Into The Spirit

by Marie Harte

  Caitlin looked down in amazement, her eyes confirming what her sense of touch told her—Aaron’s hand rested on her thigh. It was nearly as pale as her white skirts, but it was there, and his body heat continued to radiate through the fabric, a balm against the chill that had cooled her since waking. She idly stroked the top of his hand, tracing the outline of a bone, her fingertip slipping over the bump that a crossing vein had created.

  His fingers stirred again, causing her skirts to rustle and a heat to blossom between her thighs as his hand settled into her lap. Surely, the dead didn’t feel such things. She clung to the tingling sensation of warmth, letting it spread throughout her being as Aaron’s knuckles brushed her inflamed flesh through her insubstantial skirt. She was more aware than ever that the banshees had torn her petticoat from her body along with her homespun gown and redressed her without any undergarments. Feeling Aaron’s touch so close to her skin was worth every second of chill the lack of a chemise had caused her.

  Though she herself was burning with sensation, Caitlin hadn’t expected Aaron’s reaction. Her eyes widened and her heart jumped at the sight of the bulge that had risen beneath the sheet, tenting the linen over his crotch.

  He knows!

  Every speeding heartbeat drove the realisation home. He recognised her presence, she was sure of it. Whether the sheer intensity of her longing had trumped seeming impossibility, or whether her state of semi-humanity was simply compatible with his state of semi-consciousness, she wasn’t sure. And she didn’t care. All she knew was that she couldn’t let the moment pass them by. Thrilled and desperate and burning for his body all at once, she slipped her hand beneath the sheet.

  His cock was firm and hot against her palm, throbbing with more life than was apparent in the crackling rise and fall of his chest or the dark circles beneath his tired eyes. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, closing her hand into a fist around his thickness. Doing so sent a fluttering thrill through her core, and when his stiff member jumped in her hand, she smiled. This—the feel of his smooth, taut skin against her own—was what she’d imagined in the wildflower field, when she’d caressed him through his breeches and he’d begged her to stop before he couldn’t. She hadn’t imagined this sensual touch in such circumstances, of course, but she held on nevertheless. She wasn’t about to let him go, to sacrifice the strange link she seemed to have established between their minds and lonely bodies.

  Besides, she liked touching him this way. It made her body ache for him nearly as badly as her heart.

  His hand stirred in her lap, sending white-hot spikes of anticipatory pleasure through her belly. He couldn’t oblige her, of course, but there was nothing stopping her from pleasing him, and the idea held a certain satisfaction of its own. Slowly, she moved her grip down his shaft, watching the shape of her fingers glide beneath the sheet.

  The hair that grew across his groin brushed her hand, a soft reminder that she’d reached the end of her first stroke. The feel of it against her fist was intoxicating. So much better than gripping him through his breeches. This way, she felt his smooth skin and hot veins instead of fabric and laces. She pulled her fist upwards, travelling the length of his cock.

  Her hand bulged beneath the linens as her fingers encountered the thick ridge of flesh that marked the beginning of his rounded head. She let her thumb drift over the blunt tip, tracing the slit that divided it. A shiver of delight raced down her spine and her nipples tightened. A low moan escaped Aaron’s throat, reducing them to tiny, rock-hard buds. That hadn’t been a moan of pain—no, it had been too much like the sounds he’d made that afternoon in the wildflower field, breathing into her hair as she stroked him.

  He liked what she was doing, asleep or no.

  Another stroke, down to the base of his cock and back again.

  Another moan.

  Another shiver that made her wish desperately that she could wake him and beg him to take her here and now.

  Since that was impossible, she did the next best thing. She stroked him hard, caressing him as he hadn’t let her on that tempting afternoon. The friction heated her palm and his cock alike, bringing their skin to a temperature nearly as hot as the desire that was burning in her core. He sighed long and low…and a crackling accompanied his exhalation. Guilt assailed her, but she knew she’d feel worse if she left him like this, throbbing and hard, without release. She would finish what she’d started.

