Wild Heart (39 page)

No, he didn't know that. While Philip laughed, the aunt clucked, and everybody blushed, Michael asked Sydney if she would marry him.

She said yes.

Chapter 19

Aboard S.S. Alexandria 2 October 1893

Dearest Camille,

I said I 'd write every day, but I think we both knew when I made that rash promise I wouldn 't keep it. But you forgive me, I'm sure, and take into account my
special circumstances.

Oh, Cam
—
I'm married. Captain Jordan performed the ceremony in the ship's chapel three days ago, with both families watching, everyone I love but you, and I missed you terribly. Michael looked unbearably handsome all informal black, and I wore my Vienna green silk with lace trim and the little ivory train. We didn 't really have attendants, but Michael and I both thought of Philip as our best man, Kate as bridesmaid (in
your
absence), and Sam as ring bearer. Yes, we had rings
—
Aunt Estelle and Elizabeth (how odd to call her that. But she's asked me to, and I'm trying to remember to do so)
—
Aunt E and Elizabeth somehow managed to get a jeweler to come to us at the hotel in New York on Friday, the day before we sailed
—
surely the maddest, most hectic day of my life! The actual sailing would've been an anticlimax under other circumstances. But not in
my
circumstances, because I was to be married the very next day!

Oh, I am running on, and I sound like a perfect ninny. But, Cam, I'm so very happy. It's a measure of the strength of our friendship, isn't it, that I can say that to you? I miss Spencer every day, and I always will, but loving Michael takes nothing away from that. I know you understand; otherwise I couldn 't tell you how happy I am for fear of hurting you. But I know you rejoice with me.

Sydney looked up from her letter and gazed across the tiny desk at her husband fast asleep in their bed. She wasn't being completely truthful with her friend, she realized. If she told Cam honestly how happy she was, how could it
not
hurt her feelings? Marriage to Spencer and marriage to Michael. . . they weren't even—they didn't even— Words failed her. One was normal satisfaction, ordinary good fortune, and the other was . . . out of this world.

I
think you'll rejoice when I tell you something else, too. I believe Philip is falling in love with Kate. And she with him, unless I've misjudged her completely
and
lost all my powers of observation
—
not likely! They 've been inseparable from the moment they met; they never stop talking and have eyes only for each other. Of late there's a ... I hardly know what to call it. An atmosphere around them, impossible not to notice, a sort of cloud of—well, desire, that's both unnerving and fascinating to be near. (Which must be the very thing people say about Michael and me, too. Oh, Cam, isn't love the grandest invention?)

Anyway. Philip has loved you forever, of course you know that, and it's always made me sad that you couldn't love him back, not the way he wanted you to. So: this is wonderful.
I
think it's wonderful (and needless to say Aunt Estelle is beside herself), but I can't help questioning how wonderful the MacNeils think it is. I don't know anything about the nobility and their expectations and all of that, but it wouldn't surprise me if the MacNeils had higher hopes for their only daughter than a titleless undergraduate from the colonies. On the other hand, the Winters aren 't exactly poor, and we 're about as respectable as Americans get. Best of all, Michael's parents truly seem to want nothing so much as the happiness of their children. Certainly they've never made me, feel anything but welcome and loved.

So we will see what happens. Kate is lovely, by the way. She and Michael adore each other
—
it's really extraordinary how close they've become in such a short time. And she's very bright; I'm quite intimidated by her. But listen to this, Cam. Something good has already come of Philip's attachment to her. He's told Papa and Aunt Estelle that the spring term at Dartmouth was his last, and he means to give up science (which he's always loathed and been no good at, and only pursued in the first place to try to please Papa) and turn all his energies into becoming a writer. Hurray! "And I'm prepared to accept the consequences, " he told Papa—and, of course, there were no consequences. Thank God it took Philip less time than it took me to learn that lesson
—
that our father's love and acceptance have always been there (hidden behind the vagueness and the pipe smoke), and we didn't have to rebel against him or try to be just like him in order to win them. Philip says I inspired him to take this step.
I.
Because I took what I wanted and damned the consequences, he says. Well, if it's true, I'm doubly happy, but how can it be? All I did was take my heart's desire. No, if anyone inspired Philip, I'm quite sure it was Kate.

