by Linda Jones
Practically running, she crossed the deserted street. It was too cold to be out without a shawl at the very least, but she had nothing to cover herself with. The chill cut through her gown the way the cold rain stung her face. She didn't care. The soft light in Cyrus's window was like a beacon, guiding her in the dark. She didn't hesitate, not once, not even as she knocked soundly on Cyrus's door.
Almost immediately he threw the door open. Apparently he'd been dressed for bed, because his feet were bare and all he wore was a pair of trousers that weren't even buttoned all the way up.
She looked at his stoic face, into his calm, clear eyes, studying him, wondering. Still angry and confused she hoped, more than anything, that she was right. He waited silently on the other side of the threshold, watching her, maybe even knowing why she was here. He didn't ask her in, and he didn't shut her out.
She licked her lips and took a deep breath. “'The face of all the world is changed, I think,'” she whispered.
Cyrus swallowed hard and his jaw clenched, making his face appear hard, unforgiving. He gripped the side of the door so that the muscles in his arms and chest flexed and hardened as if he were preparing to fight, to swing out at her and anyone else who got in his way.
He looked past her ... perhaps to the balcony where she'd been so well wooed. And then he fastened warm, green eyes on hers and whispered back.
"'Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul.’”
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Sixteen
When he'd seen Roxanne running across the street he'd stepped into his trousers and prepared himself for trouble; the kind of trouble people came to the sheriff with. But when he'd opened the door and seen her face he'd known. Somehow—from the kiss, no doubt—she'd found him out. How had he ever thought he could keep this from her?
He waited for her to run away in tears, her worst fears confirmed with the utterance of a few words. But she didn't run. She stood her ground and looked him in the eye, and he, who could usually read her so well, couldn't tell what she was thinking.
"It was you,” she finally whispered.
The rain started to come down harder, and a gust of wind blew cold drops beneath the small overhang above his front door. It pelted Roxanne, and a few cold drops even found his chest and arms and face.
"Get in here,” he said, taking her hand and drawing her into his one-room house, shutting the door on the rain and the night. As soon as she was inside and the door was closed behind her, he released his hold on her hand. “I guess you'd like an explanation."
He expected almost anything; tears, screaming, cold anger. He didn't expect what he got; a calm, serene, “Yes, I'd like that very much."
He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down, her full pink skirt and voluminous petticoats rustling as they settled around her. While she watched and waited, quiet and composed with her hands folded demurely in her lap and her face lifted expectantly, he paced before her.
The lamp and a small fire blazed low, lighting and warming the room. The curtains were tightly closed, shielding them, somehow, from everything that happened outside this room. Rain pattered against the house, a low wind howled, but here they were warm and dry.
As Cyrus paced, he searched for the words that would explain away his deception. Roxanne didn't make it easy for him; she waited patiently.
"When you started talking about getting married again I knew your long mourning had come to an end, and I was happy for you. The time had finally come for you to start a new life, to put the past behind you where it belongs.” True enough, so far.
"And then you saw Calvin, and it was like ... it was like you were finally becoming your old self again.” He cut a quick glance to her, to see how she reacted. She didn't, not at all. “The look on your face when you first saw him was extraordinary. Your eyes lit up, and your cheeks flushed pink, and your mouth practically fell open."
Her eyebrows arched slightly, but that was her only response.
"Beautiful Calvin,” he whispered, “with his handsome face and plans for a farm where you could be isolated and hide from the world, was everything you wanted. Everything you needed. He was your ideal man, and I did my best to give him to you."
She bristled but said nothing.
"In the beginning, I just tried to help him along, to give him a shove in the right direction.” Cyrus ran a distracted hand through his hair. A shove, hell, he'd practically thrown Calvin and Roxanne together. “I never meant for my interference to go so far, I swear. I'm sorry. Dammit, Roxanne, I'm so sorry."