  It didn’t take long for the rise and fall of his chest to grow more rapid, for his breath to come in a more or less constant, low moan. His shoulders tensed above the top of the sheet and his cock was so hard in her hand she thought, with faint amusement, that it might be capable of inflicting bruises. Not that she would have denied him the freedom to do so if he’d been awake and able to turn it on her body. She put all of herself into her lust-inducing task, thinking back to the first time she’d touched him so and remembering what had made his breath catch in his throat then, what had made him moan the loudest. Before she knew it she had him doing it again and warmth rushed over her fist. She watched his lips, parted in a low groan of ecstasy, as she brought him to a finish. By the time it was over, she would have liked to cause it again, simply for the pleasure of watching it.

  Instead, she reluctantly left his side and drifted to the corner of the room where a porcelain washbasin rested. It contained several inches of water, and she dipped her hand inside. Like the rain, his seed hadn’t quite touched her hand. She’d felt it, but she hadn’t felt it, just as she felt the pressure of the water that surrounded her fingers but not its wetness. Her stomach gave an odd twist as she pulled her hand out of the basin, clean and dry. Dismissing the matter, she returned to Aaron’s bedside, eager to feel his warm skin beneath her fingertips again.

  His cock had begun to soften in the wake of release. She could tell because the sheet that covered him wasn’t quite as tented over his groin as it had been. His breathing had slowed somewhat, too, though it wasn’t quite back to normal. She perched on the edge of the mattress beside him and pressed her fingers into his hair, resuming the massage that had seemed to help him relax earlier. A healthy looking flush had crept into his cheeks as she’d stroked his cock, and it began to fade as she rubbed the sides of his skull, leaving him looking just as wan as he had before. She told herself that she couldn’t have expected it to stay and watched as the tension slowly drained from his body again.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, then grew louder as whomever they belonged to entered the hall. Caitlin stiffened, wondering if someone had come to check on Aaron again or whether it was perhaps only Katrina retiring for the night. Fearing interruption, she bent over Aaron and pressed a light kiss against his lips. They yielded to hers, soft and warm. Just as the door swung open, they parted slightly, his breath escaping in a warm blast that sent a ripple through her silver hair and caused her nipples to tighten.

  It was Molly again, wielding a tray of fresh wine and beef tea, judging from the steam escaping from the bowl. She pushed the door open with a hip, and was followed by Mrs O’Brien. If the look on her face was any indication, Aaron’s mother intended to see that he drank this time. Nervous flutters erupted in Caitlin’s stomach as they both approached the bed, Mrs O’Brien with the determined look of an experienced soldier marching to war, and Molly now trailing in her wake with a somewhat dubious expression.

  Caitlin dodged them out of instinct, slipping away from the bed as they crowded its side, looming over Aaron’s sleeping form. “Aaron,” Mrs O’Brien said. “Aaron, you must wake up and have some beef tea… Surviving the pneumonia will mean nothing if starvation kills you!”

  Caitlin frowned, peering around Mrs O’Brien, whose shoulders were too high to look over. So it was pneumonia. Her heart sped as each and every tale of the disease she’d ever heard raced through her mind, accompanied by a short list of casualties of the illness she’d known personally, or at least heard of.

  “Oh, damn it,” Mrs O’Brien said, scowling down at h
er stubbornly sleeping son. “We should have chained him to his bed a week ago, and saved all this trouble by preventing him from dashing out into the rain like a fool to scour all of North Carolina for that girl!”

  Molly, who had no doubt seen Mrs O’Brien upset once or twice before, appeared only mildly taken aback by her outburst. Caitlin, on the other hand, was left reeling, and not just because of Mrs O’Brien’s crude language.

