by Changelings
More books by Lacey are here:
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Cry for the Moon
Marie Treanor
A lonely woman spends Christmas by herself in the country cottage she once shared with her beloved husband, a soldier who disappeared without a trace over two years ago. She has finally accepted that he’s dead and is even contemplating suicide.
On Christmas Eve, a knock on the door heralds the arrival of a homeless man in ragged clothes who bears a staggering resemblance to her husband. However, he doesn’t know who he is, or what has led him to the cottage. Recklessly, she lets him stay the night, but begins to suspect she may have made a terrible mistake when, in the midst of unexpected passion, a wolf flees howling from her bed.
Chapter One
In spite of everything she knew, Ruth’s heart beat faster as she turned the final corner of the lane, the one that would bring the cottage into view. She even walked faster, her boots crunching over the frosty ground like those of a much younger, much happier woman rushing to meet her lover. Her breath steamed and sparkled in the cold darkness, drawing her onward.
And still in spite of everything she knew, she couldn’t help the corroding disappointment when the black building loomed at last in front of her. No warm, welcoming glow from the windows. No Christmas tree gleaming behind the curtains. No impatient lover watching for her approach.
Of course there wasn’t. There hadn’t been for the last two Christmases and there wouldn’t be ever again. Jared was dead.
Her brief, silly hope done with, she let the dull lethargy close around her again, like a familiar, if boring, friend. Stepping up to the front door, she slid her key into the lock and kicked frost off her boots before entering the dark cottage.
Although she hadn’t been here for several months, it was exactly as she’d left it. Switching on the lights, she saw that a thin layer of dust covered the surface of the hall table. It would be everywhere, which would give her plenty to do tonight before she went to bed.
Walking into the kitchen, she laid her meager shopping on the table and began to unpack. Coffee, milk, bread and whisky. When she opened the fridge, she found that Jane and Charlie, her nearest neighbors who kept the spare key for her, had left a turkey as usual.
Ruth’s throat constricted. It was a kindness begun when she and Jared had first bought the cottage and continued even after Jared’s death. They barely saw the couple but had always exchanged Christmas gifts -- always a fresh, home-bred turkey from Jane and Charlie -- and met on Boxing Day for a drink, if Jared didn’t have to rush back on duty.
A pang of guilt struck at Ruth. She hadn’t bought them a gift this year. Lost in isolation and grief, she’d never even thought of it. Now she wondered how they’d feel to find their turkey ignored and uneaten. Nor would it be kind to let them discover her body.
It was a silly idea to do it here, anyway. She should wait until she got back to the city and do it there where no one would care. She wasn’t thinking straight, hadn’t been since the two year anniversary of Jared’s disappearance. Since he was legally dead, it shouldn’t have made any difference. The army had long made it clear that she should regard him as dead, even though there was no body to mourn. They couldn’t give her details for classified reasons, but they’d left her with no doubt that he was gone for good.
What the two year anniversary had done was make her a widow, make her realize finally that he wasn’t ever coming home, and that without him, she really didn’t want to carry on. She knew it was a weakness, a terrible fault, that she couldn’t pull herself together, find some other cause to live for if she wasn’t interested in finding another man as her colleagues kept trying to persuade her to do. But the truth was, she had always been a one man woman, and no other man interested her. And now she was bored with life, bored with grief.
“Stuff it,” she said aloud, putting the kettle on. “What does it matter where or when? Just get through Christmas one last time.”
* * *
The cottage cleaned to her satisfaction and the living room fire lit, she curled up in the armchair with a glass of whisky. Beside her, the radio played non-stop Christmas carols in its inexorable build up to midnight and the eternal hope of Christmas Day.
Ruth smiled into the flames. “Bah, humbug,” she murmured and toasted the fire with her glass. “Good luck, world.” She took a drink, relishing the fiery streak down her throat.
Then she closed her eyes and remembered a different Christmas, when Jared was here with her, holding her on his lap in this very chair while they’d talked and laughed and teased each other over a shared glass of whisky, just relishing this chance to be completely alone together for two or even three whole days. Christmas had seemed magical then.
Her colleagues thought she exaggerated their happiness together, but she didn’t. She hadn’t forgotten the bad times, the quarrels and lively disagreements. She remembered very well that Jared hadn’t been perfect; he could be arrogant and thoughtlessly selfish and there was a tough, almost hard streak in him that could be frightening. But then, he was a soldier, and a basically good man with a strong sense of responsibility, serious about his job and about her. He’d been her best friend as well as her lover. They’d laughed together as much as they’d talked, and much, much more than they’d fought.
“Here’s to you, Jared, wherever you are,” she whispered and blindly took another drink. And since it was all so nearly over, she relaxed her self-imposed rule and let herself dream he was here, that it was his arm not her own that folded across her breasts. That there was a present for her under the Christmas tree, which she hadn’t troubled to put up, and one for him. One last fantasy to the sounds of the crackling flames and the interminable carols.
