Harmony (35 page)

She leaned forward and kissed him. He gave back only sparingly, enough to satisfy, yet leave her wanting more as soon as his lips broke from hers. He dipped his head and his mouth found her. She shuddered as his tongue swirled around the tight peak. Her back arched. For long moments, he did scandalous things to her breast with his mouth and tongue, things she'd never known about.

She rolled onto her back, taking him with her. Her
hands rose to sink into his thick hair and hold his head close. The pleasurable assault went on, his lips closed around one breast while his hand molded the other. His lips tugged gently; his teeth nipped. Both sent spirals of ecstasy through her. Their legs intertwined. Rough hair on his thighs skimmed against her.

Dizzying thoughts ran rampant in Edwina's mind.
When I'm old and gray and by myself, I will remember this. If there is but one memory I can have, this will be it. I refuse to lose the magic of this night to senility.

When she could stand no more of this sweet torment, he rained kisses up her throat, then caught her mouth. The kiss was frenzied and urgent. In a move she was hardly aware of, his body imprisoned hers. She caressed the length of his back, her legs parting. The need for release had built inside her with a fevered pitch; she squirmed beneath him. He pushed forward slowly; she took the hot, thick heat of him as he slipped inside.

And then there was only a raw need that ignited between them. Between the thrusts and burning tempo, kisses were exchanged, no longer soft or gentle. They were greedy, untamed, unlike anything Edwina had sought or given. But they were what she had to have as Tom's rhythm increased. She raced ahead, grasping for the telltale signs of release. Needing it now. Wanting it more than anything.

Completion came for her, too fast. A cry rose from her throat; her fingers dug into his muscular shoulders. She hadn't been able to help herself. He'd done things to her mind, made her feel wanton. She'd let all inhibitions go.

His kiss captured her breath, the panting that held her in its clutches. He kept moving his hips against her, over and over, until he shuddered with his release, breath coming from him in choppy gasps. Tom's impassioned groan filled her ears as his head lowered.

And then there was only the fragmented silence, broken by spent breathing, heartbeats that still pumped in unison. He nuzzled the curve between her neck and
shoulder, kissing lightly. He didn't leave her. His weight felt right, like a layer of completeness. She didn't want him to move yet.

What she'd known before had been quick—gratifying, but quick. Tom did things in a way that unraveled her. Even now, in the aftermath, a multitude of effusive sensations skittered across the dips and peaks of her body. Every pore was alive. This was all so new, unknown.

Kissing his temple, she wrapped her arms tightly about him. Oh . . . Heaven help her. She could fall in love with him. It would be so effortless.

•  •  •

The light from various candles flickered and bounced off the royal blue tiled walls. Edwina had put them on the flipped-down commode seat, the floor, around the bathtub, and on the marble-slab sink counter.

The steaming, sudsy water felt indescribably good to Tom as it seeped into his body. The livery had a footbath with hot and cold running water that he used downstairs; but he couldn't sit in it, much less sprawl out. And in spite of the flower-scented salts and bubbles Edwina had dumped in the bath, he loved this, loved lying with his back against the slanted rim with her in front of him, his arms sheltering her in a soft hold. His legs could nearly make it to the end, but not quite. He either had to bend them or stick them out. He'd opted for the latter, only because Edwina could rest hers on top of his.

Soapy water slid down her calves, dribbling into the hair on his. Against the top of her head, he murmured, “You have cute toes.”

Her gentle laughter vibrated next to his chest. “Such a thing to say. Feet are not cute.”

“Yours are. Mine aren't.” He stretched his leg up for her to view. “I have hair on my toes. You don't.”

“I would hope not.” She giggled.

He breathed in the scent of her wet hair; the fragrance of her shampoo had been heightened by that of the scented water.

Each fell silent, maybe because they both were content.
He knew he was. He couldn't remember when he'd been so at peace, so filled. Absently stroking the sides of his thumbs up and down her ribs, he eased his head back on the tub rim and closed his eyes.

With her wit and charm, her candor and amusing mannerisms, he could fall in love with her if she let him. But she'd been perfectly clear. This would have to be enough. He would respect her wishes—for now. Maybe down the road, after they'd spent some time together, she might change her mind.

His thoughts drifted back to what she'd said.
I know.
At first, it hadn't been evident to him what she meant. Then she'd repeated herself. The second time, the message came across.

She'd been with someone before.

He wasn't altogether reconciled to her not being a virgin. But maybe he'd had a moment's relief: he wouldn't be the one to take her virginity from her. On the other hand, he'd instantly hated the other man who'd been in her life.

When Tom had made love to her, he'd wanted to tell her that he would wipe the other's touch from her memory. But that would have been selfish of him. Whatever memories she had, they were hers. He had no right to defuse them. It did anger Tom, though, that whoever he was, he had hurt her.

Edwina began to make some sense to him—the reasons she overcompensated with her primness and properness. In her world, it was better to be labeled a prude than to suffer hints at anything remotely akin to being a loose woman. But in his world . . . it didn't matter—not a lot. Perhaps just a little. He wasn't entirely used to the idea. He could forgive her, though—no question. Not that she required his forgiveness. He'd never apply the double standard to her, which said that men were able to seek their pleasures, but women were not—that those who did were women of easy virtue, tolerated by society only if they knew that their place was in brothels and the like.

But where did Edwina fit in? In neither place. So she would make her own—alone. It unsettled him.

Edwina dreamily sighed.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, crossing his arms over her breasts and loosely hugging her.

“This is nice.” Her hands came up to rest on his forearms.

“Better than nice.” Tom lifted his head and lowered one foot into the water to warm it. “Too bad you don't have any more of that beer.”

“A delivery should be coming this week.”

“You won't tell me how you get it.”

“Hmm” blended with a smile he couldn't see but knew was there. “I have my ways.”

