Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  “So you’d rather—” she stopped, staring at him, a sobering moment as she remembered that he would soon be a soldier.

  Her hands dropped to her sides. He moved toward her, slowly at first, then more urgently, until he was framing her face in his hands. Then, he kissed her. Softly, hesitantly. And, when she didn’t resist, more hungrily, pulling her tightly against him so that she fit against him, soft to hard.

  A rush of desire swamped through her body, flooding all reason. She clung to him, praying that he would never guess how that point of contact had swamped her own sense of being, making her want things she couldn’t, shouldn’t ever have.

  Seeming to use every ounce of will he possessed, Charlie broke off their kiss and gazed into her eyes.

  RueAnn trembled in his arms, feeling dazed. Was this what she’d been missing? When she’d sworn that she would never fall under a man’s spell? Had she been unwittingly denying herself this pleasure?

  She gripped his shirt, drawing him closer, rather than pushing him away. He kissed her more leisurely this time, hesitantly exploring the sweetness of her mouth, giving her time to adjust to the intimacy of his embrace. But she was a quick study, countering his movements with those of her own as her body began to thrum with desire.

  Slowly, his hands slid around her hips, splaying over her derriere, bringing her tighter against his hardness.

  For a moment, she stiffened, frightened. She broke free, taking a quick breath, but he remained absolutely still. Dragging air into his lungs, Charlie waited, watching, obviously wondering what the next few heartbeats would bring. Would she slap him? Wrench free and stalk away?

  She touched her lips with her fingertips. They were bruised. Aching. But that ache was nothing compared to her need. When Charlie’s head bent toward her again, RueAnn didn’t deny him. In fact, she met him halfway. She was tired of ignoring the feelings bubbling inside her. True, her life might have been turned topsy-turvy in the last few hours—and she didn’t know yet how she was going to rectify that situation. But right now…this instant…she felt alive and energized and…

  Feminine. For the first time, she didn’t feel like a dutiful daughter or a scared little girl. She felt…empowered.

  Charlie’s mouth was hungry against her, his tongue probing between her lips—and she let him enter. Just as she let him draw her down to the grass so that their bodies could crush together.

  When his hand lifted to cup her breast, a spasm of pleasure shot through her, causing her body to jerk so that her hips arched into the hardness below his belt and the womanliness of her breast filled his palm.

  There was no real thought or reason. There was only want. A pulsing hungry want that made her grasp at his hair, his shoulders, his hips. Unbidden, she pulled off his jacket, then tugged his shirttails free from his waistband. She wrenched at his tie, his collar.

  She didn’t know what she sought. She only knew that his hot flesh against her palms was soothing and enervating at the same time. She had ceased to be a person. Instead she was a mass of pulsing hunger. There was no thought of right or wrong or God’s judgment. There was only this moment.

  This man.

  When his head lifted and he gasped, his eyes filled with stunned passion, she refused to let him think about anything but her. Her. She wanted to be a priority to someone. She wanted to feel loved and desired. It was as if she’d been wandering cold and forgotten in an icy wasteland and had suddenly been offered warmth. Real warmth that filled her from the inside out and left her glowing in its radiant heat.

  “Hey,” he whispered against her ear. “We should slow—”

  “No,” she whispered in return, her voice conveying her desperate longing. “I don’t want to slow down. I don’t want to stop. I just…want…”

  His lips crashed into hers then, his fingers plucking at the buttons of her blouse until she lay bared before him. Then he greedily began to suckle and lick, first one and then the other globe, drawing her deep into his mouth. She moaned, dragging him back onto the grass. His hands struggled with the fabric of her skirt, pushing it up over her hips. Then his fingers delved into her knickers to find the sweetness beneath.

  Her breath emerged in a quivering rush. It felt good. So good. Better than anything she could remember. Better than escape or freedom or…

  Drawing his head back up so that he could kiss her, again and again, she wrestled with his buckle, then the fastenings of his trousers, until she could reach beneath and feel the thing which had always frightened her about men in the past.

