The Bound Heart (25 page)

Steam filled the small bathhouse as Olive sat on the low wooden stool and washed.

Jamie was quiet as he watched from a small bench against the wall. He sat there naked, broody as he looked at her.

She’d thought that maybe he’d worked out the anger; but the mood was still with him, his brows heavy over his eyes, his lips a straight unreadable line.

Okazaki-san had already gone to bed but had left the bath full and covered to retain the heat. It only needed to be topped up with hot water and some of the bath salts added.

The custom to wash before bed, to scrub the day away, and then soak in the deep wooden tub, water up under her chin was one she’d fast adopted.

Olive washed everywhere, between her toes, scrubbed her heels with pumice stone. Then she reached for the shampoo.

Jamie stood.

“Here, let me wash your hair.”

He poured water over her head, and then massaged in the shampoo. He worked over her scalp and neck until her eyes grew heavy, then he rinsed.

“That was your world tonight, wasn’t it?” Her voice was slow and thick

He made a sound of assent as he tugged her up and she stepped into the deep bath and closed her eyes.

The sounds of him washing, water splashing as it ran over his body and hit the bathhouse floor.

A lot more was happening than she understood. A world more complex than she first imagined. But it was a world where her deep inner self told her she belonged. Growing up where she had was not a disadvantage in this world. She could take what she saw today in her stride. She could understand a lot about human nature that wouldn’t have been so easy to accept, if she had been in a more sheltered life.

A relationship existed between the very rich and the very poor. For different reasons, they both were more accepting of breaking rules. More than those who lived in between. The layers of wealth in between held to the rules of society the tightest. Climbing out of poverty, people reached for propriety to mark the line they had crossed.

This world of Jamie’s was going to be hers. He and Mrs. Okazaki had opened a door and propelled her through it. And she was going to find a place for herself in it. People who liked what she created, people who didn’t see her background but what she could create for them.

If Jamie grew tired of her and set her aside, she would not have to head back to Whitechapel. She was on her way to her own path.

Then his hands rested on her shoulders.

“Move forward.”

He stepped in behind her, putting his legs on either side of her. The heat at her back as he pulled her to lean back on his chest.

“Did you get comments on your jacket?” His voice was soft behind her.

“Yes. Many. I gave out all the cards.”

“Meshi.”

She pinched his leg, and he grunted.

“Meshi,” she repeated.

Both he and Mrs. Okazaki were pushing her to learn Japanese. Mrs. Okazaki said there were many Japanese living in London who would like her embroidery showing London life, wives who were here for business men as part of the government. Having some Japanese would help her stand out and her attempt to respect their customs and make them comfortable, appreciated.

“Did you know that Mrs. Okazaki organized a room at Mrs. Iwara’s shop?”

“No.” His hand squeezed her arm. “That’s good. You’ll both do well. I’ve spoken to some other artists who may need custom items made.”

“You have?” The comb seemed to twist in her chest. She knew at the time she shouldn’t do it, things like that never worked for her. But she was upset with him, hurt, wanted to hurt him back. Now she just felt sorry.

She lay there eyes closed, the warm water seeping into her muscles. His chest raising and falling with his breathing lifted her gently. So different from after the party. And yet it was all still there.

“Jamie, about the comb…”

“Shhh…”

“But I want…”

His hand came up and covered her mouth.

She bit at the pads of flesh on his palm, but she stayed silent when his hand dropped away.

In the next half hour, they finished the bath, dressed in the Japanese sleeping robes, the nemaki, and Jamie walked her to her door at the end of the garden. He looked back at the house, looked like he was about to say something, and then kissed her goodnight instead.

“Be ready for practice in the morning. We have some hard work to do before Paris.”

Hours later, she was still awake.

Olive got up and made her way to the main house.

Jamie heard her steps as she came up the stairs without her platform shoes, that odd rhythm.

He’d willed her to come. Willed his stubborn kami to come and defy him.

The handle of his bedroom door rattled, opened, and there she was. Hair long and loose down her back and a warm glow formed in his chest.

He moved over and flipped back the bed covers.

“Take off your nemaki.” He wanted her naked, wanted all her silken skin curled up with against him.

Olive untied the belt and let the cotton robe fall to the floor then slipped into the bed beside him.

