Night Winds

by Gwyneth Atlee

  “Yer brother’s a liar. That was jes’ the horse!”

  Later, after she’d stopped asking questions, Lydia occasionally brushed at the moisture that clouded her vision, a vision that threatened to spill into a nightmare glimpse of Phillip.

  Phillip, lying in the formal parlor, in a coffin garlanded with flowers. All white flowers, like their father’s, whom she had loved so much.

  The sun’s last rays gilded everything, the houses, the shell roads, even the underside of the thin clouds above her. White Wing, too, turned golden within her teary vision. Then something else, a richer color, caught her eye.

  She pulled the gelding to a halt more abruptly than she’d intended; the poor old horse tossed back his head and snorted in surprise. Climbing out of the cart, she walked forward to examine what had caught her attention: the muddy brown path left in the shell. She could only pray the dark, congealed blood was equine, the last vestige of Cure, who must have been already dragged away.

  Did Phillip’s blood, too, soak the shells beside her feet? Nausea swirled inside her, and she cursed Justine again. She didn’t want to be alone now, didn’t want to be here at all. Her father and Phillip had always shielded her from life’s unpleasant details. Since neither was available, shouldn’t her twin at least be here to bear her half of this ordeal?

  A trail of red-brown spatters led off in the direction of the gulf. Could they be Phillip’s blood? She squinted at the confusion of drag marks and hoof prints in an attempt to decipher their secrets, then shook her head. The dark speckles leading southeast seemed her only clue.

  Climbing back into the cart, she took up the reins and frowned stubbornly. She might be gently bred and raised, but she’d be cursed if she’d let this ridiculous dock dispute take Phillip from her. In their father’s case, there had been nothing anyone could do. In this case, she swore that she’d do everything possible even if she had to search for him all night.

  *

  Louise Kelso’s severe self-training would not permit her to quite frown at one of her employers. Yet behind her carefully arranged face, her blue eyes nearly shouted disapproval.

  Justine found her lack of appetite unaffected by the woman’s silent condemnation. She remained too anxious to even approach the table, with its three settings of white china and its freshly polished silver. The odor of whatever foods lay beneath the covers of the chafing dishes turned her stomach, and Justine knew she could not bear to swallow a single bite.

  Unfazed by her aversion, Mrs. Kelso continued supervising the serving process as if attention to her duty would bring back the missing Paytons.

  “For heaven’s sake! Not that end of the table, Millie! Even a fool could see there’s no one else at home!” Mrs. Kelso’s words slammed the silence ruthlessly.

  Millie, the cook’s young helper, turned her huge doe eyes toward Justine, and in doing so upset a dish of some steaming, stinking vegetable concoction on the table. With a cry of horror, the black girl ran weeping from the room.

  Justine wondered at how differently each handled apprehension: she with silent self-recrimination, Louise Kelso with demands that a fine dinner be servedand eaten as if nothing were amiss, and Millie with fear-spawned clumsiness.

  Glad of something other than eating she might do, Justine pulled a linen cloth out of the sideboard and began wiping at the mess Millie had made.

  “I’ll not have you touch that!” Mrs. Kelso protested. “The silly girl made the mess, and if she knows what’s good for her, she’ll clean it as well.”

  “I may be lame, but I’m not useless.” Justine continued mopping at the food. “Millie’s just as worried as we are, that’s all. And it’s not as if I’ll be eating anyway.”

  The older woman shook her head. “You should keep your strength up. Miss Lydia will be back home any minute, no doubt dragging Master Phillip by the ear.”

  “She’s been gone for hours,” Justine said. Louise’s false confidence didn’t fool her for one minute. “I might expect that Willie, at least, could talk her into sending us some word.”

  “Willie?” Mrs. Kelso began clearing the china and silver to the sideboard. “I thought that Master Phillip told you. Willie had an emergency and left town on the train this morning. His father in Houston may be dying, and he wanted to be there. Master Phillip gave him the week off.”

  Panic tightened Justine’s throat and made the words hard to push past it. “Then who is driving Lydia this evening? Who harnessed the horse?”

