Time Was

by Nora Roberts

  Wanting a few more moments to herself, she ripped open the bag of cookies and began to nibble.

  Of course, she’d never be able to show the picture that was already taking shape in her hand to anyone. One was for the capsule, but the other was for her personal files. She wanted to believe it was the scientist who had taken it, who would label and file it along with other pictures she would take and the hard copy of the report she was writing on this isolated experience.

  But it had nothing to do with science, and everything to do with the heart. She didn’t want to rely on her memory.

  She slipped the pictures into her pocket, swung the camera over her shoulder and started down.

  When she reached the hatch, she lifted her fist, then started to laugh. Did one knock on the door of a spacecraft? Feeling foolish with the ship looming over her, she rapped twice. A chipmunk scurried over the ground, scrambled onto the trunk of a fallen tree and stared at her.

  “I know it’s odd,” Libby told him. “Just remember to keep it under your hat.” She tossed half a cookie in his direction, then turned back to knock again. “All right, Hornblower, open up. I feel like an idiot out here.”

  She tried knocking, pounding, shouting. Once she gave in to temper and slammed the hull with a good kick. Favoring her sore toes, she stepped back. Furious with him, she’d nearly decided to turn back when it occurred to her he might not be able to hear her.

  Stepping closer, she began to search for the device he had used to open the hatch. It took her ten minutes. When the hatch opened, she stormed inside, ready for a fight.

  “Listen, Hornblower, I—”

  He wasn’t on the bridge. Frustrated, Libby dragged back her hair. Couldn’t he even make himself available when she wanted to yell at him?

  The shield was up. She hadn’t been able to see in from the outside, but now she had a stunning panoramic view. Drawn, she crossed over to the controls. How would it feel, she wondered as she sat in his chair, to pilot something so huge, so powerful? She scanned the buttons and switches spread out before her. Was it any wonder he loved it? Even a woman who had always been firmly rooted to the ground could imagine the wild, limitless freedom of traveling through space. There would be planets, balls of color and light. The glimmer of distant stars, the glow of orbiting moons.

  She liked to think of him that way, weaving through the stars the way he had woven through the trees with her on the cycle.

  Libby took a last scan of the controls, then studied the computer. A little ill at ease, she glanced around the empty bridge before she leaned forward.

  “Computer?”

  Working.

  She jolted, then swallowed a nervous laugh. There were two questions she wanted to ask, but only one she truly wanted the answer to. Because she believed in facing facts, Libby inhaled, exhaled, then plunged.

  “Computer, what is the status on the calculations for the return journey to the twenty-third century?”

  Calculations complete. Probability index formulated. Risk factors, trajectory, thrust, degree of orbit, velocity and success factors locked in. Is report desired?

  “No.”

  So he was finished. She’d known it, even when she’d tried to tell herself she had a few more days with him. He hadn’t told her, but she thought she understood why. Cal wouldn’t want to hurt her, and he would know, would have to know, how she felt. No matter how hard she tried to treat their relationship as a single moment in time, one based on passion and affection and mutual need, he had seen through her. He was trying to be kind.

  She wanted to be glad for him. She had to be glad for him.

  She took a minute to adjust, then asked what she had asked once before.

  “Computer.”

  Working.

  “Who is Caleb Hornblower?”

  Hornblower, Caleb, Captain ISF, retired. Born 2 February, to Katrina Hardesty Hornblower and Byram Edward Hornblower. Place of birth Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Graduate Wilson Freemont Memorial Academy. Attended Princeton University, withdrew after sixteen months without degree. Enlisted ISF. Served six years, seven months. Military record as follows . . .

  With her lips pursed, Libby listened to the readout of Cal’s military career. There was citation after citation—just as there was reprimand after reprimand. His record as a pilot was flawless. His disciplinary record was an entirely different matter. She couldn’t help but smile.

  She thought of her father and his ingrained distrust of the military system. Yes, given a bit of time, she thought, he would have grown very fond of Cal.

  Credit rating 5.8, the computer continued.

  “Stop.” Libby heaved a sigh. She wasn’t interested in Cal’s credit rating. She’d pried far enough into his personal life as it was. Any other answers she wanted would have to come from him. And quickly.

  Rising, she began to wander through the ship, looking for him.

  It was the music that tipped her off. She heard it first, distant and lovely, with a vague curiosity. Something classical, with a kind of swelling passion. As she followed it, she tried to identify the composer.

  She found Cal asleep in his cabin. The music filled the room, every corner of it, yet it was soft, soothing, seductive. She felt the tug, the almost irresistible urge to slip into the bed beside him, snuggling close until he woke and made slow, sweet love to her.

  She shook it off. The music, she decided. Somehow it was comforting and erotic at the same time. Exactly the way his kisses could be. She wouldn’t let it influence her or let herself forget that she was angry with him.

  Still, she took a picture of him as he slept, then slipped it, almost guiltily, into her pocket.

  After leaning against the doorway, she lifted her chin. It was a deliberately defiant pose, and she enjoyed it.

  “So this is how you work.”