The laughter at something she’d said would just be dying in his eyes as he gazed down at her. Slowly, he’d nudge up her chin and bend his head to kiss her. Jared’s kisses were priceless, long, slow and thorough. And unashamedly sensual, even a kiss of greeting or farewell given in front of others. But this one would be special, deeper, more urgent.
Ruth lost herself in her dream, the remembered feel of his lips and tongue, the caress of his hand on her breast while the other sneaked up her skirt to stroke her thigh and hip and slide round between her legs. She was wet for him, always eager, and the discovery made his breath hitch as he slid his fingers inside her panties to find the slick nub of her clitoris. Jared’s fingers… she loved his fingers, adored the pleasure they gave her. But soon, she wanted more. She turned in his arms, burrowing under his sweater to pull it over his head before unzipping his jeans and dragging out his fully erect cock. Raising herself in his arms, shivering as his hands closed around her naked hips, she gazed into his hot, devouring eyes as she lowered herself onto his cock. God, it felt so good, filling her, answering her every desperate need…
A loud knock shattered her dream. Whisky sloshed over her hand as she jumped. Who the hell could that be? Whoever it was, she hated them for interrupting her dream. It had almost felt real.
Standing, she dashed her hand across her wet face. Shit, when had she started to cry? As the knock came again, loud and impatient, she walked unsteadily to the door, wiping her eyes on her sleeve as she went.
She was a woman, alone, in an isolated cottage at night. But she ignored the danger. She’d been beyond caring for some time. In any case, it must be Jane or Charlie in the midst of some emergency.
She flung open the door. “What is it?”
She found a tall man leaning one arm across the door frame, staring at her. In the contrast of the lit cottage with the darkness outside, she couldn’t make him out properly, but he seemed to be large and ragged and unshaven. And by some unkind trick, he managed to look like her husband.
Her throat dried up. Shock and grief kept her frozen. Had she fallen asleep in front of the fire and was dreaming? After all, she’d had dreams like this before, where he came back… Only he hadn’t looked so
… rough.
He moved, pushing his head forward into the light and she saw that of course it wasn’t Jared. This man had blank, wild eyes, not the thoughtful, intelligent, often cynically amused ones of her husband. And he was too thin, too unshaven. Jared had never had stubble growing all over his neck like that…
The man took a step nearer her, and instinctively, although she wasn’t frightened, she took one back. She blinked. In the glow of light from the cottage, his neck no longer looked so hairy, though he clearly hadn’t shaved for some time. Unsure, she lifted her gaze back to his.
He stared at her, a frown etched between his thick brows. Or were they really so thick? Perhaps they were just untidy. But his eyes… her mind was playing tricks, for his eyes seemed to be exactly the same shade of bright, piercing blue as Jared’s.
He said, “Who are you?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the dream to end, because it didn’t seem right to let the stranger have Jared’s voice, even if distorted with some hoarse, gravelly element it had never possessed in real life, only to deny any knowledge of her.
“I’m Ruth. Who are you?”
Not Jared. Even in a dream, not Jared. Life sucked. “I don’t know.”
She opened her eyes. “You don’t know your name? Or you’re having some philosophical identity crisis?”
A faint, a very faint smile tugged at his lips. That was like Jared, and it twisted her heart. “Both.”
Dream or not, she decided to go with it. “All right, let’s try something easier. What do you want?”
The frown deepened. “I don’t know that either. I thought…” He trailed off, gave a quick, half-apologetic shrug. His gaze darted behind her, then upward and around the cottage before coming back to her face. “I thought you might be able to tell me. I’m sorry.”
He turned away, and released from his eyes, Ruth took in the full state of his dress as he began to walk with hunched shoulders and an uneven gait. Down-at-the-heel boots with the toes almost worn out, torn trousers that were much too thin for the weather, and an old, moth-eaten coat that had been ripped down one side. A deranged down-and-out, his mind no doubt destroyed by drink or drugs or both.
With the face of her husband.
“Wait.” She’d said it before she meant to, but she didn’t regret it. She could give him money and send him away, only where would he spend it around here on Christmas Eve? He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You don’t have anywhere to stay, do you?”
“It’s warm in the woods.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Even in the darkness and over the distance between them, she sensed the confusion that briefly crossed his face. “Actually, it’s not as bad as you think. The cold.”
“You can stay here, if you like. For tonight.”
There was a pause, then he said, “Thank you. But I’m better in the woods.”
“Then why did you knock?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Christmas Eve.”
“Then let me do you this one kindness before I die.”
He straightened and began to walk slowly back toward her. “Before you die?” His eyes, his whole face looked anxious now, the frown quite ferocious, reminding her unbearably of Jared when something angered him. “You’re too young to die. Are you ill?”
She smiled. “Yes,” she admitted. “I’m ill. But it’s not catching. Come in.”
He stared into her eyes and for a moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he merely nodded and waited for her to lead the way.
Chapter Two
He stood in her little living room, shrinking it as Jared had used to, by his size and presence.
“Please, sit down.” A little nervously, Ruth waved her hand at the second chair. “Coffee? Whisky?”
The stranger with Jared’s eyes dragged one dirty hand through his matted hair. “It doesn’t seem right,” he muttered. “I’ve been living rough. I’m not… house-friendly.”