“I still feel bad,” she whispered, wrapping herself around him.

Her hair was gossamer under his palm as he stroked her back. “Shhhh…” he kissed her head. “Go to sleep.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I’ll work on that for you.”

His hand slipped between her legs, threaded through the soft, downy curls.

He kissed her breasts, rolled her nipples in his teeth as she panted and tugged at his hair.

He loved her as if he was trying to tell her the complex swirl of feeling inside him. Every touch, every kiss, he wanted her to know, what she meant to him. How she had slipped past so many of his barriers, was the woman who had come the closest, the only one he’d wanted to have here at his house.

As he’d been harsh with her after the party, he was gentle with her now. Used his fingers and tongue on her as she came against his mouth, called out his name, and fell fast asleep.

Something had come undone tonight. What he couldn’t place.

Jamie wrapped her up in his arms; and for the first time tonight, the tension started to ease.

With the weight of her head against his chest, the soft press of her breasts, and the scent of her on his face, his eyes got heavy and he fell asleep.

Softness moved over him. He was groggy, still blanketed with sleep, yet partly awake. Olive straddled him, her hair, silk on his face, his chest, and shoulders. Her soft, pert breasts tantalized his chest with soft touches as she moved. She had her face very close but didn’t seem to be doing anything.

“What are you doing?” he whispered into her hair.

“I’m giving you butterfly kisses with my eye lashes,” she whispered back.

Then he felt the soft flutter of her eyelashes over his cheeks.

Delicate, soft flutters over one cheek, and then the other.

Something broke in his chest.

A hard brittle crust cracked open to see who was loving him with unprecedented tenderness.

“Stay still,” she whispered.

The flutters moved over his face, his lips his nose, which made him smile, and tickled on his own eyelashes.

Then her soft lips pressed against his. Rubbed over his and nipped using her lips.

He was thick against her, between her legs. He tilted his hips and felt the soft curls, the damp flesh rub against him.

His arms, heavy with sleep slid around her, pulled her down on him, closer as he opened his mouth and her sweet tongue slid in.

That cracking open in his chest opened larger and an ache so deep washed out over him. His eyes burnt as her hands, soft and gentle, stroked his sides, his face.

He nudged his hips. She pushed back a little and the head of him slipped into her. Slipped barely in and pulled out of that soft pocket.

She stilled.

God help him, he reached out to anything to grab hold of, his rules his past blinding he reached for something to hold onto and found nothing. His heart beat over fast n his chest.

His hands moved up and held her face as he kissed her; His head was spinning, heat burned through him. He pulled her face closer, thrust his tongue in deeper, closer. It wasn’t enough.

A tremor ran through is arms and then his mind stilled. Everything slowed, the focused honed. He heard the sound of his heart, their combined breathing, the wet sound of their kiss. And with no thought at all, no thought just blazing want, he flexed his hips up and slid home.

The soft sensation was indescribable. He surged up, holding her so she straddled him as he sat.

Then her hips moved, and the pillowed sweetness between her legs clasped, cushioned, and hugged him.

His head spun and his body started to shake.

He moved move on instinct, on raw primal need, turning so she was on her back; he pulled her legs up over his hip and thrust home. Pushed as deep as he could time and time again, his muscles tight, his teeth gritted as his length was clasped and released with each thrust.

She chanted his name, clutched at him, begged him as her need grew.

He reached out. The soft satin of her face caught in his palms as they held both sides of her face. He held her as their eyes locked. A sensation flared across his chest. Her face, so open everything she felt rolling across her features. He saw himself in her eyes, saw his own raw need, saw layers of himself stripping back, layer after layer of who he was being revealed and bathing in the acceptance that radiated from her.

Is heart raced, his body shook and he felt dizzy.

Her neck arched.

In seconds his teeth bit down at its base.

They moved faster.

His muscles tightened.

“Jamie…” her eyes twisted in the agony of passion. “I Love you…”

Then her body arched, clamped tight as her mouth opened in a silent scream and her core contracted, tightened around him.

His release came from nowhere as her inner muscles held him, squeezed him.

He shouted.

Pushed deep, that milking pulse tugging at him as he released.

His head whirled.

He bundled her against him, arms holding her so tight she whimpered.

