Unbound: (InterMix) (23 page)

He held her tightly, and even as his heart soared, something painful stirred in his
gut. This affair would be over, and so soon. Tomorrow night he’d be alone in this
very bed, and her body would be far away. Off to places where he couldn’t follow.

She’d taught him so much about affection and attraction, but her absence would teach
him more than he cared to know about loneliness and loss . . . And he’d thought he’d
made intimate companions of those feelings long ago.
Fool.

“I’m going to miss you,” he whispered.

The hand in his hair tightened, and he felt her lips pressing against his throat,
chased by a long exhalation. She pulled back to meet his eyes. “Me, too. But I never
expected to find any of this on my trip. So I guess I should just be grateful for
it, right?”

He kissed her nose. “Right.”
And I suppose I ought to do the same. Be grateful for these few days of easy company
and carnal bliss. Not miserable for the rest of my life, to know beyond the shadow
of a doubt what I’m missing.

Because he knew this wouldn’t come along again. This connection would’ve been the
rarest find out in the wider, modern world. That it had come to him here . . .

But it only could have come to me here.
Whatever she felt for him, she felt it for a version of Rob who didn’t exist outside
these hills.

Could he, though?

Rob had lived in the deepest denial in his former life. In his marriage.

Through his courtship with Helen, things had felt easy. He’d found a fix. He’d found
a woman he loved enough to set those old appetites aside, save for the odd moment—just
a minute of private fantasizing, enough to push him over the edge during sex. Nothing
like how he’d been as a sober young man, when his sexual preoccupation had been a
consumption in itself. Drink had dulled it, enough for Rob to trick himself into believing
he was normal. Normal enough.

Then that medicine had turned to poison, its draw overpowering all else.

He was in a bubble, here and now, one that couldn’t exist under any other circumstances.
Not in any other place, with any other company. He wasn’t idiot enough to think the
love of a good woman could prevail over a suicidally strong addiction—not away from
these safe and solitary hills. Not back in a town or city, surrounded by all those
temptations and triggers, by the sheer accessibility and culture of alcohol.

Maybe he ought to tell her. She wanted to know him, so maybe she’d welcome that sad
news as well . . .

But no. He wasn’t holding back any real, relevant truth. This man she knew, he wasn’t
an alcoholic. Not an active one at least, and rarely even a pining one. Not these
past few days. Telling her would serve no purpose whatsoever. Let her freeze him in
her memories exactly as he was now. The way he’d freeze her. Let them frame this fleeting,
impossible romance and crop away the needless ugliness of reality.

“I’d like to see you again,” Merry said quietly.

“Oh?” Something else froze, then. His heart, if only for a breath.

“Next year. If you’ll have me. If that wasn’t just a bunch of romantic nonsense we
were talking earlier.”

“Of course not. You know where to find me. Come when you come, and I’ll be here.”

But deep inside, a truth unfolded. He couldn’t give her what she deserved, not for
more than a few nights. She needed people, friends, family, activities. Society. Though
the thought burned, he hoped that next summer, next autumn, next winter would come
and go, and Merry wouldn’t return to brighten those long nights. Because he’d know
what that meant . . .

That she’d found a man who could give what he could, and more. Permanence. Convention.
Everything she deserved.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and kissed her hair. “And you come when you’re ready. If you’re
ready.”

“
If?
It’ll be the longest however-many months in history, waiting to come back.”

As selfishly as Rob knew the same would be true for him . . . he hoped she’d prove
herself a liar.

Hoped she’d find what she needed with someone who was worthy of her.

Hoped she’d never return.

“We’ll see,” he said, and pressed his lips to that soft hair one last time. “We’ll
see.”

Chapter Fourteen

Merry woke slowly, sleep a gently drawn curtain.

The lamps were still glowing above them, but she sensed that dawn must be close. Rob’s
chest was flush to her back, his strong arm tucked to her side, breath warm on her
neck. He felt wonderful, so perfect . . .

But nature was calling, and loudly.

