'Til the End of Time: A Loveswept Contemporary Romance

by Iris Johansen

  “From father to son. What a lovely tradition.” She moved a step closer and touched the saddle with a tentative finger. It was foolish, but she felt almost as if the wooden horse were alive. He had witnessed so much love, heard so much laughter, experienced so many imaginary adventures with his small friends. Now he was in this abandoned nursery, resting but not forgotten. Waiting for the next child to come. “Someday you’ll give him to your son.” There was a silence. When she looked up, it was to see that Sandor was no longer smiling. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” He gave the tassel another tug. “Nothing’s wrong. Let me show you the rest of my home. How are your feet?”

  “A little sore. Nothing serious.”

  “I won’t keep you on them very long.” His gaze traveled around the room, and his expression revealed his feelings of melancholy mixed with affection. “There are a few things I want you to see”—he paused—“and that I want to see again with you. Then I’ll let you bathe and go to bed.”

  “I want to see everything,” she said quickly. “You promised to share with me, and I’m holding you to it.” If she’d been ready to drop from exhaustion, her response would have been the same. She had an instinctive feeling Sandor needed to share his past even more than she needed to accept the gift. “I don’t suppose we dare turn on any lights.”

  “No, I imagine the main generator is turned off, but there are plenty of candles lying about. My mother loved candlelight. If we’re careful to draw the drapes before we light the candles, there shouldn’t be any danger.” He opened the door and bowed with half-mocking grandeur. “Step into my world, milady.”

  And for the next hour she felt as if, in some mysterious fashion, she had done just that. The conversation was light and the laughter frequent as they wandered down the polished halls and through the rooms that all appeared to have a story or hold a special memory for Sandor. She found her gaze clinging to his face in a sort of wonder. Lord, he’d loved this place. Affection was lighting his face with an incandescent glow far brighter than the flickering candlelight.

  “My mother liked this vase. My father gave—” He broke off. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He grinned sheepishly. “I guess I’ve been pretty talkative, haven’t I?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve enjoyed you, Sandor.”

  He looked surprised, and then a flush darkened his cheeks. Good heavens, he was embarrassed. Even his shrug was a little awkward. “That was my intention. But, as your American colloquialism goes, ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet.’ ”

  “I haven’t?” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve seen the scullery, the dungeon, the study, the grand ballroom, the front parlor, the garden room, the—”

  “You haven’t seen the master bedroom yet.”

  Her breath stopped in her throat, and she had to part her lips to get more air into her lungs. “No, I haven’t.”

  “I saved it for the last.” His eyes gravely met her own. “Because we won’t be leaving there again tonight, will we?”

  “No.” The dimness of the hall was lit only by the candelabrum Sandor was carrying. The pool of light it cast around them reminded her of an intimate spotlight. Intimate. Her heart was suddenly pounding wildly, and her breasts were lifting and falling with every breath she drew. “I guess we won’t.”

  She could see the tenseness leave him, the rigidity flowing out. Had he thought she was going to refuse him? It seemed incredible. They had been building toward this final intimacy since the moment they met. The knowledge was filling her with an exuberance she had never known before. He was looking at her with the same eagerness as he had Leo a short time before. She smothered a sudden gurgle of laughter.

  “Why are you laughing?” His expression revealed that he was experiencing the same giddy exhilaration she was. “Should my manly pride be hurt? I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered that reaction when I asked a woman to go to bed with me.”

  “I was just thinking how happy I was that you like me as much as you do Leo,” she said teasingly. “And I was wondering if someday I might dare to aspire even higher.”

  His fingers lightly touched the tip of her nose. “You’ve already passed Leo at the post. I never invited him into the master bedroom.”

  “Thank heavens for that.”

  “Brat.” This time the tap on her nose was admonishing. “For that matter, I’ve never invited anyone into the master bedroom. After my father died and my mother returned to Argentina, I didn’t bother to move from my old room. The master suite didn’t seem to belong to me.” His smile faded. “But tonight I want very much to sleep in the bed where my father and his father slept. And I want you to sleep there with me. Is that all right with you?”

  It was too difficult to speak; every nerve and muscle in her body was shaking like a willow frond in a windstorm. She nodded, then tore her gaze away from Sandor and veiled her eyes with her lashes. Shy. Good Lord, she felt shy.

  His hand on her elbow came as a little shock. The touch wasn’t lightly teasing, as before. It was a caress as possessive as a kiss. “I promised you a bath.” He was gently propelling her toward the carved double doors at the end of the hall. “I’m afraid it will have to be a cold one—the hot-water heater would have to be lit, and that would take longer.…”

  “I don’t mind.” Why was he talking about hot-water heaters? she wondered wildly. “It’s not as if it were winter.”

  “No.” He opened the door to let her precede him. “Personally, I’ve had enough cold water to last me for quite a while.” A tiny twinkle appeared in his eyes. “The water yesterday in the pond may have cooled my libido, but I’m glad I won’t have to indulge in any further spartan aquatics for that particular reason.” He glanced around the bedroom. “I’m afraid this room is as dusty as the rest of the castle. I’ll change the sheets on the bed and see if I can tidy up a little after I take my shower.” He nodded to the door across the room. “There’s the dressing room and master bathroom. I’ll go to one of the guest rooms and shower.” He held out the silver candelabrum. “You’d better take this. I won’t have any problem finding my way around in the dark.”

