The Return Of Rafe Mackade tmb-1

by Nora Roberts

  Delighted with her, he hauled her into his lap. "Give me back my shirt, darling, and I'll show you."

  Chapter 7

  Cozy in the sleeping bag, Regan dozed by the fire. It sizzled, logs crackling, and brushed heat over her face and her outflung arm. She sighed, cruising with the dream, shifting toward her lover.

  Her dreams were nearly as erotic as the reality of the past hours, vivid enough to have her stirring, and yearning. When she reached out and found herself alone, she sighed again, in disappointment.

  The fire was lively, so she knew Rafe had built it up once more before he left her. The room was quiet enough that she could hear the ticking of the mantel clock marking time. Evidence of the night's activities was all around her, in the hastily strewn clothes littering the floor, the torn bits of lace and the jumbled boots. And the evidence was within her as she stretched, feeling the warm glow of desire.

  She wished he was there, so that he could stoke it as he had stoked the fire.

  Still, it was a wonderful shock to realize she could lay claim to such a bottomless well of passion.

  It had never been so before, she reflected, sitting up to exercise her stiff and sore muscles. Physical relationships had always been far down on her list of priorities. She wondered if, after her recent behavior, Rafe would be surprised to know that before him, she had considered herself hesitant, even a little shy, when it came to intimacy.

  With a yawn, she reached for her sweater and pulled it over her head.

  Knowing him, she decided, he'd just be smug.

  It was a pity she couldn't blame her celibacy of the past few years for her wildfire response to him. It felt as though her libido had been nothing more than dry timber set to the torch the moment he put his hands on her. But using abstinence as the major reason for her response would be far from honest.

  Whatever her life had been before, he'd changed it just by stepping into her path. It was certain she would never look at cozy nights by a fire in the same way again. It was doubtful she would look at anything in quite the same way again, she mused, now that she knew what she was capable of with the right... mate.

  Just how, she wondered, did a woman go back to a quiet, settled life once she'd had a taste of Rafe MacKade? That was something she was going to have to deal with, one cautious day at a time.

  At the moment, the only thing she wanted was to find him.

  In her stocking feet, she began to wander the house. He could be anywhere, and the challenge of hunting him down, finding him busy with some chore—one she was determined to distract him from—amused her.

  The chill of the bare floors seeped through and had her rubbing her hands together for a little warmth. But curiosity far overweighed a little discomfort.

  She'd been through the first-floor rooms only twice before. First on her initial viewing to take notes and measurements. The second time to recheck them. But there were no workmen now, no sounds of voices or hammering.

  She slipped into the room beyond the parlor, dreaming a bit.

  This would be the library—glossy shelves filled with books, deep-cushioned chairs inviting a guest to curl up to read. A library table would stand there, she mused, a Sheraton if she could find one, with a decanter of brandy, a vase of seasonal flowers, an old pewter inkwell.

  library steps, of course, she continued visualizing, seeing it all perfectly, almost to the grain of wood. And the wide-backed chairs near the crackling fire would need cozy footstools.

  She wanted a reading stand in the far corner, one with a cabriole base. She'd set a big, old Bible with gilt-edged pages open on it.

  Abigail O'Brian, married to Charles Richard

  Barlow, April 10, 1856

  Catherine Anne Barlow, born June 5,1857

  Charles Richard Barlow, Junior, born November

  22,1859

  Robert Michael Barlow, born February 9,1861

  Abigail Barlow, died September 18,1864

  Regan shivered, swayed. She came back to herself slowly, her arms wrapped tight to ward off the sudden, bitter cold, her heart pounding as the vision faded from in front of her eyes.

  How had she known that? she wondered, running a shaky hand over her face. Where had those names and dates come from?

  She'd read them somewhere, she assured herself, but shuddered again. All the research she'd done, of course she'd read them. Very slowly, she backed out of the room and stood in the hall to catch her breath.

  Of course she'd known the Barlows of that time had had three children. She'd looked it up. The dates must have been there, as well—she'd retained them for some reason, that was all.