  But she wasn’t frightened now. She was beyond thought, beyond feeling.

  Again, he tried to draw back, but she wound her legs about his hips, drawing him to her, to that aching spot that only he could fill. She was so tired of being good. So tired of being alone. And cold. And wanting.

  In one thrust, he pushed into her and she cried out, first in pain, then in wonder as her body began to pulse and the world shattered around her into a rose-scented kaleidoscope, pleasure radiating convulsively through her body. She was only distantly aware of Charlie leaning above her, pumping into her, before arching his head back and crying out with his own release.

  Then they were still.

  Silence crashed around them. Rose petals, loosened by the wind, floated down upon them like pink snow.

  And for the first time in her life, RueAnn thought she might know what it must feel like to be loved.

  Dearest J.,

  My mother changed after Astra’s birth. We both changed. While I grew insolent and rebellious, my mother drew into herself, becoming a shadow of the person she had been.

  I would never know if it was my sister’s difficult birth, the dire loss of blood, or my father’s resulting rage when a doctor was summoned, but my mother became somehow…broken. I remember coming home from school to find she was still in bed, staring at the same faded spot in the wallpaper, the coal heater left untended and supper not started. On the bed beside her, Astra would squirm and fret, hungry for human warmth.

  Knowing my father would be home soon, I would bully my mother into donning a housedress and combing her hair. Then, with Astra in a basket at my feet, I would sing to my little sister while I chopped onions to throw in the frying pan and fill the room with savory odors that would convince my father that Mama had been cooking all day. After that, I would peel potatoes and set them to boil, cut up greens or snap beans, fry chops or salt pork. If I was lucky, Mama would muster the energy to make a plate of biscuits, and we would both scramble together a meal good enough to satisfy my father.

  I truly didn’t mind the extra chores. I pretended Astra was my baby and carted her around in my dolly buggy—even dressing her in some of the baby doll outfits brought to me by Santa until she grew too big. And the time with Mama was comforting.

  But when my father stepped through the door, those idyllic hours would end as abruptly as the sun being overshadowed by a thundercloud. Since Astra’s birth, he’d become more sullen and difficult to please. We walked on thin ice, never knowing what would send him into a rage.

  No wonder my mother fled to the sanctuary of her bedroom once the supper dishes had been cleared. I would watch her stumble back to bed, her hand propping her up as she moved those last final feet.

  Once she’d left the room, my father would hunch over a glass of bread and milk, his eyes like burning coals against my back as I scrubbed the last of the pots and pans. I wanted nothing more than to crawl to bed myself, but I couldn’t. Not without incurring his wrath. So I would dawdle over my task. And after every last drop of moisture had been dried and the dishes had been put away, I would choose the chair farthest away from him, cradle Astra in my lap, and do my homework.

  It was difficult work since my father watched me hard, absently ladling sopping wads of milk-soaked bread into his mouth. His gaze was like a rough hand scratching over my face, my neck, and the bare skin of my arms. Only once the glass was completely empty would he stand, scraping the chair back, th
en stomp into the parlor to read his paper.

  As soon as he left, I would gulp air into my lungs. Then I would huddle over my sister, whispering, “He’s gone. He’s gone.”

  When it became clear that my mother would not be able to keep up during the butchering season, Rebel Mae Patroni came to help us, sleeping on an old mattress dragged into the cramped bedroom I shared with Astra.

  Rebel Mae was one of thirteen children from a family that lived near Beetle Cove, so she was accustomed to hard work. She was tall and gangly with dull brown hair and a face more freckled than fair. When I discovered she would be coming, I relished the idea of having someone to talk to.

  But Rebel Mae proved to be dull-witted and slow. She rarely spoke, and when she did, it was a grunted, “Yes’m” to my mother or “No, suh” to my father. Nevertheless, she had strong hands and an even stronger back which would prove valuable to us as my father stalked the high country for game to fill the smokehouse before the winter storms hit.

