His control slipped away from him then, and when they'd arrived home and he'd pulled the wagon into the barn, he'd swung her down from the seat and taken the kiss he wanted. She had laughed and kissed him back, had tangled her hands in his hair and looked into his face and pressed her body against his. And then, when the kiss was over, she started to pull away.
He had not let her go.
Rand swallowed, thinking back, wishing he didn't remember it, wishing he could erase the image from his mind and tell himself it hadn't happened that way. But he knew it had, and he couldn't keep it from torturing him, couldn't blind himself to the truth or block the memory. He saw it all again, and it seemed far away and hazy, an experience too colored with emotion to remember properly, a vague and fuzzy dream.
But it was no dream. It was no dream when he pushed her up against the barn wall, feeling desperate and frustrated and overcome with longing. It was no dream when he pulled at her clothes, yanking up her skirts and pushing down her bodice to reveal her breasts, when he pressed against her and heard the sounds she made against his mouth. He had wanted to pleasure her too, but he was too aroused, and she was too young, and he was inside her before he knew it,
thrusting against her, in her, knowing he was being too rough and hating himself for it, hating himself for taking it this far, but unable to stop. Christ, unable even to slow down.
It was over quickly. A minute, maybe two, and he was left with guilt and horror to stay with him for a lifetime. Left with that expression on her face, the confused fear, the bewildered hurt. Left with the cold darkness that had descended within him, the horrible, terrible guilt that made him jerk away from her, made him say the words that had haunted his nightmares ever since. "Get away from me. Christ, get away. I don't want you, don't you understand? I don't want you."
Words that had been more for himself than for her. Lies to convince himself that he wasn't the monster he knew he was. Lies. So many goddamned lies. His whole life had been full of them, and now he wanted them all to fade away, wanted to tell himself the truth for once.
And the truth was that he would destroy her again if he loved her. He knew he would.
But God, he wanted to love her.
Ah, why the hell had he followed her?
Because even his fear wasn't strong enough to resist the temptation she offered. Because he'd come in from the fields and seen her standing on the back porch, Sarah pressed against her legs, and she was such a perfect vision of home and family that it stopped him dead, brought his heart pounding into his throat.
He had never thought he wanted that before, but seeing her there, with loose tendrils of hair blowing against her cheeks and her fingers tight around Sarah's hand, he wanted it with an intensity that frightened him. In that moment all of his dreams disappeared, all those vague and elusive yearnings that had haunted him since he was a boy melted away as if they were unimportant and foolish—the dreams of a boy who didn't know what life meant, the hopes of someone who'd never touched a child or held a woman in his arms.
Yes, that was why he'd followed her. That, and the vulnerability he'd seen in her face when she was in the kitchen, the way she hung back and watched them all as if she didn't belong, the uncertainty in her eyes. When he heard her go onto the front porch, it was all he could do not to rush after her, all he could do to sit calmly and wait a few minutes longer. In the end he hadn't waited long at all. He'd bolted his food and reached for a piece of pie and gone to her, telling himself he only wanted to talk to her, telling himself he just wanted to see her smile the way she had a few nights ago. Just a smile. Just some idle conversation.
But then she'd said the words that took his breath away. "She'll drive us crazy till summer with it." A simple comment, but it had startled him just the same. Not because of the words themselves but because of their implication. Till summer.
She was staying till summer.
Somewhere in the back of his mind had been the thought that this was only temporary, that someday she would leave and take his madness with her and things would return to normal. Things would just go on. Deep inside he'd thought that if he could just control himself a little longer, it would be enough. He could survive this if he just waited it out.
But she wasn't going. She was staying.
And he wondered why the thought didn't fill him with cold, stark terror. Why he didn't run from her as fast as he could, why he didn't beg her to leave. Instead he found himself asking her about her life the last six years, and feeling an absurd, overpowering urge to somehow
protect her from that, to somehow take away the pain he saw in her eyes and the loneliness he heard in her voice. To somehow ease the anguish he knew she felt over his betrayal.
