Wild Heart (15 page)

His senses were so acute she could never take him by surprise. This time, though, circumstances—silent sand, the whispery tide, the wind's direction—were in her favor; with only ten feet separating them she stopped, unnoticed, and took the opportunity to study him.

He faced away from her, hands at his sides, staring at the moonshine on the water. His tall, straight, lean body always pleased her, and excited her when she forgot to be on guard against her feelings. She had had all day to mull over her reaction to Inger's uninhibited interest in him, but not enough time to reconcile herself to it. Right now, such thoughts seemed inappropriate, because the droop of his shoulders gave away his mood, and told her he needed her uncomplicated friendship more than . . . more than anything else.

He pivoted and dropped into a half crouch, so suddenly she jumped.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to startle you!" He had startled
her;
she put her hand on her chest, feeling her heart thump. He straightened and turned back toward the water—a telling and uncharacteristic snub.

"Are you all right?" She closed the distance between them, stopping behind him. He didn't answer. When she put her hand on his back, he jerked in surprise. "Michael, are you all right?"

He said, "No," very softly, and she smiled with a strange kind of relief. Whatever was bothering him, and she could guess at most of it, at least she wouldn't have to drag it out of him. He wasn't "civilized" enough yet to lie.

"Are you upset because of the things my aunt said?"

"Yes. Not only that. Anyway, she was right."

"Why?"

"Because I was stupid. Sam said we should go to Chicago, and I never thought about why it was a terrible idea. I never thought that he was too little or that he wasn't allowed to go. I didn't think about danger, all the things the aunt said could've happened."

"Oh. That." Aunt Estelle had recited a litany of catastrophes that might have befallen Sam today in the wicked city, a horrible list that could chill anybody's blood. "Don't think about that. Anyway, why
should
you have known Sam was too little?"

"I should have."

"But why? You're being too hard on yourself. Sam's the one who knew better, not you. In a way, he took advantage of you."

"It wasn't like that. He's a little boy. I'm supposed to be a man."

"But there are things you don't know yet because you
couldn't
know them. You have to have patience. Michael, turn around and look at me." He wouldn't move. "This is silly. Are you really ashamed of yourself? There's no reason to be." She rubbed his back, where her hand lay on his shoulder blade. Just for some comfort, friend to friend. But his muscles tensed, and she was intensely aware of the tough, smooth feel of him under his cotton shirt. "Let's sit down. That's not all that's bothering you. (Dome and sit down with me. We'll talk." She moved away, not looking at him but hoping he would follow, and found a smooth place in the sand in the shadow line of the pine trees. She busied herself smoothing her skirts and petticoats, and presently, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him come slowly toward her and sit down cross-legged by her side.

"Tell me about your exciting day in the city. Sam says it was perfect. Did you enjoy it as much as he did?"

Finally he looked at her, his transparent face somber and serious, and full of self-doubt. "I didn't know there could be a place like that. I could never have imagined it."

"Were you afraid?"

"No."

"What, then?"

Explaining things in words was still hard for him. "All the people. Walking fast, rushing, pushing us out of the way. Their eyes, looking in instead of out. All with somewhere to go—even the animals. A job, a reason. A place they belong. I don't belong with them, and now I don't belong where I came from."

"Oh, Michael."

"No one stared at me, so it wasn't like before. This was the opposite. But the same. Because I'm still alone. I have no place and no work, no purpose. I was the lost man before, and nothing's changed."

His halting, soft-spoken analysis, delivered without a trace of self-pity, devastated her. She couldn't tell him he was wrong; his loneliness went too deep, cut too painfully to deny. She put her hand on the back of his, where it rested on his thigh. "I hate it that you feel this way. You're
not
alone. The things my aunt said tonight weren't kind, and they weren't true. You do belong somewhere, Michael. Here, with us, for as long as you want. Sam adores you, and—and you know how I feel." Of course he didn't. How could he, when she didn't know herself? She was glad when he kept silent and didn't ask her to explain.

"You've only been in this new world for half a year, and think of all you've accomplished. You can't see how far you've come, but we can. Why, immigrants to this country don't learn to read and write as fast as you have. Of course you're impatient, but it takes time. It just takes time."

They sighed in unison, and she thought they sounded equally dissatisfied with her little speech. She hadn't gotten to the heart of things, hadn't touched the real trouble.

He turned his hand over, and she automatically linked her fingers with his. He stared at their joined hands fixedly, as if they meant something to him, as if they were a symbol. Of what? Something she wasn't ready to acknowledge.

What would it be like to live for years and years without human contact, human touch? Unimaginable.

Without thinking about it, she leaned over and laid her cheek on their clasped hands.

He went very still. And then she felt his fingers on her hair, light and diffident, infinitely tentative. When she didn't move they grew bolder, combing the hair back from her ear and stroking her there, so gently, on her temple. She had hair like a fox, he'd said. That thought made her smile, in spite of the gravity of this moment. She could try to pretend nothing important was happening between them now, that they were friends, and friends could touch each other like this—but it wasn't true. She was loath to move or speak, because this was lovely, and if she tried to define it or put it into words, to him or even just to herself, she would spoil it. So she stayed still, with her cheek on his hand, and let him stroke her hair, her face, with his slow, feather-light fingers.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he said, not stopping the gentle caress. "With Inger. I didn't understand. But I thought about it all day, and now I do."

"You didn't do anything wrong." She had thought about it all day, too.

"I did, but not on purpose. I won't do it again."

"Oh ... it doesn't matter."

"It doesn't?"

