by Twilight
He planted his feet, certain his muddied boots now trod all over the sheet, then glowered over the top of the bundle at Jessica, lingering in the shadow of the hall. “Dammit, woman, move the table so a man can walk.”
She gave him that slightly befuddled look, softly illuminated by the dim lantern she carried. “But there’s no better spot for the table. When the sun comes in the windows, it’s quite lovely. You see, a neat, cheerful and sunny kitchen is imperative to raising children with good domestic habits and bright dispositions.”
“So is a storm cellar,” Rance muttered. “Where is it?”
Jessica blinked, then jumped when a sudden flash of lightning sliced through the dimness. “I—” She swallowed, and all color seemed to drain from her face. “We don’t have a storm cellar.”
The floorboards beneath Rance’s feet reverberated with the thunder. From every drafty corner of the house came the haunting howl of the incessant wind. Intermittent gusts threatened to shatter the windows, and beyond those panes, where dusk should have cast its pink-hued cloak, nothing but unfathomable murky gray swirled.
“No storm cellar,” he repeated, very much aware of the terror shining in her eyes. He watched the flame quivering in the lantern she carried. “I guess I’ll have to dig one out for you, then. Where’s Christian?”
“Under my bed,” she replied, in that deceptively calm voice. Her bottom lip quivered. “He’s terrified. Excuse me—” She brushed past him, efficient and determined, and set about filling a kettle with water.
“What the hell are you doing, Jess?”
“Boiling water, of course. For tea.”
“Damned crazy woman—” He dropped the sheets in a forgotten pile and caught her by the arm just as she heaved the kettle onto the stove. He felt the trembling deep within her slender limbs as she tensed, and he was besieged by the sudden urge to wrap her close within his arms, to protect her, to soothe every last hurt that ached inside her. “Jess.”
“No, I have to make tea. It calms my nerves, you see.”
“It’ll take a hell of a lot more than tea.” He pried her fingers from the kettle. This proved relatively easy when a jagged bolt of lightning set the world ablaze with blue light and a crash of thunder shook the earth. Jessica went instantly rigid, then collapsed back against him. “That’s better,” he said, lifting her easily in his arms. He scowled into her wide eyes. “Damned stubborn woman. You can be afraid, Jess, and still hold your head high.”
“No, I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m not afraid. Truly, I’m not.”
“Fine. Then wrap your arms around my neck to make me feel better. That’s it. And put your head on my shoulder. I’m in need of comfort.”
He kicked the sheets from his path and moved into the hall. The lightning came now in spasmodic bursts, almost continually, splashing the short length of the hall with an eerie, flickering blue light. He lowered her feet to the floor and felt her arms clutch about his neck, the supple length of her pressing against him, as if instinctively seeking him. His hand caught in the tumble of her hair, and he couldn’t keep himself from burying his face in that lemony cloud. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with her scent, her softness now like an exquisite haven. What kind of man allowed his base desires to rule him when a woman clung to him solely out of fear, in all her innocence seeking him merely for the strength and comfort he provided? How could she know she snuggled like some hot little wanton against him?
He pressed her back against the wall, with his hands on her narrow shoulders. Luminous eyes peered up at him, her soft lips parting...begging. Flickering shadow played upon the high swells of her breasts and the narrow sweep of her ribs, expanding with every deep breath she took. He gripped her shoulders to keep his hands from straying, clenched his teeth to keep himself from crushing her beneath him against that wall.
No, dammit, this was terror, the pure, unadulterated terror of a woman who simply could not bear the burden alone a moment longer. A woman who had endured such storms alone no doubt crouched with her son under a bed or busied herself boiling water solely to keep her own fear abated for the sake of her son. No decent man took advantage of a woman like that...no matter that he was almost certain the flames of desire stirred in her eyes, no matter that her hands now seemed to move in a caress over his chest.
His teeth slid together. “Stay here.”
“Don’t leave us.”
All breath fled his lungs. Never had a woman wielded such power over him with three simple words uttered so breathlessly. “Jess...” Her name left him like the last breath of a dying man. He ached all over to taste the softness of her mouth, to know the surrender of all of her. “Listen,” he ground out. “I’m just going to get Christian. You’ll be the safest here in the hall, where there are no windows.”