His chin rested on the top of her head. “I know you. But I don't know anything about you. What was your life like when you were little?”

She didn't immediately answer. Then she began to explain. “Well . . . my parents had me when they were older. My mother lost two babies before I was born.” She swirled the water with her fingertip. “I had a happy childhood, if that's what you mean. I did all the normal things a girl does.”

“I don't know what the normal girl things are. I didn't have a sister.”

“Dolls and dress-up. Parties on the lawn with friends. Skating. Drawing. I don't know . . . lots of things.”

“What were your parents like?”

“Controlling.” The word held a degree of bitterness. “My father worked as a teller at the bank. He kept long hours. And even on the weekends, he wasn't the most pleasant to be around. I think he disliked his position intensely but could do nothing to change his set of circumstances, since he had my mother and me to take care of. We left him alone, mostly. But when he was in a ‘mood,' he could go on and on and tell me what's wrong with the country and why I should do this and that. And that I should marry only if I have money of
my own so I don't have to rely on my husband for everything.”

Tom smoothed a curl back from Edwina's wet forehead.

“My mother had strong opinions of what and who I should be. I fought with her about going to business college. We had a horrible argument. But finally, she relented.” Edwina turned her head to gaze at Tom. “And the funny thing was—after all her fuss and tears—when we next saw Mrs. Plunkett, my mother told her right away what my plans were and how happy she was that I was going to the city to further my education. Mrs. Calhoon happened to be in the mercantile at the time and she declared, ‘Edna'—that was my mother's name—‘Edna, what's this world coming to that young girls can roam into the city alone?' The women didn't know I'd be staying with Minister Stoll's relations in Chicago. And even when my mother informed them, they still were prissy about it. So she said, ‘At least my Edwina has gumption.' ”

Facing forward again, Edwina fished out a porous sponge from the suds. “My mother went on to say that I'd be the same girl in Chicago that I was in Harmony and told them that she trusted my good judgment. That put their disjointed minds at ease.”

Tom wouldn't like having his private affairs dissected and judged. How could Edwina stand it? No wonder she wanted to get the hell out of Harmony.

“You've lived here all your life?”

“All my life.” She ran the tubular sponge down her arms, then up his thigh. His muscles tightened. “Except for when I was in Chicago.”

“How long were you there?”

“Almost four years.”

He wanted to ask if that's where she'd met
him.
But he didn't feel it was any of his business. She'd tell him if she wanted to.

“And what was the school like?”

“Big.” Water trickled down his leg where she squeezed the sponge. “Bigger than I'd imagined.”

“Co-educational?”

“Of course not. Only young women.” She grazed his inner thigh with her knuckles.

He just about jumped out of his skin. “What is that you've got?”

“A Japanese loofah.”

Smiling, he observed, “It must be a woman thing. I never had one.”

Her easy laughter shook her body, rippling the water.

Settling her closer, he went on, “Tell me more. What about the girls? They all wanted to be accountants?”

“Oh, we didn't call ourselves that. Women can't be, you know.”

“Then what were you—are you?”

“A certified bookkeeper.”

“Sounds like the same thing.”

She shrugged. “It is.”

“When you go to Denver or California or wherever, will any of the others be there with you?” He hated the thought of her by herself. He didn't want to think of her there at all.

“I don't know. The only woman I was close with was Abbie—Abigail Crane. I lived with her and her family while I was at school.” The loofah dipped into the water. More trickling, all down his arm.

“The minister's relatives.”

“Yes, but they weren't . . . well, the parents were staunch reformists, but Abbie . . . she was her own person.”

“How so?”

“Well . . . you could say she was . . . adventurous.”

He understood. “Ahh . . . she liked to have fun.”

“Yes. She corrupted me.”

“For the better?” He bent his leg once more, and she doused his knee. His hands slipped lower down her waist. He sought her navel and traced it.

“It all depends. You didn't know me before. Maybe
you'd have liked me more the way I was than the way I am now.”

“I like you just fine as you are.” He pressed an ardent kiss to the shell of her damp ear. “Did Abbie show you the clubs?”

“Yes.”

“And that's where the other college boys were.”

“Yes.” Vagueness came into her tone.

He knew he was getting closer to finding out about the one who'd defiled her, left her.

“Was there anyone special you danced with?”

“No . . . I . . . There was nobody in particular.” She twisted and looked at him. An unspoken pain lived in her eyes. Tom wanted to rip in two the bastard who'd done this to her, put the hurt inside her heart.

In a calm voice that contradicted the turmoil in her gaze, Edwina asked, “What about your life before you came here? Tell me everything.”

“There isn't much to tell.” He put his disappointment aside; he'd back away if that was what she wanted.

“Of course there is. You've been places.” She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Why did you leave Texas in the first place?”

“To get the hell away from my father.”

She gasped. “He beat you?”

“No. He just fell into the bottle a little too much and turned into an . . .”—Tom caught his language—“. . . turned unpleasant.”

She slipped back around and pressed her shoulders into his chest. “What did your father do?”

“He farmed. I did it for a while.”

“You didn't like it?”

“Not at all.”

“Then I should think you'd have wanted to stay in school so you could get a good education and make something of yourself.” She turned quickly and took his chin in her fingers. “Not that you aren't something now. . . . I just meant . . .”

“I know what you meant.” He gave her a soft kiss.
She sighed, then smiled into his face before resuming her cuddle position once more.

“I told you why I dropped out of school. It wasn't for me. I wasn't going to sit behind a damn plow, either. That was for my father—and my brother, before he left.”

“You have a brother?”

“Somewhere.”

“You don't know where?”

“Only when he writes.”

“But don't you care?”

“I care, but what can I do? John's living his life on the edge, one town to the next. I never know if my letters catch up to him.”