For Now and Forever

by Diana Palmer

  “Yes,” she breathed into his mouth.

  His hands moved down to her narrow hips, bringing them sensuously against his, grinding them against him slowly. She moaned softly, and he caught the tiny sound under his mouth, smothering it. His tongue teased her lips and darted into her mouth; she felt her body go rigid with desire and wondered how it could bear the tension of wanting and not having.

  He whispered barely intelligible words into her ears, endearments mingled with remarks that made her skin burn and her body tingle.

  “Am I shocking you?” He laughed breathlessly as his body moved completely over hers, letting her feel the powerful contours crushing her down into the soft cushions.

  “Yes, you beast, you are,” she gasped, trying without success to catch her breath as his hips moved against hers with shattering intimacy.

  “Don’t just lie under me,” he ground out. “Help me.”

  Her nails dug into his powerful arms. “Saxon, don’t,” she pleaded shakily as the unfamiliar intimacy made her tremble. “Please, don’t.”

  “I want you,” he replied tautly. “And what’s more, you want me. Do you think I can’t feel it, taste it?”

  “Not...like this,” she pleaded, knowing that if she didn’t reach him soon, she never would. “Please!”

  His breath was coming heavily and hard. He hesitated, his sightless eyes looking down as if trying to see her. “Is it the setting that bothers you?” he growled. “We could go up to my bedroom, or yours.”

  “You know why,” she whispered.

  His jaw tautened. “I know you’re a virgin, if that’s what you mean. I won’t hurt you, Maggie.”

  “You only want me because you’re blind,” she shot at him, desperate for ammunition, and hated the words when she felt him stiffen. “That’s all it is, Saxon. You want me because I’m a woman and I’m handy!”

  His face darkened angrily. He pushed himself away from her and sat up, so sensuously attractive that it was all she could do not to throw herself on him. But she gritted her teeth and put her bra and blouse back on, avoiding looking at him.

  “Hand me my shirt,” he said curtly, as if he hated having to ask her even for that.

  She put it into his outstretched hand and turned away when he pulled it back on.

  She heard the click of his lighter as he lighted a cigarette and smelled the acrid smoke a minute later.

  “You wanted me enough that night in my room,” he said with biting sarcasm. “What happened, Maggie? Did you suddenly get turned off by my loss of sight, or did your dinner partner have something to do with it?”

  “Dinner partner?” she murmured, remembering Bret and the invitation she was going to have to own up to.

  “Bret Aikens,” he reminded her.

  “He’s very nice,” she said noncommittally.

  “Mother said you and Bret had a lot of common interests,” he said shortly.

  She sighed. “Well, we both like history,” she admitted. “In fact, he’s taking me to Spartanburg tomorrow to see some special points of interest there,” she added defiantly.

  His face went livid. She could see miniature explosions in his eyes. “Like hell he is,” he said. “You’ve got work to do!”

  “Not tomorrow I haven’t,” she told him. “I’m going.”

  “Not while you’re working for me!”

  She threw back her hair and started toward the door. “I’m either going to Spartanburg tomorrow or I’m going home to Georgia tomorrow,” she shot back at him from the safety of the doorway. “And there isn’t one thing you can do to stop me!”

  She went out, slamming the door noisily behind her.

  Saxon wasn’t up when Bret came to pick her up promptly at eight thirty the next morning, and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She’d really been prepared to pack her bag and go home if she’d had trouble about the trip, but she was secretly glad that she didn’t have to carry out the threat. Leaving Saxon now was going to be worse than having a tooth pulled without anesthetic, and no doubt it would hurt for a long time.

  But she schooled herself to forget the future and concentrate on one day at a time. Bret was good company, keeping up a pleasant, undemanding conversation as they headed down to catch one interstate going east and another going south.

  “We’ll bypass Spartanburg on the way down to Woodruff,” he explained, “to see the Price House, but we’ll go back that way through Roebuck, where the Walnut Grove Plantation is located, and we’ll swing through Spartanburg before we go home. Okay?”