He stood before her and waited for her reaction, for her anger and righteous indignation, for her hatred and contempt. All deserved. But even as he waited for all that he held his breath, hoping. He had no right to ask for forgiveness, but that didn't mean he couldn't hope....
Roxanne lifted her head to look him in the eye. “Did all of this come about simply because I said Calvin was beautiful?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Really, Cyrus, how insulting. The world is full of beauty, things to be admired for a moment or two. A sunset, a painting, a happy child. That doesn't mean.... “She took a deep breath, perhaps searching for control. The hands in her lap clenched, white knuckled, and crushed against pink silk. “I don't expect everything I admire to be laid at my feet,” she said quickly. “I don't want everything I admire laid at my feet!"
He shook his head, wishing Roxanne would look away so he could. “I didn't mean—"
"Did you mean a word of it?” she interrupted. Bright tears shone in her eyes. “Was it all just ... just a game to you?"
"I meant every word I said,” he admitted, to himself as well as to Roxanne. “And every word I wrote."
She relaxed a little, her hands unclenching, her shoulders drooping. “Why didn't you just tell me the truth?” she whispered. Her eyes were too bright, but she did not weep.
She made it sound so damn easy, as if telling her the truth had ever been an option.
"You wanted Calvin,” he said bitterly. “You said it yourself, more than once. The man you were looking for had to be safe and beautiful. I'm not safe or beautiful, Roxanne, and I never will be."
She came to her feet quickly, angry at last. “So you tried to make the most important decision of my life for me, is that it? You took that pretty, dimwitted boy and wrapped him up in a package I couldn't resist. You ... you.... “Her eyes widened as a new thought occurred to her. “Cyrus Bergeron, you seduced me for someone else."
"I guess I did,” he muttered.
He waited for her to bolt for the door, to run out of his life. While he waited he simply looked at her, knowing this might be the last time he enjoyed the luxury, knowing that after tonight any hope he'd had for them was gone.
Something amazing happened as he watched. Her face softened, the anger fled from her eyes. The fingers that had clenched into tight fists unfurled, slowly and softly.
"But you were the man who came to me, the man who loved me."
"Yes."
"You're the man who enticed me, who courted me and touched my heart.” She stood so near he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the slight tremble of her lips, the way the hands that hung at her side shook ever so slightly. “You're the man who made me want to live again. Maybe you intended to seduce me for someone else, but when the time came ... when the time was right...."
"I know,” he said softly, when it seemed she couldn't finish her sentence aloud and he could no longer stand the silence, the accusation, that hung between them.
"And then you let me believe you were another man,” she said, her voice strong again, “just because I was shallow enough to observe on an occasion or two that Calvin had a handsome face. Even after he left town,” she added angrily. “You allowed me to believe that I'd made the most horrible mistake of my life. You sat back and let me feel guilty and indecent and ... and...."
He tried to come up with an argument that would excuse himself, but there was none. What he'd done was
unforgivable. “I wanted to tell you. A hundred times I wanted to tell you.” He made himself look her square in the eye. “Another hundred times I swore I never would. I didn't want to hurt you any more than I already had. I didn't want to chase you away,” he added softly.
Roxanne reached up and laid a hand on his cheek, over the scar that reminded him every day of his failure. That wonderfully soft hand trembled, and her eyes softened. “All this, just because I said Calvin was beautiful. Just because I came up with a silly plan to manufacture what I thought I needed to move on. Beautiful and safe.” She sighed once. “I think you're beautiful,” she whispered. “And as for safe ... I never felt so safe as I did when you held me and told me you loved me, and I always feel safe when you're with me."
Having her hand on him, even so innocently, was more than he could take. Everything in him tightened and tensed, and he fought the natural urge to lift his arms and hold her, to pull her body against his. His hands were hard fists at his side as he fought his own traitorous impulses. “I only wanted to give you everything you want,” he whispered. “You deserve that."
"Cyrus,” she said, leaning closer to him, teasing him with her scent and her warmth, with her luscious, waiting mouth and her smoldering eyes. “Ask me what I want now."
