'Til the End of Time: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Iris Johansen

  She chuckled, her lids already closing again. She wouldn’t be surprised if her body did more than like him. Each touch was so loving, it aroused an emotional as well as a physical response. She had never felt so treasured and wanted and …

  He learned her body very well in those hours when restraint was balanced on the fine edge of desire. And she learned something about Sandor Karpathan. About his tenderness and patience and his vulnerability to her.

  She awoke to find him asleep in her arms in the cool gray light preceding dawn. It seemed supremely natural to awake and find his head on her shoulder, his tanned hand clasped in possession over her naked breast. Tenderness. She felt her throat tighten helplessly as waves of emotion rocked her. She mustn’t fall apart like this. How had he come to mean so much to her?

  He was stirring. She grasped frantically at control. She closed her eyes. She hated pretense of any type, but she would have to pretend for the present. So far their steps toward each other had been small, almost tentative, but what she was feeling now was something different. It was such a giant leap, she refused to accept or even put a name to it. She would have to block it out. It wasn’t safe to do anything else. He was coming too close.

  Five

  She mustn’t limp. There was no reason for her to limp. She knew how to block the pain. Lord knows, she’d had plenty of experience. If she betrayed any sign of weakness, Sandor would pick up on it immediately and insist they stop. Fifteen miles, he had said. Surely they must have traveled almost that far by now. All she had to do was hold on. Soon it would be over.

  “All right?” Sandor was looking over his shoulder, his gaze searching her face.

  Damn. Had he noticed anything? She moistened her lips with her tongue, “Fine. Do we have much farther to go?”

  “About four miles.”

  “That far?” She tried to smile. “I thought we’d be at the airfield by this time.”

  “Rough country. It makes a big difference. You’ve held up very well, hiking since dawn, with only a short break for lunch. You’ve kept up like a veteran campaigner.” His eyes twinkled. “And you haven’t complained once, which is truly amazing for a lady who hates to walk.”

  “Complaining never accomplishes anything.” Her gaze narrowed on the rough trail ahead. The path wound in serpentine curves around the base of the hill before disappearing into a thick stand of pines. “The sun’s going down. Do you think we’ll be able to make it to the airfield before it gets dark?”

  “Probably not.” He turned back to the path, his stride lengthening. “But don’t worry, it doesn’t really matter if we don’t. I know these hills.”

  “Do you?” Talk. He wouldn’t notice anything if she talked. “They’re very beautiful. It’s a shame to think of battles being fought here.”

  “There haven’t been any battles here. Naldona has always kept this strip too well fortified for us to launch an offensive against it. Even now, when his forces are at their weakest, he maintains a strong one here. We could take it now with no problem, but it has no strategic importance. It wouldn’t be worth the resulting casualties.”

  “If it has no strategic importance, why is Naldona so determined to hold it?”

  “It’s my home,” he said simply. He didn’t look back at her, and she couldn’t see his expression. Only the tension of the muscles of his shoulders revealed the emotion his tone denied. “Limtana is just a mile or so north of this hill.”

  “And Naldona has had control of Limtana since the beginning of the war?”

  He nodded. “Bait for the trap. I was fool enough to tell him how I felt about Limtana when we were comrades-in-arms. He thinks there’s a possibility I may be an even greater fool and try to go back there.” He paused. When he spoke again his voice was only a level above a whisper. “He’s a very perceptive man. There have been times when I’ve been tempted.”

  “You care so much for it?”

  “I love it. It’s one of the things I’m fighting for. Do you know what the word nostalgia means? It’s the longing for things that have been. It’s a memory that causes an ache inside you. Limtana is that to me.”

  For a moment Alessandra felt such a surge of sympathy, she forgot the pain she was experiencing. How awful it must have been for him to love his home this much and know it was held by the enemy. “You’ll be able to go back to it soon. You said yourself the war was almost over.”

  He was silent for a moment. Her words didn’t seem to comfort him. If anything, the tension in his body intensified. “Yes, the war is almost over.”

  “Limtana hasn’t been damaged, has it?”

  “No. The castle has never been occupied and it’s been kept in very good repair.” His tone was sardonic. “Occasionally Naldona has even sent me a picture of it to let me see how good a caretaker he’s been.”

  She shivered as she realized what refined torture seeing that photograph must have been for Sandor. The shiver turned to anger as heat suddenly burned through her. Damn Naldona. “It will be yours again.” She wanted to give him back Limtana herself. The fierceness of the desire was astonishing. “Someday.”

  “You sound very positive.” The smile he tossed over his shoulder was sad. Then the smile faded entirely as he saw the fierceness of her expression. “I can almost believe it will, which is something I haven’t felt in a long, long—” He broke off, and a frown crossed his face. “You’re pale. Have I been pushing you too hard?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said quickly. “It’s dusk. You look pale to me in this light too.”

  “Maybe.” His gaze was keenly searching. “Still, I think we’ll take a fifteen-minute break. There’s a stream near here where we can wash off some of the dust.”

