around it. "Given the opportunity, I just might do it again. I found it quite..." He paused in his task and glanced at her, his eyes still teasing. "...enjoyable."

Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he gave the string a tug and the loose end fluttered down from the tree. He continued to wind string around the spool, and the teasing gleam in his eyes disappeared. "I never make promises I can't keep."

He walked away, and her gaze followed him as he moved toward Billy, whose kite was still flying. She pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips and hoped with all her heart that this time he wasn't just teasing her.

***

Nathaniel left Mara at the door to Mrs. O'Brien's with the picnic basket, dropped the kites off at the factory, and took Billy home. The boy rebelled at the idea of bed, grumbling that he wasn't tired, but Nathaniel sent him up to his room, refusing to listen to the boy's attempts to stall.

The wind had picked up and powerful gusts stirred the trash and leaves that clogged the gutters as Nathaniel walked home. He pulled up the collar of his jacket against the chill as he passed the King's Head, and his steps slowed. He wondered if Calvin Styles was inside the pub.

Probably. If not this one, then the one around the corner on Goulston Street. He took Billy home every night, but he never saw Calvin Styles. Billy had said that his father was in the pub every night, and it seemed to be true. Nathaniel stood on the sidewalk outside the King's Head, sorely tempted to walk in and confront Styles about his son, but he knew it would do no good. He breathed a sigh, quickened his steps, and walked on.

He was becoming far too involved in Billy's life. He

wasn't the boy's father, and it was tempting fate to act as if he were. Styles hadn't yet discovered his friendship with the boy, but eventually he would. Nathaniel didn't want to think about what would happen when he did.

When he passed the factory on his way home a light in the office caught his attention, and he paused. It had to be Mara.

He went inside and found her bent over the ledgers on her desk, so preoccupied with her work that she didn't even hear him come in. He watched her for a moment, and he couldn't help smiling.

With her long braid hanging over one shoulder, and her tongue caught between her lips in concentration, she looked like a schoolgirl doing her studies, so serious and intent. He watched her and remembered her hair whipping behind her as she ran across the grass, laughing, with a kite in her hands. He remembered her eyes widening as he reached out to touch her.

He drew in a deep breath and entered the office as she looked up.

"Didn't I leave you at Mrs. O'Brien's?" he asked.

She bent her head over the ledger in front of her. "I had some work to do, and I spent the day flying kites, remember?"

She sounded so guilt-ridden, he almost laughed. To Mara, everything was a balance sheet, and to have a few hours of fun, she felt compelled to do an equal amount of work. Someday, he would make her see that life was not just debits and credits, even if it took him the rest of their lives to do it.

The rest of their lives.

"Flying isn't exactly how I'd describe it," he answered with a grin.

"I know," she said with a sigh. "It would appear I need more practice."

Teasing her was such fun, because she took everything he said so seriously and never seemed to realize when he was only having her on. He wondered if she'd ever figure it out. He looked at her earnest face. Probably not. They could spend the rest of their lives together, and she'd never be able to tell. She'd get that skeptical little frown between her brows that clearly said she thought him out of his mind.

The rest of their lives.

He tried to envision it. When the minister asked her if she would take this man, she'd look at him with that serious face, weighing all the pros and cons before saying yes. She'd try to plan their lives down to the last detail. She'd try to hide her vulnerabilities even when she knew he could see right through her. She'd fight with him over morning tea, reproving his extravagance with the cream and arguing with him over what was best for all their children, just the way they argued about Billy. Her lips would say no, even when her heart and her mind and her body said yes. And the maddening, contrary complexities of her would fascinate him for the rest of their lives. He was in love with her.

He walked over to her desk and waited. He said nothing; he just enjoyed watching her. Finally she lifted her head. "What?"

"Nothing." He grinned at her vexed little frown, but he didn't move away. Then he took off his jacket and slung it over the back of the chair that faced her desk.

She looked up at him in some uncertainty. "Was there something you wanted?"

Yes
. He tried to sound casual. "No."

She bent back over her work, but it wasn't more than a few seconds before she once again looked up at him. "Nathaniel, must you stand there?"

"Sorry." He circled around to stand beside her. Leaning down, he rested his forearms on the desk and looked at her. "Is this better?"

Her frown deepened. "No. Will you please go away? I can't work with you hovering around like this."

"Can't you? I'm sorry." He didn't move, and he wasn't sorry at all.

She tried to be so strong and independent, but if he kissed her, she'd go all soft and fluttery again. "I'm in love with you," he blurted out.

She didn't turn all soft and fluttery. Instead, she scowled at him and pushed back her chair, scraping it against the wooden floor. "That isn't funny. Stop teasing me."

He was right. She never knew when he was teasing and when he wasn't. "It's true. We're falling in love." He leaned closer. "Don't you think so?"

"I think you're out of your mind, that's what I think." She rose and circled her desk on the opposite side, watching him warily.

"Love does that to a person."

Her skeptical expression took on a hint of panic. "Nonsense."

"You don't believe me." He pushed aside the chair and followed her.

She retreated across the room until her back hit the wall beside his desk. "You're crazy."

"True," he agreed. She tried to go around him, but he lifted his arms and rested his palms against the wall, trapping her. "You want to know why?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's your face."

Astonished, she froze, staring up at him. "What's wrong with my face?"

He tilted his head to one side as if giving the matter serious consideration. "Well, for one thing, it's your chin."

Her chin lifted. "What about it?"

