by Lily Harlem
“Thank you.”
Clara stepped past Reverend Gerald. “It’s good to see you, and what’s even better is Hilda will be going home soon.”
“Oh thank the good Lord above.” Gerald raised his gaze heavenward. “Wonderful news indeed. How very blessed we are.”
Clara nodded, then purposefully didn’t look at Mark. She slipped past him to the ward, then blew out a breath. Her world had turned upside down in twenty-four hours, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
The clinical room that housed the drugs, dressings, and sterile equipment was mercifully empty, and she dashed in there, needing a moment alone to compose herself. If she’d been thinking of Mark all morning perhaps having him appear suddenly wouldn’t have been so shocking. But the fact was, seeing him, all handsome and brooding—yes brooding, that’s what his expression had told her—had sent her into a tailspin.
Placing her hands flat on the counter, she stared out of the window at the River Thames flowing past the hospital like a large chocolate milkshake. Beyond it stood the Houses of Parliament. She’d go for a long walk that evening, perhaps around Horse Guards Parade and into the park. It would do her good to clear her head with some fresh air.
“Clara.”
Her heart skipped, and she clenched her fists.
Mark had found her.
“What do you want?” she asked, still staring outside but no longer really seeing anything.
“I need to … I mean what I want to say is…” He stepped up behind her. She could make out his reflection in the window.
She remained silent.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“What about?” His rejection of her the night before had been a big fat full stop on their relationship, if they even had one.
“Us, we need to talk about us,” he whispered.
“There is no us.” But oh, she wished there was.
He was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed his palms on her shoulders and set his mouth nearer her ear. “Clearly there is.”
She swallowed, her throat and chest tight. Her eyes prickled with emotion, but there was no way she was going to cry at work.
“But we can’t talk here,” he said. “Come to my new home, later, and we’ll straighten this out.”
“Straighten it out?” She huffed. “I’m not sure we’ll be able to, Reverend. I think it would be best for me to find another church to worship in.”
“No, please don’t say that. You are a valued and much-loved member of the congregation at St. Agnes.”
She turned and looked up at him. “Much loved?”
His eyebrows were pulled close together, and a small line had, once again, formed between them. “Yes. Much loved.” He squeezed her shoulders, just a little, then released them and stepped back. “Please, Clara, come to my house. I’m staying in Little Warren, next to Reverend Gerald.”
“I know it.”
“At about seven, there’ll still be some sunshine in the garden. It’s only small, but I’d like you to see it.”
Clara didn’t trust herself to speak. Mark had invited her to his home? Spending time with him, but not being able to have him, would only serve to increase her pain. And Clara was no martyr. Pain was something she could live without. “I can’t. I’m busy.”
He winced. It was a tiny expression, the twist of his mouth, a flicker beneath his eyes. “Then come any time, whenever you’re free. My door is always open.”
Turning, he began to stride from the room.
She stared at his butt. Cute and pert, it was the perfect handful, and encased in faded jeans, it was enough to send Clara’s hormones skittering. “I’ll be there.”
He stopped but didn’t face her. After a moment, he carried on walking and went from sight.
Clara knotted her fingers beneath her chin and looked up at the ceiling. “Forgive me, Father, but I don’t think I’ll be able to keep my hands off that sexy man tonight. If he’s willing to sin, then so am I.”
****
The rest of Clara’s shift went by with the usual speed of a busy day on the ward. Hilda was sent home with antacids and dietary advice, and her bed was soon filled by a diabetic who needed insulin and close observation.
When she finally arrived home, the first thing Clara did was jump through the shower. She washed her hair with jasmine scented shampoo and conditioner, then used her favorite coconut shower gel. She found herself shaving her legs, something she rarely had to do because her hair was so fine, and wondered if subliminally she was hoping Mark would get to feel the silky-smooth skin.
Tutting at the direction her thoughts were heading, Clara sought out a matching bra and knicker set. She owned very little pretty lingerie. What was the point? Comfort was better than sexy, and with no man in her life for a few years now, there was no one to impress.
After drying her hair and teasing it into a semi-controlled mass of ringlets, she dressed in a pale lemon summer dress and added small pearl earrings. Slipping on flat white pumps, she examined herself in the mirror. The dress accentuated what curves she had, and with the slight padding on her white lace bra she even had cleavage. She smoothed her hands over her waist then spun to check her rear view. Was it too revealing? Too sexy? The last thing she wanted was to be brazen. If something happened, it happened, but Clara didn’t want to be branded as a floozy or a temptress, even if just in her own mind.
“It’s fine.” She frowned at the mirror. “You wore this to the summer fete last year and didn’t think anything of it.”
She remembered getting several compliments about the dress from the older ladies, and it settled her nerves and made up her mind. The dress was perfectly fine to wear. She hoped Mark liked it, of course she did, but not too much if he was trying to resist temptation.