In that moment nothing else had mattered, not his own desperation, not the darkness, not his fear. He'd heard that pain in her voice, and it made his heart ache, and all he wanted was to make it go away, for himself and for her, all he wanted was to bury himself so deeply inside her that they both forgot the past.
Christ, all he wanted . . .
Rand squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the images from his mind, forcing himself to listen to the corn, to the soft rustle. Feeling his entire body protest, he swung the corn knife into the stalks, concentrating until the corn was all he thought about, the dusty, brittle stalks, the leaves, the dry husks. He heard the men calling to each other, but other than that there were no sounds but the ones he made.
Swish, thwack, swish, thwack.
But those sounds didn't take away the darkness.
And nothing touched the fear.
Chapter 27
For some reason she had not expected him to come in for supper. She had counted on that, had hoped he would stay out in the barn the way he'd been doing lately. She already felt too vulnerable.
But when Sarah came through the door, leading Rand by the hand, Belle realized that she was lying to herself. She did want to see him, she was hungry to see him. She found herself devouring him with her eyes, taking in his thick, tousled hair and the drops of water clinging to his throat from washing. She found herself following one with her gaze, watching it trickle down the strong, tanned flesh of his neck to disappear in the curls revealed by the open collar of his shirt, and she felt dizzy and breathless and a little shaky.
He glanced up at her. "Hey there," he said, looking quickly away. His voice sounded thin and strained. He released Sarah's hand, gave her a little push. "Go on and sit down, Little Bit."
Lillian set a platter of cold sliced ham on the table beside a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. "Kenny said you finished the west field today," she said quickly, as if trying to fill the tense silence. Her movements were tight, jerky with what looked like anxiety. Belle knew her mother was probably nervous. In spite of their conversation this afternoon, Lillian wanted Rand to settle down and
marry Marie. Though Belle and her mother had reached a kind of understanding, nothing they'd said changed that wish, and Belle knew nothing ever would. It was just the way things were.
"It's just about done," Rand said, taking his seat. He kept his eyes carefully averted, looking at his plate, the food, Sarah—anything but Belle.
"Just remember there's the Alspaughs' husking bee tomorrow." Lillian set the pot of coffee on the table and settled in her chair, rearranging her skirts around her. "Dorothy's counting on us being there."
Belle suddenly felt cold all over; she heard Rand's bitten-off curse.
"I don't have time," he said curtly.
"Of course you do." Lillian's voice was smooth, unflustered. She handed him the plate of ham. "I've already said we'll be there."
"C'n I go too?" Sarah asked.
"Of course," Lillian said. "We'll all go."
Belle swallowed. Her throat felt tight, and when Lillian handed her the ham, she forked a slice onto her plate and stared at it, wondering how the hell she was going to get it down. "Maybe I should stay home," she said slowly. "It might be better if I did."
Lillian lo
oked at her sharply, but her voice was quiet and gentle. "Don't be absurd. You're part of the family."
Rand's head jerked up. Belle saw his surprised glance at Lillian, and then he looked at her, and his intense, hazel-bright gaze took her breath away. She wanted to look down, to break the connection, but she couldn't. In his eyes was the reminder of this afternoon, and in her mind she felt the touch of his lips, the wet heat of his tongue.
She licked her dry lips, forced herself to look away, to focus on her plate. "All right,” she said, and her voice sounded strange to her own ears, quiet and weak and oddly hoarse. "If you say so."
"I do." Lillian sliced into her meat. "Marie will be there, Rand. I'm sure you'd like to see her."
"Marie." His voice was flat. "I don't think—"
"And John Dumont of course. He was a good friend of yours once, I remember . . ."