"Stubborn," he pronounced. Leaning down, he kissed the dent in her chin, then pulled back. "Very stubborn. And your nose."

She was beginning to look anxious. "What's wrong with my nose?"

He reached up and ran his finger down the bridge of her nose. "It's nice and straight," he conceded, "but it turns up at the end and gets impudent." He moved his hand to span her jaw and kissed the tip of her nose. "Right there."

Her lip trembled. "Don't."

"Then, of course, there's your mouth," he went on, running the tip of his thumb back and forth across her lips. "Very kissable."

He moved his hand to the curve of her neck and bent his head. His lips barely brushed hers before she made a tiny sound and turned her face away. "Stop it. Don't make fun of me."

"Is that what you think?" he asked, his lips against her cheek. "Trust you to question my motives and come to the wrong conclusion. You do that often."

She couldn't escape, so she took refuge in defense. "I do not."

"Yes, you do." He kissed her ear and felt her tremble. "You argue with me a lot, too."

"Perhaps it's because you're completely mad." Her feisty answer lost all its punch in the soft breathiness of her voice. "You say things you don't mean, and you give Christmas presents in July, and you dangle from tree branches and say I look lovely upside down. You're out of your mind."

He pulled back and looked at her. "What makes you such an expert on female beauty? You are lovely, even when I'm looking at you upside down. That's not easy, you know. Usually, people look rather ridiculous when viewed upside down. Imagine the queen, for instance, or—"

A choked sound came from her throat, a mixture of panic and pain and laughter. "Don't," she pleaded. "Don't make me laugh, don't make me feel like this."

"Like what, Mara? How do you feel? Like you're falling in love with me?"

She ducked beneath his arm. "Life is complicated enough. I can't fall in love with you."

Nathaniel turned, watching her practically run for the door, knowing he had frightened her. But he couldn't take it back. He wouldn't. "You're running away again. You're afraid, aren't you?"

"Yes!" she shouted at him, stopping halfway across the room and whirling around to face him. "Yes, I'm afraid!"

He began to walk toward her, slowly, as if approaching a frightened deer. "Of what, Mara? What are you afraid of?"

Her face twisted with anguish and uncertainty. "Everything. I'm afraid to feel, I'm afraid not to feel. I'm afraid of being alone, of not being alone. I'm afraid of you, of myself, of what will happen to me when you leave." She ducked her head. "I'm afraid of not being enough to make you stay."

He saw the tear, saw it fall, a crystalline fragment that caught the light just before it hit the floor. He loved her, he loved the soft and tender core that lay beneath the icy shell, loved the bravado that tried so hard to conceal the vulnerabilities, and he wondered how anyone could be so tough and yet so fragile. "I know about being afraid," he said gently. "I know because I'm afraid, too, Mara. I'm afraid of watching you run back inside yourself, back into that dark, secret self that makes you feel safe, where I can't reach you. Don't you see?"

He took a step closer, wanting desperately to hold her, wanting to be the armor that protected her. "But we can't spend our lives being afraid. We have the chance, Mara. The chance to love, to be happy. Chances like this don't come along often. When they do, you must seize them and hang on, because if you don't, they disappear forever. And they never come back."

He took another step toward her. "I won’t leave you. I won’t hurt you."

She flung her head back. "Yes, you will," she cried. "You won't mean to, but you will."

She grabbed her cloak from its hook in the wall and put it on. When she glanced back at him over her shoulder he could hear her breath coming out in little gasps. "I can't fall in love with you," she repeated. "And I don't want you to fall in love with me!"

She whirled around and ran out the door.

"Too late," he said to the empty doorway. Grabbing his jacket, he followed her out the door, to make sure she arrived home safely.

Calvin Styles wasn't drunk yet, but he was well on his way. He took two hefty gulps from his fifth pint of ale, gave the behind of the pretty barmaid a hard pinch as she passed by, and joined in on the chorus of a lusty song with the group of sailors at the table next to his.

It took him a moment to realize the singing had faded away and the pub had gone suddenly quiet. He looked up to find all heads had turned in the direction of the door, and he followed their gaze. A footman dressed in immaculate livery stood there, an expression of distaste on his face.

Styles scowled, hating those who got above themselves. The bloke had probably been born within the sound of the Bow Bells, but now he dared to stick his nose in the air and pretend to be better just because he had gold trim on his jacket and a few shillings in his pockets.

He and everyone else in the King's Head watched the man move through the room to the bar. He said something to the proprietor in a low tone, and Matty Fletcher nodded his head in reply, pointing in Styles's direction.

Styles turned his head, trying to figure out what Matty had pointed to, but when the footman crossed the room and came to a halt at his table, Styles realized it was himself.

"Calvin Styles?"

The man spoke with care, but Styles knew his guess had been right, and he grinned. Cockney, sure as froth on a pint. "Aye," he answered. "Who the bloody 'ell are ye?"

The footman tossed a guinea on the table and met his eyes. "My lord would like to have a word with you," he said. "Outside."

Styles eyed the gold coin on the table, then shrugged and picked it up. Rising to his feet, he shoved the guinea in his pocket. "Lead the way."

The footman turned away, and Styles followed him outside to the closed carriage waiting at the corner. There was no insignia, but Styles knew the luxurious carriage had to belong to a very rich man.

The footman opened the door and gestured for Styles to step inside. He did and found himself facing a handsome blond gentleman, whose white silk cravat and manicured hands made his lip curl with contempt.

"Mr. Styles, I would like to employ you," the man said with a smile of perfect white teeth.