by Nora Roberts
Then there was Libby herself. He wasn’t certain it was proper to call her an advantage. She was distinct, unique, and everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. His mouth fell open an instant before the heat from the burner singed his finger. With a quick yelp, he jumped back.
“What is it?”
For a moment he just stared at her. Her hair was tousled around her face, and her eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. The robe she wore seemed to swallow her up.
“Nothing,” he managed, nearly overwhelmed by an emotion that he prayed was only desire. “I burned my finger.”
“Don’t play with the stove,” she said mildly, then went back to making the sandwiches.
Everything he wanted in a woman? That wasn’t possible. He didn’t know what he wanted in a woman, and he was a long way from making up his mind. Or had been.
That thought put the fear of God into him. That, and the uncomfortable suspicion that his mind had been made up for him the moment he’d opened his eyes and seen her dozing in the chair. Ridiculous. He hadn’t even known her then.
But he knew her now.
He couldn’t be in love with her. He watched as she tossed her hair back from her face with a flick of her hand, and his stomach tied itself into knots. Attraction, however outrageous, was acceptable. It wasn’t possible that he was in love. He could love being with her, love making love with her, laughing with her. He could care for her, find her fascinating and arousing, but as for love, that wasn’t an option.
Love, here and in his time, meant things neither of them could ever have together. A home, a family. Years.
As the kettle began to sputter, he let out a long breath. He was simply magnifying the situation. She was special to him, and always would be. The days he spent with her would be a precious part of his life. But it was essential for him to remember, for both their sakes, that his life began two hundred years after Libby no longer existed.
“Is something wrong?”
He glanced over to see her holding two plates, her head cocked a bit to the side, as it did whenever she was trying to work out a problem.
“No.” He smiled and took the plates from her. “My mind was wandering.”
“Eat, Hornblower.” She patted his cheek. “You’ll feel better.”
Because he wanted to believe it could be that simple, he sat down and dug in while she fixed the tea.
It seemed natural, Libby thought, for them to share tea and sandwiches in the middle of the night—just the two of them sitting in the cozy kitchen, with an owl hooting somewhere in the forest and the moonlight fading. The awkwardness she had felt—foolishly, she believed—before she’d tugged on her robe, was gone.
“Better?” she asked him when he’d downed half of his sandwich.
“Yes.” The tension that had slammed into him so unexpectedly had nearly dissipated. He stretched out his legs so that the arch of his foot rubbed over her ankle. There was something soothing in the contact, like a long nap on a rainy afternoon. She looked so pretty with her hair mussed and her eyes heavy. “How is it,” he murmured, “that I’m the first man to have you?”
She nearly choked before she managed to swallow the tea that was halfway down her throat. “I don’t . . .” She coughed a little, then tugged the lapels of her robe closer. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“Do you consider that an odd question?” Charmed again, he smiled, leaning closer so that he could touch her hair. “You’re so sensitive, so attractive. Other men must have wanted you.”
“No . . . that is, I can’t say. I haven’t really paid much attention.”
“Does it embarrass you for me to tell you you’re attractive?”
“No.” But when she picked up her teacup with both hands she was flushed. “A little, perhaps.”
“I can’t be the first to have told you how lovely you are. How warm.” He pried one of her hands from the cup to soothe her fingers. “How exciting.”
“Yes, you can.” Almost unbearably aroused, she let out a long, shaky breath. “I haven’t had a lot of . . . social experience with men. My studies.” Her breath snagged as he kissed her fingers. “My work.”
He released her hand before he went with his impulse to make love with her again. “But you study men.”
“Studying and interacting are different things.” He didn’t have to touch her to stir her, Libby realized. He only had to look, as he was looking now. “I’m not very outgoing unless I concentrate on it.”
He started to laugh, then realized she believed it. “I think you underestimate Liberty Stone. You took me in and cared for me, and I was a stranger.”
“I could hardly have left you out in the rain.”
“You couldn’t. Others could. History may not be my strong suit, Libby, but I doubt human nature has changed that much. You went out in the storm to find me, brought me into your home, let me stay even when I annoyed you. If I get back to my own time and place it will be because of you.”
She rose then to fix more tea she didn’t want. She didn’t want to think about his leaving, though she knew she would have to. It was wrong to pretend, even for a few hours, that he would stay with her and forget the life he’d left behind.
“I don’t think giving you a bed and some scrambled eggs constitutes a real debt.” She made herself smile as she turned toward him again. “But if you want to be grateful I won’t argue with you.”
He’d said something wrong. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, Cal could tell from the way her eyes had changed. She was smiling at him, but her eyes were dark and sad. “I don’t want to hurt you, Libby.”
Her eyes softened now, and he was relieved. “No, I know that.” She sat down again and poured each of them another full cup. “What do you plan to do? About getting back, I mean.”
“How much do you know about physics?”
“Next to nothing.”
