Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  “And you, Clara?” Georgina looked concerned.

  Clara’s hand moved on McMahon’s knee. “I have what I need.”

  McMahon said grandly, “Will you stay for supper, Kilter? The more the merrier.”

  James glanced at the window, startled to see the light faded into evening. Suddenly helpless, he had no idea what to do next. He could scarcely take Catherine back to Tate’s.

  The room full of people watched him kindly as he struggled with it.

  “You’ll stay here for the time,” Clara decided, “until we hear from Brendan. Georgie, if you’ll be so kind as to tell Ruella we have guests?”

  “Yes, and then I have to get home to Timothy,” Georgina said. She bounced the child in her arms and then touched James’ arm compassionately.

  “The best of luck, Mr. Kilter, to you and your lady.”

  His lady. If only that were true, James thought and looked into Catherine’s quiet, beautiful face. He could feel her breath on the skin at the open neck of his shirt, like a caress.

  His arms tightened around her protectively. From now on he lived for her benefit, nothing else.

  “Thank you,” he tried to tell Mrs. Collwys, but she just smiled and went out.

  McMahon said, musing, “Might be best, Kilter, if you stay here the night. My love,” he slanted a look at his wife, “have we room? We’ve a house full of bairns,” he added to James with a wink.

  “We’ll make room.”

  “You’ve been more than kind already. I couldn’t ask any more.”

  “You’re part of the family now, lad; my wife will not be letting you go. In fact, I think we can find a series of houses for you to go to and not be discovered. What do you say, Clara?”

  Clara fixed her curious gaze on James. “Indeed. Is there anything else we can do for you, Mr. Kilter?”

  “Call me James, please. And if a message could be sent to my boss, Michael Murphy, I’d appreciate it. He’ll be half frantic to know where we are.”

  “Murphy, is it?” McMahon grinned. “I think we can manage that as well. Now finish your whiskey, lad. There’s always more where that came from.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Jamie.

  Cat awoke with his name hovering on her lips and filling her mind. She opened her eyes to near-perfect darkness, only a few lines of dim light outlining what must be a window on the opposite wall, and to complete disorientation. Panic arose and beat hard in her throat.

  “Jamie,” she whispered.

  Something moved beneath her hands, beneath her cheek, warm, supple, and reassuring. Arms tightened around her, and she heard his voice.

  “Hush, now. It’s all right.”

  She knew his voice; she knew his touch. He held her in the dark. But searching her mind swiftly, she discovered she knew very little else. Who was she? She couldn’t remember her own name.

  Her chest hurt with a deep, burning ache just above her heart. She unclenched her fingers from Jamie’s torso and rubbed at the spot, encountering bandaging.

  “Jamie.” It seemed to be all she could think, all she could say.

  One of his big hands came up, cradled her head, and soothed her back down against him.

  “Where are we?”

  “Safe for now.”

  His lips skittered over her forehead, and just like that she wanted him, the desire raw and bright, like raging fire. She moved, slid on top of him, her smaller body caressing his big one, and groped for his mouth in the dark. She needed him inside her, needed him filling her, the hunger rabid in her veins.

  “Catherine,” he said.

  Was that her name? If he said it, it must be so. At that moment he was her god, her star, her reason for drawing breath.

  She pressed her mouth to his. Light, searing and brilliant, exploded in the darkness. She wanted her tongue, her body, her blood to fuse with his.

  Both his hands came up and captured her face. He broke the kiss. “Catherine, no.”

  “Please, please, please, Jamie. I need, I need, I need—” All at once she wept, sobbed over him hysterically, the tears flowing like rain.

  “All right, all right.” Tenderly he kissed the tears from her cheeks, worked his way to her mouth, and swallowed her sobs. She closed her eyes and absorbed the feel, the scent of him. Her panic subsided even as her arousal grew.

  She moved her lips from his, not far, and whispered, “Jamie, please love me.”

  “Christ, Catherine! I can’t.”

