"That's it, love," he murmured. "That's it."
She heard herself making tiny sounds, but she could not seem to stop. She felt as if she must be on fire with the shame of it and the wicked, breathless excitement. Until suddenly, everything inside her seemed to explode in a white-hot flash that sent delicious waves of pleasure through her entire body.
Her body was still tingling with the incredible sensations when he withdrew his hand. She felt him move, felt his weight and strength above her, pushing her into the mattress with sudden urgency, overwhelming her with the power of his body. The air rushed from her lungs, and she gasped as he pressed against her, into her. All the incredible, delicious sensations of a moment before vanished as if she had suddenly been drenched with ice water. She had thought herself prepared for this, but she was not. It hurt.
She bit her lip to keep from crying out, but he seemed to realize what he had done. His body went rigidly still, and he bent his head to nuzzle her neck softly .
"Are you all right, d mhuirnin?" His voice sounded strained, and she wondered if this had hurt him, too. "Olivia, are you all right?"
"I think so." The sharp, stinging sensation was already beginning to fade. She moved her hips beneath him experimentally.
"Olivia," he groaned against her ear, "don't move. Christ Almighty, don't move."
She tried to keep still, but though the pain was gone, the odd, stretching sensation was rather uncomfortable. She was not at all certain she liked it. She sucked in a deep breath and wriggled her hips again.
"Olivia, no, don't do that. Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ."
He began to move against her, forcefully now, his breathing harsh and ragged, his hips pressing her into the mattress with each thrust he made. As he moved, she began to get used to it, and she was actually beginning to find it rather enjoyable, when suddenly, a shudder rocked him, and he let out a hoarse cry, then he thrust against her one last time and was still.
It was over.
"Neamh," he murmered. '"Tis Neamh, you are, Olivia."
She did not understand the Irish word, but she heard her name and the tenderness in his voice, and she thought wistfully that it might have been an endearment. Her arms tightened around him, and she felt an overpowering wave of tenderness wash over her. One hand caressed his broad back, the other raked gently through his hair as she felt the tension leave his body and lethargy take its place.
When he rolled to his side, he took her with him, cradling her against his body. Within moments, his breathing deepened into sleep. Olivia reached for the sheet that had tangled at the foot of the bed, and she pulled it over them both, then she extinguished the lamp and snuggled closer in the circle of his arms.
She was a fallen woman now, she supposed. She felt no regret, no shame. Just an incredible, overpowering joy that opened and blossomed inside her like a flower and made her feel alive, vibrant, and beautiful. She wanted nothing more than to lie beside him like this forever. She loved him. She closed her eyes, pressed her cheek against his chest, and listened to his heartbeat; and she pretended—just for tonight—that he loved her, too.
Conor awoke with the scent of her filling his senses. No cloying cologne, just the provocative feminine warmth of Olivia's soft skin and tumbled hair.
Some time in the night, she had turned over to lie with her back pressed to his chest. Without opening his eyes, he recognized every aspect of her form—the exquisite shape of her calf nestled between his legs, the deep curve of her waist where his arm curled around her, the velvety underside of her breast against the back of his hand, the silken strands of her hair beneath his jaw. Her body was perfectly aligned with his, as if she were made for him. Still half-asleep, he breathed a sigh of utter contentment, savoring the unfamiliar pleasure of waking up with a woman in his arms.
He'd slept with her.
That thought doused his contentment. He opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow they shared to glance down at the creamy skin of her shoulder and the tangled strands of russet-brown hair that fell across her breast and over his hand, barely visible in the dim light that filtered into the room around the shuttered window.
He'd slept with her.
The realization stunned him. He never slept with women. Kissed them, sure, undressed them, enjoyed them, then left them, and slept alone. Alone, where his nightmares wouldn't wake them, where his weaknesses couldn't be seen or his secrets revealed. Where his shame remained silent and hidden.