“Then let’s just say I’ll put the ship’s computer to work. The damage was pretty minimal, so that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll have to ask you to drive me out to the ship again.”
“Of course.” She felt a bubble of panic and struggled to get past it. “I suppose you’ll want to stay on the ship now, while you work out your calculations and make your repairs.”
It would be more practical, and it would certainly be more convenient. Cal gave it no more than a moment’s consideration. “I was hoping I could stay here. I’ve got my aircycle on board, so I can get back and forth easily enough. If you don’t mind the company.”
“No, of course not.” She said it quickly, too quickly, flustering herself. Then she stopped and backed up. “Your aircycle?”
“If it wasn’t damaged in the crash,” he mused. Then he tossed the possibility aside. “We’ll have a look tomorrow. Are you going to eat the rest of that?”
“What? Oh, no.” She passed him the second half of her sandwich. It was ridiculous, she supposed, but every now and then he said something that made her wonder if she was dreaming again. “Cal,” she began slowly, “it occurs to me that I can never tell anyone about you, or any of this.”
“I’d rather you’d wait until I’d gone.” He finished off the sandwich. “But I don’t mind if you tell anyone.”
“That’s big of you.” She gave him a bland look. “Tell me, do they have padded cells in the twenty-third century?”
“Padded cells?” He took a moment to imagine one. “Is that a joke?”
“Only on me,” she told him as she rose to clear the plates.
“It may be one on me, too. I’ve wondered if, once I get back, anyone will believe me.”
A thought struck her that was both absurd and fascinating. “Maybe I could do a time capsule. I could write everything down, put in a few interesting or pertinent items and seal it up. We could bury it—I don’t
know, down by the stream, perhaps. When you got back you could dig it all up.”
“A time capsule.” The idea appealed to him, not just scientifically, but personally. Wouldn’t it mean he would still have something of her, even when they were separated by centuries? He would need that, he realized, the solid proof of not only where he had been but that she had existed. “I can run it through the computer, make sure we don’t put it somewhere that’s going to be covered by a building or a landslide or some such thing.”
“Good.” She picked up a pad from the counter and began to scribble.
“What are you doing?”
“Making notes.” She squinted at her own writing and wished she had her glasses. “We’ll need to write everything down, of course, starting with you and your ship. What else should we put in it?” she wondered, tapping the pencil against the pad. “A newspaper, I think, and a picture would be good. We may have to drive back into town and find one of those little booths that take pictures. No, I’ll buy a Polaroid camera.” She scribbled faster. “That way we can take pictures here, in the house or right outside. Then we’ll need some personal things . . .” She fingered the thin gold chain at her throat. “Maybe some basic household items.”
“You’re being a scientist.” He took her by the waist and drew her slowly, unerringly, against him. “I find that very exciting.”
“That’s silly.”
But it didn’t seem silly at all when he lowered his head and began to nibble at her neck. She felt the floor tilt beneath her feet.
“Cal . . .”
“Hmm?” He journeyed up to a small, vulnerable spot just behind her ear.
“I wanted to . . .” The pad slipped out of her hand and landed on the floor at their feet.
“To what?” Quick and clever, his fingers loosened the knot at her waist. “Tonight you can have anything you want.”
“You.” She sighed as her robe slid off her shoulders. “Just you.”
“That’s the easy part.” More than willing to oblige, he braced her against the counter. A hundred erotic ideas swam through his mind. He was going to see to it that neither of them thought the same way about this cozy little kitchen again. The streaks of pink along her skin stopped him.
“What’s all this?” Curious, he ran a finger over the swell of her breast, then shifted his hand to his chin. “I’ve scratched you.”
“What?” She was already floating an inch off the floor, and she was less than willing to touch down.
“I haven’t shaved in days.” Annoyed with himself, he bent to lightly kiss the skin he’d irritated earlier. “You’re so soft.”
“I didn’t feel a thing.” She reached for him again, but he only kissed her hair.
“There’s only one thing to do.”
“I know.” She ran her hands up his muscled back.
With a laugh, he hugged her tighter. “That’s two things.” He scooped her up again for no other reason than that it felt wonderful.
“You don’t have to carry me.” But she nuzzled into his shoulder. “I can walk to bed.”
“Maybe, but we’d better use the bathroom for this.”
“The bathroom?”
“I’m going to have to deal with that nasty-looking device,” he told her as he started up the stairs. “And you’re going to walk me through it so I don’t cut my throat.”
Nasty-looking device? She tried to put it all together as he carried her upstairs. “Don’t you know how to use a razor?”
“We’re civilized where I come from. All instruments of torture have been outlawed.”
“Is that so?” She waited until he set her down again. “I suppose that means women don’t wear high heels or control-top panty hose. Never mind,” she said when he opened his mouth. “I think this could become a very philosophical discussion, and it’s much too late.” Opening the linen closet, she took out the razor and the shaving cream. “Here you go.”
“Right.” He looked at the tools in his hand with a kind of resigned dread. What a man did for his woman. “Just how do I go about this?”