Still deep inside her, she fell asleep. Exhausted.

His heart beat fast, so fast, his breathing ragged.

What had he done?

Olive woke, her body aching for the first time somewhere else. Pleasure wrapped around her at the memory of last night. He was right there so deep inside her with his eyes, so close; the man behind everything, the rules, the moodiness.

She opened eyes.

The light glowed softly through the morning haze lighting the far wall. The shadows of a sparrows darted across the wall as they flew in and out of the next under the eve outside.

It took a few moments for it to register where she was. And that she was alone.

She scowled.

Damn him.

He was making her drag him every step forward. Last night wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t wanted it too. Yet they took one step forward, and then a hundred back.

Olive got out of bed, found her nemaki, and slipped it on heading up to the attic.

The door was locked.

She knocked.

“Jamie?”

After five minutes, she gave up and went downstairs.

She went to the bathhouse and standing, washed with cool water then went to her room and dressed.

Okazaki was in the kitchen.

After breakfast, she and Okazaki did stretches in the garden.

Jamie didn’t join them.

Again, he didn’t unlock the workshop or answer when she went up for their usual practice time.

That night he didn’t come to dinner.

Later, she lay in half sleep, the second pillow clutched to her chest in comfort. In the center of her chest was a large pain as if her heart had been carved out, and she lay there with the empty aching cavity in a lifeless body.

Why was he doing this.

She had never connected with someone like they had together. Had never felt so close to someone in her life. It was as if for those moments they were joined. Like she felt who he was. Knew him as a part of herself and him her.

The sound of someone stumbling made her sit up.

A smash as a small figurine fell to the wooden floor in the hall.

Olive threw back the covers just as someone half fell through the paper and wood sliding door to her room.

She screamed.

Then Mrs. Okazaki was talking in rapid Japanese.

“Jamie?”

He pulled himself out of the broken paper, and she ran over to the door and slid it back.

Jamie swayed in the hall, speaking very guttural short, sharp Japanese.

He pointed at her and said some more.

Mrs. Okazaki slapped down his hand and took hold of him, guiding him to the door.

He twisted out of her hold.

In a couple of steps, he reached out and grabbed Olive’s face holding it with his palms on either cheek.

That empty cavity in her chest ached with his familiar hold and the soft swipe of his thumbs over her cheeks.

“I told you to go home. Why didn’t you just stay home?”

Mrs. Okazaki tugged at him and spoke very fast in Japanese.

He shrugged Mrs. Okazaki off him, growled something guttural again in Japanese, she stepped back.

“Two out of three rules down, Olive, and look at me. But you can’t break the last one.” He leaned in closer, swayed as he tried to rub his nose against hers. “That’s an elephant kiss,” he whispered. “I’m an elephant, can’t forget it, Olive. It goes round and round in my head. I can’t forget it….”

“Jamie…”

He put his hand over her mouth. Leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Rule number one can never be broken… I don’t love you.”

Searing pain sliced through her.

She reached out, her finger clasping his jacket.

“You don’t mean it…”

“Don’t love you…” His head shook ‘no’ even as his hand touched her cheek, softly carefully as he swayed in front of her.

The gentleness, the pain in his eyes. It hurt. Hurst so bad she could hardly breath.

“Last night was special.”

He shook his head ‘no’.

Her hand came up and pushed him away.

Heat washed over her neck and face, and then tears burnt her eyes as they fell all over again.

His face as he stood there twisted and his eyes squeezed tight.

“I can’t look at you,” he said.

She turned and stumbled back into her room.

Mrs. Okazaki’s voice was raised and the sound of the front door slid closed.

Her body suddenly ached as if she’d just gotten a beating; arms came around her, and she sank into them.

Soothing sounds, words she couldn’t understand wrapped her as her body felt like it was crushing inch by inch into itself.

“I can’t stay here. I want to be gone. Now!”

The rest was a dull, numb blur as she packed with Mrs. Okazaki’s help.

Mrs. Okazaki knew a place. Somewhere close to Mrs. Iwara’s. A Japanese couple who had a small house like hers in their back garden. Their parents were to come out from Japan, but had changed their minds. They were looking for a renter.

By ten the following morning, Olive sat in a small room, her own room, in a small very Japanese house.