  “Sounds great,” she told him. “You must know your way pretty well.”

  “I do,” he agreed. “I’ve been there several times. I like history,” he added with a grin.

  It was a beautiful drive, through some of the prettiest country Maggie had ever seen, although it seemed to take a long time. But when they got to Woodruff, it wasn’t quite time for the towering brick house to be open to the public, and they had to go to a nearby restaurant and drink coffee until eleven o’clock. When they got back, other tourists had gathered.

  Bret paid the admission, refusing Maggie’s offer of money, and then she forgot all about money as they toured the historic Price House. It had a steep gambrel roof and inside end chimneys, an acutely unique style for the Deep South. The bricks for the house with its flat face were made on the premises and laid in Flemish bond. It sat on what was once a two-thousand-acre plantation and was built in 1795—to serve as an inn as well as a home. Thomas Price, whose brainchild it was, also ran a post office and a general store. Period furniture graced the house, and Maggie felt the pull of the past strongly in its gracefully aging confines. The county historic preservation commission had obviously been active in the restoration.

  When the tour was over, they climbed back into the car and headed north to Roebuck to tour Walnut Grove Plantation.

  Maggie fell in love with the house, with its graceful front porch and chimneys at each end. It was clapboard over log construction with Queen Anne mantels and fielded paneling, and featured antique furnishings and accessories which portrayed living conditions in Spartanburg County before 1830.

  The separate kitchen featured a collection of eighteenth-century utensils. There was a blacksmith’s forge, a meat house and a barn. And the office of the first doctor in the county.

  All in all, it was fascinating. But Maggie found herself drawn to the grounds with their ancient oaks and walnuts, and the Moore family cemetery where Margaret Katherine Moore Barry was buried, along with other family members, slaves and Revolutionary soldiers.

  “She was a scout for General Morgan at the Battle of Cowpens,” Bret remarked, nodding toward the grave, “and the daughter of the house.”

  “She must have been quite a lady,” Maggie reflected, closing her eyes to drink in the delicious autumn air. “I wonder if she minds all these people tramping through on floors that she swept with her own hands, and staring at her grave?”

  “I doubt if she had to sweep floors,” he murmured.

  “I’m sure there were servants,” she agreed. “But a woman brave enough to scout for the army would hardly be afraid to pick up a broom if she needed to. I’ll bet she was something special,” she added with a smile. “One of the first liberated women.”

  He laughed. “I’ve always thought that myself. The past is always with us, isn’t it?” he mused, sticking his hands in his pockets to stare back at the house. “We’re always curious about those who came before us. How they lived. How they survived. How they loved and hated, and how they died. The same as someday future historians will be curious about us, and our time.”

  She shivered delicately. “I don’t like to think about that. We’ll be dead.”

  He turned back. “What a profound thought. Are you afraid to die?”

  She sighed. “Yes and no. I’m a good Presbyterian, you know, and I t
ry to live my religion. But I’m not always as good as I wish I were,” she added with a laugh.

  “None of us is. I just live one day at a time, myself,” he told her, “and do the best I can.”

  She smiled at him. “Which is all any of us can do, I suppose. The leaves are going,” she added, nodding toward the partial bareness of some of the trees behind the house.

  “We’d better be doing the same,” he told her, checking his watch. “My gosh, I didn’t realize it was so late. We’re not going to have time for Cowpens today, I’m afraid. As it is, we’ll be going home in the dark once we stop for supper.”

  “My fault,” she said, apologizing. “I was so fascinated that I couldn’t leave—”

  “I enjoyed it,” he said, cutting her off and grinning. “I like to see people appreciate history. Especially in my own state. Ready?”

  “Whenever you are. It’s been a great day,” she added. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” he returned. “We’ll have to do this again.”

  She murmured something, not committing herself, because she was already dreading going back to the house. Saxon was going to be out for blood, and she knew it.