She slipped away without waking him and dressed as silently as she could, cringing
in the cold morning air. She’d come to love this place, but the outhouse situation . . .
yeah, that had lost its novelty.

She relit the stove and fed it two logs, then pulled on her socks and boots at the
rear door, muscles racked by the chill. How he did this year-round, she couldn’t imagine.
Though, true, it did turn the simplest pleasures—a crackling fire or a mug of hot
tea—into the most lavish luxuries.

She braved the bracing dawn air, finding no dog; but a crow perched on a fence post,
puffed against the cold in the silvery light. She waved. It
crahh
ed half-assedly. Her boots crunched through the sparkling, frosted grass. The bird
was gone when she emerged from the outhouse.

She stood hugging herself for a long time, watching the sun rising from the east,
a ripe yolk growing bigger, brighter, whiter, and finally breaking free from the horizon.

My last morning on this hill.
Sadness cooled her more deeply than the frost ever could.

Ask him.
Ask him that thing she’d been toying with as she fell asleep.
It’s not such a crazy idea. Selfish, maybe, but after the things he said . . .

He’d have offered already, though, wouldn’t he? If it wasn’t a big deal?

But he
felt
for her. She replayed those words, in that voice, and warmth dropped through her,
unknotting her muscles and curling her lips.
I feel for you, Merry.

Enough to sacrifice two days, hiking with her to Inverness?

You’ll never know if you don’t ask him.

She headed back inside. The basin had gone cold, but she found a fresh washcloth on
a shelf in the back landing and gave her face a scrub. Padding through the bedroom
to get her toothbrush, she paused to stare down at Rob, his body and face so calm
with sleep. So handsome and rare. So perfectly hidden away out here, and yet she’d
found him. Found him and exposed him, and come to know him as no one else ever had.
He’d told her so himself.

Her admiration turned dark as she remembered everything from the night before. The
personalities she’d channeled when she’d taunted and spanked him. That woman might
not be Merry, but her costume fit like a custom-made, blood-red corset. A hot tension
licked through her as she remembered this man in the den, trembling by the golden
glow of the lantern.

With his beard and shaggy hair and pinioned arms, the scene had smacked undeniably
of some Jesus fetish, and Merry had beamed a little prayer that she be forgiven for
her egregious sin—all the while knowing it was totally worth it. The way he’d transformed . . .
Rob
suffered
his pleasure, quaking and gasping and pleading for its mercy—and cruelty. Absolutely
mesmerizing.

He roused, eyes squeezing tight, then opening to slits. Merry took a seat on the edge
of the mattress, poking his foot through the covers with the end of her toothbrush.
“Morning.”

“Good morning.” He sat up. The covers fell into a tumble in his lap, giving her a
fine view of his lean muscles. “When did you get up?”

“Maybe twenty minutes ago. Nature called. I just got the stove going.”

“What am I making you, for your last breakfast here at the world’s most rubbish B
and B?”

She laughed. “Oatmeal’s fine. And lots of it—I’m hoping for ten miles by the time
I make camp.” She’d planned to hike these final twenty miles in three days, but an
extra night with Rob—particularly last night—had been a worthy trade.

Rob left the covers. Merry studied his strong body as he dressed, committing him to
memory.

“Oh my God,” she said, sitting up straight.

He turned, eyes wide with alarm. “What?”

“This must be my fifth day with you, and I’ve never once thought to take a photo.”

That first week of hiking she’d taken hundreds, snapshots of every distant snow-capped
peak and shining loch. By the second week she’d stopped, wanting to conserve her battery,
and having grown slightly immune to the relentless majesty of the Highlands. But damn!

“All that archery and fishing and cooking out,” she muttered, annoyed.

“You must have been too busy living your life to bother thinking to document it,”
Rob teased, sitting beside her to pull on his socks.

“That’s a good way to look at it . . . But I still want at least one photo of you
before I go.”

