Lettie sat on her bed with her books and her notepad, but she didn’t write her poems. Instead, she watched the man who stood at the opposite end of the room. His thumb had slipped beneath the edge of the window shade, pulling it aside just enough for him to see into the darkness beyond.
After nearly an hour of watching him, Lettie put her books aside, wrapped her arms around her knees, and asked, “What do you see in the darkness, Ethan McGuire?”
He started as if she’d sneaked up behind him and touched him on his back. When he glanced at her over his shoulder, Lettie smiled and gestured to the window. “It’s black as pitch out there, but you’ve been staring into the night for nearly an hour. What do you see?”
Ethan shrugged and turned away.
She took a deep breath and grimaced, wondering if she’d made a mistake by even talking to him in the first place.
But then, speaking so low she almost didn’t hear it, Ethan murmured, “Stars.”
Her brow creased for a moment, but she waited, until he finally continued. “My father had a telescope in his study. One of those big brass affairs. When I was small, he used to show me the constellations before sending me off to bed.” He stopped, as if embarrassed.
The silence twined about them, and, wishing to put him at ease, Lettie spoke. “I don’t remember much about my own pa. He died when I was little. I only remember a big pine coffin propped in the parlor, and how Mama put all of my pretty dresses away and made me wear black.” She picked at a loose stitch in the quilt beneath her. “Then Jacob stopped playing with me.” She smiled ruefully to herself. “He had a job putting up posters for Mr. Clark, who was marshal at the time. It used to make me so mad the way Jacob would come home all puffed out like a Christmas goose and hand Mama the few pennies he’d earned, then he’d look down his nose at me as if to say ‘You’re too much of a baby to even earn your own keep.’ ”
Ethan’s lips twitched in a smile.
“Then the entire house suddenly seemed to be filled with boarders, and even though I was only five, I had my own set of chores to do.” Her hands tightened around her knees and she hesitated before asking, “Do you have brothers and sisters, Ethan?”
His shoulders seemed to grow tense, but he finally nodded. “A half brother. And two half sisters.”
“I bet they miss you,” she whispered.
Ethan glanced at her over his shoulder. “I doubt it. They’re probably glad I’m gone.”
Once again, Lettie saw a flash of vulnerability in his eyes. “No,” she murmured. “I’m sure they miss you. I’m sure they miss you a great deal. You should visit them.”
At her words, Ethan straightened and gazed at her with a dark, inscrutable look.
“No, I can’t go back.”
“Soon, then.”
“No.”
He pushed away from the wall and moved to his pallet on the floor. Yet as he drew the sheet up to his chin and turned his back to Lettie, she wondered what he’d done to make him think he could never return to his family.
The silence cloaked them for long moments, and, thinking Ethan had drifted asleep, Lettie changed into her nightgown behind the edge of the wardrobe and dove beneath the covers of her bed. But as she reached to extinguish the lamp, she heard Ethan turn.
“I’m not the man the law is looking for,” he murmured, his eyes cast in shadow.
Gazing at him over her shoulder, Lettie couldn’t deny the stark sincerity etched in the strong lines of his face.
He took a deep breath. “But I have done things I’m not proud of. And I can’t go back home—won’t go back—until I can look my family in the eye as an honorable man.”
He held her gaze for long, aching moments; then, as if embarrassed by how much he’d revealed, he muttered, “Turn off the light and let’s get some sleep.”
Once again he turned his back on her, but as she doused the wick and settled beneath the covers, Lettie found herself murmuring, “Sweet dreams, Ethan.”
After that, Lettie learned that any mention of Ethan’s family was sure to be followed by an uncomfortable silence. And nothing was more disturbing to them both than silence. With each hour they spent together, the quiet twined about them, making them realize just how alone they were in the garret.
The second night, the tension seemed to gather in the air around them as soon as Lettie entered the room. She felt Ethan’s eyes upon her, and she knew he was thinking of the kisses they had shared. And the secrets.
Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she climbed the steps, then paused, clasping her hands together. Ethan had relaxed his guard somewhat. He sat on the floor with his back propped against a trunk, gazing at her with half-veiled eyes. His shirt had been unbuttoned to his waist, and beads of sweat dappled his skin.
“It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” Lettie murmured.
Ethan gazed at her long and hard for a moment before responding. “Um-hmm.”
“I thought about doing some needlepoint tonight, but the thought of any extra cloth against my skin makes me…” She suddenly broke off, her eyes latching onto the dark patches of moisture beneath Ethan’s arms and down his chest. The fabric of his shirt seemed to cling even more lovingly in those spots.
She took a deep breath and hurried to the wardrobe. “I suppose I’ll just read.”
She gathered her notepad and Natalie Gruber’s book of poems and settled into the rocker. But after a moment, the silence between them became almost unbearable. “W-would you like me to read to you?” she asked, glancing up to find that Ethan was still watching her intently.
He nodded, and she began to read aloud. But soon Lettie discovered that a good portion of the poets had written about love, or longing, or desire.
Soon the garret seemed to swelter. Ethan’s eyes became even more intense. And for Lettie, each moment became an exquisite torture.
The third night, the tension between them built to a fever pitch. Lettie became aware that Ethan went out of his way to avoid any chance brush of the arm or touch of the hand. To her surprise, he led Lettie into intricate arguments about philosophy and politics, unconsciously revealing to Lettie that he had come from a privileged background.
That night, Lettie’s heart nearly pounded from her breast in excitement when she discovered Ethan had an extensive knowledge of literature: Milton, Thoreau, Shakespeare, and Pope. The volume of poetry Natalie Gruber had loaned her passed from hand to hand, and Ethan seemed to enjoy it when Lettie read aloud to him. Though when she finally convinced Ethan to read a few poems to her, she could have melted on the spot from the deep melodic quality of his voice. Each word Ethan uttered fell like rain on her sun-parched soul.
Until Lettie had mentioned a poem by Whitman.
When she’d suggested reading a few pieces by a poet unfamiliar to her—Walt Whitman—their discussions had altered ever so slightly. Lettie still wasn’t sure what had happened or who was responsible. She only knew that Ethan had refused to let her read Whitman. Then, within a few moments, he’d begun watching her with eyes that were dark and intense. By the end of the evening, she’d grown so aware of the man who sat across from her, it took all of her strength of will not to crawl across the bed and beg him to kiss her.
She’d never wanted anything as much as she wanted Ethan to kiss her again. And she hated herself for such wantonness. But the swirling awareness would not go away.
The following night, Lettie used her key to let herself into the garret and climbed the steps, her eyes automatically searching out the darkness until she found Ethan. As had become his custom, he stood with one palm propped against the window sill and lifted the edge of the window shade with his opposite hand.
Lettie waited in silence for a few moments, her eyes tracing the width of his shoulders and the broad expanse of his back beneath the sweat-dampened shirt he wore—one of Ned Abernathy’s she’d taken from the ironing pile. There was a weary curve to his spine, as if it took most of the energy he possessed simply to remain standing.
Sweet heaven, had she abandoned every shred of decency she’d ever claimed to have?
“I brought you some cool water,” Lettie murmured softly. When she’d come up to bring Ethan his lunch, the temperature in the attic had been sweltering. Though the heat had eased a little since then, Lettie knew Ethan would need the refreshment of the cold well water.
Ethan slowly turned. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she sensed their path as they traveled up the work-rumpled length of her skirts and bodice and lingered on the vee of flesh revealed by the buttons she’d left undone.
Becoming conscious of the way her hair hung thick and wavy around her face and clung to the dampness of her skin, Lettie lifted a hand to wipe the perspiration clinging to her brow, then dropped her head to swipe at the moisture beading her collarbone.
“Don’t do that,” Ethan ordered shortly.