  She knew he could. She could feel him pressed hard against her, cradled beneath her thighs. “Why not?”

  “I won’t have it this way. You’re not in a fit state of mind. No, love, don’t weep again. What do you recall about what happened?”

  She went very still, struggling against the fog that filled her mind. Bits and pieces of memory, images like the remnants of dreams, floated though the murk.

  “There was a crowd. Weapons. What happened, Jamie?”

  “You were hit by the blast from a steam cannon.”

  “I was? Is that why my chest hurts?”

  “Yes.”

  “But no one survives that.”

  “No.”

  “So how is it I’m here?”

  “Officer Fagan—do you remember Brendan Fagan?”

  “No.”

  “He knew a woman, a remarkable woman. She was able to help you. We’re in her house now.”

  “Help me, how?”

  He hesitated. The breath gusted from his lungs. “This woman, Clara McMahon, has a miraculous talent. She was able to bring you back.”

  “Bring me back?”

  “From the dead.”

  “What!”

  “You died there, Catherine, in the street, when the steam blast hit you. I carried you here to Clara’s house in my arms. We’re safe for now, but Boyd got away from the police.”

  “Wait, you’re going too fast. Who?”

  “Sebastian Boyd. You don’t remember him.”

  “No.”

  “Or—or your family.”

  “Little pieces of things. You say I was dead? Jamie, how can all this be? I’m frightened. Hold me, hold me. Tighter.”

  She clung to him, and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her still closer.

  “You won’t leave me? Promise you won’t leave me,” she whimpered.

  “I promise.”

  “Because I need you.” Arousal flared still more brightly. “And I want you, Jamie. You can’t tell me differently.”

  “Listen, listen to me.” His voice rumbled up through his chest and into her ear, grounding her, the one reassurance in the terrifying darkness. “Clara—she said there’s a byproduct of this resurrection. The person who is brought back forms an attachment. It should die down soon.”

  “What are you saying? I don’t understand.”

  “Those she brings back imprint on the first person they see. The first person you saw was me.”

  Protest rose inside Cat like madness. “She’s wrong. That can’t be. What kind of terrible woman is she, anyway, that raises the dead? Why would you believe anything she says?”

  “Not a terrible woman at all, but kind and, I think, very wise. She took a risk helping us and bringing you back to me. That’s why we can’t reveal to anyone what she’s done.”

  Cat went suddenly still, somewhat mollified. “You wanted me returned?” Did that mean he cared? Did he need her even half so much as she needed him?

  “Yes, oh yes, Catherine. And I’ll look after you as best I can. The police may well find Boyd soon. Meanwhile, he thinks you’re dead and will have no reason to keep looking for you. So if we hide and keep you out of sight, we might weather this and come out the other side.”

  “And what then?” Cat tried to look ahead, but it seemed as murky as what lay behind her. She could imagine little while remembering so little. She’d never realized how much expectation of the future depended on knowledge of the past. Panic touched her again. “How can I go on, if I don’t
remember anything?”

  “You’ll remember, given time.”

  She shuddered. “How long was I—dead?”

  “Not long, maybe twenty minutes. The time it took me to bring you here.”

  “But I was a corpse.” She struggled to assimilate it. “Is that why you won’t make love to me? Because I was a corpse?”

  “No, Catherine. Christ, no.” His heartbeat sped up beneath her ear. “I just want you to be sure in your mind before you give me a gift like that. Because there’s no going back from it, is there? I think you just need someone right now. When you’re able to choose, I want you to choose me, but I can’t believe you could choose me…”

  “Why not?” Who else in all the world could she choose? Every part of her craved him with a need so deep she could barely fathom it. She twined her arms and legs about him more closely.

  He said, the words dragged from him, “You can’t see me here in the dark, but you do remember how I look—my face?”

  “You think that matters? It doesn’t matter.” As she had in the parlor earlier, she raised her hand and began to caress his ruined cheek, exploring the thickened skin with her fingers, smoothing the mutilated lips and ear. If only she could make him feel what she felt, convince him of her admiration. If only she could make him believe what her heart knew.