  Though she’d pitched her voice above the music, he went on sleeping. She considered going over and giving his shoulder a shove, then came up with a better idea. She slipped two fingers of her left hand into her mouth, inhaled, then blew out a sharp, shrill whistle, just as Sunny had taught her.

  He came up in the bed like a rocket. “Red alert!” he shouted before he saw her smirking at him from the doorway. After leaning back against the cushioned headboard, he ran a hand over his eyes.

  He’d been dreaming. Out in space, whipping through the galaxy, with the controls at his fingertips and worlds racing by hundreds of thousands of miles beneath him. She’d been there, right beside him, an arm wrapped around his waist, all the fascination, all the thrill of flying glowing on her face.

  Until something had gone wrong. And the ship had shaken, the gauges had blinked, the bells had sounded. He’d heard her scream as they’d gone into a dive. He hadn’t known what to do. Quite suddenly his mind had gone blank. He hadn’t been able to save her.

  Here she was now, while his heart was still sprinting from the dream, looking cocky and ready to spar.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  He looked as though he’d had a scare. She certainly hoped so. “It seemed the most efficient way to wake you up. I tell you, Hornblower, you keep working like this, you’ll wear yourself right out.”

  “I was taking a break.” He wished he’d taken a good long slug of potent, electric-blue Antellis liquor. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “Too bad.” As sympathy went, it left a lot to be desired. Still studying him, she dug for a cookie.

  “That couch is lumpy.”

  “I’ll make a note of it. Maybe that’s why you woke up on the wrong side of it.” She took her time, nipping off tiny bite after tiny bite. It was an attempt to make him hungry, and she succeeded, though not in the way she’d intended.

  He could feel his muscles tightening, each separate one. “I don’t know what yo
u mean.”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “I’ve heard it.” He knew he snapped the words out, but he couldn’t help it. She flicked out her tongue to catch a crumb at the corner of her mouth. He nearly groaned. “I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of anything.”

  “Well, I suppose it could be your nature to be surly and you’ve managed to repress it lately.”

  “I’m not surly.” He all but growled it.

  “No? Arrogant, then. Is that better?” Her slow half smile was meant to annoy, but it provoked a different emotion.

  Trying to ignore her and what was going on inside his own rebellious body, he looked at his watch. “You took a long time in town.”

  “My time’s my own, Hornblower.”

  His brows arched. If she hadn’t been so smug about her own control, she might have noticed that the eyes beneath them had darkened. “You want to fight?”

  “Me?” Her lips turned up again. She was the very picture of innocence. “Why, Caleb, after meeting my parents you should know I’m a born pacifist. I was rocked to sleep with folk songs.”

  He muttered an opinion, a single two-syllable word that Libby had always thought belonged to the slang of the twentieth century. Intrigued, she cocked her head.

  “So, that’s still the response when someone doesn’t have a clever or intelligent answer. It’s such a comfort to know some traditions survive.”

  He threw his legs off the edge of the bed and, his eyes on hers, slowly unfolded himself. He didn’t step toward her, not yet. Not until he could trust himself not to plant a good clean jab on her outthrust chin. Strange, he’d never noticed the stubborn set of it before. Or that I-dare-you look in her eyes.

  The worst of it was, the arrogance was every bit as arousing as the warmth.

  “You’re pushing, babe. I figure it’s only fair to warn you that I don’t come from a particularly peaceful family.”

  “Well . . .” Carefully she chose another cookie. “That certainly puts the fear of God into me.” After rolling up the bag, she tossed it at him so that his defensive catch crumbled half the contents. “I don’t know what’s gotten under your skin, Hornblower, but I’ve got better things to do than worry about it. You can stay here and sulk if you like, but I’m going back to work.”

  She barely managed to turn around. He grabbed her arms and had her pressed into the wall, his fingers digging in. Later she would wonder why she had been surprised that he could move that quickly, or that beneath the easy disposition there lurked a fierce, raw-edged temper.

  “You want to know what’s wrong with me?” His eyes, so close to hers, were the color that edged lightning bolts. “Is that what all this button-pushing’s about, Libby?”

  “I don’t care what’s wrong with you.” She kept her chin up, though her mouth had gone dry. Libby knew that for her offering an apology would always be easier than sticking with a fight. Sometimes it wasn’t pacifism but cowardice. She straightened her spine and drew in a deep breath. She was sticking.

  “I don’t give a damn what’s wrong with you. Now let me go.”

  “You should.” He wrapped her hair around his hand to pull her head back, slowly exposing her throat. “Do you think that every emotion a man has toward a woman is gentle, kind, loving?”

  “I’m not a fool.” She began to struggle, and she was more annoyed than afraid when he didn’t release her.

  “No, you’re not.” Her eyes were on his, fury matching fury. He thought he felt something break inside him, the last bolt that had caged the uncivilized. “Maybe it’s time I taught you the rest.”

  “I don’t need you to teach me anything.”

  “That’s right, there’ll be others to teach you, won’t there?” Jealousy clawed deep, drawing thick, hot blood. “Damn you. And damn them, every one of them. Think of this. Whenever anyone else touches you, tomorrow, ten years from tomorrow, you’ll wish it was me. I’ll see to it.”