  Dashing out into the rain…to scour all of North Carolina for that girl…

  The words echoed in her mind, drowning out Molly’s attempts at comforting her distressed mistress. As quick as a flash of lightning, she could see Aaron and Boulder thundering across the fields and woods, searching every which place except, apparently, the one where she had lain, trapped in slumber. Just as quickly, a heavy burden of guilt descended on her shoulders, causing them to wilt beneath her silver curtain of hair. Why hadn’t the truth occurred to her before? By her own estimation, she must have laid unconscious in the wood for about a week. Of course Aaron wouldn’t have given her up for lost, wouldn’t have stopped searching for her if he believed there was even the slightest chance that she might be found.

  So, this is my fault, she thought, again and again, the idea burning itself into her like a brand seared onto a farm animal’s flank.

  “There, he’s awake.” Molly’s voice gave Caitlin cause to resume following the conversation again.

  Mrs O’Brien hastily snatched up the wine from the tray and pressed the glass to Aaron’s lips. Caitlin heard him swallow, and for a moment it seemed that Mrs O’Brien had been successful. This notion was quickly dispelled by a spectacular sputtering, accompanied by a spray of red wine.

  Mrs O’Brien frowned while Molly gaped, no doubt assessing the damage to the quilt and calculating how long it would take her to remove the stains. “I’ll go get a towel!” she cried, ducking hastily around Mrs O’Brien and hurrying towards the door. Before Caitlin knew it, she had reached her.

  Too late to move, Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for the collision.

  It never came. Caitlin experienced a strange chill, along with a fleeting moment during which she felt decidedly insubstantial, then it was over. Molly was already on the other side of her, having apparently noticed nothing. Caitlin could feel herself going pale—if indeed it was possible for her to become any paler—and she shivered. Molly had walked directly through her, but she’d been able to touch Aaron… What did that mean?

  “…Caitlin…” Molly had left the door open behind her, and the distant murmur of a conversation taking place somewhere on the first floor drifted through it, jarring Caitlin from her thoughts. She had heard her own name, she was sure of it. She strained to hear more, but was only able to catch bits and pieces. Reluctantly, she slipped out of the door and into the corridor, leaving Aaron in his mother’s care. The conversation grew louder as she hurried downstairs, and she caught her name once more.

  “…found her dress in the forest, torn to shreds,” she heard as she reached the last staircase, and recognised the voice as her father’s. He was there, standing near the landing in earnest conversation with Squire O’Brien, dripping onto the floor tiles. He appeared to be thoroughly soaked, and there were circles beneath the same dark eyes he’d passed on to his daughter. His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion, and he appeared just as ill-rested as Aaron. A fresh wave of guilt assailed Caitlin. Had everyone she loved been running themselves ragged in the storm for the past week?

  “But it was the strangest thing,” her father continued. “There was no blood…”

  Squire O’Brien nodded, his expression one of cautious attention.

  He thinks I’m surely dead by now, and after watching his own son search for me in vain and nearly kill himself doing it…

  Well, she couldn’t blame him for being reluctant to lend help, if that was what her father had come here to seek. She thought it was. Despite his obvious fatigue, there was a glimmer of desperate hope in his eyes. It made her want to throw her arms around him and weep. Tentatively, she took a step forward and reached for his sleeve.

  Her hand passed right through his elbow, and she felt strangely frail again—not as if she’d touched nothing, but as if she were nothing. The sensation chilled her.

  “Father,” she said. “Da…”

  He didn’t hear, but rather proceeded to implore Squire O’Brien. “We’ve got three McCarthy men searching the forest now, near where we found her dress. But, if you’d help… Well, everyone knows you’ve got the finest hounds in the Carolinas. If you’d bring them to search for her, it might mean the difference between finding her and losing her!”

  Squire O’Brien frowned, his thick arms crossed over his wide chest. Still, Caitlin thought she detected a hint of sympathy in his deep grey eyes.

  “Ye may take two of my hounds to search,” he said, “but I’ll not send any of my family with ye.”

  Caitlin’s father appeared comforted by this concession.

  “I thank ye,” he said, prising one of Squire O’Brien’s hands away from his body, clasping it between his own and shaking it. “I’ll take the hounds, but I must hurry about it. My wife is so distraught over our daughter she can’t sleep, and I’m eager to return the girl to her.”