  Not for anything would she have admitted that she had thought, just for a moment, that she'd actually seen the thick white page of a Bible opened, and the names and dates written there in a carefully formal hand.

  She walked to the stairs and climbed them.

  He'd left the door open this time. When she reached the landing, she heard the scrape of his trowel against the wall. Letting out a relieved breath, she crossed the hall.

  And was warm again, just looking at him.

  "Need a hand?"

  He glanced back, saw her standing there in her classic sweater and pleated trousers. "Not in that outfit. I just wanted to get this coat finished, and I thought you needed some sleep."

  She contented herself with leaning against the doorway to watch him. "Why is it that manual labor is so attractive on some men?"

  "Some women like to see guys sweat."

  "Apparently I do." Thoughtfully she studied his technique, the slide of the trowel, the flick of the wrist. "You know, you're better at this than the guy who did my place over the shop. Very tidy."

  "I hate drywall work."

  "Then why are you doing it?"

  "I like when it's finished. And I'm faster than the team I hired."

  "How did you learn?"

  "We were always having to fix something out at the farm." He twisted his neck, cracking out kinks. "When I left, I did a lot of handyman stuff."

  "Then started your own company."

  "I don't like working for somebody else."

  "Neither do I." She hesitated, waiting while he scraped off his tools. "Where did you go? When you left?"

  "South." He stooped to bang the top back on the bucket of compound. "Picked up some jobs here and there. Figured out I was better at swinging a hammer than running a plow." Out of habit, he reached into his shirt pocket, found it empty. Swore. "Quit smoking," he muttered.

  "Good for you."

  "It's driving me nuts." To keep himself busy, he walked over to check a seam he'd finished the night before.

  "You went to Florida," she said prompting him.

  "Yeah, that's where I ended up. Lots of construction work in Florida. I started buying houses-dumps—fixing them up, turning them over. Did pretty well. So I came back." He turned to her. "That's about it."

  "I wasn't prying," she began.

  "I didn't say you were. There just isn't much to it, Regan. I had a rep when I left here. Spent my last night in town in a bar fight. With Joe Dolin."

  "I wondered if there was history there," she murmured.

  "Not much of one." He slipped off the bandanna he'd twisted at his forehead to keep the hair out of his eyes, stuffed it in his pocket. "We just hated each other's guts."

  "I'd say your taste in enemies is excellent."

  Restless again, he moved his shoulders. "If it hadn't been him, it would have been somebody else. I was in the mood that night." His grin flashed, but there wasn't much humor in it. "Hell, I was usually in the mood to cause trouble. Nobody ever figured I'd amount to anything, not even me."

  If he was trying to tell her something, she wasn't sure she quite understood it. "It looks as though they were wrong. Even you."

  "People are going to talk, about us." He'd thought about it, as he watched her sleep, finding himself restless and edgy and needing to move. "You're going to walk into Ed's or Kingston's Market,
and conversation's going to take a hitch. And when you walk out again, people are going to start talking about what that nice Bishop woman is doing with that troublemaker Rafe MacKade."

  "I've been here three years, Rafe. I know how it works."

  He needed something to do with his hands, so he picked up sandpaper and attacked the first dry seam. "I don't imagine you've given them much to gossip about up to now."

  He worked as if the devil were looking over his shoulder, she thought. It seemed he did everything with that controlled urgency just under the surface.

  "I was pretty hot news when I opened the shop. What's this flatlander doing taking over old Leroy's place, selling antiques instead of screws and pipe fittings?" She smiled a little. "That got me a lot of browsers, and a good many browsers became customers." She angled her head, watching him. "Something like this should pick business up dramatically for a few weeks."

  "I want you to understand what you're getting into."

  "It's a little late for that." Because she sensed he needed some prodding, she obliged. "Maybe you're worried about your reputation."

  "Right." Dust flew as he sanded. "I was thinking of running for mayor."