Reluctantly, she sat up. "I shouldn't have lost my temper," she said evasively.

"But it matters, doesn't it? To you?"

The earnestness in his face was too much for her. They were on dangerous ground, but she couldn't bring herself to lie to him. "Yes, it matters."

He nodded, satisfied or relieved, almost smiling. "I only touched her because I was interested. To see what she felt like. And she didn't care—she told me to do it. But I shouldn't have, and now I know why. It's because she's only a woman. She's not you."

"You shouldn't . . ." Thoughts crowded her mind, but she couldn't focus on a single one. "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why?" He brushed her cheek, and when she kept her eyes down, he ran his thumb along the line of her lashes. "Is it rude?"

"No .. . You shouldn't touch me like this."

"You don't like it?"

She couldn't help smiling, and then he put his fingers on her lips, making them quiver.

"Do you like West better than me?"

"Oh, Michael," she wailed softly.

"Do you?"

The wisdom of lying crossed her mind again, but only for a second. "No," she whispered against his fingertips. "I like you much better."

He searched her face. "Is that true? But how can it be? West is a man, he's always been a man."

"Michael," she laughed, "what do you think you've always been?"

He shook his head, frustrated again because he didn't know the right words. But then he smiled; she saw the white flash of his teeth in the dimness. He slid his hand to the back of her head and bent to her, pressing his face against her neck, breathing in deeply.

Stunned, addled, she let him nuzzle her, holding on to his arms when he would have slipped them around her shoulders.
It's not kissing
—
we're not kissing
—she concentrated on that as he took his mouth over her throat, her jaw, the side of her face. He didn't force her, but she was in thrall to the fascinating novelty of his ardent, artless caresses. A purring noise, something between a growl and a hum, sounded deep in his throat, scaring her and thrilling her at the same time. The stars wheeled, and she found herself on her back on the soft sand, with Michael's hands pillowing her head and his face buried in her hair. His bent knee lay heavy across her legs. She let the gentle, unskilled ravishment go on, even when he started to explore her body, stroking her side, her stomach, the curve of her hip.

"Why do you always have so many clothes on?" he mumbled, rubbing his mouth against her skin above the low collar of her shirtwaist. "Can you take some off?"

"Oh, Michael. Stop." His innocent question woke her up to the danger in this too-natural passion, rising in her like a fast tide. "Don't." She pulled on his wrist, but in the next second he found her breast and gave it a soft, fervent squeeze. "Oh, God," she moaned and rolled to her side, sitting up, turning away from him. She heard the harsh pant of his breath, and wondered if he was trembling as badly as she was.

"Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, wrapping her arms around her knees, wondering how in the world she was going to explain this to him. She heard the soft rasp of sand, and turned to see him walking away from her. "Michael?" He didn't turn. She would have scrambled up and run after him, but he only went as far as the shoreline and stopped, to stare out at the water.

This was all her fault. She had wanted to comfort him, make him feel
less
alone, and through her own weakness and thoughtlessness she'd just isolated him more. But she was out of her depth. What had just happened was as bewildering to her as it was to him. While it was going on it had seemed so natural, so ... inevitable. Now .. .

She understood exactly how it had started. Telling Michael she liked him better than Charles had sounded like permission to him, a tacit invitation to any intimacy he could think of. He had seen with his own eyes what she had allowed a man she
didn't
like; small wonder he'd assumed she would go even farther with
him.
Oh, what a mess. If he was in pain because of her, she couldn't stand it. She stood up—at the same moment he turned around and started toward her.

"I'm sorry," they said in unison, and she put her hands on his forearms and kept talking. "Michael, it was all my fault. You don't have anything to apologize for. The best thing for us to do is forget it happened."

"Forget? Forget?"

"Put it out of our minds, go back to the way we were. Be friends again, just friends. Because we just can't—do that." She gestured behind her, embarrassed.

"Because I did it wrong and you didn't like it," he guessed, watching her again, searching her face. All his senses were focused on her, and when that happened she could never think straight.

"It's not that," she hedged, letting go of his arm.

"You did like it?"

She huffed out a nervous laugh. "Michael, this isn't something I can talk about very comfortably. Men and women—they don't usually speak of it. Not to each other."

"They don't?"

"No." She had never even spoken of it with Spencer.

"Then how do they know what to do? How do they ever become mates?"

She laughed again, a childish sound, practically a giggle. It embarrassed her so much, she whipped around and started walking. He followed, hands in his pockets, glancing at her from time to time. Waiting for his answer.

"I wish there was someone you could talk to about this. This sort of thing. Another man."

"Your father?"

"No. Ha. No. That's not a good idea." Maybe the worst idea he had ever had.

"Philip?"

"Not a good idea, either."

He sighed. "Who? I don't know any other men. Except West. I'm not going to ask him."

"Oh, no," she said faintly. "No, I wouldn't ask Charles."

"So you have to tell me." He stopped, forcing her to stop with him. "Sydney, tell me what I should do. If you don't want me, say that."

"Oh, Michael, no."

"I'll go away if you want."

"That's the
last
thing I want!"

"Are you crying? Are you laughing?"

She covered her face with her hands, mortified.

"I'm going to touch you now," he said in a warning tone, and put his arms around her.

It was exactly what she wanted. And although she knew it would double his confusion, she hugged him back with all her strength. They stood that way, swaying, holding on to each other in blessed, merciful silence, even after the embrace stopped being for comfort and started being for pleasure. Because this was so much better than talking, she told herself. But the real reason was because she just couldn't let him go.