“Would you like a bath? The water should be hot by now.”
He didn’t answer at once. Then he said, “You’re here alone?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t do that.” He frowned at her.
“What?”
“Invite strangers into your home, admit you’re alone. Offer them whisky and baths.”
Amused in spite of herself, she said, “Too late. I already have.”
“Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“No. But then I don’t seem to be afraid of anyone or anything anymore.”
“You should be.”
She shrugged. “I’m not.”
Again, his eyes scanned hers. “Then I’ll accept the bath and the whisky and an hour of your time. And then I’ll be going.”
“As you wish. Let me show you the bathroom.”
Not crowding her, he waited outside the bathroom while she turned on the taps of the old-fashioned bath and laid out a couple of towels for him. In case he wanted it, she left out Jared’s shaving kit and murmured that she’d find him some clean clothes and leave them outside the bathroom door.
Brushing past him, she felt the warmth of his body through his tattered, dirty clothes and was shocked by the tingle of her sexual response dampening her panties. Half frightened now by her unexpected reaction, she glanced up at him, almost with foreboding. His body was tense, his face carefully expressionless. But for some reason she sensed his discomfort and was soothed by it, at least enough to recognize that her desire came from the fact that he looked so much like Jared -- and by her body’s unfinished business so soon after her own fantasy of being with Jared.
With a quick smile, she squeezed past and let him enter the bathroom, which he did wordlessly, closing the door with a definite snap that comforted her some more.
She thought it might hurt, digging out Jared’s clothes from their untouched place in the cupboard. But it didn’t. It reminded her that she should finally give all his stuff away to good causes. In the meantime, some socks and shorts, a pair of decent jeans, a T-shirt and warm sweater could all go to her visitor. And there was a warm, waterproof jacket he could have too. Leaving the indoor clothes in a neat pile outside the bathroom door, she hung the jacket beside hers at the front door. She’d give it to him when he left, whether that was in an hour or in the morning.
Then she made up the bed in the tiny spare room and went to the living room to wait. Curling up in her chair, she retrieved her whisky and wondered how long he would be. She half expected him to take ages, luxuriating in the treat of warm water, maybe even stumbling over things like shaving, which must have become unfamiliar to him over the period of his homelessness.
She surprised herself by how much she wanted to hear his story. She’d cut herself off from people too much, especially in the last few months since she’d finally accepted Jared’s death as final.
More quickly than she expected, the bathroom door clicked open. He’d be picking up the clothes, going back inside to dress and shave…
Ruth took a sip of whisky, a little nervous now as to how to talk to him without sounding patronizing. Hell, she’d managed before. After all, she was planning to kill herself. She had absolutely nothing to be patronizing about.
A shadow caught the corner of her eye and she glanced up at the doorway.
Her heart jolted, sweeping downward into her stomach with a rush that left her breathless and dizzy. It could be Jared standing there. It was Jared standing there.
Tall and lean, he fitted Jared’s clothes almost perfectly. Perhaps the muscles in his thighs pushed slightly against the denim of his jeans, and perhaps he was a little thinner around the hips, but he still looked good in them. He even suited the baggy black sweater which had been part of Jared’s favorite slobbing garb. He’d always looked sexy in it, and so did the stranger.
Under her stunned gaze, he began to move into the room. The corded muscle in his neck drew her attention b
efore she focused on his face. Clean shaven, he was Jared’s double. Perhaps his cheekbones were a little leaner, his eyes a little more deep set and hollowed, but otherwise, it was Jared’s face. And Jared’s eyes. Without the slightly scary mixture of wildness and blankness she’d noticed before, these were surely Jared’s eyes. Perceptive, sensitive, thoughtful, intelligent. And blue enough to drown in.
“Oh God,” she whispered, rising to her feet. The glass slipped from her fingers, balancing precariously on the arm of her chair as she moved across the room to meet him. “Jared… Jared…”
Her arms went around him of their own volition, her head pressed into his chest. Warm, real… Jared.
She gasped. She couldn’t control the ache in her throat, the words that spilled from her mouth. “You are Jared! How did I not know you? I’m your wife and you needed to bathe before I even knew you…”
“My wife?”
The unmistakable stunned note in his voice broke into her confusion. She realized he held himself stiffly in her arms, that his hands were on her shoulders, not embracing her but holding her back so that he could stare into her face, scanning, searching. But not finding what he sought -- that much was clear.
“You don’t know me,” she whispered. “Am I wrong, then? Do I really not know you? Am I mad enough now to imagine your face, your voice on a stranger?”
His Adam’s apple wobbled as he swallowed. “I don’t know. I have amnesia. You could be my wife, or a complete stranger. You should hope for the latter.”
“Why?” she demanded. “I have dreamed, I have wanted…”
“You can’t have wanted this…”
“More than my life.”
His eyes widened. He drew in a deep breath. “And that’s your illness?”
She closed her eyes, shutting out his face, hiding her tears and her shame. “Yes,” she whispered. “That’s my illness.”
