Mittman, Stephanie (40 page)

"No
one's putting me away," he said, pressing her head against his chest and
rubbing at her back. Another minute of this and he'd break down and kiss her
again, touch her. Another night of this and he'd take her, love her. "Let
me take you back to the house now."

"No,"
she begged him, her words dancing against his skin beneath his shirt. "Let
me stay with you longer. Don't make me go back."

"If
I don't—" he began. He knew the catch in his throat and the ragged breath
that ruffled her hair told her what would happen.

"Let
me stay," she begged him again, and again, one tiny little stream of pleas
against the boulder of his resistance. It was how the great canyons were made,
and he was surely no stronger. Hadn't he told his brother he owed him nothing?
Hadn't he meant it?

He
allowed himself to taste her lips, lick the salty wetness of her tears away. He
permitted himself the luxury of running his fingers across her soft cheeks,
tracing her jaw, and trailing down her neck.

"Charlie,"
he said softly, the words getting lost in her neck, the edge of her gown, the
perfume of her skin, "you should go now. You'll be sorry tomorrow."

"Tomorrow
the world could end," she said, unbuttoning her gown until he could see
the slight curve of her breasts through the opening. "And I don't want to
die without knowing you love me."

"You
already know that." He put his hands on her shoulders, massaging them and
keeping her nightgown where he knew it belonged. "And what if the world
doesn't end? What then?"

"Are
you afraid I'll be sorry tomorrow if we do something here tonight?" she
asked, the shoulder of her gown slipping and neither of them stopping it as it
rolled down her arm. "Because I'm afraid I'll be sorry for the rest of my
life if we don't."

"Honey,"
he said as she reached up and wound her arms around his neck, drawing him down
toward her, drawing him in, holding him down beneath the surface with her until
they were both drowning, "it's not something you'll be able to take back.
Not something you can just tell yourself didn't happen."

"You
don't want to make love to me?" she asked, pulling back while those huge
hazel eyes searched his face. "Is that it?"

"I
don't want to hurt you," he said, unable to stop himself from running his
hands down her arms and dragging her gown along with them. As much as she
wanted him, he wanted her that much more. But not at the price she'd have to
pay if she thought she was doing wrong. "Ever."

"Is
it going to hurt?" she asked, the slightest wince crossing her face.

He
let go of her gown and backed away from her, letting a moan escape through his
lips. He hadn't meant hurt her physically. Somehow he'd managed to forget about
it being her very first time, had forgotten the fact that she was a virgin
bride.

Her
face fell. "That much?" she asked, and her throat bobbed as she
swallowed.

Had
he ever been with a woman for her first time? He didn't recall and couldn't
believe it was something he'd forget. He shrugged his shoulders. "I've
heard that it does," he answered honestly.

"But
you've..." she said, those wide eyes melting places he didn't realize had
ever hardened.

"Yes,
I've made love," he admitted. "Too many times to too many
women."

"Did
it hurt them?" she asked, not seeming to be troubled by the fact that he'd
actually done everything Cabot had ever accused him of—and then some.

"It
only hurts once," he said. "Just the first time."

She
ran her tongue over her bottom lip, thinking. "So then this must be your
first time too," she said, uncoiling her body and stepping down from the
chair. "The first time that it was for the first time."

Somehow
it cleansed him just to be with her, as if her very breath could blow away his
sins.

"Are
you sure this is what you want?" he asked. "It can only be your first
time once, and if I do get convicted, if I get sent away..."

"I
want my first time to be with you. I want every time to be with you." She
shook her shoulders slightly and the white gown billowed about her and fell to
the ground around her feet. "And if you do get convicted, then I want my
only time to have been with you."

Her
words were eloquent, moving. But the sight of her there, some sprite rising
from the dirt floor—that was beyond all words.

He
put out his hand to her and she grasped it tightly with warm fingertips.
Willingly, she followed him to the bed, let him lift her and place her down
gently on the cot, let him stare down at her nakedness while he pulled his
shirttails from his pants and hurried out of his shirt.

It
was a wonder to him that the world didn't stop revolving at the sight of
her—that judges and lawyers continued their business when she was present in
the courtroom, that merchants could still show their wares when she entered
their shops, that butchers could speak with her about meat or tailors about
clothes.

His
world stood still.

While
he turned his back and shimmied out of his trousers, she shifted onto her side
and moved toward the far edge of the cot, making room for him. Looking over his
shoulder he saw her fuss with the pillow, run her hand over the sheet, and bite
at her bottom lip.

"Don't
be afraid," he said, lowering himself to the cot and pulling her against
him.

"I'm
afraid
for
you," she admitted, shifting to fit snugly against him.
"But not
of
you. I could never be afraid of you."

It
was tight on the bed, but she was a tiny thing, and he rolled her onto her back
and lay on his side, running his hands over her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
In turn she touched his chest, and for a while he thought she was counting his
ribs. He bent his head and kissed her lips, letting his tongue hint at what his
manhood would do when she was ready.

All
the while she continued to trace his ribs, but he had the feeling she was
losing count often and starting over.

He
drifted from her lips to her neck, from her neck to her collarbone. From there
he traced with his tongue down the center of her chest and made a sharp left
turn to grasp a small nipple between his lips.

She
moaned softly.

Clearly
she had lost count.

The
skin on her thigh was satin smooth as he inched his way toward her femininity,
the circles he made getting ever closer to her curls, until his fingers were
tangled in them and the heel of his hand pressed softly against her belly.