He gazed down at her profile, a perfect cameo of long lashes, tilted nose, and parted lips, of tangled hair and tempting disarray. He thought of the night before, remembering everything: the scent of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the touch of her hands, the sounds of her passion that had ignited the lust inside him like a match to black powder, leaving him sated and sleepy and wanting only to hold her close. Hold her. Christ Almighty.
Even as he felt the panic stirring inside him, he also felt the desire. He wanted to do it all again; he wanted the intense explosion of pleasure and blessed release; he wanted the peaceful lethargy and the dreamless sleep. Beside her, with her. He'd never felt anything like this with any other woman.
It scared the hell out of him.
He eased away until he was no longer touching her, then turned onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He could leave. Right now. He could get up, put on his clothes, and walk out while she slept. Leaving a woman was easy. He'd done it dozens of times.
He didn't move.
He lay still, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing, and thought about all the reasons why it made sense to leave now while she was still asleep. That way, there would be no awkward silences or emotional scene. No bloody tears, no injured feminine pride, no wounded brown eyes to haunt him after he had walked away.
He didn't move.
He hated being tied down. But he'd been tied down two months now. It suffocated him to get close. But he hadn't felt suffocated when he'd first woken, holding her in his arms. He'd felt a moment of contentment, hadn't he? A moment of peace.
He shoved away that fanciful thought the moment it came. To Olivia, land, home, family, and honor were everything. But to Conor, they were all the things that had been taken from him, all the things he couldn't bear to lose again.
It wasn't as if he hadn't been honest with her. It wasn't as if he'd given her any false hopes. She'd come to him last night; he'd given her what she wanted because he had wanted it, too. That was the end of it. He'd promised to stay until her harvest, and her harvest was over. There was no reason to stay with her a moment longer.
He didn't move.
He couldn't leave yet. He couldn't let her make the trip back alone. She needed him to drive the second wagon. Besides, it was dangerous for a woman to travel alone. He had to stay with her long enough to get her home to her farm and her girls where she belonged. Then he'd leave. He hauled himself out of bed and pulled on his underdrawers and trousers, then walked across the room to pick up his shirt. He wondered why it seemed like the longest walk of his life.
Olivia woke slowly. With a huge yawn, she lifted her arms above her head and stretched, grimacing at the twinge of pain that shot through her muscles. She felt stiff and a bit sore, as if she'd been riding horseback too long, but she also felt gloriously alive and incredibly happy. She was a fallen woman, she reminded herself, trying to feel ashamed.
Memories of the night before came rushing back. She smiled even as she blushed, unable to feel properly guilty. She opened her eyes and found him already awake, dressed, and seated in a chair across the room, watching her. To her surprise, her carpetbag was on the floor beside his chair.
She stirred beneath his gaze, feeling shy and flustered and very feminine. "Good morning," she said, brushing her hair out of her eyes and drawing the sheet around herself as she sat up.
"Good morning." He turned his face away, and her happiness vanished.
He was sitting right in front of her, but he wasn't really the
re. He'd already withdrawn into himself, retreated behind his walls. He was an isolated stranger. Again.
Raw pain ripped through her, but she did not show it. She could not. It would be too humiliating. She lowered her gaze to the sheets and fought to keep her face expressionless, but after a moment she took a peek at him from beneath her lashes and realized it didn't matter. He wasn't even looking at her.
He gestured to a tray on the table beside his chair. "I thought you might want some breakfast and coffee," he said, studying the covered plate and silver coffeepot on the tray as if he found them fascinating.
"Thank you."
"You'll have to eat it quickly," he went on. "It's after seven o'clock and the maid will be bringing water and towels at about half past. We'd best be going, anyway. It's a long drive back." He rose to his feet without looking at her. He gestured to her carpetbag. "I brought your things in here, and put my things in your room. I'll meet you downstairs in an hour."
Her grip on the sheet tightened, and she held it around herself as if it were a shield. "Of course," she said stiffly, and watched him leave, closing the door behind him.