"What do you want?” He already knew the answer, the amazing, wondrous answer, as his lips drifted unerringly towards hers.
"I want you."
Roxanne sighed as Cyrus finally slid his arms around her, as he finally kissed her. Falling against his chest she melted against him, into him. She was starved for his warmth and his hard, steady body against hers, for his arms and his kiss and his love.
His lips were studiously slow and ardently tender, and she savored every brush of his mouth against hers. Just that easily he captured her. She felt him in every pore, in every thrum of her heated blood. She laid her hands over his bare back, resting her palms against skin hard and warm. The simple contact seemed electric, and as if to prove her right a crack of thunder broke the night.
Cyrus moaned, low and soft, and she caught the telling breath between her slightly parted lips just before his tongue slipped into her mouth and launched a riot of sensations that coursed through her body. She felt this kiss in her heart and her weakening knees, in her lungs and the pit of her stomach. Yes, this was right. This was perfect.
The sensations were familiar, as was the touch and smell and taste she savored. But tonight, as her body sang and thrummed and rejoiced, she could open her eyes and, by the light of the fire and a single lamp, see the face of the man who had brought her back to life.
She took her mouth from his and tilted her head back so she could do just that. A strand of dark hair fell across his forehead, and she reached up to push it back. His beautiful eyes, a warm and mossy hazel-green, were looking at her with love and desire and maybe even relief that his secret was no longer a secret.
The features of his face were strong and perhaps even brutal, in the strange light cast from the fire and the single light, his cheekbones prominent and his nose unerringly straight. His mouth damp and full. His jaw sharp and dusted with dark bristles. The scar on his face was ugly, but only because it served as a reminder of his terrible pain.
Pain that was in the past, just as her fears and numbness were in the past.
"I love you,” she whispered.
"Roxanne, don't.... “he said huskily.
"I love you,” she said again. “Love me."
Cyrus answered by kissing her once again, gentle and then hard, adoring and demanding. His fingers speared through her hair and he held her close. She leaned back as he towered over her, as he held her with arms strong and powerful and wonderfully tender.
His grip was assured, his mouth demanding, his body hard and hot, overpowering with its size and strength. She was completely in his hands.
And she was wonderfully, magically safe.
His hands fluttered against her throat, and she felt the buttons there slip through his fingers until the lace and silk fell away and he brushed his fingers gently against her bare skin, burning a trail she felt even after those fingers slipped lower to brush over a linen-covered nipple. With his mouth he caressed her neck, licking and sucking at the sensitive base of her throat while his hands grazed over her body.
She arched against him, pressing her breast against his palm, craving, already, the feel of his bare skin against hers, the press of flesh she hungered for.
He was everywhere. As he kissed her lips and her neck and caressed her with tender hands, he worked the tiny buttons all the way to her waist. He slipped a hand inside the opening and peeled away inch after inch of fabric, found the laces and hooks and eyes that held her rose gown and the simple underwear beneath in place. Skin that was revealed he kissed, nibbled and stroked and sucked. A soft glow that started deep inside infused her body with heat and a splendid sensitivity to every breath, every touch, every kiss he gave her. Ribbons were untied, laces were loosened, hooks unfastened to allow her to breathe deeply.
All at once, without warning, the rose dress fell to the floor, and she stood before him in nothing but a thin chemise, one of her three petticoats, and a corset that was already mostly unlaced.
"You're very good at this,” she whispered as she kicked away the dress and he finished unlacing her corset.
"I'm inspired,” he said, with just a touch of husky humor, as he yanked away the corset and tossed it aside. With one hand he loosened the last remaining petticoat, and it fell to the floor to pool at her feet.
