Mittman, Stephanie (38 page)

"Why
are you here?" he whispered against her hair while his hands began searching
for the answers beneath her nightdress.

"For
this," she admitted, slipping the buttons through their holes until she'd
reached nearly to her waist.

His
hands found their own way, his lips traced new paths where no other man had
been. She let him do what he would, her only move a bold one in which she
lifted his shirt so that his skin would touch her own.

He
rolled onto his back and took her with him so that she rested on the length of
his body. Then, after he had raised her slightly so that her lips were within
reach of his own, he asked her again, "Why are you here?"

"So
that I'll be warm when I'm old," she said, leaning down and touching her
lips to his. She kissed him tentatively at first, and then instinct overcame
her and she kissed him with all the passion she had stored within her, all the
fire he had stoked with every look he'd ever given her, all the love he had
promised her with each of a million silent smiles.

"What
about now? Are you warm now?" he asked, easing her nightdress down over her
arms, slipping it over her hands until she was free of it, until it was a
puddle of white around her waist. He sat her up on him to glisten in the
moonlight like some sprite rising from the sea with her nightclothes all foam
around her.

Her
breasts were just the right size and shape for his hands. Nothing could have
felt more perfectly made for him. Her legs straddled him and her knees hugged
at his hips. Only the blanket between them was saving her from ruin, only her
innocence was keeping her fear at bay.

"Now
are you warm?" he asked her again, pulling her down against him and taking
the tip of one breast in his mouth, teasing it with his tongue and then tracing
a path to the neglected one.

Her
hands roamed his chest and she pulled herself away from him to shimmy down
until her face was once again resting on his chest. With her fingers she
searched out his own nipple and then caught it between her lips. She sucked
ever so gently and rocked against him slowly, while he fought the rising tide,
until nothing, not even all he owed his brother, could stop him from
insinuating his hand between them and searching out her femininity.

He
would do nothing his brother couldn't do, he decided. Life had been unfair
enough to Cabot. And he would take no further advantage. Maybe, he admitted in
a haze of want and need, it was a foolish line to draw when his hungry fingers
were poised to storm the gates to what long ago should have become the
stronghold of his brother's passion.

It
was a game he had always played with his own mind to allow himself some small
pleasure in life that Cabot's condition otherwise denied him. He could enjoy
the ocean breeze against his cheeks because Cabot could do the same. He could
drink until he puked, he could stay up until dawn, all because, while Cabot
might not, still he was able.

And
now Ash could bring this woman to heaven and pretend that she belonged to him
for just this moment in time.

She
was silky and soft and, oh, so willing as he touched her gently, trying not to
frighten her with his boldness.

God,
how he loved this woman! Not merely her lovely little body, which he wanted,
nor her kind, sweet heart, which he needed, but her soul itself, which made his
own soul sing with the joy of an innocent six-year-old who had never disobeyed
his brother's commands.

He
rolled over with her once again, this time laying her on the cot and crouching
above her to keep his weight off her small frame. He kissed her everywhere,
letting her moans fill him with a relief he'd never known. He kissed her on
into the night, and when he felt her satisfaction as his own, he held her
against him and let her joy wash over him like a balm that could soothe his
guilt.

Cabot
could have done it all, had he chosen to. Before he'd gotten in so deep, Ash
had actually wished his brother would.

Now
it would take the California prison system to keep Ash's hands off his
brother's wife.

And
the way things looked, they'd be happy to do the job.

"You
what?" Ash heard his brother yell from inside his office. He jammed his
hands in his pockets to keep from opening the door. What kind of idiot promises
the woman he loves that he'll just
stay out of it?
What kind of man
agrees that what had happened between the two of them the night before had to
be buried and forgotten for Cabot's sake? "Tell me you're joking,
Charlotte."

"I
wish I was," she said more evenly than Ash ever could have. She hadn't
even allowed him to say he loved her before she'd made him promise not to
breathe a word to Cabot. At the time she could have asked him for the moon and
he'd have promised that too. Could a man be held responsible for the promises
he made when the woman he loved was crying and vowing the moment they'd shared
would never happen again?

"And
what's your excuse?" Cabot demanded. How the hell was she supposed to
answer that?
Your brother
started kissing me and...
He shook his
head. He reminded himself that he hadn't exactly seduced her, after all. She'd
been the one to come to
his
bed, nuzzle against
his
side, beg for
his
warmth.

But
it didn't assuage his guilt any. It was still his fault. All his fault. A woman
so starved for affection... a man who knew what a kiss could lead to...

"There
is no excuse," he heard her say. "I mean, I could tell you I was
worried about your brother, heartbroken over Davis, horrified with what's
happened to Selma. I could tell you that being spat upon and vilified for doing
what I believe in, and working day and night, have tied me up in knots that can
never be undone. I could tell you that being served Argus for dinner was the
last straw. I could tell you a million other things, but you wouldn't
understand any of them, would you?"

"I
understand the part about there being no excuse, Charlotte. That I understand
quite well. This is that for which the word
inexcusable
was
created."

Ash
had heard enough. If it wasn't something they could put behind them, keep
secret and sacred unto themselves, then so be it. But he wouldn't have it made
tawdry and cheap. And he wouldn't let her stand there alone and face Cabot's outrage.

"I
don't suppose saying I was sorry would do me any good here," she said.
"So I won't bother. I've never condoned this sort of behavior and I've
made no secret of it. But you've bullied me and bossed me and I've had to bear
it silently time after time."