She pushed back the covers and immediately saw the bloodstains that marked her thighs and the sheets. Shocked, she stared down at the dark smears, knowing full well it wasn't time for her monthly illness. It must have come from what had happened last night. She hadn't realized that she had bled; it really hadn't hurt that much.
The physical pain seemed insignificant now, but the emotional pain was a different matter entirely.
She closed her eyes, struggling against the hurt of his withdrawal even as she accepted the inevitability of his imminent departure. She'd known all along he was just passing through her life. It wasn't his fault she'd developed foolish wishes about him; it wasn't his fault she'd fallen in love with him.
When he was gone, she would still have her girls and her home to get her through the days, and she would have memories of him to get her through the nights. But at this moment, that thought brought very little comfort.
The sewing party for Kate Johnson was already well under way by the time the guest of honor made her appearance. The ladies of Callersville had been arriving at the white frame house behind the mercantile in a steady stream ever since ten o'clock, accompanied by sewing baskets and quilting hoops, until Lila Miller's tiny parlor was filled to overflowing. All of the ladies were working on quilts and clothes for Kate's new baby, of course, but the real reason for any such gathering was to exchange recipes, advice, and gossip. Gossip, most of all.
Cara Johnson and Becky pulled their younger sisters out of the way as all the ladies crowded into the foyer to see Kate and gush over the baby. The universal opinion seemed to be that he looked just like his daddy.
"I see you brought Olivia's girls," Martha Chubb said, with a nod to Becky and her sisters, as the ladies settled themselves back in their chairs and resumed their sewing.
"Peach harvest," Kate reminded them, gladly handing over Robert Thomas to her oldest daughter, who immediately began showing him off to those friends who hadn't yet seen her baby brother. Kate sat down beside Becky on one of the settees and pulled out her knitting. "Since Nate's not here to take her peaches to Monroe, Olivia's gone there herself. The girls are staying with us until she gets back tonight."
Martha frowned with disapproval. "Really, Olivia is becoming quite eccentric, leaving her girls to be cared for by others, to go gadding about the countryside alone. And she'll have to stay in a hotel—unchaper- oned, of course. It's shocking."
"Quite shocking," Emily Chubb echoed her sister.
Becky's head shot up at these comments. She glanced over at Miranda and Carrie, who had stopped their game of checkers to listen, and it made her angry that Martha would say things like that in front of her little sisters. She frowned at the woman. "I don't think you should say things like that about my mama. It's rude."
"Shush, child," Martha said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Young ladies speak only when spoken to."
Becky fell silent at the rebuke and lowered her head, but her cheeks grew hot as Martha went on, "Olivia's behavior since her father's death has been less than decorous, but going to Monroe alone? It's indecent."
"Martha!" Kate lowered her knitting needles to give the other woman a piece of her mind.. "That's not fair. How is she supposed to get her peaches to market otherwise? She's been trying to find help. In fact, she told him—"
"And that's another thing," Martha interrupted, with a decisive nod that set the feather of her bonnet bouncing. "Advertising all over the four parishes for a farmhand. Shameless."
"Appalling," Emily added.
Becky pushed her needle through the doily she was embroidering, too furious to notice what she was doing, and jabbed her finger hard enough to draw blood. She winced and dropped her sewing to suck the tip of her finger, wishing she could tell Martha Chubb just what she thought of her, the old busybody.
Kate sat up straighter in her chair. "And how else is Olivia supposed to find a farmhand?" she demanded. "Land sakes, Martha, Olivia's had enough trouble in her life. Leave her be."
Martha started to interrupt, but Kate drew a deep breath and went on, her voice rising as fast as her temper. "The Harlan boys all got drunk the other night and went out to her place. They threw rocks in her windows and scared the girls nearly half to death. Olivia had to use a shotgun to get rid of them. We heard the shots clear over at our place, and Olivia told us about what happened when she dropped off the girls yesterday."