She paused in midmotion. “Why not?”
He took a deep breath and shook his head, evidently sorry he’d made the comment at all. “I’m sorry, I just…”
Despite the distance between them, Lettie saw the way Ethan unconsciously swallowed. His chest swelled with another deep breath, and she felt the path his gaze made as it slipped from her face, to her neck, to her breasts. Gradually, she became aware of the way the angle of her hand pulled the worn fabric of her calico bodice taut across the contours of her body, outlining each curve that had been so intimately embraced by the restraint of her corset.
Very slowly, she lowered her arm—and because Ethan had been so free with his glances, Lettie allowed herself the same pleasure. Her eyes dipped to trace hungrily the contours of his chest visible beneath his sweat-plastered shirt—a shirt unbuttoned nearly to his navel.
Since her mother didn’t permit the male boarders any latitude in regards to their attire, Lettie had seen very few men so intimately exposed. But of those she had seen, none was so pleasing to look at as Ethan. The man had a chest that was more beautiful and well-formed than any of the illustrations she’d seen of half-naked Grecian statues in the Beasleys’ art books. Alma and Amelia would have had a heyday discussing this man’s physique.
“Don’t do that, Lettie.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me that way,” he growled.
“Why? You look at me that way.”
Ethan took a deep gulp of air and closed his eyes. The energy that filled him seemed to sizzle deep inside his frame and, without warning, he turned, slamming his fist against the wall.
Both of them froze at his spontaneous action, waiting, listening. But none of the other boarders seemed to stir.
“What’s wrong?” Lettie queried softly a few moments later, noting the strain that seemed to be etched around his mouth and nose.
Her words seemed to touch a fuse. He spun to face her, gesturing wildly with his hand. “I’ve got to get out of here!” he exclaimed in a fierce whisper. “I can’t stand being penned in like this. I feel like a stud bull.”
Lettie gasped. “I never—”
“Damn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
He desired her. For a flashing instant, she could see that fact within his expression as their eyes met and clung. They’d spent too much time in the close confines of her bedroom for them not to be aware of each other. Yet until that night, Lettie had never considered that the feelings—the anticipation, desire, and temptation—that swirled inside of her tormented Ethan as well.
And suddenly, the shimmering tension hanging between them became more than Lettie could handle. She simply didn’t have the experience necessary to control a man like Ethan McGuire.
Deciding to ignore his remark altogether, Lettie set the pitcher of water on the floor. “It will be over soon. Jacob has begun to turn his attention to other matters. Then it will be safe for you to leave.”
Silence pounded between them.
And though Lettie knew Ethan couldn’t stay in the garret indefinitely, she didn’t want him to go. Not yet.
Seeking to drive her thoughts to a safer course, Lettie turned her back on Ethan. But she could feel his eyes boring into her as she crossed to the wardrobe. Feeling self-conscious, she untied her apron and slipped the pinafore straps over her head, hanging the garment on the hook inside the door. Although she’d only removed her apron, she couldn’t deny the chills coursing through her body when she sensed the way Ethan watched her as if she had removed every stitch of clothing that covered her.
Jerking the lower drawer open, Lettie grasped her notebook. Perhaps if she sat in the rocking chair and worked on her poems, she would find a way to ignore the awareness crackling between them.
“If you’d rather not talk tonight, that’s all right. I’ll just sit here where I won’t bother you.”
“Bother me!” He strode across the room, grasping her arms and whirling her to face him. “You really are naive, aren’t you?”
At the touch of his hands on her arms, the crackling tension came rushing back.
“For the past few days you’ve paraded through this room as if I were a eunuch. Well, I’m not.”
She yanked away, putting the chair between them. Both of them were breathing hard—breathing air that hung hot and sticky and charged with words that were better left unspoken.
“I treat you as if you were a… what?”