Her mother's words faded to a low hum in Belle's mind. Marie would be there. Belle's heart sank; her hands trembled as she cut into her ham. She didn't dare look at Rand. His emotionless reply told her better than anything that he was feeling guilty. Probably he was regretting their kiss, vowing to himself it would never happen again.
That would be best, she knew. It should never happen again. They should never kiss, never even touch. They should be friends, but that was all. Just two people who talked together on Sundays, two people who enjoyed each other's company.
But not two people who longed for each other.
No, not that. Caring for him in that way had ruined her life once before; the way he treated her then nearly destroyed her. She could not take the risk it would happen again, didn't want to.
Still she couldn't keep herself from looking up, from watching him while he ate. Couldn't help looking at his long, agile fingers and thinking about how they felt against her skin. She watched the movement of his full lips and imagined the press of them against her own; she saw the gleam of lamplight on his chest and wished she could remember how the curls there felt against her hands, her breasts.
You can't have him. You want his friendship more. But the reminder was only a weak voice in her head, and she had to force herself to remember there was no other choice. Rand didn't love her. He might want her, but he loved Marie—Belle had not imagined the happiness in his smile when he was with the schoolteacher. She couldn't fight that, and she didn't want to.
She thought again of how things would be when he was married to Marie, thought of Marie standing at Rand's elbow on harvest days, waiting to load his plate as soon as he emptied it.
Belle swallowed hard, trying to remember that night six years ago, the night of the husking bee. Trying to remember the roughness of his kiss, the revulsion in his eyes when he'd pushed her away.
But the memory seemed hazy now. Instead of the rough touch, she remembered a gentle one. Instead of revulsion, she saw the yearning that had been in his eyes this afternoon, felt the gentle touch of his kiss. It was like those first kisses, when she was just a girl and infatuated with him. Those soft, pleasurable touches, lips and tongues and shivers that left her weak and aching. It made her remember other things about that long-ago night in the barn. Made her remember the way she'd wanted him then. The way she'd pushed against him with her hips and moaned against his mouth and longed for something she didn't know how to ask for.
And she knew she wanted that again. Wanted the pure feeling of needing him, desiring him. She wanted that elusive something she couldn't name, the sweetness that she knew was somehow just beyond her reach.
Yes, she wanted it. She wanted to experience that one more time before she gave him up forever.
The thought startled her into stillness, her fork felt suddenly heavy and clumsy in her hand. She heard her mother droning on without hearing the words, and Belle glanced up at Rand, catching her breath when their gazes caught, and she saw something flash through his eyes, something that sank into her heart, her soul. A longing that matched her own. She saw his eyes fall to her lips, felt the caress of his gaze on her skin.
She took a deep breath. "Are you—are you goin' to the barn tonight?" she asked, and then realized that she'd just interrupted her mother.
Lillian stared at her in disbelief. "Isabelle, please—"
Rand nodded. "For a while," he said. He pushed aside his plate, still piled with ham and a half-eaten egg. "I think I'll go out there now in fact. There's plenty to do."
“You haven't eaten much, Randall," Lillian noted.
He glanced at his plate as if he'd forgotten it. "Oh. Well, I—I'm not hungry really."
"C'n I come out with you, Papa?" Sarah slid from her chair.
He hesitated and then he nodded, and Belle knew he was doing his best to keep from looking at her. "Just for a little while," he said. "It's close to bedtime."
"I'll call in an hour," Lillian said.
Sarah looked at Belle. "You come too."
Rand inhaled sharply. The sound made Belle's stomach tight, and she shook her head slowly. "Not tonight, Sarah," she said. "Some other time maybe. I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go on up to bed."
He grabbed Sarah's hand, and the two of them went to the door. "See you in the morning, then," he said, opening it.
Belle nodded slowly. "In the mornin'," she agreed, gripping her fork with tense fingers. "Sleep well."
It was late, and though his body was tired and his muscles burned with exhaustion, he was still wide awake. He was so sore from cutting corn that the sheets hurt his naked skin, the blankets felt too heavy and too hot.
