by Anne Stuart
Sighing, she inserted another sheet of paper into the
Selectric. The lights had been on for an hour, though they flickered every now and then as if not quite sure they were going to stay. It was past nine, Marianne had brought Matthew back hours ago, and he was already settled for the night. The lights could go out again with impunity, as long as she was safely settled for the night in her bedroom, away from Springer's steady gaze.
And that was another problem. Which bedroom? Springer had let her have her old one, but she had no idea whether he'd continue to be so generous. And while it certainly didn't seem as if he'd want to share a bed with her, he might feel it incumbent on his masculine ego to make the attempt. The front room had a double bed, the one under the eaves was only a single iron bed with a sagging mattress.
There was no way she could tactfully bring up the subject. Except to say that she really needed her sleep. Or she could come right out and ask if she could have the small bedroom to herself. It would make it clear that she was wanting and expecting to sleep alone, and at least the uncertainty would be cleared up.
The lights flickered and dimmed again, brightened, then faded to a distant glow. "Damn," she said lightly, pushing away from the table. Springer hadn't moved, the darkness seeming to have little effect on the book he wasn't reading. "I give up."
Springer looked up politely, seemingly unmoved by the darkness. "Does this happen often?"
"Often enough. There's no way to tell how long it'll be off—it could be minutes or hours." She cleared her throat. "I think I'll go on up to bed."
He didn't move, but she could feel his eyes on her, even through the darkness. Her palms were damp with sudden nerves, but she managed to keep her voice light. "Where would you like to sleep?" she asked brightly, then realized with growing horror, how that sounded. "I mean, you can have the small bedroom if you like. I'm perfectly comfortable in the front bedroom. Or if you'd rather have the front room, I can take the room under the eaves. It doesn't make any difference to me." She was babbling and she knew it.
He rose then, tossing the book to one side and crossing the room. She stood there unflinching in the face of his steady advance, wishing she could run and hide. But she was through running.
He put his strong, warm hands on her shoulders, the fingers kneading the tight flesh. "We'll sleep wherever you want, Jessie," he said gently. "But we'll sleep together. We've already spent too many nights apart."
"Springer, I don't think..." she began, trying to pull away, but his hands tightened imperceptibly, and in truth, she didn't want to leave him.
"Good," he said, his voice low and approving. "Don't think. If you think too much you'll just get scared all over again. Just feel." And his head dipped down, his mouth caught hers in a deep, searing kiss. "Come to bed with me, Jessie."
It would have taken a stronger woman than she was to resist such a devastating assault. She opened her mouth beneath his kiss, returning it, and when he moved away she nodded, afraid to trust her voice. And his hands tightened on her shoulder in what might almost have been relief, before leading her up the stairs to the narrow bed under the eaves.
It was a restless night, her third night without Andrew. That was how Marianne figured it—she didn't count her afternoon among the raspberries two days ago. It was the nights that were the hardest anyway. It was amazing how fast she could come to need a man in her bed. And not just any man. She needed Andrew, and she hated both herself and him for having to admit it.
But admit it she did. She always tried to be honest with herself, and whether she liked it or not, Andrew had grown to be immeasurably important to her and her family. Eric and Shannon constantly barraged her with questions about him: when was he coming back, would he live with them, would he teach Eric to play the guitar? And Marianne had started out noncommittal, traveled to snappish, and finally ended up resigned. He managed, in an indecently short time, to become essential to her children as well as to herself, and she didn't know what she was going to do about it.
It was different from the time that Tom left her. Despite her rage and hurt, the pain had lessened as the days went on. With Andrew, each night grew harder, until she was sitting there, staring at the almost full moon, trying to control the urge to howl out her pain like a wild dog.
The damned electricity didn't help. She had planned to stay up late, watching late movies and eating whatever wasn't nailed down. Now she couldn't even read. Not that she had anything in the house but those damned romances, she thought irritably. Not what she needed when she was trying to break herself of her need for Andrew Cameron.
And Jessica didn't help, either. Marianne had taken one look at her flushed, slightly dazed face and knew that her half-formed plan had worked. Somehow she and Springer had managed to overcome their differences long enough to give her whisker burns on her neck, and if everything wasn't hearts and flowers they were at least moving in the right direction. And Marianne had had to stifle the pang of envy that had washed over her. Why didn't she have a man like Springer MacDowell?
Except that she did. Granted, he was a hell of a lot shorter—and younger, for that matter. He was also domineering, bad-tempered, cheap and very, very sweet. Worst of all, he had an unfortunate tendency to take no for an answer.
And most amazing of all, Matthew didn't help. Marianne had been convinced that two children were enough for any sensible human being; toward the end of her marriage she had been considering having her tubes tied because of her certainty. But Andrew's careless words, outrageous as they had been, had somehow managed to penetrate her subconscious, so that she had spent the whole day playing with Matthew and suddenly, inexplicably, wanting another baby of her own. One with curly brown hair and green eyes and a stubborn soul.
With a quiet moan of despair she pulled herself away from the window. How in hell had she suddenly become so indecisive? She had always prided herself on knowing what she wanted. What in heaven's name had made her so dithery all of a sudden?