He
felt the change in her and attributed it at first to fear. "I won't hurt
you," he promised, his fingers creeping lower, seeking out her treasures
for them both to share.

Her
breathing was tight, her muscles tensed.

"Charlie?
Do you want me to stop?" He held his breath waiting for the answer,
knowing before she said it what was to come.

"I'm
so sorry," she said, sitting up and pulling away from him. "I love
you, Ash. I do. With all my heart and soul. But I'm his wife. I married him for
better and for worse. Forsaking all others."

Tears
were streaming down her cheeks as she blindly felt around beside the bed.
Reluctantly he handed her the gown she sought and turned his back while she
donned it. "He's not a husband to you, Charlotte," he said, his voice
coming out more harshly than he intended.

"You're
right," she said, laying one of those tiny hands on his shoulder.
"But it doesn't make me less a wife."

"Even
Kathryn thinks you've a right to some happiness," he said as he covered
her hand, now cold, with his own.

"Do
you know the truth? I think even Cabot would agree with that," she said
with a sad little laugh. "I think he'd be relieved."

"We'd
all be relieved," he said, shifting his weight slightly. "It's a
marriage in name only, Charlotte. You never even saw a priest, did you?"

"I'm
married in the eyes of the law."

"And
I may just be found guilty in the eyes of the law. That doesn't make it so,
Charlotte. That doesn't make it real."

"It's
real enough," she said, looking around. "So real, it hurts."

"No
matter what we do, I seem to promise you pain, don't I?"

She
looked around again, embarrassed about something.

"What
is it?" he asked, standing and looking down at her. "You can tell
me."

She
chewed at her lip for a moment and then shrugged up at him. "I still want
to spend the night here, with you... without..."

That's
it, Charlie Russe—don't just plunge the knife in to the hilt. Twist it.

"Wrap
yourself in the blanket," he instructed her, helping tuck it in around
her. He didn't want to come in contact with an inch of that silky skin, even by
accident. "And scoot over. More."

She
was nearly off the edge of the cot when he finally eased himself down onto the
bed.

He
waited through the tears, through the ragged breaths and the sighs, until her
breathing evened out and he was absolutely certain she was asleep. And when he
was sure, he took her into his arms and held her and let his own tears soak the
pillow beneath their heads.

One
minute she was in heaven, and the next she was in hell. At least that was how
it seemed to Charlotte as she'd made her way back to the house just before
dawn. Waking up in Ash's arms, seeing his face before even the ceiling came
into view—well, everyone knew if wishes were stars, the night would be as
bright as the day. What life could be!

And
then she'd sneaked up to her silent lonely room and crawled into her cold bed,
Cabot just on the other side of the wall. This was her life, for now and for
always, it seemed.

She
wished that she could just discuss it all with Cabot, thrash it out like it was
one of their cases, ask him what he thought and seek out his advice. But how
could she ask her husband what she should do?

She
wished she could tell him how she felt when she was with Ash. How there were
bows and ribbons on her every thought. How the air was crisper, the sun warmer,
the world kinder, just because he was there. And when he smiled!

Not
exactly the sort of thing one's husband wanted to hear about his brother.

There
was a piece of her that honestly believed that Cabot would be happy for
her—that he'd tell her to leave the old coot and go after some happiness.

And
it was just that piece, that man, that would keep her in her bed swearing she'd
never go out to the carriage house and betray him again.

All
the while she dressed in the clothes that Cabot had chosen for her, she thought
about what she'd given up. It had seemed so little at the time. Children.
Physical love. A hand to hold and a shoulder to cry on.

She
brushed her hair, thinking about what she'd gained. The respect of an entire
community. The ability to make a difference. A precious friend in Kathryn. A
partner for life.

She
hugged the poster of her bed and rapped her head gently against it several
times in the hope of juggling her brains back into working order and knocking
some sense into her head.

The
noise continued even after she stopped.

"Señora
Charlotte?" Rosa's soft voice called through the door. "You are
in?"

"I
am in," she answered. "Deep."

Rosa
opened the door a foot or so and poked her head into the room. With the door
open Charlotte could hear Cabot's voice drifting up from the front hall. She
caught a word here and a word there, but the tone told her enough.

"Thank
you, Rosa," she said, hurrying past the maid and rushing down the
stairwell.

In
the foyer with Cabot were two uniformed policemen and the district attorney,
who held several papers in his hand.

"What
took you so damn long?" Cabot was asking Brent. "I expected you here
before the ashes were cool to revoke his bail."

Brent
didn't look as pleased as Charlotte would have expected. "Just waiting for
the charge," he said, looking up at Charlotte and then gesturing toward
Cabot's office. "It might be best if we—"

"Whatever
it is," she said, coming to stand next to Cabot, "I want to know. If
Mr. Whittier is in more trouble—"

Brent
nodded. "He surely is. But it's not just that, ma'am. I'm afraid I've some
bad news for you. You might want to sit down."

She
stood her ground, all Cabot's training holding her upright when all she wanted
to do was collapse in a heap on the floor. "What is it?"

Brent
exhaled hard enough to raise the dust Rosa had missed on the hall tree. One of
Liberty's feathers flew up off the glove box and came spiraling down slowly
while they all looked on in silence.

Charlotte
held out her hand for the summons, but Brent handed it to Cabot. "I'll
just have him out again this afternoon," Cabot said, but there was no
muscle behind his words.