  Lisa and Randy had gone out when Maggie said good-night to Bret and walked into the silence of the house. But Sandra was still up, pacing the floor. She stopped at the sight of Maggie and went quickly out into the hall to meet her.

  “Thank goodness you’re home,” she said with evident relief, a worried frown between her worried eyes. “Oh, Maggie, will you go up and see if Saxon will talk to you? He’s locked himself in his room and hasn’t eaten anything... He won’t let Randy in, he won’t let me in—it’s just so unlike him,” she concluded helplessly. “Something must be wrong, and I’m so worried. Will you... ?”

  “Of course,” Maggie said gently, knowing what was wrong. It would have been amusing in other circumstances—a grown man throwing a tantrum because he hadn’t got his own way. But as she mounted the stairs she began to think about how very vulnerable his blindness made him. Sighted, he’d have forced her hand about Bret. They’d have fought it out verbally, or he might have come after her, but he’d never have locked himself away out of pique. He was blind, and it made him helpless in a new and frightening way. He couldn’t deal with the world as he used to.

  She sighed as she paused in front of his door before she knocked.

  “Saxon?” she called gently.

  There was no response. None at all.

  She knocked again, louder. “Saxon!”

  This time there was a muffled sound. “Go away!” His voice sounded strangely slurred.

  “It’s Maggie,” she called again. “Please let me in!”

  There was a long pause, during which she really worried. Then there was a thud and the sound of furniture and the door being knocked. A key turned. The door opened.

  She gaped up at him, catching her breath. He was pale; his hair was tousled, his face unshaven. And he was standing there absolutely nude, without a stitch of clothing on his big, hair-roughened body.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MAGGIE GASPED, BUT she couldn’t drag her startled, fascinated eyes away. He was as appealing as a delicately carved Greek statue, not an ounce of flab or fat on him, all muscle and blatant masculinity.

  “If you’re coming in, come on,” he growled, turning to weave his way back toward the bed.

  She followed him, closing the door behind her, and watched him collapse into the rumpled brown sheets with a groan.

  “You’re ill,” she burst out.

  “I’m something,” he said weakly. “Get me something cold to drink, will you, honey? God, I’m burning up!”

  She had to steel herself to move closer, but she finally gathered enough courage to stand beside him and touch his broad forehead. It was blistering hot to the touch.

  “Flu, I’ll bet,” she mumbled. “I’ll be right back. And you should be under the covers.”

  “Then cover me up,” he growled huskily. “God, it’s hot...”

  He was rambling. She pulled the covers gently over him and went downstairs to tell Sandra, who in turn called the family doctor. He’d just arrived and gone upstairs when Lisa and Randy came in.

  “What’s going on?” Randy asked quickly.

  “It’s Saxon,” Sandra said. “Maggie says he’s burning with fever.”

  Randy shook his head. “Boy, that’s one for the books,” he remarked. “I can only remember half a dozen times I’ve ever seen him sick. How about some coffee while we wait for the verdict?”

  “Maggie and I will make it,” Lisa volunteered, leading her sister off into the kitchen.

  “How bad is he?” Lisa asked as they filled the pot and made four strong cups of coffee.

  “I don’t know,” Maggie mumbled. She put cups and saucers on a tray with cream and sugar. “I feel like it’s my fault. He didn’t want me to go out with Bret, and I did it for spite...”

  Lisa touched her arm gently. “It’s probably just a virus. He’ll be all right, really he will. He’s so strong.”

  Tears misted the older woman’s eyes, but she managed to smile through them. “I hope so.”

  Lisa hugged her. “Come on, let’s go drink our coffee.”

  The doctor was back down in a few minutes, shaking his head. “Stubbornest man I ever knew,” he grumbled, refusing Sandra’s offer of coffee. “It’s a virus, one of those forty-eight-hour things that I’ve seen a dozen cases of so far this week. I gave him an antibiotic and wrote a prescription for some tablets.” He dug it out of his pocket and handed it to Sandra. “Give him those twice a day until they’re all gone, keep him in bed, give him plenty of fluids, have him take aspirin for the aching. If he isn’t better in three days, call me.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Johnson,” Sandra said gently. “I hated to ask you out at this hour of the night.”