“This is all secondhand, as I’ve never shaved my face before, but I believe you spread on the shaving cream, then slide the edge of the razor over your beard.”
“Shaving cream.” He squirted some into his hand, then ran his tongue over his teeth. “Not toothpaste.”
“No, I . . .” It didn’t take her long to get the picture. Leaning back against the sink, she covered her mouth with her hand and tried, unsuccessfully, not to giggle. “Oh, Hornblower, you poor thing.”
Cal studied the can in his hand. As he saw it, he really had no choice. While Libby was bent nearly double, he turned, aimed and fired.
Chapter 8
She awakened slowly, muttering a bit when the sunlight intruded on her dreams. She shifted, or tried to, but she was weighed down by an arm around her waist and a leg hooked possessively over hers. Content with that, she snuggled closer and had the pleasure of feeling her sleep-warmed skin rub against Cal’s.
She didn’t know what time it was, and for perhaps the first time in her life it didn’t matter. Morning or afternoon, she was happy to lie curled in bed, dozing the day away, as long as he was with her.
Drifting, nearly dreaming again, she stroked a hand over him. Solid, she thought. He was solid and real and, for the moment, hers. Even with her eyes closed she could see him, every feature of his face, every line of his body. There had never been anyone she had felt belonged so completely to her before. Even her parents, for all their love, all their understanding, had belonged to each other initially. She would always think of them as a unit, first and last. And Sunny . . . Libby smiled a little as she thought of her sister. Even though she was younger by nearly two years, Sunny had always been independent and her own person—argumentative and daring in ways Libby could never try to emulate.
But Cal . . . It was true that he had only just appeared in her life, would disappear again all too quickly, but he was hers. His laughter, his temper, his passion . . . they all belonged to her now. She would keep them, treasure them, long after he was gone.
To love as she did, Libby mused, when every emotion, every word, every look, had to be squeezed into a matter of hours, was both precious and heartbreaking.
He thought he’d been dreaming, but the shape, the texture, the scent of a woman’s body were very, very real. Libby’s body. Her name was there, his first waking thought. She was pressed against him, a perfect fit even in sleep. The slow, gentle stroke of her hand aroused him in the most exquisite way.
He’d lost count of the times they had moved together during the night, but he knew dawn had been breaking the last time she’d cried out his name. The light had been dim and pearly. He would never forget it. She was like a fantasy, all soft curves, agile limbs and tireless passions. Somewhere along the line he had stopped being the teacher and had been taught.
There was more to loving than the uncountable physical pleasures a man and a woman could offer each other. There was trust and patience, generosity and joy. There was the drugging contentment of falling asleep knowing your partner would be there when you awoke.
Partner. The word floated through his mind. His match. Was it fate or fancy that he had had to travel through time to meet his match?
He didn’t want to think of it. Refused to. All he wanted now was to make love with Libby in the sunlight.
He shifted, and before either of them was fully awake, slipped into her. Her soft moan mingled with his own as their lips met. Acceptance. Affection. Arousal. Slowly, drawing out the lazy delight, they moved together, their hands beginning a quiet exploration, the kiss deepening.
“I love you.”
He heard her words, a caressing whisper in his mind, and answered them like an echo as his lips began to trace her face.
The admissions shocked neither of them, as they were too dazed by the tumultuous sensations and emotions running through them. She had never spoken those words to another man, nor he to another woman. Before the impact hit home, need had them clinging closer.
Gracefully, gloriously, they took each other to the pinnacle.
Later, he nuzzled down between her breasts, but he was no longer sleeping. Had she said she loved him? And had he told her he loved her? What disturbed him most was that he couldn’t be sure if it had happened, or if it had been his imagination, something wished for while his mind was vulnerable with sleep and pleasure.
And he couldn’t ask her. Didn’t dare. Any answer she would give would hurt. If she didn’t love him, it would be like losing part of his heart, of his soul. If she did, it would make leaving her something akin to dying.
It was best, for both of them, to take what they had. He wanted to make her laugh, to see both passion and humor in her eyes, to hear them in her voice. And he would remember. Cal closed his eyes tight. Whatever happened to him, he would always remember.
So would she. He needed to be certain of his place in her memories.
“Come with me.” Sliding off the bed, he dragged her with him.
“Where?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Again?” Laughing, she tried to snag her robe, but he pulled her into the hall without it. “You don’t need another shave.”
“Good thing.”
“You only cut yourself three or four times. And it’s your own fault you used up most of the shaving cream beforehand.”
He sent her a wicked grin. “I liked rubbing it all over you better.”
“If you’re getting ideas about the toothpaste . . .”
“Maybe later.” He lifted her up and into the tub. “For now I’ll settle for a shower.”
She let out a quick shriek when the cold water hit her. Before she could retaliate or form even a token protest he had joined her, wrapping one arm around her while he adjusted the water temperature with his free hand. He thought he was getting rather good at it.