  Mrs. Kelso had begun to remove the soiled tablecloth, but she paused at Justine’s question. “I suppose Adam must have readied the carriage, but I know he’s still here. He said he’d close all the shutters in case a storm rolled in tonight. I don’t know who’s with Miss Lydia. I’ll ask him right away.”

  Justine sank into a chair, then leaned her forehead into her ice-cold hands. She knew, even before Louise came back to report it, that her foolish sister had driven off alone.

  With a gunman in the city who had threatened death and then fired on their brother, Lydia had gone out by herself. But she hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to, Justine knew for certain.

  She had asked her sister twice to come with her.

  *

  Shae wished that she and Phillip hadn’t kissed again. Not tonight, when both their minds were reeling with the violence of Ethan’s attack and the shooting. And not here, where her own father might have murdered Lucius to help cover up a six-year-old crime.

  Now, as the two cleared the refuse in the kitchen, everything felt awkward. Every few breaths, their gazes clacked together, like magnet-headed arrows colliding in midair. As they rummaged through the pantry for something edible, their arms bumped, and Shae jerked away from him as though his touch had shocked her. She had to, she decided, lest the memory of the taste of him, the feel of him, make her forget the truths that she must seek, forget everything but her body’s needs, as they sprang to life like seedlings in spring rain.

  Outside, beyond the kitchen window, sunset’s amber light had silvered and then faded to a dusky shade of pewter. The first stars shone near the horizon. Shae stepped over Jasper’s sleeping form and lit gas lights against the evening gloom.

  Lucius apparently had not restocked since Claire died, for only odds and ends were left, some of them by now unfit to eat.

  “What about this? Can you cook this?” Phillip held up a can.

  “Beans in tomato sauce?” Shae tried not to laugh. “I suppose, if I really concentrated. I’m no expert, but have you ever been in a kitchen before?”

  “I certainly . . .” Phillip paused, considering. “I went to see the cook once, after Mother left town this summer.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not all that much better. If you’d ever heard my Aunt Alberta blustering about the kitchen, you’d know why I’ve avoided it so often.”

  As he stood beside her, his stomach growled.

  This time, she couldn’t help laughing. “Perhaps you could help me resurrect my long-forgotten bean-heating skills. I think we’d both better eat.”

  He lit the small woodstove while Shae opened the can and emptied it into a clean pan.

  “Are you worried about Ethan?” Shae asked as she stirred the beans.

  Phillip shook his head. “He’s merely giving me another reminder of all the reasons I stopped associating with him when we were younger. He’s certainly spiteful enough to follow through on his threats, but with as much trouble as I have already, I can’t see how he’ll make much of a difference.”

  “I hope not. I’ve caused you enough problems already.”

  He smiled at her. “If only my other difficulties were as pleasant company . . .”

  After the pair ate, they raided a jar of peaches that Claire must have put up to bake pie. They speared slices with a pair of forks, and neither bothered with the niceties of china.

  “If you ever tire of making jewelry, I’ll hire you as a cook.” Phillip pointed silver tines at her to emphasize
his promise. Then he stabbed the last gold sliver and offered it to her.

  Shae bit into its juicy sweetness gratefully. Sticky moisture dripped onto her chin.

  He reached for a handkerchief to wipe it, but found his missing since he’d used it to staunch blood. Instead, he substituted with his unbuttoned sleeve.

  Playfully, Shae pushed away his hand and stood. “If you ever tire of being a gentleman rabble-rouser, I’ll hire you as my lady’s maid.”

  “I’d consider it my duty to get you out of that dress as soon as possible,” Phillip told her. Grinning at her raised eyebrows, he continued. “You’re wearing Ethan’s blood, for one thing.”

  Shae looked down and grimaced at the spatters. “You’re right. I wonder if something of Claire’s might do. I think I’ll have a look. And you’re wearing your own blood, by the way. You might want to do something about that before you head for home.”