As she made her way toward St. Agnes she mulled over the word temptation. She’d been tempted by Mark in the past, too. When they’d been in the barn and he’d wanted to go all the way. But without a condom, and with an ideal of losing her virginity in bed, not a barn, she’d resisted. She’d foolishly thought they’d have many more times to explore the delights of each other’s bodies.
How wrong she’d been.
Oh, but if she’d known that was to be Mark’s only sexual experience, she would have spread her legs and let him do the deed. She really would have. He was, or had been, highly sexual back then. It must have been so hard for him to turn that off and be celibate all these years. How had he managed?
And what if she were the one he broke his celibacy with?
She halted, mid pavement. Another Londoner muttered and stepped around her.
Lose his virginity to me?
Clara wasn’t rampant. She’d had two sexual partners since Mark. Nothing kinky, nothing to write home about. Satisfactory would be the best way to describe her experiences. Neither earth-moving or passion-infused. A natural progression within the relationships. If she were really honest, not even that memorable.
Sex with Mark. That was something else. Their one time together was stored securely in her memory. And if they ever—and that was a big if—did more, she knew it would be off the Richter scale hot.
A girl could dream, right?
She continued to walk, enjoying the early summer smells and the feel of warm air on her limbs. It was as if her senses were heightened, on full alert.
Finally, she came to the small brick cottages next to the church. It appeared Reverend Gerald wasn’t home, as through the railings, she could see his bike had gone from the stand. Likely he’d taken his two dogs, Florence and Fred, for a run in the park.
After letting herself through the gate, she stepped up to the polished black front door and banged the round knocker three times.
Nerves spun in her belly, and she pushed her hair over her shoulders. She had no idea what direction the conversation Mark seemed so keen to have would go in.
Chapter Seven
Mark
Mark had paced back and forth in his new gard
en waiting for Clara to arrive. He’d paused a few times to pray, and ask for strength and forgiveness in equal quantities.
As soon as he opened the door and saw her, all pretty and sweet in a dress that made him think of candy, he knew forgiveness would be the most likely prayer he’d be saying again later.
No, be strong.
“Hey, come in. I’m glad you could make it after all,” he said, stepping aside so she could enter.
“Thanks.”
As she drifted past him in shoes reminding him of a ballerina’s, her scent washed over him. It was mildly fruity and also powdery.
“So this is my humble abode, courtesy of the church,” he said. “I hope you like it.”
“I do, very much. I’ve been in here before. I helped Reverend Gerald clear it out ready for his assistant, which turned out to be you.” She fluttered her hand in his direction. “And you’re very lucky. A garden, no matter how small, is a rarity in these parts.”
“Yes, not that I know what to do with it.” He smiled and shut the door.
“Don’t forget to flick the lock,” she said. “You’re not in Yorkshire anymore.”
“Of course, you’re right.” He slipped a large black iron bolt across. The action somehow made it all the more real that Clara was in his house. They were locked in together. Just the two of them. Alone.
He cleared his throat. “Er, come this way … into the kitchen.”
She followed him, and he set about making tea.
“The rose bush is nice,” she commented, looking out of the window. “The bees like it.”
“They do, keeps them very busy.”
She laughed softly.
“How do you take it?” he asked. “Tea, that is.”
“White, no sugar.”
He added a splash of milk to each cup then set them on a flowery tray he’d found in one of the cupboards. He added a plate of chocolate biscuits, which he’d carefully arranged earlier. He remembered she liked chocolate, a lot. “Shall we sit in the front room?”
“Yes, okay.”
Mark felt awkward and unsure. Was it because this didn’t feel like home yet and he was entertaining? Or was it because it was Clara—Clara and how they’d kissed the night before, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her … wanting her.
Even though it was forbidden.
He set the tray on a low table. The small room was chintzy. Everything in it was patterned with either flowers or wildlife. Although it wasn’t particularly to his taste, it was very comfortable. The huge sofa was soft, logs were set in the grate ready to be lit should the temperature drop, and the small lead-paned window looked out at the private garden.
Clara perched on the edge of the sofa with her hands in her lap. She darted her gaze around as if checking for changes he might have made.
“It’s lovely in here,” he said, nodding at the framed picture of a Windsor Castle above the fireplace. “I like everything about it, especially that.”
“I’m glad.”
He sat next to her, not as close as they had in the church tearoom, but still, he opted for the sofa rather than the chair. “I hope you don’t decide to switch to a different church for your weekly worship.”
She looked at him, a strong, steady study of his face. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Reverend. You and I both know it would make life much easier if I did.”
“Not for me it wouldn’t.”
“But if I did, perhaps…” She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes.
“What? Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps.” She clenched her fists and looked at him. “Then you’d get to experience what it’s like to be the one left behind. The one wondering what the heck had gone wrong and feeling nothing better than a bit of crap on a shoe.”
“Clara, please.”
“You hurt me, Mark. Back then, when we were only seventeen.” She paused and pressed the tips of her fingers to her chest. “It still hurts.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know I should find it easy to forgive—it’s what He wants from us—but do you have any idea how broken I was?” She glanced downward.