"A shotgun?" Martha lifted her hands in an expansive gesture and sniffed. "That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about. Shotguns. I can't think what's gotten into Olivia."
"I think Olivia's a brave woman who's managing as best she can," Kate answered. "Furthermore, I probably wouldn't even be here if it hadn't been for her. She helped deliver Robert Thomas. I was having such a hard time, and she helped me. Why, I might have died without Olivia."
Kate glanced over at Becky, and the girl shot the woman a grateful look for coming to her mother's defense when she'd been prevented from doing that herself. She felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to look at Carrie, who had moved to stand beside her chair, Miranda right behind her.
"Why are the Chubb sisters saying mean things about Mama?" Carrie whispered.
"Because they're nasty old busybodies," Becky answered through clenched teeth, glaring at Martha and Emily. "That's why."
Kate leaned forward in her chair and spoke again. "We all know it was Vernon who sent the Harlan boys out there, and we all know why. He wants Olivia's land to build that railroad of his with his wife's Yankee money. He's done the same thing to half the folks around here. I say good for Olivia for standing up to him!"
Becky wanted to cheer.
"Need I remind you that Vernon donated a new organ to the church last year?" Martha said acidly.
"That's because Vernon thinks he can buy anything," Kate shot back, with a toss of her blond head, "even a place in heaven."
Lila, as the hostess, tried to intervene and stop the discussion before tempers flared any higher. She grabbed the plate of tea cakes from the table before her and rose to her feet. "Would anyone care for a cake?"
She was ignored by everyone except Miranda, who adored sweets and was close enough to take her up on that offer.
"I hardly think blasphemy is necessary, Kate." Martha settled back in her chair as a queen might on her throne, fully aware that she had everyone's attention. "Olivia shouldn't be trying to run Peachtree herself anyway. She should have sold that land when her father died."
"Balderdash!" was Kate's decisive response.
Other voices began to rise as the point was debated among the ladies present. But when Martha spoke again, her formidable voice rose above the others.
"I realize that, as her friend, you feel compelled to defend her, Kate; but really, this trip to Monroe passes all bounds of feminine decency. Going all that wa
y alone!"
Some of the ladies nodded agreement, and the discussion began again.
"But Mama's not alone," Miranda piped up, reaching for another of the cakes on Lila's tray. "Mr. Conor's with her."
The low murmurs of the ladies faded into silence.
Miranda, you weren t supposed to tell anybody about Mr. Conor!" Carrie cried, scowling at her sister. "Mama said it was a secret."
Miranda dropped the cake back onto the plate and clapped a hand over her mouth, giving her sister a contrite glance. "I forgot."
Becky glanced around at the circle of horrified faces, with a sinking feeling of dismay.
Martha leaned forward and gave Miranda a hard stare. "Just who is this Mr. Conor, child?"
Becky remembered her mother's words about how easily a girl could lose her reputation just by walking out with a boy, and the ramifications of Miranda's innocent comment about Mama and Mr. Conor suddenly hit her. She lowered her face into her hands. "Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, no."
23
Because they'd gotten a late start out of Monroe, it was dark by the time Olivia and Conor reached the Johnson farm to pick up the girls. She halted her wagon beside the lane that led to their home, and when Conor pulled his wagon to a halt beside hers, she asked him to wait for her there, then turned her wagon down the lane, the moon lighting her way.
Ever since this morning, Conor had been withdrawn and silent. He had not told her exactly when he would be leaving—she didn't know if it would be tomorrow or the day after or next week—but it would be soon. Olivia knew that he would probably not say good-bye; he would just vanish as he had done the last time, without a word. During the long trip back, she tried to toughen her heart, but every time she thought of the night before, of the incredible things he had done to her, of the extraordinary way she had reacted to his touch, all she wanted to do was fling her arms around him and hold him tight, as if somehow that would keep him with her. She knew it would not.
Conor's Way Page 25