  She wished she hadn’t said those last words, for they reminded her that the day was done, and he’d soon want to leave her. He had a family waiting, people who cared for him, who’d worry if he didn’t reappear. They couldn’t long remain alone in this oasis.

  God help her, she’d give almost anything if he’d stay with her. With all she’d learned and guessed, with all that had happened to her, she couldn’t imagine how to be alone with it. Again. Until Phillip, until this very day, she had felt alone so long. Thinking back on these last six years, she imagined looking on a dense, dark fog, one no hope could penetrate.

  Today, in spite of all the hell she’d been through, a shaft of sun had broken through. Dear God, she prayed, don’t let the blackness close back over me.

  Phillip nodded, and his gaze lingered on her. “Tell me, Shae, what’s wrong?”

  She couldn’t speak, but some aspect of her expression must have sufficed for words.

  “You think I’m going to leave you here, don’t you?” Phillip stood and reached for her hand. “You’re coming home with me. You’ll be our guest. Really, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen.”

  She launched herself into his arms.

  He grunted as her chin bumped his wounded shoulder.

  “I’m sorry.” She pulled back her head, then kissed him once, lightly, on the cheek.

  Such a foolish, dangerous thing to do, she realized as they stared into each other’s eyes once more, as the air trembled with their nearness.

  “You’d better go and find another dress,” he whispered. “Before . . . before I think too much about how easily that one could slip off.”

  She turned to go, and her gaze swept the kitchen. A random memory of her mother assailed her. Glennis sang while she sifted, and the warm scents of ginger and molasses filled the air. Thin, white clouds of flour rose, making Mother’s face a hazy blur.

  “What’s wrong?” Phillip’s voice drew her mind back to the present.

  Shae shrugged. “I think this has been the longest I’ve been in a kitchen since my mother left. I hadn’t ever realized that was when I’d stopped enjoying helping to prepare food.”

  “I suppose that’s only natural. If you have fond memories of your mother there, I’m sure that going back would be difficult.”

  Shae shook her head. “I think it’s more than that. It it was so hard seeing Alberta work in Mother’s place. Instead of listening to Irish ballads, all I heard was how much better it would be if I’d forget.”

  “I’m sure your aunt meant well.”

  “I tried to disobey her, Phillip. But now, now I can’t even remember Mother’s face. My memory’s fading, but that and one old gown are all that I have left of her.”

  “Not all.” As he turned, his voice grew soft. He took the jewelry bag off of the counter. Gently, cautiously, he pulled it open. “May I?”

  Shae nodded, her vision blurred with unshed tears. She watched, almost without breathing, as Phillip took out the cameo and rubbed it gently with the soft tail of the tablecloth. Then he moved behind her, and with a simple, intimate gesture, swept her loose hair over one shoulder. He reached around her with the unclasped necklace, then hooked the chain behind her head.

  As softly as a whisper, his lips brushed her bare neck. Then, taking her by the shoulders, he turned her toward him.

  Her heart pounded in her chest at the tenderness of what he had done, and at the nearness of him.

  “You’re a lovely woman,” he said. “And it’s beautiful on you. Your mother would have wanted you to wear it.”

  Almost imperceptibly, Shae nodded, then leaned into his arms, his lips.

  Hungrily, they kissed, as if their passion might appease every emptiness inside them.

  Stop this now, before it’s too late, she warned herself. But a greater part of her wanted to continue, to plunge forward without thinking, and she opened her mouth to welcome the gentle incursions of his tongue.

  His hands skimmed her sides as unerringly as seabirds winging along the water’s edge. Like a wave, something in her crested beneath that touch. She gasped as his mouth once more found her neck and trailed heat along its side, then lower, toward that sensitive spot where it flared into her shoulder. The dress, so loose about her, slipped down one arm as easily as butter, melting, to allow his mouth free rein.

  Gently, his hand cupped her breast, and his thumb stroked the hardening tip beneath the thin, cloth layers.

  Shae knew she must step back, knew instinctively that what she felt now must have been her mother’s downfall.

  Yet her feet refused her better sense; she remained not only firmly rooted, but eager for each forbidden touch. Her hands, too, betrayed her, caressing as they did his jaw, his upper arms, sparking light and heat that once more coursed through her body.

