Carried Away

by Jill Barnett

  For a long time past, years and years, deep down inside of her she had thought it was her fault that her parents hadn’t cared about her. She thought there was something missing in her.

  But last night, as she sat in that closet with Kirsty and held her while they both spoke of only happy things, she had learned something important about herself.

  It wasn’t that she was unlovable. But that her parents were incapable of giving love to her.

  Last night she had sat inside a dark closet giving her heart to a child that wasn’t even part of her. Kirsty wasn’t her own flesh and blood. But blood ties didn’t keep Georgina from feeling something for Kirsty. She did. She felt as if Kirsty needed her right then, as much as the little girl needed her father.

  There was a freedom in knowing that. It was as if she were finally turned loose to be what she wanted to be. She realized that, no matter what she had done, her parents would have never loved her. Who she was didn’t matter and if she had become a Cabot or a Lowell or nothing at all it wouldn’t change the fact that her parents were the ones who had the problem.

  Whatever Georgina chose to be—maybe only a nursemaid to two lonely children on an isolated island—that choice wouldn’t change her value as a person. It wouldn’t make her more accepted.

  She didn’t have to be a Bayard. She didn’t have to be a wealthy woman with the right name. She didn’t have to live in a mansion to be someone.

  Maybe being someone was nothing more than sitting in a dark closet with a little girl every time there was a wild storm.

  Georgina felt a sudden sense of freedom, as if she had just learned the secret to happiness, something that had been hidden from her for the longest time.

  She smiled and turned around, then stopped.

  Hanging on the back of her bedroom door was a shimmery green silk dress, the one that had belonged to Kirsty’s mother.

  Georgina went over to the dress and touched it. It wasn’t a Worth. It wasn’t from Paris and it wasn’t particularly spectacular. But that dress meant more to her than all the clothes and all the possessions she had lost. She closed her eyes and stood there for a moment. She bit her lip and took deep breaths. But it didn’t do any good. The tears came anyway.

  Chapter 56

  The world is so full of a number of things,

  I’m sure we should all be as happy as kings.

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Kirsty hopped the last few feet to the stable. Making wishes every time she landed sure—with her ankles still pressed together. It was a game she played all the time, because it helped her forget that deep inside she was scared, so scared that sometimes she wanted to go and hide in a closet.

  Her first thought when she opened the door and snuck inside was that it smelled like she thought a stable should smell, like hay and horses and dirt.

  It was darker inside than she imagined, but she didn’t let it worry her. This darkness was different. It wasn’t the scary kind. She was inside her father’s special workplace, a place where he spent too much time, too much time with his horses instead of time with her.

  Her shoes crackled on the straw and she walked past the stalls where the horses were kept when they weren’t in the field near the goose pond. There was an open door just ahead and she moved toward it, holding her breath because she thought her father might be inside.

  She didn’t know how he would react to her being there. He had never once asked her to come with him, so she thought he didn’t want her in the stable.

  Maybe he thought she would get in the way. She wouldn’t get in the way. She’d even promised herself she wouldn’t ask too many questions either. Sometimes adults got tired of her questions. But she knew why. She knew they only got tired of them when they didn’t know the answers.

  She slowed her steps the closer she came to the open door. She took a deep breath and peered around the door. There was no one on the inside. Nothing but a jumble of saddles and harnesses, bridles and other tack stuff.

  The room was a mess. She just bet Uncle Calum would love to fix this room all up. She was glad Uncle Calum was home and she liked Aunt Amy. She liked her because she never treated them like children. She listened to them. Really listened, as if what they had to say was important.

  She heard a horse whicker in one of the rear stalls and she went back there. She could see the horse tossing its head as if it were calling her to come over there.

  So she did.

  She went into the stall next to it and climbed up on the sideboards, stood on her toes, and rested her arms on the stall wall.

  “Hello, Horse.”

  The horse turned its head and looked at her from the softest eyes. She was a pretty horse. She had a lovely gray mane and tail, but the rest of her was white. She knew from listening to her father that you didn’t call this a white horse. Only horses with all-white manes and tails and pink skin were called white horses.

  Two stalls down was a white horse just like Jack. Kirsty ran down to it.

  White horses were supposed to mean good luck. She remembered a poem and recited it aloud: “White horse, white horse, lucky lucky me. White horse, white horse, bring my wish to me.” She closed her eyes real tight and made a wish.

  “Kirsty!”

  Her eyes shot open and she whistled. That was fast. She gave the white horse a thank-you pat and jumped down from the stall, landing with her ankles together and her arms out for luck. “Hello, Father!”

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “Nothing, I just wanted to see what the stable was like.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “Just because.”

  “Does George know where you are?”

  She nodded. But she wouldn’t tell him their secret. That George had told her to come here on purpose because her father had been spending time with Graham and not her.

  Her father crossed over to the open room and she followed him, then stood in the doorway and watched as he tossed the coil of rope in a corner.