But she knew the answer to that. Andrew Cameron had made her into a helpless, lovesick fool, and there was no cure for it but time. And even that didn't seem like a sure thing.
"Mama?" A small, plaintive voice accompanied the shuffle of pajama-clad feet, and Shannon's rumpled blond head appeared at the door. "The lights are off."
"I know, sweetheart," Marianne said, sighing. "You remember, that happens sometimes. Go back to sleep, and tomorrow it will be all better."
"Couldn't Andrew fix it?" Eric had appeared behind his sister, a studious expression on his freckled face that was so like his mother's.
"I don't think so, darling."
"I bet he could. Why don't you go ask him? I bet he'd come over and try. I betcha," Eric said earnestly, and for a moment Marianne was tempted.
But she resisted the temptation. "The power's off all over the island, Eric. It's the power company, and Andrew can't do anything about that. It's probably even off at his place. We'll just have to sleep through it." A brilliant thought struck her. "We could all snuggle in my bed, like we do when it's real cold." And she wouldn't have to survive another empty night.
Eric shook his head solemnly. "I'm too old for that," he said with great dignity. "That's for when we're sick."
"I could always make an exception."
Eric shook his head determinedly. "I think Andrew should sleep in your bed with you. Like he did before."
Marianne didn't even flinch. "Before what?"
"Before you told him to go away," he said bluntly. "You are going to tell him you didn't mean it, aren't you?"
"I don't know. What makes you think I didn't mean it?"
Eric shook his head at the folly of adults, and Marianne had to resist the urge to hug him. He'd gotten so very wise all of a sudden. And Shannon was growing up. They weren't her babies anymore. "You think about it, Ma," he said gently. "G'night." Taking his sister's hand, he headed back down the darkened hallway.
When it got to the time when her eight-year-old
could outthink her, Marianne thought dismally, she was in deep trouble. And maybe the honesty and principles that she'd prided herself on were nothing more than stupidity and pigheadedness. And why was she sitting alone in a candlelit bedroom when she wanted to cry from wanting Andrew?
It took Mrs. LaPlante s oldest teenaged daughter, Millie, half an hour to get there. She arrived with a six-pack of Tab under one arm and a transistor radio under the other, a nightgown and a stack of old Cosmopolitans in her tote bag.
"You sure your mother does't mind your spending the night, Millie?" Marianne questioned anxiously, brushing out her thick chestnut hair.
"Nah. She said she's just as glad to get rid of me," Millie confided with a swig of her Tab. "What time you figure you'll be back tomorrow?"
"Oh, not too late," Marianne said vaguely, wondering if she should try to dig up her antique supply of makeup. She could always borrow some of Millie's. She seemed to be wearing enough to supply an entire
Miss America pageant. No, it would be a waste of time. Cameron would have to accept her the way she was. If he wanted a painted woman, he'd have to look further.
"The children know you're going to be here," she said, pulling on a light sweater against the gathering night chill. "They should sleep straight through, though. I don't expect you'll have any trouble."
"Don't expect I will. Got anything to eat?"
Marianne cast a critical glance at Millie's pasty, starch-filled form. "Help yourself," she said cryptically. "What's mine is yours."
The night was still and beautiful as Marianne drove across the island. All the houses were dark, all the few streetlights extinguished by the power blackout. The moonlight was enough to illuminate everything, and Marianne succumbed to temptation on the back road and flicked off the headlights for a few moments. It was almost as clear as daylight on the narrow road ahead of her, and she reveled in the fairy-tale magic of the night.
She didn't even stop to consider whether Andrew would be at home, whether he'd be happy to see her. She didn't stop to consider whether she could find her way to his cabin in the woods. Once she'd made the decision, she wasn't about to start thinking up problems or she'd change her mind.
Except that she couldn't go back and face Millie LaPlante's vapid blue eyes and Tab belches. She'd burned her bridges, or close enough, and she had to face Andrew.
It took her close to an hour to find the cabin, an hour fraught with panic, near-tears and an alarmed resignation. The woods all looked alike in the moonlight, and the path twisted and curved and joined other paths. She visited the raspberry bushes, the copse of trees where she'd plundered his evergreens, the small, gurgling stream that rushed with the new-fallen rain. She was just about to give up in tears when the last path she had taken twisted around into a clearing, and the log cabin lay in front of her, dark and silent.
Of course it would look uninhabited, she told herself bravely. After all, it was probably after midnight, and the power was off. Cameron would have gone to bed early. That's where she'd find him.
But what, she thought suddenly, if he wasn't alone? What if some lively young creature, one of Millie's skinnier friends, was right now warming that narrow bed of his? The thought was at first so devastating that Marianne nearly crawled back off into the woods, awash in misery.
And then her backbone stiffened. If he was there, lost in the throes of passion, then it was better she found out about it now.
She'd be polite, though. She'd give him fair warning. Striding up to the rough-hewn front door, she rapped sharply, waiting for a sleepy voice to bid her enter.