He
opened the door and stood in the doorway, confused.
Time after time?
What
in hell was she talking about?

"Decide
to finally get out of bed this morning?" Cabot asked, more than a touch of
sarcasm tingeing his voice. "Get what you were looking for last night, did
you?"

He
bit his tongue rather than say in front of Charlotte the only word that came to
mind.
Ass.
His brother was an
ass.

"I
forgot to do something for Cabot down at court," Charlotte said quickly,
pleading with her eyes for him to hold his tongue. "And he's rather angry.
Not that I blame him with all the work there is to do and only three days left
to do it in."

"And
why are there only three days left?" Cabot shouted, pounding his fist on
the arm of his chair so hard, it shook his body and made it look as if his legs
had moved. "Because instead of doing what she should have been doing,
what
I told her to do,
she was off fighting battles that have no relevance to
her own life, and endangering herself in the process. It's not enough I have to
worry for her safety, but I've your rattle-pated exploits to make things even
worse. I suppose you were off again last night to scour the docks? No one
listens to a word I say and then they expect me to make it all work out in the
end." He rolled his chair to the bookcase, turned, and rolled back toward
the desk. "One thing I asked of you, Charlotte. And you couldn't do even
that."

"Stop
yelling, Cabot. Now." Ash took two steps toward the desk, enough to stand
between his brother and the man's wife. "One thing you ask of her?"
Ash asked and followed it with a sorry laugh. "You ask more of her than
any man could expect of ten women, and she—"

"—gets
damn little in return? Is that what you were going to say?" Cabot asked.

"No.
But there's something—" he began, until Charlotte cut him off.

"We've
less than seventy-two hours to get ready for jury selection and prepare a case
that will keep an innocent man out of jail. Is this how you two intend to spend
it? Like two bull seals at the pier?"

"What
I intend is for you to go down to the courthouse in the morning and get one
more day, Charlotte Reynolds! And I expect that you won't come back here
without it."

"So
you can spend the day drinking? So you can get so full of Scotch that you pass
out in here and leave me to clean up what you can't hold down?"

Cabot's
eyes widened and he shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking
about. Arthur—"

"Arthur!
Arthur thinks the sun rises with you and the moon sets when you say so,"
Charlotte said testily. "Would your mother let him see you
compromised?"

Ash
felt, not for the first time, like a stranger in his own house. As if there
were rules and rituals that had been kept secret from him and in which he was
forbidden to take part. He stood there silent, stupid, watching his brother's
marriage unravel.

"And
could I let your mother see to you? Could she get you out of your clothes and
into your bed? It's time this ridiculousness stopped. You want your annual
oblivion, Cabot, you go to the courthouse and have the trial date changed. And
then you can lie in your own vomit if you like. I've got more important things
to do."

"No
one asked you to see to me." Cabot rubbed the spokes of his wheels so fast
that Ash could hear them sing in the quiet of the room. "I will get drunk
this March twenty-second, just as I have gotten drunk every March
twenty-second, and not you, not him," he said pointing at Ash, "not
my father, not the entire California court system, is going to stop me."

If
they said anything else, Ash didn't hear it.

Just
like tumblers in a safe, each gear fell into place in Ash's head and unlocked
that part of his heart that hurt like hell. Closing his eyes, he watched it all
happening again. But this time he wasn't six years old. This time he understood
what it was about his big brother that had frightened him so much that day on
the roof.

And
in the silence the rage that was bottled in his chest boiled over. He took the
few steps that separated him from his brother, and with a yank on Cabot's
lapels, Ash lifted him from the very chair he'd always held himself responsible
for putting Cabot into.

"You
bloody bastard," he said, eye-to-eye with his brother for the first time
in their lives. "You were celebrating your birthday, weren't you?"
Cabot stared at him, silent, and Ash shook him and shouted into his face.
"Weren't you?"

"Ashford,
my God! Put him down," he could hear Charlotte saying, but she was far
away. Years away. Twenty-two years away.

"All
this time," he said, feeling the weight of his brother pulling at his
wrists, sagging his shoulders, as the man just hung there, his useless feet at
twisted angles, "you let me think it was me, what I did—"

"I
always said it wasn't your fault," Cabot answered back, his hands
clutching at Ash's arms to keep from falling. "I always told you not to
blame yourself."

"And
Mother? She let me think—"

"She
doesn't know," Cabot said, looking guilty for the first time. "Father
didn't think she'd want to know and so he kept it from her. It was an accident
no matter how you look at it—to assess blame now..."

"You're
quite a piece of work, Cabot Whittier. Letting me owe you and owe you, all
because you couldn't face the truth yourself. So all along you were the one who
couldn't take the responsibility you always accused me of running away from."
Ash lowered the older man back into his chair without regard for whether his
legs were where they ought to be, and stepped back toward the door. "Well,
big brother, I've paid my dues and then some. I don't owe you one damn thing
anymore. Not even the time of day."

He
could hear Charlotte calling after him but he couldn't stop, not even for her.
There was too much anger in him, too much malice. When he claimed her as his
own, and he had no doubt he would, he didn't want vengeance crawling into bed
with them.

He
heard his mother call out to him, too, from the dining room as he went past the
door. But he just kept walking. Out the back door and past the carriage house
and right on down to the lake.

And
even then, he walked on, his shoes soft and wet, his feet icy cold. He walked
still, turning to see whether he could see the roofline yet, rising up over the
carriage-house weather vane. He was up to his chest in the frigid water before
he could see the roof in its entirety.