Megan Chance (22 page)

She sighed, knowing she would never tell him. At least not now. She wanted nothing to spoil these days, wanted no lingering pain to taint her memory. Only in her imagination did Conor respond with
"I love you too."
The reality was just as it had always been. The job and vengeance came first. There was no room for love. There was no room for her.

She told herself it didn't matter. She was tired of battling things she couldn't change, tired of living with betrayal. She didn't want to think or analyze. She wanted to love, even if it meant she would ultimately be hurt again. It was better than fighting all the time.

The relief that went through her at the thought was astounding; she nearly laughed out loud at the force of it.

Conor looked up, as if sensing her mood, and smiled. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she answered. "A joke I remembered."

'Tell me."

"I don't remember it that well." She went to him, resting her hands on the armrests and leaning over him. Her hair fell forward, washing down his shirtfront, curtaining part of her face. He pushed it away gently, tucking it behind her ear. "Something about a city boy trying to be a farmer." She lifted the corner of the book he was reading and closed it over his thumb.
"Alfalfa: Techniques and Procedures for Growing from Mexican Seed
. Are you serious?"

"What's wrong?" he asked lightly. "Can't you see me bent over a plow, cursing in the sunshine?"

"Of course I can." A teasing smile touched her lips. "With your gun tucked into your belt and William Pinkerton sending you telegrams every other day." She lowered her voice in a parody of the Pinkerton boss. " 'Another emergency, Conor. We need an experienced man.'"

Conor laughed. "Poor William would be humiliated to hear himself sound like that. He'd say something more like: 'Top secret, Roarke. Only you can do it.'"

"If that's the future, I can see you won't get much alfalfa harvested."

"Or planted, for that matter." Conor laid the book aside and pulled her into his lap.

Sari locked her arms around his neck, leaning into him. Her knee jabbed into the side of the chair. "Have you ever thought about having a family? About settling down?"

She caught a glimpse of surprise, of sudden vulnerability, but then the shutters went up over his eyes. He was wondering what to tell her, she realized, and the knowledge sent a shaft of pain through her. "I've never had the time for that, Sari."

"But you've thought about it."

He shrugged. "Once or twice."

"When you were young and idealistic probably." Sari kept her voice light, though the tension that tugged at her heart grew tighter and tighter. "How lovable you must have been then, before Pinkerton got his hooks into you."

"And I'm not lovable now?"

Sari shook her head. "Not at all. No woman in her right mind would fall in love with you."

"Only insane women."

She chuckled. "Or a woman with no mind at all."

His hands tightened on her hips; Conor stared at her face. "Which one of those women were you?"

She couldn't tell if he was teasing or not. Sari worked to keep her smile. "When I was in love with you?"

He nodded.

"I believe I was dangerously close to being a woman with no mind at all."

He studied her for a moment. He smiled, a sad, wistful smile, and the expression sank into her stomach.

"You lie so prettily, love."

She said nothing, waidng for the next question. The inevitable question.
"How do you feel now?"
How would she answer when he asked it? With the truth, or with the lie that would protect her again?

But he didn't ask. Instead he pulled her closer, burying his face between her breasts. Sari held him there, bending her head over his until her hair rained onto her hands and his shoulders.

"I didn't know you'd lost a baby," he said softly, whispering against her heart, the words so soft, she barely heard them. But she did hear them, and she heard his concern, the pain she didn't understand.

"I—I thought I'd told you about that."

"No." He pulled away, his blue eyes surveyed her calmly. "I never knew."

"Well, it's not really the kind of failure you tell everyone about." It had been so long ago. Nearly seven years. But she could still remember her fierce joy at the life inside of her, the fulfillment that touched every part of her life.... And then the overwhelming, devastating pain.

She couldn't look into his face. Conor had not been a part of that time, and it was still so private to her. "I loved being pregnant," she said slowly. "It was the best thing that ever happened to me."