  "No, your bad-boy rep. 'MacKade must be getting soft, hanging around that nice Bishop woman. Next thing you know, he'll be buying flowers instead of a six-pack. Bet she'll whip him into shape.'"

  Curious, he tossed the sandpaper aside, tucked his thumbs in his front pockets and turned to look at her. "Is that what you're going to try to do, Regan? Whip me into shape?"

  "Is that what you're worried about, MacKade? That I could?"

  It wasn't a comfortable thought. "Legions have tried." He walked over, skimmed a dusty finger down her cheek. "It'd be easier for me to corrupt you, darling. I could have you playing nine-ball at Duff's Tavern in no time."

  "I could have you quoting Shelley."

  "Shelley who?"

  With a chuckle, she rose on her toes to give him a friendly kiss. "Percy Bysshe Shelley. Better watch yourself."

  The idea of that was so ridiculous, his tensed shoulders relaxed. "Darling, the day I start spouting poetry's the day Shane's prize hog sprouts wings and flies down Main Street."

  She smiled again, kissed him again. "You don't want to make it a bet. Come on, I'd like to take a look at the work in progress."

  He snatched her hand. "What kind of bet?"

  She laughed, tugged him into the hall. "Rafe, I'm joking. Give me a tour."

  "Just hold on. MacKades never back down from a dare."

  "I'm daring you to quote Shelley?" She sighed, shook her head. "Okay, I dare you."

  "No, that's not how it works." Considering, he lifted her hand, nibbled on her fingers. The flicker of arousal in her eyes inspired him. "I say I can have you so crazy about me within a month that you'll wiggle into a leather miniskirt. A red one. Walk into the tavern for beer and nine-ball."

  Arousal turned quickly into amusement. "What odd fantasies you have, MacKade. Can you actually see me in some tarty little skirt, playing pool?"

  The smile turned wicked. "Oh, yeah. I can see that just fine. Make sure you wear those really high heels, too. The skinny ones."

  "I never wear leather without stilettos. Anything less would be tacky."

  "And no bra."

  Her laughed puffed out. "Really into this, aren't you?"

  "I'm getting there. You'll do it, too." He cupped a hand on her hip to nudge her closer. "Because you'll be crazy about me."

  "It's obvious one of us has already lost our mind. Okay." Not one to refuse a challenge, she put a hand on his chest, pushed him back. "I say within that same period of time, I'll have you on your knees, clutching a bouquet of... ah... lilacs—"

  "Lilacs?"

  "Yes, I'm very fond of lilacs. You'll quote Shelley like a champ."

  "What's the winner get?"

  "Satisfaction."

  He had to smile. "That ought to be enough. Deal."

  They shook hands on it. "Am I going to get that tour now?"

  "Sure." He draped an arm around her shoulder and entertained himself with the vision of those very fine legs beneath a tight red skirt. "We went with your idea of a kind of bridal suite." He led the way down the hall, opened a six-paneled door. "Just about ready for trim work in here."

  "Rafe." Delighted, she stepped inside.

  The delicate floral wallpaper was nearly all hung. The coffered ceiling gleamed with fresh paint. French doors were in place, and would one day open onto the wide porch, overlook gardens in riotous bloom. The floor was covered with drop cloths, but she could imagine it glossy and accented with a lovely faded tapestry rug.

  She stepped around buckets and ladders, already arranging furniture in her head. "It's going to be beautiful," she murmured.

  "It's coming along." He lifted a tarp from the fireplace. "The mantel was shot. I couldn't fix it. Found a good piece of yellow pine, though. The woodworker's using the original as a guide."

  "That rose-colored trim is going to be wonderful in here." She looked through an adjoining doorway. "And this is the bath."

  "Mmm..." He studied the room over her shoulder. It was good-sized, and the plumbers had roughed it in. "Used to be a dressing room."

  She reached for his hand, gripped it. "Can you smell it?"

  "Roses." Absently he rubbed his cheek over her hair. "It always smells like roses in here. One of the paper hangers accused his partner of wearing perfume."