“Clara.” He reached for her hand, grateful when she let him hold it and didn’t snatch it away. “I can explain.”
“Then I think you should.” She pulled in a shaky breath, and he hated himself all over again for what he’d done to her.
“My parents didn’t approve of us, of me having a serious girlfriend. You know how they were, and when they told me we were moving—Dad had a new job—I thought it would be for the best to end it. I couldn’t have afforded to visit you from that far away and…”
“If you’d really wanted to, you would have figured it out.”
He hung his head as shame washed over him. It was an unpleasant emotion and one he tried to avoid. “I know that now, but my foolish, younger self, panicked. I guess in trying to do the right thing, I did the exact opposite. I know now I did the wrong thing, and I handled it terribly.”
She continued to study him, her eyes flashing with a series of emotions—anger, disbelief, acceptance.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly as he raised her left hand to his mouth. Very gently he kissed her knuckles enjoying the softness of her skin on his lips. He traced his lips against the base of her ring finger. A sudden image of a band of gold decorating it came to his mind. A band of gold he’d placed there. A symbol of their never-ending love and commitment to each other.
“Mark.” She pulled her hand away. “What are you doing?”
He closed his eyes. The truth was, he didn’t know.
Marriage?
I’m thinking of marriage. To Clara.
“Don’t kiss me if you’re going to walk away again, or throw me out.” She shuffled away from him.
“I’m not going to throw you out.” He stood and paced to the fire, staring down at the grate and the sooty marks built up there over the years—years of the fire and grate being together, solid and resilient. The way a man and his wife should be as life moved forward.
“So what are you doing? Why did you want me to come here this evening? To your home.”
He pulled in a deep breath. “I can’t explain exactly. I just had to see you, had to be with you.” He turned. “Does that make any sense?”
After a moment, she nodded. “Yes.”
“It’s like it’s all whipped up inside of me again. The feelings I had for you back then, but…”
“But what?”
He glanced away. Hardly able to admit it to himself. “But they’re even stronger now.”
She pulled in a sharp little breath. “Mark.”
He shook his head and raked his hands through his hair. “When I saw you, in the church. It was as if time had stopped. Nothing else on God’s Earth existed. I’ll confess I didn’t recognize you instantly. It’s been a while. But what I did know was that you were a vision of beauty. You stole my breath and, dare I say it, my heart all over again.”
She stood, her eyes moist. “Why are you saying this? To hurt me all over again?”
“No, of course not. Hurting you is the last thing I want to do.” He rushed to her, banging the table with his shin and spilling some of the tea. He ignored it. “I want you, Clara, I want there to be an ‘us’ again.” He had to make her see he was a man now, and he knew the error of his ways. He understood he’d let go of the best thing that had ever happened to him.
“You want to date me?” she asked, incredulously.
“Yes, date you, sweep you off your feet, whatever you want to call it. And I can, we can, if we want to. It’s not forbidden.”
But I’m thinking of so much more.
“I know, but?” She reached forward and curled her hands into the material of his shirt. “What about…”
“I still believe sex should occur within marriage,” he said, looking into her eyes and truly believing if they were all he saw for the rest of his life he’d be a happy man.
“I
understand your beliefs.”
He tipped his head toward hers. “Clara.”
“Mark.”
They stared at each other. Electric desire sizzled between them.
“Kiss me, Mark, again.”
He wrapped his arms around her, more confident this time, and pulled her near. She was so tiny, so delicate. It brought out a protective instinct in him. He wanted to care for her, be there for her. Never let her go.
Very gently he set his mouth over hers, savoring the texture of her lips and the taste of her mouth. She pressed her tongue forward, slipping it in and touching it to his. At the same time, she eased closer, so her breasts pressed up against his chest.
He held in a moan as heat rushed to his groin. This woman had the ability to turn him on in a way he’d never experienced before—well once, with her, all that time ago.
Her nipples were hard little points jutting into him. He wanted to see them, kiss them, remind himself of their shape.
Running one hand up her back, he tangled his fingers in her hair, holding her head steady as he deepened the kiss. She was intoxicating, and stealing all rational thought from him. With his free hand, he cupped her right breast.
“Oh,” she moaned, breaking the kiss but keeping her eyes closed.
“I want to touch you, so badly.”
“You can.” She moved closer, her mound rubbing over his erection.
He hissed in a breath. A million fantasies swirled within him, but none were as good as the reality of having Clara pressed against him … there.
“I’ve only ever really wanted you,” she said. “No one else has ever compared.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I only tell the truth.” She slid her hands down his chest, over his belly to his belt buckle.
Mark stood stock still as she undid it. Still cupping her breast, his heart hammered against his sternum, and a glut of adrenaline poured into his system. He should tell her to stop. Put an end to this right now.
But he didn’t want to.
Temptation had beckoned him, taunted him, and made itself too good to refuse.
“Relax,” she said softly. “We don’t have to go all the way, but we can have some fun.”