Across the cabin, her heart's desire stirred and rolled over, his long legs tangling in the sheet. His naked backside presented a powerful distraction. She put her hand over her forehead, blocking the view, and continued.

The MacNeils claim Lake Michigan reminds them of their loch in the Highlands, which is called Rannoch.

This seems a little unlikely to me, but I suppose I'll find out for myself in a few days. At any rate, you’ll never guess what they're thinking of doing, Cam;
really
thinking of, not just spinning fancies. They're talking of buying property on Lake Michigan and building a house on it, a sort of second home, to which they'd come often to visit, presumably, if Michael and I end up living in America.

Nothing's been definitely decided about that yet, of course; we aren 't even talking about it, and whatever Michael wants to do I will do, without a single regret. Still, I can't tell you how glad I am to know his family won't be putting pressure on him to stay in Scotland. And frankly, I'm surprised. His father is very proud, very keen on duty and responsibility. Well, we will see what happens. My future is a complete mystery, but for once I'm not anxious about if. All I am is happy.

Sydney laid her pen down and stood up. Impossible to concentrate another minute with such a diverting temptation lying only steps away. The sun shining through their upper deck porthole had turned Michael's bare skin a tantalizing shade of tawny gold. They'd made love less than an hour ago, but she wanted him again. If she woke him up, he'd want her, too. She couldn't resist.

She sat down behind him and put her hand on his sun-warmed arm. Her weight sagged the mattress, rolling him gently against her hip. "Hey, sleepyhead," she whispered, and he smiled without opening his eyes. She tickled the tender skin inside his elbow, skimmed her fingernails down to his wrist and back up. "Wake uuuup," she teased. He groaned, pretending he didn't want to, but she happened to know he was wide awake already. She picked up his heavy hand and kissed each limp finger, then placed his palm on the side of her breast. His smile widened; all the lifelessness left his fingers. Both of them hummed at the same time, a soft, drowsy sound signaling the renewal of interest. "Are you awake?"

"I'm starting to be." He caressed her slowly, softly, through the cool, slick satin of her dressing gown. "What time is it?"

"Don't know." She closed her eyes, reveling in that delicious sinking sensation in her stomach. She leaned over to nuzzle his ear, a trick that never failed. He drew his breath in through his teeth, at the same time he slipped his hand inside her robe and brushed her bare, warming skin. They kissed.

"You always smell good and you always taste good. How do you do that?"

She shrugged, dreamy-eyed. He told her that so often she was almost ready to believe it. "I like the way you taste, too. In fact, I like everything about you."

He grinned, untying the bow in the satin tie at her waist. "Want to lie down beside me?"

"I don't mind if I do." But first she took off her dressing gown, watching his face while she did it. She was naked underneath. Michael was never lecherous exactly, but he was always so ...
appreciative.
And she'd never felt so much like a woman as she had in the last three days. "Do you think we'll get tired of this someday?" she asked, stretching out beside him.

"I won't."

The promptness of his answer made her smile. "Neither will I," she vowed. "Not even when we're fifty. Not even when we're
eighty."

"A hundred."

"A hundred and twenty."

They started to giggle. He pulled the sheet over their heads, which was usually the prelude to a tickling contest, or sometimes a silly, sexy wrestling match he always let her win. This time they just rubbed against each other and rolled over, sealed together from top to bottom, mouth to toe. Michael's stomach growled. "I'm ignoring that," Sydney said, circling his neck with her arms. She turned her head to the perfect kissing angle. "You can nibble on me." He did, using his teeth on her lips and then her tongue, devouring her with wet, luscious kisses. His hands roamed, and she started to lose herself in the tender, seductive blur. Thoughts stuttered, stopped; she felt her brain disconnect from her body. Michael whispered something unbearably sweet as he slipped inside her, and the world fell away.

Soft and slow, sweet and easy. Long, lingering kisses and the leisurely caress of hands, bodies rolling and turning on the sun-warmed bed. He made a low sound, deep in his throat—and that fast, it changed. They rolled again, hands clutching, mouths greedy, and Sydney heard herself whisper a shocking, shameless thing to excite him, drive them both higher in a hurry. She let herself go.

