by Joann Simon
"Yes—and then your miraculous reunion this evening. A truly touching tale. Could you not have had the decency to tell me earlier at least a part of this?" Suddenly her eyes narrowed. "Or perhaps you were actually hoping you might never see them again? Your life has changed drastically since you connected yourself to this woman. Perhaps you realized you required a more sophisticated mate in your present circumstances?"
"Not so! Jessica possesses all the qualities I desire in a woman, and she has not always been a serving maid. That was a fate brought on by necessity."
"Was it indeed? What of her family? Why did she not turn to them?" "She has none."
"The tale becomes more interesting all the time." There was a coolly calculating glint in her eye. She smiled, but without warmth. "Well, 1 am not about to make a fool of myself over this affair. You have already succeeded in doing that quite nicely."
"I am truly sorry. Never willingly would I have exposed you to this evening's events." "You will be bringing her to New York, I take it." "In due course."
"That should be interesting. Do not expect me to pave a smooth road for you."
"I would not expect that. I shall do whatever I can to make this as little embarrassing for you as possible."
"It is abit late for that—and I am quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you. If I am not mistaken, that strength of mine is a characteristic that initially attracted you." She stared at him levelly. "There is nothing further
I wish to discuss with you, Christopher. At least not this early in our little game. I have a ride waiting to take me back to town, and I trust you will make your schooner available to carry me to New York in the morning."
"Yes, most assuredly."
"Then I will wish you good luck with this precious domestic endeavor," she said, her tones dripping acid.
"Although I quite frankly wonder whether you may not soon be regretting the events of this evening, or finding yourself sadly bored and discontent. Do not be surprised if you discover, as most men do, that I am not all that easy to forget." She walked proudly past him, opened the door, and disappeared down the hall.
Jessica turned as Christopher came quietly through the door and came toward her where she stood by the fireplace. Without preamble he took her in his arms and heaved a sigh.
"She is gone—taken a carriage back to the inn in town. In the morning my schooner will take her back to New York. I will have to go to the dock tomorrow and give instructions to the captain."
"How did it go?"
"Not well. She was calmer, but hurt and angry . . . with just cause."
"Will she carry out her threat to ruin your name in New York? Can she?"
"She could make a good attempt, although, honestly, I do not know what she will do. We will face that when we come to it. The truth willcome out in any event—whether from her lips or my own. Obviously, I would prefer my side of the story to be made known."
"I spoke to Amelia Beard while you were gone, telling her as briefly as possible the story we'd agreed on.""Good. That should help appease the curious, though we are still bound to meet with skepticism."
"She's also set aside a room for us tonight."
He smiled down at her, his arms holding her more tightly for a moment. "Even better. Shall we adjourn there, where no one will interrupt us? But of course first I must see our son! There were so many times in New York when I would see a child Kit's age. How it tore me apart, wondering how you both were."
"You shall see him. He's grown to look so much like you." They began moving toward the door. "We'll use the servants' stairs. No one will see us."
The winding stairs were well lit, and soon they were walking hand in hand toward the end of the narrow attic hallway.
"You won't believe how he's grown, Christopher. He's such a good boy, and so bright. He amazes me sometimes." "Any son of ours," he chuckled, "must be a bit ahead of his time. Do you not agree, Mrs.
Dunlap?"
"Unequivocally." Before entering the room, where Mary's nurse was watching the children, she knocked lightly on the door. "It's Jessica, Emma." She pushed the door open and led Christopher in.
The nursemaid sat by the fire, her knitting in her lap. She smiled. "He's sound asleep . . . a good boy, this evening."
"I'm glad. I would like you to meet Kit's father, Christopher Dunlap." Since Emma probably had no knowledge of her background, Jessica explained no further. "Pleased to meet you." Emma nodded. Jessica was already walking over to the small cot where Kit lay on his back, his chubby arms thrown over his head on the pillow. She bent and gave him a gentle kiss on his sleep-flushed cheek. He stirred slightly, but didn't waken. His father now, too, leaned over the cot, and Jessica was moved to the core by the expression on Christopher's face— the joy, the pride, the amazement that this sturdy lad was his son. Yet there could be no question of that. Jessica could remember a portrait of Christopher at about Kit's age that had hung in the gallery at Cavenly, and the child was a mirror image of his father's younger self. "Do you want to wake him?" Jessica whispered. Christopher was still gazing down. When he spoke, his voice was husky. "No, he is too peaceful. Tomorrow morning will be a better time for us to become reacquainted." Smiling gently, he reached down and touched his fingers to his son's cheek. "My dearest love, you have done a fine job. You and Kit make me proud . . . and humble, that you have had to do it alone."
"But you're here now."
He reached for her hand. His eyes, as he turned them to her, spoke volumes. "Yes, thank heaven."
Christopher was thoughtfully silent as they retraced their steps to the first door along the hall. He remained so as Jessica preceded him in and lit the candle on the night table. The room was warm, the fire glowing dimly.
"This is the room Kit and I share when there are no entertainments going on."