  No, he wouldn’t have any trouble, she thought tenderly. Every inch of this place was graven in his heart and memory. She took the candelabrum. “Thank you. I’ll try not to be long.”

  “I’ll wait. I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes were warm and glowingly intent. “You’d have to point a nuclear missile at me to drive me away.”

  “I don’t have any missiles tucked away anywhere, so I guess it’s safe.” She turned away, avoiding his eyes. She didn’t feel safe. She was tottering on the edge of something new and unknown, and she had never felt more frightened in her life. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Alessandra.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder to see him frowning at her.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me?”

  Tenderness rushed over her. With one word she could hurt him terribly. It was there in the open vulnerability of his expression. She was closing him out again because she was afraid. Perhaps if she could force herself to share her fear as he had shared his past … She turned to face him. “I want you.” She gazed directly at him. “There’s something you should know. I’m not experienced. I may not be able to please you.” She lifted her chin. “At first. But if you’ll help me, I promise I’ll make up for it later. I learn fast, and I’ll be competent in no time.” She was speaking rapidly, the words tumbling over one another. Slowly. She wasn’t a child, to be this nervous. “I know you must have had all kinds of affairs, and you may not want to—” She broke off. “Why don’t you say something?”

  “I’m trying to take it in,” he said blankly. “Bruner?”

  “You said once that I was probably going to be your hair shirt. You were joking, but that’s what I am to James.” She shook her head sadly. “He’s a good man. He inherited the factory from his father and never really knew what war was all about until he vi
sited Said Ababa after the revolution. It really came home to him then—the wars and the misery he had helped to create by indiscriminate munitions sales he had made. I think, in some ways, I became a symbol for him. His penance. If he could make everything right for me, then maybe he could assuage the guilt he felt about all the rest. When I brought up my idea about helping the children, he jumped at it.”

  “But why no one else? You’re a very responsive woman.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know why. Maybe you’re right. It could be that I didn’t trust anyone enough to let him get that close to me.” She paused. “Until now.”

  He experienced a joy so intense, he could scarcely contain it. Joy and a sudden apprehension just as intense. What if he fouled up and disappointed her? “You really believe in loading responsibility on a man, don’t you, love?”

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t want you to feel responsible. I just thought you should know.” She rushed on. “I’m not even a virgin. When James took me out of the camp, he was given the record of the examination the doctor gave me when they brought me there.” She frowned like an earnest little girl. “I’m quite normal, but I wasn’t a virgin.”

  She was trying to reassure him. She’d been only twelve years old when she had entered the camp. Oh, Lord, don’t let her ever remember that time before. He felt a hot stinging behind his lids and had to transfer his gaze from her face to the flickering flame of a candle. “I’ll make a deal with you,” he said gruffly. “Suppose you be responsible for me and I’ll be responsible for you. I don’t mind responsibility. I’m beginning to like the idea.” He turned away. “I hope you’ll learn to like it too.”

  She gazed at the door in bemusement after it closed behind him. Responsibility. It was such a heavy word. Yet it had sounded warm and beautiful, the way Sandor had said it, and there was nothing heavy about the way it made her feel. Her step was as light as the zinging exhilaration floating through her veins as she turned and moved quickly toward the door of the dressing room.

  Seven

  The exquisite square of patterned silk was folded neatly beside the candelabrum she had set on the marble-topped vanity. It was the first thing Alessandra saw when she stepped out of the shower stall and reached for the towel on the rack beside it. There was a brief note lying on the top of the silk.

  It belongs to my mother. She would want you to wear it.

  S.

  It was the second note she had received from Sandor. Who could have imagined when she had been given that first tension-charged directive that within forty-eight hours she would be reading this entirely different and intimate message? She hurriedly finished drying and tossed the towel aside. She could hardly wait to shake out that alluring heap of colorful silk.

  It was a shawl. Not a token bit of material, but a full shawl such as she had seen worn by Spanish flamenco dancers. The white silk background had been mellowed to a rich ivory by years of loving use. The once-brilliant blossoms of the print had faded to a delicate shade of pink, and the thick, eight-inch silk fringe bordering it gleamed and flowed in the candlelight. Beautiful. The shawl was like Sandor’s home, old and lovely and cared for with great love and devotion. In a world filled with disposable items and disposable relationships, it was rare and wonderful to find a family whose devotion to one another and their possessions only increased as time passed.

  She hurriedly brushed her hair until it shone and rippled in rich brown waves over her shoulders. Then she draped the shawl about her, leaving her shoulders bare. The silk triangle was so large, the fringe brushed against her mid-thighs and the folds completely enveloped her in its rich beauty.

  She felt beautiful. Her fingers lovingly touched the silk fringe. Being physically attractive had never been high on her list of priorities, but she was suddenly passionately grateful for this illusion of beauty she’d been given. She wanted to be beautiful for Sandor tonight.