Sheer ecstasy—she couldn't stand it. Sweaty, muscular, intense pleasure. Saturating satisfaction.

They collapsed. Sometimes they laughed after making love, just from happiness, a sort of giddy celebration of sex. Other times she cried—for no particular reason, a mere excess of feeling. This time they fell on each other and, for all intents and purposes, died.

Knocking at the door revived them, to a degree. "Did you hear something?" Sydney mumbled disingenuously; if one of them had to get up and open the door, she wanted it to be him.

Knock, knock, knock.

"No, I don't hear anything," Michael muttered into the pillow.

She swatted him on the behind and threw off the covers. "Yes?"

"Sydney, open up. Are you still
in there!"
Sam sounded incredulous. "It's time for lunch! Why are you still in there? Come on, open up."

She caught Michael's eye as he grabbed for the sheet and she wrestled with the arms of her dressing gown. "His timing could be worse," she reminded him, then went to the door and opened it.

Sam tumbled inside, followed by Hector on a leash. "You're still in
bed.”
He plopped down beside Michael, who had the covers tucked modestly around his chest. "Are you sick? Did you get seasick? You don't look sick," he decided, eyeing him critically.

"I was taking a nap," Michael told him, which was half true. He reached down to pet Hector, who was wagging his tail and sniffing the sheets with great interest.

"A nap in the morning?" Before they could think of an answer to that, he rushed on. "Well, hurry and get up because we're having a picnic on deck. Aunt Elizabeth said we shouldn't go below for lunch on a day like this, so she told the steward we wanted to eat right in our chairs. So hurry up and get dressed. Oh! I forgot to tell you— guess what?"

"What?"

"Captain Jordan said I can steer the ship."

"Really? That's exciting." Sydney caught sight of herself in the mirror over the dresser. Wild hair, flushed cheeks; general blowsiness. She looked like a contented woman.

"Yeah! I get to do it this afternoon at three o'clock, right on the bridge with him and Mr. Addison. He's the first mate, and he's really nice. He came to our table this morning and talked about ships and everything—Hey, how come you didn't come to breakfast?"

"We didn't wake up in time," she said smoothly, "so we had it brought in on a tray. It was—"

"How come you had to have a nap if you slept so late?"

That stumped her.

"What time is it?" she asked, to divert him. He had a new watch; he loved people to ask him the time.

"Twelve-fourteen."

"Goodness! You're right, we'd better get up. Hurry, Michael. Sam, run upstairs and tell them we'll be there in twenty minutes. No, better say thirty." She opened the door, which made Hector lunge for the hall, which propelled Sam off the bed. She bustled the boy and dog out without ceremony and almost had the door closed when Sam whirled around to correct her. "Not 'upstairs,' Sydney," he said with seven-year-old superiority.
"Above.
How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Above. Go above. Go."

"I'm going, I'm going." He threw a suspicious look back over his shoulder as Hector yanked him down the corridor. "Boy, Sydney, sometimes it's almost like you're trying to get rid of me."

* * * * *

"Am I in heaven?"

Nobody answered; nobody heard the question.

No matter. Sydney knew heaven when she saw it, heard it, felt it, and this was definitely heaven.

She leaned back in her canvas deck chair and laid her book facedown on her chest. Who could concentrate on
The Magic of the Highlands,
fascinating as it was, when there were so many other things to do? Such as watch Michael and his mother paint seascapes on the quarterdeck at back-to-back easels, like two pianists in concert. Or listen to the tone—not the words; that would've taken too much energy—of the conversation between her father and her father-in-law on the subject of fossils. Philip and Kate had taken Sam off to steer the ship—she hoped they weren't heading for Brazil—and Aunt Estcllc had gone below to have a nap. (A real nap, one presumed, nothing remotely resembling the kind of nap she and Michael liked to take.) A light, tangy wind blew. A few puffy clouds floated in an otherwise pristine azure sky. A waiter kept bringing her fresh cups of tea with thin sugar cookies that melted in her mouth.