  “This is the tax room,” she said, wanting to impress him.

  He glanced up at her. “Tack room.”

  “Oh.” She stared at her toes and felt foolish.

  “That was close.” He was grinning at her as if he were actually proud of her, even though she had messed the word up.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Separating two of the stallions that were fighting.”

  “Oh. Why do horses fight?”

  “The same reason people fight. Because they want to be the master.” He took something out of a box.

  “What’s that?”

  “A new bridle. I’m going to put it on Jack and go for a ride.”

  “Oh.” She’d asked too many questions because now he was going riding to get away from a silly little girl who talked too much.

  He stopped and held out his hand. “Do you want to come with me?”

  “Riding Jack?”

  He nodded.

  “Just you and me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh boy, do I!” She took a hold of his hand and skipped along to keep up with his long strides.

  Soon they were riding over the meadow and down the path to the cove below. She leaned back against her father’s chest. “Do you think if you put your ear to a tree trunk you could hear it grow?”

  “I think that trees grow too slowly and quietly for you to hear it.”

  It was getting darker and colder. The sounds of night came quickly this time of year.

  “Why do crickets sing?”

  He looked at her. “What?”

  “I asked why crickets sing.”

  “To attract a mate.”

  “Oh.” She was very quiet, thinking very hard. “Miss George is very lonely.”

  “She is?”

  Kirsty nodded. “She told me in the closet. Maybe we should tell her to sing so she can attract a mate.”

  He looked down at her; his face was a little sad.

  “A
re you lonely too?”

  “Aye. Sometimes I get lonely.”

  “Do you miss Mama?”

  “Aye. I do.”

  “So do I.”

  “Look. There.” He pointed up at the moon.

  “There’s a ring around it,” she said. “That means rain will come soon.”

  “I’m surprised you can remember that. I thought you were too little. I used to take you riding when you were but a wee thing.”

  “I always remembered.”

  They rode along the sand in the cove, then he led Jack up to the path near the big old hemlock tree by the house.

  She tugged on his shirtsleeve. “Since you’re lonely and Miss George is lonely, maybe you should marry her.”

  “Would you like me to marry her?”

  “She’s very pretty.”

  “Aye. She is.”

  “And she likes to hide in the closet during storms.”

  “That’s important.”

  “Yes. And she saved me from drowning. We shouldn’t forget that.”

  “No. We shouldn’t.”

  “And Graham and I need discipline.”

  He began to laugh then. He laughed really, really hard. And it made Kirsty feel all warm inside because she liked to make him laugh.

  He dismounted and lifted her off Jack. “You know what I think?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t think you need discipline.”

  “You don’t?” ‘

  “No. I think you need this.” Then he picked her up in his huge arms and right there, under the bright pearly moon with the rain ring around it, he gave her one of those great big hugs, the kind the kids at school got from their fathers, the kind Kirsty had wanted all her life.

  Chapter 57

  All good things arrive to them that wait—and don’t die in the meantime.

  —Mark Twain

  Georgina was sitting in her room, staring out the window at the frosty night. There was a sharp blue wind and the stars snapped in the deep purple sky like sapphires. She looked at one of the stars for the longest time, then turned away just as the door to her room opened.

  He stood in the doorway, filling it the way a painting fills a frame. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes.” She was standing there stiffly, but she couldn’t help it. The tension between them had gone on for so long now that she didn’t think it would ever change. She was destined to go through life wanting something she couldn’t have.

  He sat down on the bed. His knees were slightly spread and he rested his elbows on his thighs. He just stared down at the floor. “I’m sorry, George.”

  “Why?”

  He looked up at her. “For everything that’s happened. The kidnapping, jail, the stupid deal we made.”

  “Stupid deal?”

  “Aye. I was angry because you wanted to marry someone else.”

  “Tom Cabbage,” she said.

  They both laughed and for just a moment the tension relaxed.

  “Aye.” He stood up and held out his hands in supplication. “I’m asking you to forgive me.”

  She took a step, then another, and put her hands in his and felt his close around hers. “You fool. There’s nothing to forgive. I wouldn’t want to go back to what I was before.”

  His mouth was barely a breath away. “I want to kiss you.”

  She smiled. “You know.” She shook her head. “You really have to stop asking, MacOaf. If you see something you want, take it.”

  He kissed her then. Kissed her as if she were the most important thing in his world. It was almost more than she could bear.

  When he finally pulled back, his gaze was locked on her mouth. It seemed to fascinate him and he traced the outline of her lips with one finger. “I think I was caught from the night of your party, there in the garden.”

  She slid her arms around his shoulders and looked up at him and smiled. “Me, too.”

  His mouth closed over hers and he was kissing her deeply and with all the passion and power that seemed to always be between them, from the moment they were in the same room, from that first instant in the garden.

  That passion was there and they had both known it, both had been fighting it. For once it felt so good to just give in to it, to let him love her and she him, any way they wanted. No doubts. No regrets. Nothing but honest emotion.