  "This was her room, wasn't it? Abigail's. She died in here."

  "Probably. Hey." He tipped up her face, watched uncomfortably as a tear trailed down her cheek. "Don't."

  "It's so sad. She must have been terribly unhappy. Knowing the man she'd married, the father of her children, was capable of such cold-blooded cruelty. How did he treat her, Rafe? Did he love her, or did he only own her?"

  "There's no way to know. Don't cry." Awkward, he brushed the tear away. "It makes me feel like I have six thumbs. I mean it." For lack of something better to do, he patted her head. "There's no use crying over something that happened more than a hundred years ago."

  "But she's still here." Wrapping her arms around him, Regan snuggled into his chest. "I feel so sorry for her, for all of them."

  "You're not going to do yourself, or me, any good if you get tangled up every time you come in here."

  "I know." She sighed, comforted by the way his heart beat strong and steady against her. "It's odd how you get used to it, a little bit at a time. Rafe, when I was downstairs alone..."

  "What?" Uneasy, he tilted her face toward his again.

  "If s nothing."

  "What?" he repeated, giving her chin a little shake.

  "Well, I walked into the library. What was the library," she went on, torn between the need to tell him and embarrassment. "What will be the library. And I— Rafe, I could see it."

  His eyes were sharp, narrowed, totally concentrated. "See what?"

  "The room. Not the stained floors and the new wiring you've put in. The room. Books on the wall, flowers on the table, drapes at the windows. I could really see it," she repeated, her own brow creasing. "Not the way I do in my head when I'm planning things out. Not exactly like that. I was thinking to myself, sort of projecting, I suppose. I imagined this, well, I thought I was imagining a Bible stand, with an old family Bible opened on it. And I could read the page, almost touch it. Marriage and births and death."

  She took time to catch her breath. "You're not saying anything."

  "Because I'm listening to you."

  "I know it sounds crazy."

  "Not in this house, it doesn't."

  "It was so real, so sad. The way the scent of roses in this room is real, and sad. Then it was so cold, bitter, like a window had been filing open to the weather."

  She moved her shoulders, laid her head on his chest again. "That's all."

  "That's a lot for one day." Wanting to soothe, he stroked his hand over her hair. "I can give Devin a call, have him come get you.
"

  "No, I don't want to leave. It shook me for a moment, but it's just as I said before. You get to accept it. I can handle it."

  "I shouldn't have left you alone."

  "Don't be silly. I don't need to be guarded against grieving ghosts."

  But he wanted to guard her. He wished she had called for him. It surprised Mm just how much he wished she had needed him enough to call out for him.

  "Next time you want to go in the library, let me know. I'll go with you."

  "The house is already changing," she said quietly. "You've done that by caring for it. I like feeling I've had a part in that, too."

  "You have." He pressed his lips to her hair.

  "When people live in it, make love in it, laugh in it, it'll change again. The house needs people."

  She shifted, lifted her mouth to his. "Make love with me."

  He cupped her face in his hands, deepened the kiss. When he picked her up, carried her from the room, the scent of roses followed. She looped her arms around him, pressed her lips to his throat. Already her blood was heating, already her pulse was pounding.

  "It's like a drug," she murmured.

  "I know.'' He stopped at the top of the stairs, found her mouth again.

  "I've never been like this before." Swamped with emotions, she turned her face into his shoulder.

  Neither had he, he thought.

  As he carried her down, neither noticed that the air had remained warm and calm.

  He laid her in front of the fire. Levering himself up on his elbow, he traced the shape of her face with a fingertip. Something kindled inside her, simmered with desire and flamed around her heart.

  "Rafe."

  "Ssh..."

  To quiet her, he brushed his lips over her brow. She didn't know what she would have said, was grateful he'd stopped her. The wanting was more than enough. She could be relieved that neither of them needed words.

  She should have been relieved.

  Her mouth was ready for his, and it warmed beautifully under the pressure of lips and tongue. Though desire remained, poised and trembling, everything in her seemed to soften.