  My only real solace in her arrival was a new variety of food. She’d been taught well by her mother so our diet was soon augmented by savory stews, cobblers, and cornbread.

  For a time, in those awkward moments when my father ate his bread and milk, his hard stare began to wander from me to Rebel Mae. I would see him scrutinize her every move, much the way he tracked a rabbit in the forest before drawing a bead and shooting it in mid-lunge.

  If Rebel Mae felt his gaze, she gave no indication. She placidly went about her chores while my father watched her calico dress ripple from the movements of her hands, or the hem rise to expose the backs of her knees when she put away the plates in the overhead cupboard.

  I wondered if she felt the same prickling between her shoulder blades as I did on those black, black nights. If she did, she gave no indication. Instead, the kitchen filled with a taut expectancy, like pulling an imaginary string so tightly it threatened to snap.

  Soon after, I began sleeping with Astra in the bed beside me, snuggling up to her warmth and drawing strength from her sweet baby freshness. I pretended to be fast asleep each night when the door cracked open and light from the hall spilled onto the floor like a shard of glass. I kept my breathing slow and shallow, clutching at my baby sister for strength and protection…

  While on the mattress opposite the door, Rebel Mae slept completely unaware.

  RueAnn

  Chapter Three

  London, England

  Susan wasn’t sure what she’d imagined tonight’s fancy dress party would entail. Other than a few dances at the local vicarage, she’d never gone to one of the clubs with a boy. So she’d fretted as Matthew collected his companion for the evening.

  In her worst moments, she wondered if it would be a grown-up version of the boy-girl mixers organized by Miss Murphy’s Dance School. The twins were five years old when Mrs. Blunt dressed them in their best frocks and shepherded them six blocks east to Miss Murphy’s for their first “lesson in the social graces.” In Mrs. Blunt’s opinion, a true lady should be able to sew a straight seam and plan a month’s worth of meals. She should keep a journal and compile a neat, monthly list of expenses. She should be polite and poised, well-read in the romantic classics, and graceful. Above all, she must be graceful.

  With that lofty goal in mind, Mrs. Blunt had begun the girls’ training as early as possible, marching them weekly to Miss Murphy’s where they had been paired up with equally uncomfortable boys. There, the children would be taught the “acceptable” dances: the waltz, rumba, and fox trot.

  Surely an evening at the Primrose Dance Hall would be a little more sophisticated.

  They were less than a block away from the club when Susan realized that her lessons at Miss Murphy’s would offer her little expertise. The syncopated beat of swing music seeped through the walls and windows to the street beyond, causing a lightness to her companions’ steps that was contagious.

  “Do you like to dance?” Paul asked, bending close. There was something intimate about the gesture that caused a tingling to radiate through her extremities.

  An answer escaped her. Sara loved to dance—which meant that Susan, who didn’t have a clue how to perform the newer steps, would have to do her best to muddle through.

  “It’s been a while…” she said vaguely.

  Since her last dance at Miss Murphy’s, if the truth were told. She’d been eleven—no, twelve—at the time.

  Some of her dismay must have shown on her face, because Paul chuckled. “Don’t worry. We’ll take things slow.”

  His hand was warm around her waist as he ushered her into the club. More than anything, Susan wanted to lean into the embrace. It was what Sara would have done, after all. But she couldn’t bring herself to be so bold.

  The moment the door closed behind them, they were enveloped by moist, warm air, heavily laden with the scents of cigarette smoke, ale, and perfume. After leaving their wraps with the coat-check girl, they headed to the first empty table they found—one crowded between the dance floor and the bar.

  “Would you like a drink?” Paul asked.

  Susan opened her mouth, but her mind went blank. What would Sara order?

  “Sara has no head for alcohol,” Matthew proclaimed archly, ushering Ellen Tibbets into the seat opposite Susan. “One drink and she begins swearing like a sailor.”

  “Be quiet, Matthew,” Susan said, shooting her brother a warning glare. Instinctively, she knew her response was mild compared to the way Sara would have handled their brother. Dear Lord, she would have to be careful or she’d be found out by her own sibling.