  He drew an unsteady breath and went rigid beneath her touch. Ignoring his reaction, she continued to stroke him, every inch of scarring, up onto the hairless side of his head, then back down his neck and shoulder to his broad chest.

  “Jesus, Catherine,” he breathed.

  “Jamie, I need you. Please.”

  She followed the motions of her fingers with her mouth, skittered her lips across his lips, dipping into his mouth with her tongue for a sweet taste and then planting tender kisses all over his cheek, his jaw, his neck and shoulder—everywhere she knew his scars lay. She had to tell him she found him beautiful. She had to convince him the light that shone from his heart transfigured everything she saw in him.

  A sound that might have been a sob issued from his throat. She covered his mouth with hers and swallowed it, slid her hand down the supple muscles of his chest, over his rippled belly, and caressed him through the front of his trews. He jerked against her hand like a man in agony.

  She broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me, Jamie. Make me yours.”

  His hand, warm and gentle, slid down her back, cupped her buttocks, lifted her effortlessly, and settled her on top of him. Light flared in the darkness again, and her heart rose on a wave of victorious gladness. She wiggled and positioned herself against him, a willing receptacle for whatever he wanted to give.

  His hand traveled back up and cupped her head. He kissed her deeply, luxuriously, his tongue exploring the inside of her mouth with strong, warm strokes until she saw stars. She felt his need then, great as her own, and she no longer doubted him. Nothing had ever been so right as this.

  “Are you sure?” he asked when he stopped kissing her. His breath, when he spoke, gusted across her lips, further stoking her arousal.

  “Very sure, Jamie, beautiful Jamie. I want you to touch me everywhere.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever known. The only man I’ll ever want. Touch me.”

  Slowly, with delicious tenderness, he drew off her clothing, and she helped remove the barrier of his trews. Big and warm, all strength, he laid her on her back and moved over her in the darkness.

  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You can’t hurt me.”

  “Your chest…”

  “Touch me there.” She captured his hand and brought it to her breast. She felt on fire for him, burning up in flame. He fell upon her hungrily, his mouth a miracle of sensation, and she clung to him like a limpet, her legs, her thighs, and what lay between seeking that one strength so hard, positioning herself so he very nearly slid inside.

  “Beautiful Jamie, give yourself to me.”

  He abandoned her breast but only to find her mouth again. She met him, open above as below, and wooed him in. He invaded her with his tongue at the same instant he slid into her, and the pain was glorious—one tearing flash of light that seared her and bound her to him before he began to move ever deeper, claiming her body, her soul, her heart.

  When they became one person, when the waves of pleasure seized them both and his essence filled her, only then did her deep need ease; only then did she feel complete.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  James woke to the incredible sensation of lips dropping kisses on his shoulder, skittering down his chest and straight south toward his belly. Every muscle of his body tightened in response. He opened his eyes to see the top of a ruffled, red-gold head, and awareness rushed him like a train at full bore. He made an involuntary sound, and Catherine lifted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes wide, spiked by long lashes and full of wicked, avid light.

  They gazed at each other for a dozen heartbeats before James, unable to endure her regard, flinched and bade her even as he had before, “Don’t look at me.”

  The small room at the top of the house had filled with bright, merciless morning light. He turned his face away from her, pressed his ruined cheek into his pillow. Last night she had called him beautiful—something no one had ever done. This morning, though, she would once more see the pitiless truth of what he was.

  His heart couldn’t endure it. Better to never have her regard than to lose it now. He felt sick with the knowledge that she must inevitably reject him.

  “Why? Jamie, I want to look at you. I never get tired of the pleasure in it. I’d be happy looking at you for the rest of my life, if you’d let me.”

  James’ heart stopped in his chest. He distinctly felt it falter before struggling to beat again.