  It was her knees that nearly brought it to a close. Her knees that buckled out of dizziness and hunger.

  Phillip caught her neatly, then carried her back into the guestroom, where he laid her gently on the bed. He leaned in close to her, embraced her.

  “Shae?” The name, as he breathed it in her ear, brought her a shudder, a quivering that answered the question that he asked.

  His lips sought hers again, then found them. Her arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer, closer . . . down. His mouth, so warm and firm, blazed a new trail even lower, past her neck, into the gap where the borrowed dress fell loose over the pale skin of her chest.

  With a moan, she tried to say no, failed, then shrugged the sleeve until it at last slid over the contour of her shoulder, baring even more of her white flesh. She’d stop him, Shae promised herself as he fumbled with both hooks and lacings. She’d make him stop in just a . . .

  His warm, wet mouth enveloped a breast, and light streamed through her consciousness, more brilliant than she had ever known before. She wanted to cry out with the power of it, the surge that lifted her like a huge wave. But her cry was mute, as if she could not bear to break whatever spell was bringing such sensation.

  His hand trailed lower, down along her flank, past the prominence of her narrow hip, then further, along her buttock, then her thigh. There, the dress had ridden high as he had moved her. There, she felt his hand meet skin. She felt his palm’s heat as it rode ever higher, as his touch on her bare thigh made her ache deep beneath her belly. For the first time, she truly understood a man’s want as her own need unfurled, then closed around her.

  There was nothing else, then. Nothing but his mouth, his hands. Nothing but a desperate sort of fumbling with their clothing. Nothing but relief when they were finally naked, kissing, touching with no barriers between them.

  His fingers slid between her thighs, into her warm moisture. She moaned and clutched him tightly, hoping he would never stop, hoping

  He drew away, paused to stare at her. “I know that this is sudden, but I love you, Shae. I can’t do this, though. Not until you tell me that you want me, too.”

  Breathing hard, Shae felt the cameo’s unaccustomed weight around her neck. Her mother’s cameo, and a specter of her shamef
ul desire. Shae closed her eyes against the memory of her mother in the stranger’s arms. Would she be no better?

  “Please, Shae, please say that you do.” Phillip brushed a stray lock from her cheek, then kissed it.

  Once more, she opened her eyes. Phillip lay beside her, his lean body as flawless as a Greek sculpture, his gaze full of desire. And of love. That was the difference. He loved her.

  Could she risk loving him as well? He’d been nearly killed today, and the moment he stepped out on the street, he would be at risk once more. Her own situation seemed no less precarious. How could she begin to make a rational decision? How could she dare to trust him?

  She caressed his jaw, then stroked his lips with the lightest touch of fingertips. Trusting Phillip had nothing to do with rational thought. She had already made that decision long ago. She had done it the moment some instinct prompted her to put her wounded bird into his hands.

  Now those hands reached out for her once more and pulled her closer.

  “I love you, too,” Shae whispered softly in his ear.

  His kisses fell upon her neck, and his hands once more stroked her intimately. Her hips rocked with the motion, as if struggling toward a greater goal. He moved above her, set one knee between her thighs, and then the other.

  “This might hurt, the first time,” he said. “Are you certain?”

  “I’m glad, Phillip. Glad that you’re the first.”

  “I mean to be the only,” he promised as he lowered himself into her.

  He’d been right. There was a tearing pain, but beyond that came exquisite pleasure as they moved gently, carefully. She placed her hands against his back, to guide his pace. At first their motion remained maddeningly slow, then faster, faster, until their rhythm filled her, overwhelmed her, until the light swelled sun-like and then shattered into a thousand dazzling shards.

  Sound erupted from her, a cry of exultation that he took up only one split second later.

  Panting, she let the light roll past her, past them. Phillip lowered himself beside her, then draped an arm across her chest.

  “Shae,” he whispered, his voice logy with contentment. “Shae, I’ll keep you safe. You won’t be sorry.”