  With his words still hanging in the air, he pulled her to the bed.

  Chapter 11

  She fought him. She refused to be taken in anger, no matter how deep her love. The bed sank beneath their combined weights, molding to them like a cocoon. The music drifted, calm and beautiful. His hands were rough as they dragged at the buttons of her shirt.

  She didn’t speak. It never occurred to her to beg him to stop, or to give in to the tears that would surely have snapped him back to his senses. Instead she struggled, trying to roll away from his ruthlessly seeking hands. She fought, furiously bucking, pushing against him, waging a private war against the traitorous response of her body, which would betray her heart.

  She would hate him for this. The knowledge nearly broke her. If he succeeded in what he set out to do, it would wash away other memories and leave this one, this violent, distorted one, dominant. Unable to bear it, she fought now for both of them.

  He knew her too well. Every curve, every dip, every pulse. On a wave of fury, he locked her wrists in one hand and dragged her arms over her head. His mouth savaged her neck while his free hand slid down, unerringly, to find one of those secret, vulnerable places. He heard her moan as the unwanted, unavoidable pleasure tore into her. Her body tensed, a wire ready to snap. It arched, a bow pulled taut. He felt the burst of release as it shuddered through her, heard her choked-off cry. He saw her lips quiver before she pressed them hard together.

  Regret burned through him. He had no right, no one did, to take something beautiful and use it as a weapon. He’d wanted to hurt her for something beyond her control. And he had. No more, he realized, than he had hurt himself.

  “Libby.”

  She only shook her head, her eyes tightly closed. Wishing for words that weren’t there, Cal rolled over and stared at the ceiling.

  “I have no excuse . . . there is no excuse for treating you that way.”

  She managed to swallow the tears. It relieved her, made it possible for her to steady her breathing and open her eyes. “Maybe not, but there’s usually a reason. I’d like to hear it.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. They lay close and tense, not quite touching. There were dozens of reasons he could give her—lack of sleep, overwork, the anxiety over the possible failure of his flight. They would all be accurate, to a point. But they wouldn’t be the truth. Libby, he knew, set great store by honesty.

  “I care for you,” he said slowly. “It isn’t easy knowing I won’t see you again. I realize we both have our own lives,” he added before she could speak. “Our own place. Maybe we’re both doing what has to be done, but I don’t like the idea that it’s easy for you.”

  “It isn’t.”

  He knew it was selfish, but it relieved him to hear it. Reaching over, he linked his hand with hers. “I’m jealous.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the men you’ll meet, the ones you’ll love. The one’s who’ll love you.”

  “But—”

  “No, don’t say anything. Let me get it all out and over with. It doesn’t seem to matter that I know it’s wrong, intellectually. It’s a gut reaction, Libby, and I’m used to going with them. Every time I imagine another man touching you the way I’ve touched you, seeing you the way I’ve seen you, I go a little crazy.”

  “And that’s why you’ve been angry with me?” She turned her head to study his profile. “Over my imagined future affairs?”

  “I guess you’ve got a right to make me sound like an idiot.”

  “I’m not trying to.”

  He moved his shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “I can even see him. He’s about six-four and built like one of those Greek gods.”

  “Adonis,” she suggested, smiling. “He gets my vote.”

  “Shut up.” But she noted that his lips curved slightly. “He’s got blond hair, streaked, kind of w
indswept, and this strong, rock-hard jaw with one of those clefts in it.”

  “Like Kirk Douglas?”

  He shot her a suspicious look. “You know a guy like this?”

  “Only by reputation.” Because she sensed that the storm was over, she kissed Cal’s shoulder.

  “Anyway, he’s got brains, too, which is another reason I really hate him. He’s a doctor, not medical but philosophy. He can discuss the traditional mating habits of obscure tribes with you for hours. And he plays piano.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “He’s rich,” Cal went on, almost viciously. “A 9.2 credit rating. He takes you to Paris and makes love to you in a room overlooking the Seine. Then he gives you a diamond as big as a fist.”

  “Well, well.” She gave it some thought. “Can he quote poetry?”

  “He even writes it.”

  “Oh, my God.” She put a hand to her heart. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I’m going to meet him? I want to be ready.”

  He rolled over just enough to look at her. Her eyes were bright, but with amusement, not tears. “You’re getting a real charge out of this, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She lifted a hand to his face. “I suppose it might make you feel better if I promised I’d join a convent.”

  “Okay.” He took her wrist to bring her palm against his mouth. “Can I get it in writing?”

  “I’ll think about it.” His eyes were clear again, deep and clear. He was Cal now, the man she could love and understand. “Are we finished fighting?”

  “Looks like it. I’m sorry, Libby. I’ve been acting like a lupz.”

  “I’m not sure what that means, but you’re probably right.”

  “Friends?” He bent down to brush her lips with his.

  “Friends.” Before he could draw back, she cupped his head in her hand and held him against her for a longer, deeper and much less friendly kiss. “Cal?”