  He grinned. “No trouble. It was a change from delivering babies. That’s usually what I get called out at night for. Night.”

  “Good night.”

  Sandra escorted him out and started upstairs, leaving the rest of them to follow.

  Saxon was under the covers, thank goodness, Maggie thought as they filed into his bedroom, but he looked like death, and he was still hot with fever.

  “He needs sponging,” Sandra remarked, wringing her hands nervously. “Randy...”

  “Maggie,” Saxon called huskily, holding out his hand. “The rest of you go watch television or something. I only need Maggie.”

  “But, darling...” Sandra protested gently.

  Saxon’s dark eyes opened threateningly, as intimidating without sight as they had been with it. “I said I want Maggie,” he repeated hotly. “No one else!”

  “We’d better humor him, Mother,” Randy said with a wicked smile at Maggie. “He has good taste in nurses, after all.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Sandra asked Maggie with a worried look.

  “I don’t mind at all,” Maggie lied as she realized what staying with him was going to mean, and she still wasn’t quite over the shock of seeing him au naturel.

  “If you need us...” Lisa began.

  “I’ll scream and run up a flag, okay?” Maggie teased. “I’ve nursed you and Dad through flu and viruses. I know what to do. But I sure could use another cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll bring you one,” Lisa promised. She followed the others out the door and closed it behind her.

  “My cold drink,” Saxon added, reminding her.

  “Oh, my gosh!” She ran to the door. “Lisa, will you bring Saxon a tall glass of something cold, please?” she called to her sister.

  “Sure thing!” came the reply, drifting back up the staircase.

  “Top reporter,” Saxon chided when he heard her approach the bed. “Photographic memory.”

  �
�I was worried,” she excused herself, reaching down to hold his big hand in her own. “Do you feel any better?”

  “Why do people always think that having a needle stuck in their arms will improve their complaints?” he growled. “Now my arm hurts as well as the rest of me. Dan put the damned needle through the bone!”

  “Shame on you,” she scolded gently. “Here he comes all the way out here in the middle of the night to see about you, and all you want to do is complain about the way he gives shots. I ought to call him up and tell him how ungrateful you are.”

  “You would, too, you little headache,” he muttered, drawing in a hard breath. His eyes closed. “Maggie, I feel like hell. Don’t leave me.”

  Her fingers tightened in his. “I won’t. I won’t.”

  He drank every drop of the iced soft drink that Lisa brought up with Maggie’s coffee and then dozed off. But he woke again not two hours later, tossing and turning, and the fever was blazing.

  The rest of the family had already gone to bed, but Maggie remembered what Sandra had said about sponging him down. It would certainly help to bring the fever back to normal while the antibiotic had time to work.

  She got a basin and a soft sponge and, gritting her teeth, pulled back the covers and began to draw the damp sponge over his feverish body.

  He stiffened at first at the unfamiliar touch, and then relaxed and lay back with a hard sigh, his eyes closed, his limbs barely stirring. She lingered over him, feeling his skin cool, watching the expressions that drifted over his broad, hard face. He needed her. For a few hours, he actually needed her.

  She finished and drew the covers back over him, and he slept again. She sat beside him in an armchair, watching him, drinking in the sight of him, until the small hours of the morning. She could just barely keep her eyes open, and suddenly she couldn’t keep them open at all. Her body slumped sideways in the chair and she slept.

  He was still asleep when she woke and leaned forward to touch his face. It was cool, thank goodness; the fever had broken. She left him long enough to freshen up and change into a pair of brown jeans with a beige pullover top, and to get a tray to take back upstairs. Sandra had a meeting that morning with her church group, and Randy and Lisa were going downtown to start shopping for furniture for their new home.