  It sounded like heaven, but if she stopped, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to start again. “I think we’d better go on. We can rest when we get to the airfi—”

  He wasn’t listening. He was pushing his way through the shrubbery to the left of the trail, and his pace was speeding up. She had to hurry to catch up with him.

  “Sandor, I really don’t want to stop.”

  No response. He acted as if he hadn’t even heard her.

  “Sandor, listen to me, I—”

  “Alessandra.” His tone was very gentle. “Shut the hell up. You’re going to rest.”

  It appeared she was either going to trail along with him or exhaust herself fighting the stubborn man. At the moment she was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other, and was in no shape for a major battle. Her lips tightened grimly as she followed him through the brush. But Sandor was sadly mistaken if he thought he was going to have things all his own way in their relationship. As soon as she recovered she’d have a few things to say to him about his annoying tendency to take charge.

  “Here we are.” Sandor unfastened his backpack and dropped it on the ground beside a thin ribbon of rushing brook. The stream looked crystal-clear, and even the low bubbling sound it made as it tumbled over the rocks was soothing. “I don’t think we’d better risk drinking the water, but we can bathe our feet in it.” He was pulling off his boots as he spoke. “And I, for one, am looking forward to that pleasure the way Moses did the promised land. Take your shoes and socks off and join me.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll just wash my face and throat.”

  He looked up in surprise. “Don’t be silly. You’ll feel much better once you’ve soaked your feet for a while. Take off your shoes.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t need to soak my feet. I feel great.” She smiled determinedly. Why did he have to argue with her? It was difficult enough to stand here near that cool, tempting stream without having to withstand Sandor as well. She unfastened her backpack and dropped it beside Sandor’s. She carefully avoided his eyes. “There. That’s better.”

  “Alessandra.”

  “No!” Her tone was sharper than she had meant it to be. “I told you I didn’t want to do it. Leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think so.” His
hand was on her arm. “Look at me, dammit.”

  Her gaze lifted defiantly to his face. A flicker of apprehension went through her, which she quickly quelled. His gaze was ruthlessly analytical as it raked her features. She had a fleeting memory of the moment in her bedroom when he had told her he wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot her if it had been necessary. This wasn’t the Sandor who held her in his arms last night. This was the Tanzar.

  “I find I’m very curious to know why you aren’t willing to take off your shoes. I think I’d like to take a look at your feet.” His lips tightened grimly. “It would be just like you to hide a score of blisters and not let me know.”

  “I don’t have blisters.” Her lashes lowered to veil her eyes. “Why would you think that? I haven’t limped. Not once.”

  “Sit down. I’ll take your shoes off myself.”

  The man was as immovable as a mountain. Well, she had to be equally determined in this case. “No. You’re being ridiculous. There’s no reason for you to think—”

  “Alessandra, be quiet.” His hands were on her shoulders, and he gave her a little shake. “Now, we can stand here and argue for the next ten minutes, and at the end of that time you’ll still take off your shoes, or you can begin to fight me physically, and I’ll have you down with your face in the dirt so fast it will make you dizzy.” His gaze was as cool as the brook they were standing beside. “You’re a strong woman, but I’m stronger. Don’t make me prove it to you.”

  He meant exactly what he said. She couldn’t hope to win a struggle with him without the advantage of surprise. She had already experienced the power in Sandor’s deceptively slim body. She muttered something beneath her breath and plopped down on the bank.

  “I didn’t quite catch what you said, but I believe you’ve cast vile aspersions on my illustrious ancestors.” Sandor grinned as he knelt beside her and began to unlace her left tennis shoe. His former hardness had disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  “I told you I don’t have blisters. I don’t know why you won’t believe me. I didn’t limp. I know I didn’t limp.”

  “You keep repeating that.” He slid the shoe off her foot and began to peel off the white sock beneath it. “I wonder why? You’re very certain. It occurs to me that the only reason you could be so sure you weren’t limping is because you were trying hard not to.” He looked up into her mutinous face and asked quietly, “Is that what you were doing?”

  “I don’t have blisters.”

  “We’ll see.” He tossed the sock aside and glanced down at the foot cradled in his hand. “You have nice feet, strong and shapely.”

  “And large.”

  “Small feet would look ridiculous on a woman with your proportions.” He frowned. “I don’t see any blisters on your heels or toes.” He started to turn her foot over to examine the sole.

  “No!” She tried to jerk her foot away. “You’ve already seen that I don’t have blisters.”

  It was too late. She could tell by the expression on his face: It was stunned and sick.

  “No, you don’t have blisters.” His voice was thick. “Lord, why didn’t you tell me? Is the other foot like this?”

  “Yes.” She tried to move her foot, but he wouldn’t release it. “I’d like to put on my shoe, please.”

  “Not yet. You’ve nothing to hide anymore.” He looked up to reveal eyes glittering with a terrible anger. His hands were shaking as he carefully put her left foot down and began to untie her right shoe. “You’ve walked over ten miles to keep your damn secret from me, but now it’s out in the open.” He pulled off her right shoe and sock and carefully turned her foot over and examined it. “You lied to me. This one is much worse.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt any more than the other one.” She smiled faintly. “As far as discomfort goes they’re definitely a matched set.”