He was quiet for a moment, and she wondered if he was going to ask her the other question. After she'd lost the baby, everyone had been too courteous to ask how it had happened. But then, they hadn't needed to ask. Evan had volunteered the information freely, telling anyone who even seemed interested about his aunt's terrible premonition, and how Sari had ignored it.

Evan had always believed the miscarriage was Sari's fault. When he'd told Sari about his aunt's vision, she had laughed it away, feeling so secure in her pregnancy that an old woman's superstitions seemed silly. Evan had never forgiven her. It had irrevocably ruined a marriage that was disintegrating anyway. Evan seldom touched her after that.

She looked at Conor, waiting for the question. Instead he caressed her jaw with his finger.

"What happens now, Sari?" He asked quietly. "When you ran away from Tamaqua, from the past, did you have a plan? Did you want to settle down, remarry, have a family?"

Her throat tightened. He was asking the questions she wanted him to ask, but not because the answers had any relevance to his own plans. There was only mild curiosity in his voice—no strained emotion, no hopeful edge.

She told herself it didn't matter. She'd known from the beginning he didn't plan to stay. And if there was nothing for her in the future, she would grab today and make it as precious as she could. She had decided to love him, to trust him, and she would do it and hope that one day he might decide to love her back. Even just a little bit.

She opened her mouth to speak, to make some light, teasing comment that didn't show how much his question hurt. But the soddy was suddenly, eerily quiet. The cold silence rang in her ears, loudly and painfully.

Conor looked toward the door. "What the hell is that sound?"

"There is no sound," she said. "That's what you hear. Silence. The blizzard's stopped."

His eyes met hers, and Sari saw the quick desperation, the profound regret in his gaze. She knew those same expressions were mirrored on her own face.

The world was back.

I
t had been three days since the blizzard had ended. Since Charles had ridden home that first day, there'd been no chance to be alone. It had been three days of seeing Conor across the room and longing to touch him, three days of catching his intimate glances, three nights of lying awake, aching with need.

Sari looked up at him as he stared down at the chessboard they'd placed on the floor—an innocent game, and one that had been taking the place of other games, other intimacies. Now just watching him made Sari burn. The endearing way his hair was tousled, the laughing mouth—she could not keep her eyes off him. Which was why she was ready when he took his bishop and knocked over her king and reached for her.

"Don't!" Sari shrieked, half laughing as she scooted backward on the floor, out of Conor's reach. "It's not fair! You're cheating!"

He lunged forward, toppling the chess pieces off the board, sending them scattering across the cowhide. He was practically on top of her. He locked his hands around her waist. "You've taken unfair advantage of me from the beginning. I'm not cheating, I'm just evening the odds."

"Oh, you'll say whatever—"

"—works," he finished. His face cracked in a teasing leer. "And this is working quite well." He fell onto his side, pulling her with him as he rolled onto his back. Sari found herself on top of him, her skirts tangled around her knees.

She rested her palms squarely on his chest, pushing away. "Why is it so impossible to play a normal game of chess with you?"

"I believe I told you. You have an unfair advantage."

"Which is?"

"Every second I look at you, I'd rather be in this position."

Sari felt the heat of a blush work its way over her face. The man said the most outrageous things. She never quite knew how to react to them, though she liked his frank compliments and the way he studied her through lowered lids when he thought she wasn't looking. It had been such a long time since anyone had looked at her that way.

"I think," she said archly, "you'd better learn to control it.
Onkle
could come in any minute."

"What would he do?" His eyes twinkled.

"Put a gun to your head, most likely."

"I think I can withstand such a threat." His hands lowered to her hips, he pulled her closer until Sari felt his heat through her skirt. "What do you think, love? Should I sneak up to your room tonight?"

Her stomach felt hollow; warmth spread all through her body. She smiled, leaning closer so that her hair tickled his face. "I don't know if I should let you," she said. "You don't deserve it."

"I don't?" He rose to brush her throat with his lips. "What are you punishing me for?"

"For cheating at chess." Her voice was breathless.

"Ah, love." He brought a hand to her chin, tilting her face down so that she was forced to look into his eyes. Blue, blue eyes. "It's only cheating if I win."