Her palms splayed over his chest, stoking fires centuries old. “You’re not going out to the barn. Y-you have to stay here with us.”
“No, Jess, I’m not going out to the barn. I’m not that noble and self-sacrificing. If this keeps up, there won’t be a barn come morning.”
A curve swept over her lush mouth. “Then you’ll simply have to build another.”
He’d stay until he’d built her a hundred barns, if she kept this up. “Stay” was all he said before he ducked into her room. He found Christian curled in a tight, trembling ball beneath the bed. Even with the storm raging, the boy didn’t move, didn’t utter a sound until Rance crawled under and pulled him into his arms. And then the boy clung with all his might to Rance’s neck, buried his face in his throat and began to whimper. A huge lump lodged itself in Rance’s throat when the child sniffed and hiccuped and clung all the harder, wrapping his legs like miniature vises around Rance’s waist. What the hell was this? Huge lumps in his throat. This peculiar tightening in his chest. This overwhelming urge to protect. What the hell had happened to cool and aloof, to the man with no heartstrings, no emotion whatsoever?
Rance yanked a pillow and the white coverlet from Jessica’s bed and moved back into the hall.
“That’s my—” Jessica began, her arms immediately extending to take her child.
“Put the coverlet over your heads if the house starts to shake or your ears pop. Or if you hear glass breaking.” Rance pried Christian’s legs from about his waist and handed the boy to her, along with the pillow and coverlet.
“B-but where are you—?”
“I’m going to get a drink.” He moved into the kitchen as the small house shuddered and groaned beneath the force of the wind. Rain battered against the panes, hammered upon the roof and dripped rhythmically from a multitude of leaks onto Jessica’s scrubbed floor. He rummaged through all the kitchen cupboards without success, then moved into the pantry, prying lids off jugs and bottles and sniffing the contents. Frank Wynne had to have stashed some whiskey somewhere...somewhere Jess would never think of looking.
On the floor, in a back corner of the pantry between a flour barrel and a sugar bucket, he finally found it: a dusty jug, its frayed, crude label marked Turpentine.
He gave a smug smile, untwisted the cap and sniffed. Definitely not turpentine.
He moved back through the kitchen. Pebble-size ice pellets hurled against the windows and hammered new leaks in the roof. A hell of a storm. The house would be lucky to withstand it, though some part of him wished the wind would howl all night, keeping him here until morning.
He settled on the floor across from Jess and Christian, boots braced against the opposite floorboards, knees bent up. In this position, his whole body would be asleep in less than fifteen minutes.
She watched him, one arm draped over her son’s body, one hand brushing in whisper-soft strokes over the child’s downy cheek, nestled upon the pillow next to her. Every so often she brushed back the fringe of blond bangs spilling over his forehead and bent to press her lips there, perhaps to murmur softly to him. She hummed, low, husky, a supremely comforting sound even to Rance, though she seemed unaware that she did so, so eff
ortlessly did the sound spill from her lips.
Rance listened to the rain and Jess’s humming. After a time, the lump half buried beneath the coverlet next to her emitted a soft, even drone. Christian slept. An odd intimacy, indeed, fostered by a violent storm and a child’s deep breathing.
Rance’s eyes met Jessica’s as he finally tipped the jug to his lips.
“Stark, good grief, no!” She surged toward him, half straddling his thigh in her haste. “You can’t drink— That’s turpentine!”
“Is that so?” Rance drawled, taking one long gulp deep into his belly. A satisfied groan rumbled through his chest, and he licked his lips and gave her a wicked look through hooded eyes. “Never tasted better.”
She blinked at him, her lips parting in stunned disbelief.
“The stuff has a hundred uses, Jess. Surely Miss Beecher has mentioned that a good, kind and worthy wife must imbibe generous quantities of it, particularly during raging storms.” He arched a brow. “No? Surely you’re not neglecting Miss Beecher, Jess.” Again he tipped the jug and took a long drink, watching her closely. Heat spread through his limbs...or maybe it was the feel of her against his thigh, the way she leaned so close to him, concern plaguing her delicate brows as she watched him drink. Her tongue moved slowly over her full lower lip, and he almost groaned with the torture of it.