But it wasn't that discomfort that kept him from falling asleep. It was something else, the fierce, burning heat of longing, the pain of constant arousal. He closed his eyes and he saw her. He fell asleep and he dreamed of her. The vision of her was like a demon before him, tempting and alluring, a siren song he couldn't stop, a need he couldn't ease.
He should never have come in for supper. He hadn't been able to eat, or think. He found himself watching her when she wasn't looking, found his gaze traveling up the graceful curve of her neck, wondered what the skin there would feel like against his mouth, what it would taste like. He watched the way she ate, the slow, deliberate chewing, the touch of her tongue to her lips when she drank, and he wondered how it would feel to have her mouth pressed to his throat, his chest.
For a while, an hour, Sarah had distracted him, but then she was gone, and he'd stayed alone in the barn until all the lights were out in the house, until he was sure Belle was in bed. He didn't know if he could control himself if she wasn't, didn't know if he could keep from pressing her against a wall and just taking her. It had been hard enough to walk past her room, to look at the door and know she was behind it. He had to remind himself that he had hurt her the last time he couldn't control himself, that he'd humiliated her, and he didn't want to do it again, didn't know if he could keep from doing it. But even with that reminder it had taken every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from joining her, to keep himself walking to his own room, his bed, to stay there.
class=Section6> And now he wondered how he would bear it past tonight. How he would go on tomorrow night and the next and the one after that, how he would keep himself from wanting her, from touching her.
Ah, Christ, how?
He heard the creak of the floorboard in the hallway. Rand stiffened, waiting for the sound of a step. In seconds he heard what he was waiting for, a soft footfall, a quiet tread. Lillian probably, he thought, holding his breath as if afraid she could somehow sense the state he was in.
He laid there, listening, hearing it come closer and closer, waiting for it to pass his door and fade away, his whole being focused on the sound. One step, two, and he waited for the three, waited for the pass.
It stopped.
He heard the quiet click of his door.
His heart stopped in his chest, his breath caught. Carefully, Rand rose to one elbow. The door creaked open. Beyond it he could see nothing but dark hallway, nothing but shadow. "Who's there?" he asked harshly. "Sa
rah?"
"No." The voice was a whisper, but with a shock he recognized it, and cold sweat broke over his skin, sent his heart racing. He watched wordlessly as she slipped inside, closing the door tightly behind her, and he thought, This is a dream. This has to be a dream. It could be nothing else. She stood there, just as he'd always imagined her, palms pressed against the door, the white lawn of her nightclothes glowing in the darkness. A spirit, a formless dream.
But even as he thought it, the moon came out from behind a cloud, drenching his room in moonlight, dancing over her hair, her form, casting her face in shadow, and he knew it was no dream. Her arms were bare, and her hair was loose and waving over her shoulders, down her back. The white lawn caressed her body, falling against wide hips and small breasts, molding to the line of her leg.
"Christ." He heard his own voice, and it sounded hoarse and far away, not like his at all. "What are you doing here?"
It .was so quiet, he heard her swallow. She made a sound, a nervous laugh that died away in the darkness, leaving nothing but silence. Silence so deep that even the quiet of her voice echoed in his mind.
"Don't make me go," she said, and he heard the defenseless plea in her voice, the vulnerability that had haunted him since her return. "Please."
He fisted his hands, forcibly kept himself from going to her. "Belle—"
"Don't." She shook her head and took a step toward him. "Don't say anythin'. I know this doesn't mean anythin'." She touched the top fastening of her nightgown, loosing it so that the fabric fell open, and then she unfastened the next one, and the one after that. "But I thought ... I mean, I want . . ." She took a deep breath, as if marshaling her courage, and then she spoke quickly, the words falling over themselves, a rumble of sound where every word was crystal clear and startling. "I want you just for tonight. Then I promise I won't bother you again."
After the frost f Page 30