  She clutched the shawl together over her breasts with one hand and opened the door with the other.

  “Sandor?”

  “Right here.”

  She had known he would be there waiting for her. Sandor would always be there to help and succor when she needed him. Always? The word had come naturally to mind, but she mustn’t think of always. Sometimes a moment could be enough. She turned to pick up the candelabrum from the vanity and entered the bedroom.

  He was already in bed, leaning against the carved headboard of the enormous bed with a sheet draped carelessly over his naked hips. Naked. She stopped abruptly in the middle of the room. She drew a deep breath and tried to stop the trembling of her hand clasping the silver candelabrum. Of course he was naked. What else had she expected? “Thank you for letting me use your mother’s shawl. It’s absolutely magnificent. I’m surprised she didn’t take it with her.”

  “It’s one of her favorite shawls. Our family believes that when you depart from a place or a person you love, you should always leave a treasured object behind to retain possession. It’s a common tradition here in Tamrovia. It’s called the casimar, the homing.”

  “The homing,” she echoed softly. “What is your mother’s given name?”

  “Mariana. Why?”

  “No reason.” Thank you, Mariana. For the use of the shawl, the casimar, and, most of all, for this man sitting looking at her with a warm intentness more gentle than the candlelight. “I just wondered.” She set the candelabrum on the table beside her. “Shall I blow out the candles?”

  “No. I want to see you.” He suddenly chuckled. “I’ve spent two nights in the dark in bed with you. I think it’s time for a change, don’t you?”

  “If you do.” She moistened her lower lip with her tongue as she climbed the three steps to stand beside the bed. “I didn’t mind lying in bed in the dark with you. It was very … nice.”

  “Nice.” A little smile tugged at his lips. “What a stilted understatement. Are you, by any chance, a little nervous, love?”

  “A little,” she admitted, not looking at him. “I don’t know what you expect of me.”

  He tugged at the fringe of the shawl. “Look at me.” His expression was grave. “I expect to enjoy you and I expect you to enjoy me. That’s what this is all about.” He paused before adding softly, “Joy.”

  She felt a melting deep within her. “I think I can handle that.”

  “You can handle anything.” His eyes were twinkling. “And I give you full permission to do it. My humble person is at your service.” His hand covered her hand clutching the shawl over her breasts and gently unclenched it. “I’ll take care of this. I want you to have your hands free.” He threw aside the sheet and swiveled to a sitting position on the side of the bed so she was standing between his legs.

  She inhaled sharply. She suddenly felt very vulnerable standing here in near-nakedness, held captive by his hand on the silk at her breast. Vulnerable and tingling and … The soft hair dusting his thighs was pressing against her smooth skin, and his eyes were darkening with the same tension that was causing her breasts to lift and fall with every breath.

  His hand moved slowly to the fringe brushing her thighs. “Do you know how lovely you are?” His voice was hoarse. “You look as sensual as the Delacroix painting of his Odalisque. When you walked through that door, I wanted you so much, I thought it would kill me.”

  “You appeared very …” His hand was moving the veil of fringe aside, and the touch of his warm fingertips on her inner thigh caused her to flinch with surprise. “Calm.”

  “Did I? I don’t even remember what I said. All I could think of were those lovely legs and what was waiting between them.” He had found what was waiting between them. “So soft,” he murmured, his fingers moving in gentle exploration. “I think your fringe is more silky than the shawl’s.”

  “Sandor.” She could barely force the word out through the tightness of her throat. What his fingers were doing to her was causing jolts of electricity through every muscle of her body. “I can’t �
�”

  “Shh, I know.” His hand clutching the silk over her breasts loosened barely enough to let the shawl slip from her shoulders to just below her breasts. He tightened his grip and the band of silk lifted her breasts into bold prominence. His gaze was hot and intent as it fastened on the full, swollen mounds jutting from their bed of silk. “Let me suckle, love.” His head was moving slowly toward her. “Pleasure me. As I will pleasure you.” His fingers plunged deep as his open mouth closed over her nipple.

  Alessandra’s head jerked back. She gave a low moan, her hands clutching wildly at his shoulders for support. Her legs felt as if they would collapse at any second. The steady hungry suckling at her breast was incredibly erotic, and the rhythm of his fingers …

  “Are you ready for me?” His teeth gently pulled at her nipple. “Lord, love, say you’re ready for me.” He began suckling at her other breast, his tongue moving over her. He lifted his head. “I hate to leave these pretty things, but if I don’t get inside you I’m going to go insane. Are you rea—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. “Yes!”

  “Then, come.” He pulled her down astride him. With one jerk, the shawl was no longer around her, but tossed on the chair beside the bed. His lips covered her own with an urgency that held an element of pain. His tongue entered her mouth as he shifted her body to attain another entrance.

  Her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders as she felt the teasing abrasion of his hair-roughened chest against her sensitive nipples. His breathing was harsh, as if he were running, and she heard him give a low groan of hunger against her lips.

  With one plunge they were together. Fullness. Heat. Casimar. She was the one who was groaning now. The sensation was incredible. She wanted more. Her hips moved yearningly, and then she had to stop as a shudder of pleasure shook her. He felt so right within her.