“I— Avram has always used it for cleaning his shoes.”
He couldn’t suppress a harsh laugh. “The good reverend would be the first to waste such fine turpentine on his shoes.”
“He detests the smell of it. I doubt he would ever think to taste it.”
“No, he wouldn’t. But you—” He held the jug closer to her, leaning toward her until the heat of their bodies and their breath melded. “You’re not at all like Avram Halsey, are you, Jess?”
She stared at his mouth. “I—I believe I like the smell of it.”
“Taste it,” he murmured. “Trust me, it won’t kill you. It will take your fear from you.”
“You’ve already done that,” she whispered. She swayed toward him, as if at his silent bidding. “Stark...I...”
“Taste it,” he whispered, lifting the mouth of the jug to her lips. “It vanquishes all the demons. I know.”
Her eyes glowed in the flickering light. Tentative fingers wrapped about the jug, brushing his, then tipped the brew to her lips. She swallowed a huge gulp, blinked tearing eyes, and gave a shuddering breath. “That’s truly awful. Your demons must be the tenacious sort.”
He grunted, drew another gulp deep into his belly, and regarded her through a soft haze.
“Perhaps another taste.” Her eyes fluttered closed, and she took a noisy swallow of the whiskey. Another laborious breath spilled from her. “Miss Beecher would surely recommend some recipe for making the stuff burn less. Although I must say, the warmth—” Her fingers splayed over her belly, then clenched into a fist when their gazes met and held.
Rance felt his pulse, hot and insistent, and every fiber of his body responded to her slightest movement. Her lips glowed dewy and swollen in the soft lamplight. Whiskey glistened there, begging to be tasted.
“Stark...” she breathed. “I want to— Oh, this is truly awful for me, but I cannot seem to take this from my mind, so I just as well should have at it and get it over with. Perhaps then I might put it from my thoughts for good. That’s what Louise would do, I’m quite certain. Would you...that is...” She placed a tentative hand upon his chest, light as a will-o’-the-wisp, and then another. “Stark, please kiss me.”
His teeth met, and his head fell back against the wall. “Jess...” he groaned. She might well have been flogging him.
“Just one. One small kiss.”
“Don’t do this. I’m not capable of it, Jess. Trust me.”
“Yes, you are. You do it rather divinely. And I want you to do it again...like we did out by the fence. Just once more.”
He closed his eyes and wondered if a man had ever been so tortured. Thunder seemed to grumble its agreement.
“I see.” Her hands slipped from his chest in a whisper that left him hungering all the more for her. He almost reached for her. “You needn’t explain yourself. I’m well aware that a man like you has no doubt had...that is...and I am...well, a widow, and not at all as desirable as some virgin who has never—”
“Stop.” His fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist and hauled her up against his chest. “Whoever put that notion in your head should be shot...because you’re wrong, so very wrong.”
“We may very well die in this storm,” she said softly. “And I might never again know what it’s like to...to... Oh, dear, you think me some woman of loose morals.”
“Hardly,” he rasped, some part of him wishing to thrust her from him, the other, much stronger, bidding him to pull her closer. His mouth hovered so very near hers. It would take little movement at all for their lips to meet. “I’m more likely to think you’ve never been kissed before.”
“Well, I haven’t, really. Not like...like...not precisely on the mouth, you see. Avram much prefers my cheek, or no kissing at all. And my husband, Frank—” Her lids lowered over her averted eyes. “I do believe he preferred other women.”
His finger beneath her chin lifted her gaze to his. “Fools,” he murmured. “Damned stupid fools.”