Her insides quaked and shivered as Cyrus kissed her again. This time as he kissed her, he half-walked, half-carried her to the bed. Without the skirt and petticoats between them, she could feel the evidence of his arousal, the firm ridge that pressed insistently against her. When he stopped at the side of the bed and laid a hand on her breast, to caress and tease and arouse, she reached down and touched him there, her tentative fingers barely brushing against his trousers. He groaned and stepped quickly away.
"Stay right there,” he ordered huskily.
She waited; suddenly shy, half-naked, trembling with anticipation.
Cyrus moved quickly through the room, opening one drawer and then another. What was he doing? She wanted him here, needed him, craved him. As he moved through the room she watched, admiring the artlessly graceful way he moved, the beauty of his body so different from her own. He collected something from the pantry on the opposite side of the room. With the pantry door opened she couldn't see what it was he carried, but as he came to her she could see very well.
He carried in his arms a dozen or more candles, a small brass candelabra, and a box of matches.
"I don't have a hundred,” he said as he arranged the candles on the bedside table. He didn't look directly at her, but gave his attention to the task at hand. “Maybe this will do."
He lit each and every one of the candles, until a soft, warm glow washed over the bed. Roxanne smiled. Yes, this time when she touched Cyrus she would see his face, she would know the man who loved her. There would be no hiding tonight, no denial, no questions unanswered.
By the light of the flickering candles he removed the last of her clothing; the thin chemise. When she was naked he lowered her to the bed, holding her close, wrapping his body around hers so that somehow they floated down together.
She stretched across the center of the big bed, tense and hot, tingling and anxious. Cyrus lowered his head to touch his lips to hers, to take the kiss lower, to her throat, to continue the slow descent to take a pebbled nipple into his mouth. He suckled gently, drawing her into his mouth. The sensation was more than she could stand, and she bucked slightly, coming up off the bed. He didn't stop, but sucked the nipple deeper into his mouth, laved his tongue against it, sucked again. She threw her head back and closed her eyes, lost in impossible sensations that grew and whirled through her entire body.
When he left her, left the bed completely, she felt momentarily abandoned. Alone and des
perate and wanting. She opened her eyes to see him standing at the side of the bed, shucking his trousers so he was as bare as she. Need rippled through her, and still she smiled up at the man she loved; the man who loved her. He had a magnificent body, hard and rippled with muscles that were usually hidden by his clothing. His arms and legs were long and powerful, his hips narrow and his belly flat. His arousal was impossibly big and hard. Just looking at it made her body throb in response.
Slowly, he drifted down to cover her, to rest atop her waiting body. It was as she remembered, only better, keener. Hot flesh met hot flesh, hungry mouth pressed to hungry mouth. When he reached between their bodies to part her thighs, she spread her legs wide without a moment's hesitation. When he touched her, where she was already wet and throbbing for him, she arched against him involuntarily and moaned aloud.
Weak and strong, she trembled with a burst of unknown power. A throbbing emptiness quaked deep inside her, a hollowness that only Cyrus could fill. She waited anxiously for the thrust that would bring her longing to an end.
His fingers continued to tease her mercilessly, and she felt a faint tremble of his lips as his kissed her. That, and his deep, ragged breathing, told her how near he was to losing control, how much he wanted her.
Her eyes drifted closed as she wrapped her legs around his and pulled him closer. Once again Cyrus was cradled between her thighs. Hot and hard and ready, he hesitated. The tip of his manhood touched her, teased her with an insistent caress, but he didn't surge to fill her. She could feel herself opening for him, and her hips rocked slightly up in invitation.
"Look at me,” he whispered hoarsely, and she opened her eyes to search the face of the man she loved, the man who loved her. Flickering candlelight illuminated his face for her, danced over features strong and harsh and beautiful.
"Love me,” she breathed.
With a low moan he pushed to enter her, to fill her waiting body, to stretch her impossibly and become one with her. The sensation of him filling her felt so right she sighed in contentment and held him tight. He rocked above and inside her, withdrawing slightly and then pushing to take himself deeper than before, repeating the process until he was stroking her each time with his fullest, deepest strokes.