"It seems comfortable," Christopher said, looking around. "But I would have wished more for you than this.""If not for the Beards, I dread to think of the situation Kit and I might have been in."
"I would rather not think of that. I owe them a debt of gratitude." He followed her as she went to the side of the room to hang her apron on the hook, and his arms went around her waist from behind. He pulled her against him and nestled his lips against her neck. Covering his hands with her own, she leaned back into his warm embrace.
"You feel so wonderful," he sighed.
"It feels wonderful to be here." She turned, still in his arms, and placed her own arms about his neck.
Her eyes were bright with happiness, her mouth softly smiling. "I didn't realize quite how empty and aching I was . . . have been . . . until an hour ago."
"I know. How often I have tried to make myself forget how good things can be with the right person . . .
will be again for us. We have so much time to make up for. There Is so much I want to do for our son, for all of us."
She gently traced her finger down his cheek, over his lips.
He moaned, drawing her more tightly against him. Hungrily his mouth found hers, with a passion that was tender, speaking of a deep, overwhelming love. Their lips parted, their tongues touching, seeking. Their desire for each other rose quickly, welding them together. It was not only their bodies meeting and speaking to each other, but some part of their inner beings, too, making the two of them one whole.
Christopher's breathing was deep as he cradled her, his lips now against her cheek. "We have not talked . . ."
"There will be time."
"So much has been left unsaid . . . but I want you, Jessica. I need you." "Yes . . . oh, yes."
His hands dropped to her hips, pressing her to him. She could feel his need, and his very tangible desire aroused her further.
His eyes were clouded with passion; his voice a husky entreaty as he spoke to her.
"Let me unbutton your gown. It has been too long since I had the pleasure of undressing my wife." His fingers slipped the buttons, then his palms were against the bare skin of her back, easing the materi
al off her shoulders. She helped him, pulling her arms from the sleeves, and the garment slid to the floor. He turned her again as his hands went to the front lacings of her camisole. She heard his breath catch, saw his eyes widen with desire as the material separated and her breasts slipped free. But as though heightening his anticipation, he didn't touch her yet. His eyes remained on her breasts as his hands finished the work of drawing off her undergarment; then he turned his attention to the ties of her petticoat, loosening the drawstring so that it, too, fell to the floor, leaving her naked. He picked her up in his arms, and sat her on the edge of the bed, then pulled off her shoes and stockings. The sensuous touch of his hands on her bare calves and feet sent a tingle up her spine. Then he rose and, as she watched, began undressing himself: first the evening shoes and white stockings, then the fitted jacket, which he draped over the back of the chair. With controlled haste he pulled loose his neck cloth, unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off his broad shoulders. Jessica felt her excitement mounting to see his muscular, dark-haired chest again, his narrow waist. Her eyes were riveted to his hands as they went to the fastenings of his breeches. Her senses reeled as she viewed the exquisite body she'd so often longingly envisioned in her dreams, day and night, the last two years.
In a second he was stepping toward her on long, trim legs, standing before her, reaching out his hands to take hers and draw her up at arm's length from him. Only now did he allow his hands to touch and caress her as they moved with feathery lightness over the contours of her waist and hips, up to her breasts. There they lingered, his thumbs gently rubbing her aching, hard nipples, teasing them and sending waves of pleasure down to her belly, heightening her already trembling need for him.
"Yes," he moaned as her hand reached out. "Touch me." He gave a long sigh as her fingers began to caress him. He watched her, then he lowered his own hand into the moist softness between her legs.
"Christopher . . ."
He circled his arms around her and brought her body up against his naked flesh, then, with his hands on her buttocks, he lifted her. Her legs gripped him tight about his waist; her arms slipped around his neck as he eased her hips up and a few inches away from his own until the head of his staff was touching her, ready to enter the welcoming warmth of her womanhood.
"My love . . . oh, my love," she sighed when, for a moment, he held her thus, and they stared into each other's eyes.Then he gently lowered her hips, and slowly his manhood filled her.
"My God, Jessica . . ." He gasped. Briefly his eyes closed. They opened again to passion-hazed slits. His mouth sought hers, and as their tongues licked at each other's, his hips slowly began gyrating, round and round, Hide to side; his hands on her buttocks moving her with him . . . lifting her so his staff slid the length of her pas-sageway, then pressed home once more . . . over and over.
Jessica's senses whirled in delightful dizziness from the pleasure he was bringing her. A muffled cry of joy escaped her throat at the feel of his loving pressure within her. She wanted the feeling to go on forever—never cease.
Then carefully, gradually, he was lowering her back onto the bed. She heard him groan as his staff momentarily slipped from her body, but soon he was over her, lowering his weight, pressing deep within her again, molding his body into hers.
His ragged breaths brushed against her cheek as his movement stilled for a moment. She lay quiet beneath him, understanding the pause, holding her body motionless. Yet she could feel her own flesh throbbing from the contact, aching for an intensification of the sensation that left her quivering for him.
They had waited too long for this union; suffered through too many unfulfilled hours, dreaming of being joined to each other just as they were at this moment. It could not progess slowly this time; it had to rage forth in an explosion of passion too long suppressed.