  That’s the magic talking, he thought. The effect of the resurrection. Whatever power Clara had used to drag Catherine back from oblivion had centered all of her upon him—imprinted her, as Clara had said. It didn’t matter who she saw first; had it been Boyd, she’d want him now.

  The pain of that tore at him, deeper than any he’d known in the past. For he’d trade his soul to the devil to have Catherine truly love him.

  He knew how hideous he was. No woman who wasn’t enchanted could lie here next to him, naked, and tell such a falsehood.

  Not a falsehood to her, he reminded himself. What she’s been through ordained it, and she believes it to be so.

  He could take advantage of that. The idea blossomed like a flower of flame in his mind. He remembered all that had happened last night in the silken dark. He could love her again before she thought to deem him ugly, try to get his fill of her sweetness while he might.

  Many a man would. Who, waking with a warm and willing woman in his bed, would hesitate?

  She reached up and relentlessly turned his face toward her. Hell, he thought, this is it—she’ll get a good look at me and sanity will return, putting an end to my mad dreams.

  Instead she caressed his scarred cheek with her hand even as she had last night, the preamble to the wondrous claiming that followed.

  Might it be the preamble again? His body certainly thought so; he was up and hard, totally shameless.

  She whispered, “You have the most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen, Jamie Kilter. I can glimpse your soul in them: it’s beautiful.”

  “Oh, God, Catherine. Oh, God, oh—”

  “And the most wonderful…” Very deliberately, she slid her hand down his chest, over his belly until she encountered his manhood, at full mast. She curled her fingers around him, and heat flared in her gaze. “Love me?”

  He already did, utterly and completely, the way a drowning man loves air. About to admit it, he realized she asked him to make love to her in the physical sense, as he had last night. All she wanted was comfort, reassurance…not him.

  Softly he touched her hair. “How will you feel in a few days or weeks when things start coming back to
you and this attachment—whatever it is—fades? When you realize you’ve given your body to a monster?”

  She gazed fully at him. “There’s no monster here.”

  “I am trying to be responsible, Catherine. Considerate.”

  “Stop being so damned considerate and kiss me.”

  “I don’t think…”

  “Must I prove it to you again?”

  Eyes gleaming, she slid herself up and straddled him. James caught his breath as the soft mounds of her naked breasts brushed his chest, igniting flame. From her perch atop his body, she took his face between her hands.

  “Look into my eyes, Jamie Kilter. Do you see any lies?”

  Lies, no; he saw impossible desire and, if he looked hard enough, the hope of eternity.

  She bent and rubbed her soft cheek against his ruined one as a kitten might, then turned her face and kissed it, a soft, wet kiss followed by the heat of her tongue.

  “You taste so good. I want to taste you everywhere, Jamie. But first I want you inside me.”

  This isn’t real, he told himself. It’s a dream. But to save his soul, he couldn’t resist.

  “Not safe,” he gasped in a last-ditch effort. “I could give you a child. That’s the last thing you’d want.”

  “A lovely little auburn-haired, blue-eyed child? Why wouldn’t I want that?” She smiled, wise and teasing.

  “It would tie you to me.”

  “And why wouldn’t I want to be tied to you?” All the teasing fled her eyes, replaced by intention, serious as a vow. James knew at that moment he was lost, his life hers as completely as if he’d signed it away.

  He kissed her, a deep burning, intimate kiss, all need and heat. He caught her hips between his hands and positioned her where he wanted her, so she slid down onto him. And then, his mouth still fused to hers, he rocked into her, giving himself with every stroke, every wild thrust, until he made answer to her need and his own.

  ****

  “Mr. Murphy sent word that he should be here before noon.” The woman Catherine had seen last night—Clara, Jamie called her—gave Cat an appraising look from wide, gray-green eyes. “How do you feel?”

  “Confused.” Still ravenous for the man beside her. “My chest hurts.” But the rest of her felt marvelous, as if lit from within. Beneath the dining table, where they sat, her fingers remained linked with Jamie’s. Every time he so much as breathed she could feel it, as if his heart beat for both of them.