  “Let me choose something for you then,” Paul said.

  “Brilliant.”

  Matthew and Paul disappeared into the crush at the bar.

  “I adore your costume,” Ellen said, removing a compact from her bag and peering quickly at her reflection. “I’m afraid I had to throw mine together at the last minute.”

  Susan doubted that. Ellen had come as Marie Antoinette, complete with low décolletage and powdered curls.

  “You’ve certainly captured Matthew’s attention.”

  “Really?” A blush touched the girl’s cheeks. “I-I hope so. I mean…Matthew is…Well, he’s…”

  Susan grinned. “Yes, he’s all that and more trouble than he’s worth.”

  The two women were laughing as Paul and Matt returned with glasses of dark ale and something much paler for Susan.

  Matthew had barely set the glasses down before he drew Ellen to her feet and onto the dance floor. But Paul was inclined to linger, especially since they were virtually alone. He drew his seat closer to Susan’s as he set their glasses down. His gaze was intense. His smile warm.

  Nervous, she reached for her drink. “Am I going to regret this?” she asked.

  He leaned close to whisper. “Ginger beer.”

  Susan shivered when his lips grazed her ear.

  “I can’t have you thinking ill of our time together, now can I?” Before she could respond, he wound his fingers between hers and drew her up. “Let’s dance.”

  She barely had the wherewithal to leave her glass on the table as he led the way through the tables. To her relief, the band had segued into a slower ballad. A willowy brunette cupped the microphone as she crooned the opening lines to Irving Berlin’s Always.

  “I’ll be loving you always…”

  Although they began the dance with a respectable distance between them, it took only a few bars of music before Paul pulled her tightly against him and they were cheek to cheek.

  Susan allowed herself only a moment of self-chastisement for taking advantage of the situation. Then she surrendered herself to the embrace. She didn’t care of Sara would mind or if Paul would be horrified if he ever discovered their ruse. She refused to think about anything but this night.

  This dance.

  This moment.

  Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply of his scent—Bay Rum and Brylcreem. She might only be allowed an hour or two as Paul�
�s escort, but she intended to live every second as if they’d been meant for her.

  Paul was an excellent partner, teaching her the steps to the Jitterbug and permitting her to tromp on his toes without complaint. And during the ballads…

  Those were the moments she enjoyed most as she was pulled into his arms, his hand tight against her waist, his breath teasing her hair.

  The clock passed nine, then ten, and there was still no sign of Sara. Susan prayed that somehow her sister had been permanently detained because she didn’t want the evening to end. Ever.

  As the final strains of Benny Goodman shook the rafters and the bandleader announced a fifteen minute break from the music, patrons thronged toward the bar. But when Susan would have returned to their table, Paul pulled her through a maze of corridors, past the Ladies and Gents, to a small door at the back of the building. Cool air hit her cheeks as they stepped outside, and Susan gasped in relief.

  He led her down the alley to side street that opened onto a small park. Tugging her hand, pulled her beneath the broad arms of a willow tree, then spun her around as if they were dancing.

  Laughing, she closed her eyes and lifted her face to the breeze. But when her back encountered the rough bark of the tree, her lashes opened and she focused on Paul’s face as it hovered so close to her own.

  His gaze was intent, his breathing labored. But she realized with a start that he wasn’t winded from the exertion. Even to an inexperienced girl like herself, it was easy to see the passion in his eyes.

  Susan didn’t wait for him to speak—or even make the first overtures. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  His lips covered her own, parting them, his tongue slipping inside to deepen the embrace as his body pressed her more tightly against the tree.

  Merciful heavens, she’d never been kissed like this before. For the most part, she’d endured fumbling caresses or pecks on the cheeks on those few occasions when an evening with a boy had demanded more than a handshake.

  But it was clear that Paul was no boy. Nor was he content with a mere handshake. He bent into her, his mouth continuing its ravaging exploration while one hand moved with infinite slowness from her waist, up, up, up, until his thumb caressed her nipple through her costume.