  His mouth moved to her neck and ear and he whispered, “God . . . you taste so good to me.”

  She smiled against his cheek. “Better than doughnuts?”

  “Aye,” he said with a deep laugh that was scratchy with passion. “Better than doughnuts. And maybe, even better than blueberry pie.” His hands moved from her face to her bosom, and one large hand slid around to her back and down to her bottom, and he pressed her against him so her feet were between his and their bodies were touching from mouth to hip.

  His tongue was in her mouth, filling it, and his other hand was inside the neckline of her dress, playing with her naked breast and making her aware of how his touch could excite her and make her knees weak.

  She buried her hand in his hair and held his mouth even tighter against her, kissing him back until he was the one who was moving. He growled something earthy into her mouth and then he swung her into his arms, never breaking their kiss.

  By the time he placed her on the bed her dress was already down to her waist and they were fumbling with each other’s clothing.

  He muttered something about the damn buttons.

  “Tear it,” she told him.

  In a heartbeat he’d ripped the dress in two and it was off of her. Her underwear was gone a moment later. Her corset hung from the ceiling lantern and her linen drawers were frayed and lying across the room where they landed on a chair.

  His hands moved over her skin, down her back, and they cupped her bottom.

  She pulled at his shirt.

  He broke the kiss and stared down at her, his gaze hot and suddenly lazy. “Tear it.”

  She looked up at him.

  “Go on. Tear it off.”

  She grabbed the shirt in two fists and jerked it apart. Buttons flew around them and pinged onto the stone floor. She ripped at the long sleeves, at the cuffs while he only stood there, not helping, just watching her.

  She looked at his belt, suddenly unsure.

  “What the matter, George. No guts?”

  That was all it took. She had his belt off in two seconds, then she grabbed the waistband of his pants in each hand and pulled apart as hard as she could. His breeches split in half to the inseams.

  She shoved him back on the bed, knelt down, and pulled off his boots. One crashed against the wall and the other knocked over a washbasin.

  He laughed, lying back on the bed completely naked as he pulled her up his long body so that her breasts and hips and thighs touched his all the way upward.

  “My turn.” His hand cupped the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his. Then she was beneath him, and he was kissing her so thoroughly and so completely that she thought of absolutely nothing. She only felt: the crisp hair on his chest against the tips of her breasts, his body pressing onto her, and his hips rotating, rubbing against her.

  He wedged his knee between her thighs, then reached down and pulled one leg up so he pressed himself against the heart of her. His hand stroked her inner thigh and she raised her knees and lifted her hips.

  He seemed to know what it was she wanted because he used his body to stroke her for long minutes while his fingers teased in soft tickling strokes from high on her inner thigh down to her ankle and then back again. Over and over, he whispered into her mouth and ears about how she felt and what he needed and how good this was. That he’d waited so long he thought he was going to die.

  His mouth closed over a breast and his tongue teased her, then he sucked hard and pulled on her nipple, then did the same to the other. His tongue was licking her ribs, her waist, sucking in her belly, her hips, and then stroking down her thighs to her ankles like his
fingers had.

  He drove her mad with his mouth, just kissing her inner thighs and raising her legs so he could kiss the backs of her knees.

  He sat back on his heels, knees between her legs and he just looked down at her. His gaze went from her mouth to her breast, down her body until he was staring between her legs. He raised his gaze to hers, then touched her with one finger, sliding it inside so slowly she lost her breath and closed her eyes.

  He pulled out. “Open your eyes.”

  She did.

  He slid his finger back inside. “Watch me.” Then he moved in and out of her, never once breaking their locked gazes. She could feel the pleasure start, in the center of her, then it moved down her legs and thighs and to her feet until she couldn’t breathe because it was rising each time his finger moved.

  Her hips rose up, needing him, and he slid another finger inside and she came. Hard and fast and with a cry of release that she knew was her voice, but that sounded too far away to be real.

  He let her come down, giving her all the time she needed to take in each second of the pleasure. He wasn’t rushed. But he watched her as if she were the only thing that mattered.

  She started to sit up, but he shook his head and pressed her back on the bed with one hand.

  When she looked at him, he just smiled. Then he lifted her one thigh and kissed the inside before he placed it over his shoulder and lifted the other the same way.

  She realized what he intended and panicked. “No, Eachann!”

  “Yes,” he said. His hands slid to her bottom and lifted her to his mouth.

  She moaned so loudly she bit her lips to keep from doing it again and again.

  “Yes, my love,” he said against her. “Let go and let me love you this way.”

  He kissed her with all the passion he always used in her mouth. And she pulsed against him over and over, and each time he let her feel every second of it.

  He waited, then did it again, until she lay there trusting and helpless.

  When he came into her with his hips pressing her deeply down into the bed, she knew why sex had the power to drive people to do what wasn’t rational.