“As you like.” He paused, holding her gaze, then pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

She wanted a million photos—of Rob crouched in his garden, tending the kettle, tossing
scraps to his nameless dog, taking aim at the old dead tree. Just standing as he was
now, extinguishing the lamps that had so recently illuminated their sex.

But a photo could never tell her how his lips tasted. Or how his body felt, exchanging
pleasure with hers. A photo couldn’t hold that voice, or make her skin prickle as
his merest touch did. So perhaps he was right. Perhaps living those sensations, fully
and presently, were stronger mementos than any digital image could hope to be.

“Oatmeal,” Rob said, stretching his arms behind him as he wandered into the den. “And
tea.”

She dug her camera from her pack and slipped it in her back pocket. Just one shot.
She’d regret it if she didn’t.

They stood by the stove, warming their hands as the kettle and pan of water heated.
Soon she’d be back to standing by the Keurig at work. Weird how the twenty seconds
that thing took to brew a cup of coffee felt like ages some mornings. She knew now
that she’d go back to those old routines and come to miss all this waiting. All this
intention.

She felt Rob’s fingertips at her wrist, then he took her hand in his.

She met his eyes. “I wish I could stay another week.”

The way his own smile wilted, she knew he wished the same. “You must have your return
flight booked.”

“I do . . . Though I’m half-tempted to rebook it the second I wander into cell coverage.”

His brows rose, expression brightening.

“Except I’ve maxed out my vacation and personal days already for this trip.”

“Ah, right. Plus your dad’s wedding.”

“Yeah,” she agreed with a mighty shrug and slump. “No way around it.”

“I suppose not.”

If only she’d known all this would happen, she’d have taken a bus to Loch Ness and
spent those two weeks of hiking here with Rob. Next year, perhaps.

Ask him.
She debated it a moment, irrationally afraid to name her hopes . . . but this man
had revealed so much of himself.

She turned to face him, taking his other hand in hers. The warm stove at her side
seemed to whisper encouragements. “Rob . . .”

“Yes?”

“Listen . . .” She stared at their socks. “We’ve known each other barely five days . . .”

“Yes?”

“But I can’t help feeling like I’m not ready to say good-bye to you.” She looked up
into his blue eyes. “Is that nuts?”

He shook his head, that old, shy look returning to soften his features. “I don’t think
so. I feel the same.”

“I know you probably have a ton of things to do, to prepare for the winter or whatever . . .
But would you . . . Would you like to come with me to Inverness?”

His face immediately went blank.
Shit, too far.

“Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have asked. It’s two long days’ hike, plus another couple
to get you back, and I’m sure I’ve messed your schedule up enough as it is. It was
a crazy idea.”

He opened and closed his mouth a half dozen times before he finally spoke. His words
were soft and frightened. “I
would
like that.”

Her heart rose high in her chest. “Would you?”

He nodded, expression the clearest mix of excitement and anxiety. She felt the same
funny cocktail racing through her veins.

Rubbing her thumbs over his knuckles, she imagined a dozen ridiculous things in a
breath—of them strolling hand in hand beside the river, toasting at a cozy restaurant,
of Rob kissing her good-bye at the train station before she returned to London to
fly home. Of the most fascinating, exciting romance of her life blooming just a little
longer before reality brought it to an end. And blooming somewhere with wine and hot
showers and soft cotton sheets, and a full box of condoms . . .

“I’d love if you did,” she said.

“Then I will.”

Merry grinned and gave a rather undignified little hop, jostling Rob’s arms. “Do you
have a backpack?”

“Nothing as posh as yours, but I’m sure I could sort something. And I think my feet
are up to it.” He released her hands and looked down, wiggling his toes.

“My train to London is in three days. If we manage ten miles each day, we can be in
Inverness by dinnertime the night before I have to catch it.”

He nodded. “I could always drive us, of course. We could be there in a matter of hours.”

“That’s kind, but I really want to finish the walk. It’s stubborn, but it’s what I
came to do.”

“Sure.”