Ethan groaned in frustration. “Haven’t you even been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“I was listening.” When he refused to continue, she found herself momentarily diverted. Eunuch! What a lovely, lovely word. Her hands rifled impatiently through the pages until she found the appropriate section. “Now tell me again. I parade in front of you as if you were a… what?”
Ethan gritted his teeth. “Eunuch.”
“Eunuch,” she repeated. “How do you spell that?”
He gazed at her in patent disbelief. “Why the hell do you want to know that?”
“Spell it, please.”
“Hell, I don’t know… e-u-nuch. Spell it any damn way you please.”
She gave him a look of irritation but bent down to print her new word carefully in the notebook. “What does it mean?”
Ethan stared at her.
“Ethan, what does it mean?”
He shifted uncomfortably, his anger forgotten. “It’s a… well—”
“You don’t know.”
“I do know.”
“Then tell me.”
Ethan hooked his thumbs into the back waist of his trousers. “It’s a… well, a… man who can’t…”
“Can’t what?” She felt a tingling within her when she saw the way Ethan seemed to grow jittery and tense.
Turning away, Ethan strode toward the pitcher of cool water.
“Tell me.”
Grabbing the pitcher, he spun around, retorting, “It’s a guard in a harem.”
“What’s a harem?”
His mouth opened, then closed. Finally he muttered, “A stable of women used by a king in Persia.”
Her eyes widened in astonishment, then in wicked delight. “Ohhh. How interesting.” Smiling to herself, she sank into the rocker and quickly printed the word harem beside her latest entry.
“Lettie…” He moved toward her, the tone of his voice rife with warning.
“Do you mind if I ask you a few more definitions?” she asked quickly. Now that she’d begun to unravel the meanings of her words, she was loathe to put her book down, especially since her questioning seemed to push some of the tension away for a moment.
He took a deep, steadying breath. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Nebbish.”
“What the hell is a nebbish?”
She sighed in disappointment. “I was hoping you’d know.” She flipped back a few pages. “We may as well begin at the beginning. What is the meaning of dervish?”
“It’s some kind of a whirling priest or something.”
Her brows lifted in interest.
“They spin around in circles until they go into a sort of trance.”
“Ohh.” She quickly scribbled a note beside the word. “How about insatiate?”
Ethan’s eyes narrowed, wondering what she was up to, but she gazed at him in wide-eyed innocence. “Unable to be satisfied,” he replied slowly.
She nodded. “Consummate.”
Ethan took a moment to cross to the wash set on the bureau and splash some of the cool water into the bowl.
“To… make complete.” He glanced in the mirror to see what she would make of that definition, still unsure whether or not she truly didn’t know the meanings of the words she’d been asking. But her ignorance seemed genuine.
“Oh.” This time her brow furrowed in disappointment. “The Beasleys seemed to talk about it as if—well, never mind.”
“The Beasleys?”
“Two maiden ladies who have lived here for years.”
“Maiden ladies?”
“Yes. Why?”
He dipped a hand into the cool water and swirled it around, hoping to ease the heat that generated from the inside. “What else do you want to know?”
When she didn’t answer him immediately, he tensed.
“I want to know why you won’t kiss me,” she blurted, then rued her unruly tongue. Drat it all! What in the world had made her say such a thing?
The swirling motions of his hand came to a halt. His eyes lifted to snag with her own gaze in the mirror.
Groaning, he squeezed his eyes closed and dunked his head into the cool water. But the basin was shallow, and he only succeeded in sloshing half of its contents onto the bureau.
He didn’t hear her moving behind him until it was too late. When her hand rested low on his back, he jerked upright, flinging water in all directions as he spun to face her.
“Dammit, Lettie, don’t,” he growled.
She looked at him, long and hard. “I’m sorry.” For a moment, her hand poised in midair, then softly, hesitantly, she lay it against the curve of his ribs. “But you go out of your way to avoid me.” Her thumb rubbed back and forth against his skin. “Why?”
Silken Dreams Page 12