His voice was like a spell, wrapping around her, mesmerizing her. Sari wanted nothing more than to feel him touching her, to feel him inside her.

His thumb caressed her jaw, bringing her closer. His lips were inches away, she felt the warm moistness of his breath and saw the dark desire in his eyes—

The front latch turned, and Sari sprung away, pulling down her skirts and brushing back her hair as the door swung open. Charles walked in, stamping snow from his boots.

"How do you stay warm in the barn, Roarke?" he wheezed, taking off his hat and throwing it onto the table. "It is freezing out there."

Sari picked up the chess pieces, ignoring the blush staining her cheeks. She tried not to look at Conor. He hadn't moved, and she knew if she turned to meet his eyes, he would smile that lazy, mocking smile that turned her blood to fire.

The thought of it made her fingers tremble; she knocked over a pawn and tried unsuccessfully to right it three rimes before it stood again on its rightful square.

"Playing chess?" Her uncle's voice floated past her.

Sari nodded vigorously without looking at him. "Yes. There was nothing else to do, and I'm tired of reading—"

"Who was winning?" he asked, his pale eyes twinkling.

Conor rose on one elbow, his mouth cocked in a half grin. "Sari was giving me the beating I deserved, I'm afraid. You taught her well."

"It is best to remember that chess is a strategic game. Every move counts." Charles shrugged out of his coat before moving to the stove to pour a cup of coffee. He took a sip and looked back out the window. He shook his head, smiling tenderly. "Bernice loved chess. We would play it at least twice a week. She was not a woman to waste moves."

"Sari learned that as well." Conor looked at her as he spoke, and Sari heard his promise, saw the sly sparkle of innuendo in his eyes.

She got to her feet, stepping away from the chessboard. "Perhaps you two should finish the game," she suggested. "Since you're both so fond of it."

Charles's face lit at the idea. "If you would like to, Roarke."

"As long as you're not too much better than I am," Conor said. "I do have some pride, and being beaten by Sari was almost too much for me."

His voice sounded light, but Sari felt his gaze on her back as she moved to the loft ladder. She took a few steps up, and then stopped, knowing he was watching the movement of her hips, and afraid her uncle would notice. She waited until Charles took the few steps from the kitchen.

"Very well, Roarke," he challenged. "I will give you the first move."

"Oh, God," Conor said. "I don't like the sound of that."

Sari climbed into the loft, closing her eyes and letting the soft darkness swallow her. Conor and Charles's words blended together, and she stopped listening as she stumbled the short distance to her bed and sat on the edge.

The shadows were soothing; Sari closed her eyes and tried to relax. But it was impossible. She kept imagining the smooth movement of the muscles of his back, remembering the whispers of passion that shivered over her skin like Tamaqua mist.

She wished it were easy to walk away from him, to love him with her body and not her mind and souL But she had never been able to do that before, and she knew it was useless to try now. Conor was in her blood, had been since the day she'd first seen him, cocky and too bold at the Christmas dance in Tamaqua. She thought he'd grabbed a little piece of her heart then, and now his hold on it was impossible to break. She wondered if she would be able to stand it when he left.

But she had promised herself not to think about it. She loved him with everything in her that knew how to love. She did not want to think of a time when she might hate him again just as intensely.

T
he men's talk dwindled to silent concentration as the game wound on. Charles was a good player, and Conor was easily outmatched. Besides, he was distracted as hell. He kept remembering the sway of Sari's hips beneath her skirt, the subtle bouncing of her breasts as she climbed the ladder. She was up there now, no doubt in bed, with her face buried in a book. He could imagine how she must look, with her hair unbound, trailing over the soft rise of her shoulder, her breath slow and even—

"Checkmate." Charles sat back, a wide grin creasing his face.

Conor started. "Where? I didn't see."

"That is right, you did not see." Charles wagged a finger. "You would be a good player, Roarke, if you had concentration. But no, you wander off, caught in a dream like a small boy."