She turned to stare at the mountains through the den’s window. “You know, at first
I was bummed about getting sick and cheating myself out of a few days in the city.
I wanted to explore where my mom came from, maybe try to find myself there, somehow.
Or out here, on the journey.”

“And my coming along won’t ruin your quest to find yourself?”

She shook her head. “I had two weeks to myself before I wound up on your doorstep.
And I think I’ve learned more about who I am in these past few days with you than
I ever could have wandering around alone for a year.”

“Oh.”

She met his stare. “You’re a very . . . You’re different, Rob. Different than anyone
I’ve ever met. It feels like understanding you helps me understand me. As dumb as
that sounds.”

He blushed, but unlike he might’ve when they’d first met, he didn’t look away.

With a final smile, she turned her attention to the practical—they had a schedule
to keep, after all. “My tent’s going to be awfully tight, unless you have your own.”

“I do. Though I don’t mind sharing. If you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. How will you get back?”

“If I don’t want to hike the return trip, I could take a coach to Drumnadrochit. It’s
only maybe nine miles’ hike from there.”

“Do you have cash on you, then?”

He smiled drily. “I have a bank card, as well.”

She cocked her head. “Do you? Weird.” But of course he did. Bank card, driver’s license,
probably a passport. Maybe an ancient time capsule of a Facebook page, documenting
the Rob from his forfeited, unhappy, civilized life. She’d be very careful not to
go looking for such a thing, once she got back. She wanted to remember this man as
he was, just as he wished to be seen. Exactly as she wanted to know him.

“Well,” she said. “If you’re sure about all this—you’re on.”

He stepped close, hugging her hands in his once more. His cheeks and ears turned pink.
“I’d do far more than wander a few lonely hours back through the Highlands to spend
another couple nights with you.”

It was her turn to blush.

He cleared his throat, slow as always as he shaped his thoughts into words. “I don’t
think I can explain what it’s meant . . . what you’ve done for me.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Maybe not. But I wish I could.”

“Well,” she said, letting his hands go with a final squeeze when the kettle began
to whine. “You’ve got two days’ hiking and one night in luxury to figure out how.”

***

Rob felt giddy all through breakfast and packing and a few hurried chores. But as
the sun rose higher and the reality of this spontaneous trip solidified . . .

Fucking hell, what had he gotten himself into?

The physicality of the journey didn’t intimidate him, nor the intimacy of the next
night. It wasn’t those things that had dread gathering around him like thunderheads,
darkening all the delight he ought to be feeling. He couldn’t even imagine his melancholy
at the moment of their parting, of saying good-bye to her.

Not with the thought of Inverness looming.

A city.

Alcohol on every corner.

In his new life, when he went into the village for supplies, he always left early,
making sure he was in and out of the shops by late morning. Any time past noon, the
triggers began. And at night . . . ? He got them way out here sometimes, when the
sun sank and his worries chattered loudly. Drop him in a city at dusk and the cravings
might become unbearable.

He hadn’t had a drink in over two years, but only because the meticulous construction
of his routines precluded it. By controlling his environment utterly. If he fucked
up, would it be worth it? An extra couple of days with this woman, in exchange for
a relapse?

Maybe I won’t relapse.

Perhaps his time in exile would prove enough, his appetite dulled by sobriety, his
impulses quieted by the satisfaction of everything he’d bared to and shared with Merry.
He’d let himself be known. He still carried more than any man’s rightful share of
shame on his back, but perhaps with that one lightened, he could resist the urges.

He wasn’t that same man who’d come up north to die. For the first time in a decade
or more, he felt alive. He didn’t want to dull any of this, not the happiness he’d
found out here, or even the darker stuff. He wanted to feel it all, undiluted.

And so he slid his arms through his old canvas pack’s straps and tightened the buckles,
steeled in this decision. Excited. Hopeful. Confident, or near to it.

Rob didn’t bother packing his tent, only a sleeping bag. He doubted he’d wind up taking
a coach back to Loch Ness—he knew himself, and he’d be eager to escape the company
of strangers once he kissed Merry good-bye.