  His hand tightened around her foot. “Don’t joke. I think I could strangle you. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you put up more of an argument when I told you I was going to make you walk fifteen miles across rough country?” His eyes were blazing in his taut, pale face. “And why didn’t you explain that the soles of your feet are so crisscrossed with scar tissue, it’s probably impossible to walk more that one mile without excruciating pain?”

  “You said it was safer to walk.” She didn’t look at him. “I didn’t have a right to ask you to run any extra risks because I have a handicap.”

  “I would have found a way. You had no right to play the martyr.” His fingers touched her scarred instep. “I feel like one of the goons in Naldona’s torture squad. Dammit, why couldn’t you have trusted me?” The question vibrated with impassioned force. “What the hell can I do to show you I’m worthy of your trust? You didn’t have to go through this alone. I want to be there for you, but you won’t let me. You hide behind your wall of silence and won’t let anyone in. Well, I can’t take it anymore. I’m not—” He broke off. He was shaking as if he had a chill. He closed his eyes. “Oh, dear Lord, what am I saying?” He drew a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. They were still glittering, but not with anger. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. You’ve gone through enough for one day.”

  “You didn’t shout at me.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but every word had been so charged with emotion, it had shocked her.

  “No?” He smiled crookedly. “I felt as if I were shouting. The intent was there.” He lifted her legs and swung them in a half circle, until they were dangling off the bank. “What do you say I do penance by seeing what I can do to relieve you of some of your ‘discomfort’?” He moved to sit beside her on the bank. “By the way, remind me to tell you sometime how much I dislike euphemisms.”

  “As much as you dislike women who won’t trust you?” She hadn’t known she was going to ask that question. It had just tumbled out of the confusion and guilt his accusation had aroused in her.

  “I thought I had made it clear I was way past being able to generalize about you.” He didn’t look at her as he bent over and carefully rolled up the legs of her jeans. “I can’t force you to trust me. It has to come from you, and I don’t dislike your lack of trust. It only … hurts me.” He put first her left foot and then the right into the icy water of the stream. “Stay like this for a while. It will reduce the swelling and relieve the pain. Better?”

  “Much better.” She spoke abstractedly, her thoughts still on Sandor’s words. She was barely conscious of the cool water running soothingly over her feet. She had hurt him. The knowledge appalled her. She hadn’t meant to hurt him. She had wanted to protect him. Yet had the desire to protect been her only motive? He could be right. The instinct to safeguard her privacy and independence had been a part of her so long, she often reacted without thinking.

  But Sandor hadn’t been afraid. He had the same warrior instincts she possessed, and still he had confessed his ability to be hurt by her. He had trusted her as she hadn’t been able to trust him. “It happened in Said Ababa,” she said abruptly.

  “What?” His gaze lifted swiftly to her face.

  “The scars.” Her gaze was fixed on the darkening patch of sky she could see through the top of the pines. “It happened sixteen years ago in Said Ababa.”

  He became very still. “Sixteen years ago you would have been only twelve or thirteen years old. The wounds must have been very deep to create scar tissue like that.” He tried to keep his tone expressionless, desperately afraid she would close up again.

  “They were deep. They became infected. I was lucky I didn’t get gangrene. Antibiotics were practically nonexistent at the camp.” She moistened her lower lip with her tongue. “I probably would have died if it hadn’t been for Dimitri.”

  “Camp?”

  “I was in a displaced-persons’ camp for two years in Said Ababa.” The words were halting, and corroded with the years of repression. “After the overthrow of the government, the revolutionaries took power. They were even more oppressive than the tyrants they
’d replaced.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Horror stories had emerged by the hundreds after the revolution, Sandor remembered. And Alessandra had been in the center of that relentless reign of terror. “You’re an American. How did you come to be in a displaced-persons’ camp?”

  “I didn’t say I was an American. I said I hold an American passport. I didn’t have any passport or any identification at all after the revolution. I could have been any nationality. James said there was a good possibility I was an American, because one of the government officials who ran the camp said he thought he remembered seeing me wandering in the streets of the company town near the American oil refinery.” She shrugged. “There was some doubt. The town was several hundred miles from where they picked me up. I was barefoot and out of my head with fever, lying by the side of the road. James says walking that distance through the mountains and desert could have been the cause of my lacerated feet.”

  “James ‘says,’ ” he repeated slowly. “Don’t you know?”

  “No. I don’t remember anything before I woke up in the camp. That was why it was difficult to pinpoint my nationality. I spoke English, French, and German fluently. The oil refinery and the town itself were destroyed by the bombing.” Her voice lowered. “They tell me the town burned for four days and you could see the flames clawing at the sky from a distance of over a hundred miles.”

  Clawing at the sky. The phrase evoked a vivid picture of desperation and terror. Had someone really used those words or had a wisp of memory managed to filter through the barriers a young woman had erected to protect herself from an experience too terrible to remember?

  “There was a protest from the American government at the time,” Sandor said. “But they had airlifted most of the personnel who were American citizens out of the area before the situation came to a boil. Weren’t there any inquiries about you?”