  “I’ll show ye to the kennels and see that ye have my finest hounds,” Squire O’Brien said, clapping a large hand on Mr McCarthy’s shoulder.

  “Father, no!” Caitlin cried, following on their heels as they exited the manse. “Da! I’m right here! You won’t find me out there! Please, go home to mother!”

  Her cries fell on deaf ears, but she persisted anyway, protesting all the way to the kennels, fearful of her father contracting a case of pneumonia as Aaron had. She made several more failed attempts to grab her father’s arm, her hand passing through each time and chilling her. By the time they’d secured the hounds and her father had started off with the end of a leash wrapped around each fist, she felt thoroughly useless. After watching him fade into the night and listening to the hounds’ baying carried away on the wind, she turned back towards the house. Aaron, at least, she could touch, and if she could touch only one person, she was glad it was him. She could comfort him in his sickness, and he could make her feel real. At the moment, she wanted nothing more.

  She rounded the manse and climbed its front steps, spotting Squire O’Brien’s large footprints on the stone, still damp. When she stood at the door she reached for the handle, thinking of Aaron in his bed. Her hand passed right through the metal. She was perplexed for a moment, but quickly resolved to simply step through it. If she could pass through people, why not a door?

  She could not. The door seemed as solid as rock, and yet she could exert no pressure against it—just trying made her feel dangerously insubstantial. Despair washed over her as she realised she was trapped outside in the rain, and Aaron inside in his sickbed.

  * * * *

  Aaron wasn’t sure whether he was awake or asleep. Maybe somewhere in between. The dull light from the half-melted candle that burnt on the nightstand made the backs of his eyelids glow faintly yellow, and he could smell the aroma of rapidly cooling beef tea, left behind after his mother and Molly’s latest assault. Yet, he could vividly remember the dream his mother and Molly had interrupted, and still didn’t feel completely free of it. Not that he wanted to; he’d been dreaming of Caitlin.

  She’d seemed so real. Even now, he could almost feel her touch, and his hair… He’d dreamt she’d tucked it behind his ear, where it was now. He could remember the press of her hands against his skull, on his hand and shoulders, her skin cool but soft against his. The faintest of her touches had ignited him, filling him with notions of taking her in his arms. And then she’d… A shiver of delight raced down his spine as he remembered the way she’d stroked his cock. Even now, he felt weakened in the wake of the dreamed-of release. And when she’d kissed him afterwards he’d burnt with the urge to pull her down onto the bed and make love to her anyway, to lo
ck their bodies together in a joining that couldn’t be separated by loss or distance or cruel reality. But, throughout all that, the most he’d been able to do was to reach out blindly and lay a hand against her. It had been agony, having her so close and hardly being able to respond—sweet agony, though, laced with the wonderful knowledge of her presence and her heavenly touch.

  But whatever he’d dreamt, she wasn’t here—he could tell that much. The room was lonely and silent save for the sound of his breathing. Each breath was an effort and his lungs felt as if they were full of mud taken from the bottom of a river. They crackled ominously as his chest rose and fell. For the first time it occurred to him that he might die.

  The thought sent a pang of regret through his chest, somewhere near his heavy lungs—regret that he hadn’t found Caitlin and would likely leave this world without ever knowing what had happened to her. What trouble had she encountered, he wondered for the millionth time, that she’d disappeared so quickly, and without a trace? Where did she lie—or most likely, he thought with a hollow feeling, her beautiful body—that a week’s thorough searching hadn’t recovered her? And had she waited for his rescue, only to die in disappointment?

  The thoughts were heavy enough to weigh down not only his heart but his eyelids. For a moment he forced them open, scanning the room in the futile hope that he might spy some trace of Caitlin’s presence left behind, something to say that his dream had been real. Seeing nothing, he slipped back into sleep, hoping he’d find her again in fevered dreams.