Not a sound issued forth. She knocked again, and still no answer. She hadn't even thought of that possibility. Maybe he'd gone to Millie's friend's house. Damn it, she had to stop that sort of thoughts. As far as she knew, Millie didn't even have any friends. Cameron had probably flown back to Scotland, as far away and as fast as he could. She'd been nothing but trouble, and he had gotten tired of dealing with her moods.
She reached out and tried the door. It swung open to her touch, revealing the dark, empty cabin, the power tools at the far end silent sentinels.
"Cameron?" she called softly, her voice just slightly nervous. "Andrew?"
He was well and truly gone. Moonlight streamed in a window over the narrow bed, and she could see the neatly-made covers, the one pillow with not a dent in it. He'd left, without a word.
Her choices were simple. She could try to find her way back through the moonlit forest and face Millie LaPlante's smirking face. Or she could curl up in that narrow little bed and cry herself to sleep.
There really was no choice at all. The night was cool, but the house still held the day's warmth. She stripped off her clothes and climbed naked between the sheets of Andrew Cameron's narrow bed. The pillow smelled like his pipe. Turning her face into it, she let out a quiet little moan of pain.
"Where are you, Andrew?" she said out loud, her voice small and sad in the moonlit room. "Where are you?"
Her dreams were filled with him. With the sound of his voice, the feel of his body, the smell of his pipe. She moved restlessly in the bed, searching for a heavy sleep that eluded her, her senses still filled with the memory of him. And then her eyes flew open as her head left the pillow. The pipe smoke was suddenly very real.
"Andrew?" Her voice was small and plaintive and just slightly nervous in the dark room. The moon had set sometime while she was sleeping, and she couldn't see a thing, could only smell the rich peaty smell of his pipe.
"Right here, lass," he said quietly, moving out of the shadows. She couldn't tell from his voice whether he was glad to see her or not, and his expression was hidden by the darkness. "What are you doing here? Where are the children?"
"I... I got someone to stay with them tonight. Millie LaPlante," she said, starting to sit up. And then she remembered she'd taken off all her clothes, and she slid back down again. She wasn't about to expose herself when she was still so uncertain about his reaction. "Where were you, Andrew?"
"I had to drive down to New York. Someone wanted me to build him a hammered dulcimer, and I'd made up several designs. I could have sent them to him, but I decided it might do me good to get away for a while. There didn't seem to be anything to keep me here." He sounded distant, almost philosophical, but he sat down on the bed beside her, still puffing gently on the pipe.
"You weren't gone very long." She wanted to reach out and touch his hand, to pull it to her breast, but she didn't dare.
"No, I wasn't. I wasn't any happier down there, so I figured I might as well come back. Why are you here, woman?"
Suddenly she found she liked the sound of that on his tongue, the rich Scottish burr wrapping around the word "woman." He made her feel like a woman, did Andrew Cameron. Ripe and fertile and feminine to his masculine, and she liked being in his bed.
"I wanted to ask you a question," she replied.
"And it couldn't wait till tomorrow?" He knocked the dottle from his pipe and turned all his attention back to her. His hands were free now, but he still didn't touch her.
"It couldn't wait another hour." She pulled herself upright, holding the sheet around her breasts. "Cameron, why do you want to marry me?"
"Woman, you know that as well as I do."
"No, I don't," she cried. "All I know is that I don't want to marry you just for the sake of the children. I don't want to marry you to get Tom off my back. I don't want to marry you just to have someone to help me patch my roof or even to conduct sexual aerobics."
"You've made that clear, Marianne," he said wearily, and this time she recognized the thread of pain in his voice, and that pain was her triumph.
"Andrew," she whispered, "there's only one reason I want to marry you, and that's because I love you. I don't want to marry you for practical reasons—I hate being practical. I only want to be with you because we belong together."
He sat there for a long, silent moment, listening to her declaration of love, and her fear began to come back.
Only for a moment.
"You stubborn, pigheaded, impractical, nasty-tongued viper," he said, his hands finally reaching out to her. "I ought to beat you. If I weren't such a mild-mannered gentleman, I would. Do you know what you've put me through these past few days?"
She felt her body pulled against his, and she went happily. "Some mild-mannered gentleman," she scoffed. "You're just as pigheaded as I am. And you're the one who's gotten his own way. Do you realize how hard it is for me to admit you're right?" Since he was busy kissing her breasts, he couldn't do any more than give her a muffled assent. "And I don't want you saying I told you so. Andrew?" She let out a little gasp of surprised pleasure. "Andrew!" And then she giggled, an enchanting little ripple of laughter. "Andrew," she said, sighing and leaning back in the narrow bed. "Oooh, Andrew."
Chapter Thirty-four
The moon had set hours ago, and still Jessica lay there, cradled against Springer's warm body in the narrow dip of the twin bed, watching the shadows move across the slanting ceiling. The house was still and silent all around them, and downstairs Matthew slept soundly. And Jessica lay there trying not to cry.
The body next to hers shifted, and the ancient springs of the iron bed creaked loudly. "Are you awake?" His voice came softly, the breath ruffling the hair above her ear, and she considered keeping silent.
"Yes," she whispered back. She had to say something; she couldn't just spend the rest of the night curled against his body, knowing he was going to leave. She'd have to give him his freedom, before he gave her hers.