“No,” she said slowly, her eyes drifting past him, clouding with memory. “I believe I was the fool. You see, I never once guessed that a man could so deceive his wife. His friends. Everyone who knew him here. What sort of man can live like that...I can’t fathom it. He died a vicious death. At the hands of a ruthless man. A hired killer, a man who still roams free. And yet—” She stared at Rance then, with such intensity he felt all that guilt engulf him like a flame, and the desire to spill it all out for her, before he deceived her another moment, became almost too much to bear. “I think nothing of this man, this murderer, and exacting some sort of revenge upon him. My loathing I reserve solely for my husband’s memory. A pity, in all truth. He was Christian’s father, after all.”
A fate he hadn’t deserved. A blessing wasted on a man like Wynne. “You can’t blame yourself, Jess. You didn’t choose the man to be your husband. Your father did.”
“But I should have known...should have sensed something. When a man doesn’t seek his wife’s comfort, her bed...she should know. Not blame herself for some failing she knew nothing of.” Her fingertips brushed like fire over his lips. “Stark,” she breathed, “forgive me. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a befuddled woman, entirely at odds with myself and all this. But all I ask is just one kiss.”
He caught her hand in his, then pressed his open mouth into her palm. “And if I can’t stop after one? What then?”
“But you will stop. You’re a man of your word.” Her hands pressed against his chest, she arched up against him, and he felt all that was left of his will topple in a whiskey-induced heap. They might, as she’d said, perish in this storm....
“Shall I open my mouth?” she asked, innocent seductress. “Or put my arms around your neck? This is how Louise kisses John. He seems to like it.”
She fit snugly, quite superbly, against him, head tilted to his, lips opening. One kiss. One small kiss was all. Nothing, really, compared to what he wanted to do to her. Harmless, actually.
Who the hell did he think he was fooling? Nothing had ever been so dangerous. Yes, how did a man manage to live with deceit? Perhaps because he knew he would one day walk away from this woman. He had to. He’d never intended to stay...indefinitely. Now what had prompted that thought?
“Stark—” Her sweet breath fanned over him, and then her lips brushed his, so warm, so sweetly tentative, yet with cataclysmic results. “You taste like turpentine. What do I taste like?”
His breath trapped in his chest. Desire raged like a beast suddenly uncaged, vanquishing all reason, all logic. Her body flowed over him and molded to his hands like warm, supple silk. He closed his eyes and fought it all—admirabl
y, actually, considering that her full breasts snuggled against his chest and her soft, dewy kisses sprinkled over his mouth. They might have been the innocent kisses of a virgin, brimming with unspoken curiosity, yet still filled with womanly guile.
“You can just sit here, yes. Do nothing, Stark. You’re quite magnificent. Mmm...you smell like...like I want to crawl into your heat and your skin.” She punctuated all this by nuzzling against his throat and slipping one cool palm inside the top of his shirt. She seemed sublimely content to stroke his chest and burrow there, completely unaware that he retained the slimmest control over his desires—a control unknown to most men, him included—that in another moment, if she wiggled just once more against him, all those self-imposed shackles would split asunder, and the beast would claim her as she’d never dreamed of being claimed.
The unfairness of it all. He stared at the ceiling overhead, felt her fingers working the buttons loose on his shirt, and realized he had no one to blame but himself for all this. This woman hadn’t forced him to ride into her backyard. No, that bit of brilliance was all his. He’d chosen to deceive her, dammit. At the moment, the reasons behind such a monumental decision loomed beyond his comprehension. Of course, in coming to that realization, he hadn’t once anticipated his current circumstances.
His shirt fell open beneath her fingers. She murmured something and slid her palm in a slow path down the length of his torso, pausing to stroke his tense belly. Rance could imagine no worse torture for a man.
Indeed, what man could have envisioned such a thing, awash as he’d been in noble thoughts of righting wrongs and injustices when he’d determined to come here? This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen, dammit, if a man set out with only the most upstanding of intentions, was it? Of all the damned fool’s luck.
“Are you sleeping?” she asked, poised above him suddenly, her hair a wanton tumble about her shoulders, her full breasts just resting upon his bare chest, like firebrands.
“A saint would find sleep well beyond him at this moment,” he growled, lifting her from him before he went out of his mind. “This isn’t a good idea, Jess. Not at all. And I’ll tell you why.”