Without her conscious volition, her hips pressed up to him, began to slide ever so gradually side to side.
Her hands on his lower back urged him ever closer, coaxed him. "Christopher . . . Christopher . . ."
At her breathless words, he shivered. The pleasure was no less for him. The sight of her lovely face, her sweet warmth beside him after so long, brought a fullness to his soul; a softness that was yet building to a crescendo that roared and crashed within him. He wanted to hold back as long as he could to prolong the pleasure for both of them, yet his body moved uncontrollably within her, pressing, then thrusting again and again. He couldn't stop the crescendo now. He felt himself being pulled closer and closer to sheer ecstasy, her responses heightening his tremendous excitement—until he was over the edge, crying out at the unfathomable intensity of his orgasm. With no other woman could he reach such heights: with no other would he ever want to try.
His cry was sweet music to her ears; a perfect accompaniment to her own responses and to the overflowing love she felt for this man. As she let her hands play over the still-tense muscles of his back, she could only think how right it was that they be together, as though nature had created each of them with this union in mind. She loved lying entwined with him, hearing his breathing in her ear, feeling the throb of his pulse where her lips touched his neck, sensing a mental bond between them as strong as or stronger than the physical one.
His lips were moving against her hair, gentle kisses; his voice, still laced with emotion, was whispering,
"What you do to me, sweet wife . . . From now on I intend to love you until you cry halt."
"Beginning tonight?" she whispered with teasing suggestion. Her fingers caressed the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
He chuckled. "A promise I gladly make, if you will but allow me to recoup myself."
"With pleasure, my lord."
" 'My lord' . . . now there is a salutation I have not heard in a long time, my countess." His expression suddenly grew serious. "I have often wondered these last years what you would tell our son about my former life."
"The truth, when he was old enough to understand, and possibly believe. We agreed on that after he was born."
"I remember, but circumstances were different then. If we had not found each other, and you had been left alone, it might have been wiser to let the boy believe his father had led a more normal existence."
"There is still my past life in the twentieth century."
"The fear is always with me, Jessica, that what has happened before will happen again. Before this evening, I hoped that if I was again swept through time, the journey would bring me back to your side. Now, once more, I am afraid at the thought of separation from you."
"Don't talk of it! Not yet! Please . . . I have only just found you."
"What is life doing to us? Are we destined to live out our days in constant fear that each moment together may be our last?"
"At least we appreciate more than other people those moments of happiness we have, knowing how fragile each is and how swiftly it can be blown away."
"My wise, sweet wife. How I have missed you." Care-fully he slid his weight from her. "Come, let us get beneath
these covers, and then we must talk. I want to know everything!"
And with the quilt warm and snug about them, they talked, Jessica telling him of her life with the Beards, her work as a maid, the adjustments she'd had to make to living in his century, the desolation she'd so often felt, the gradual dying of the hope that she would ever see him again. And he told her about New York, his work on the docks, his friends Mawson and Bayard; how, through his knowledge of the future, he started a successful business. "Did you ever think of going back to England?" she asked.
"The temptation was there. But we knew the future, knew that I never reclaimed my title. If I had gone back, it might very well have changed the course of events-something I could not risk doing. Better that I make another life for myself in New York. And if I had gone back, this reunion might not be taking place!"
She cuddled closer to him. "Where will we go from here?"
"I have a house in New York. I share it with Mawso
n, but there is more than enough room for all of us. I think you will like it, Jessica, for the time. Then perhaps, if we can find a nice piece of land, we can build a house for ourselves here in Eastport. I could easily oversee the business from here, and I would prefer Kit to grow up in the country."
"So would I, but can we afford something like that?" He smiled. "You need not worry about money any longer. I intend to surround you with luxury to make up for these last two years of suffering."
"It hasn't been so bad. The suffering has been mostly mental, not physical."
He pulled her closer. "I wish to do something about the mental suffering as well."
Later, their questions for the moment answered, they
made love again, more leisurely, completely; and finally,
both content beyond measure, they drifted to sleep in each
other's arms.
As Jessica woke that next morning to a room of bright winter sunlight, she knew immediately that this day was different; and Christopher's arm resting in the curve of her waist gave proof of that. Through still-hazy eyes she gazed at his sleeping face, scant inches away on the pillow, and was filled anew with joy, with wonderment that he was with her again—that she could reach out her hand and touch his flesh, cherish with more than memory's eyes the well-loved features, from the wide brow, partially covered now by curling locks of dark hair, to the square chin accented by its deep, shadowed cleft.
As she lay there letting her mind slowly come awake, she heard a light tapping at the door, a child's tentative voice."Mama . . . Mama . . . you 'wake?"
Carefully, so as not to disturb Christopher, Jessica slipped from the bed, took her robe from the peg on the wall, and went to the door. Kit was standing just outside, expectantly. He thrust out his arms when he saw her.
"Kit, what are you doing here? Did you sneak away from Emma?"
"Mama, I missed you. You not come for me and I wait. . ."
Jessica knelt down and drew the two-year-old close. "Ah, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I didn't wake up as early as I thought I would."