Love, Come to Me

by Lisa Kleypas

  Love was unvoiced and undenied. As they fitted together into one being, each movement was a new discovery, each second an eternity of emotion. Let it last, her heart beseeched the darkness silently. Let it last forever.

  A soft voice broke through his cloud of slumber, persisting despite his best efforts to ignore it. “It’s seven o’clock, Heath . . . wake up . . . I won’t let you sleep any longer, so open your eyes. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

  Oh, God. At the thought of getting up, facing a day of complicated tasks, unappetizing decisions, raised voices, and the nauseating prospect of breakfast, something inside him shrank back in distaste. He felt Lucy’s gentle kiss on his cheek, and he rolled onto his stomach, making a grumpy noise. She snatched away the extra pillow before he could pull it over his tousled head, and just what she was saying he couldn’t make out, but it sounded sympathetic.

  Lucy sat down by his side and traced a line down the length of his spine; she planted a kiss in the center of his back and began to massage his shoulders. “Don’t be difficult,” she coaxed, plying her hands to his taut muscles with deep, rhythmic movements. “You know how much worse it would be if I didn’t wake you up and you were off-schedule the whole day. You have to get to the Examiner early this morning. You have mountains to move, and many things to—”

  “If you’re trying to get me out of bed,” Heath growled, the thought of the newspaper wrenching him awake in the space of two seconds, “you’d better use different tactics than telling me how much I’ve got to do.” He sighed as she found the aching muscles right between his shoulder blades. “Ahh . . . lower . . . mmmm.”

  “I’ve drawn a hot bath for you. You’ll feel so much better after soaking in it for a few minutes. And I brought up some fresh coffee. It’s right on the bed table for you to—”

  “Uggh.”

  “Why don’t you try taking a few sips of it while you’re having your bath? I’ll bring it in to you.”

  He nodded reluctantly, winced at the pain that shot through his skull, and sat up with a groan. Silently Lucy handed him a silk robe patterned with subdued burgundy and blue stripes. He pulled it on and stood up, looking down at her as she tied the belt around his lean waist. When she was done, he pulled her against his body, buried his face in the curve of her neck and thought that the greatest gift he could be given was to be allowed to fall asleep standing up, with his head resting on her soft shoulder.

  “I’m not going anywhere today,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “Why not?”

  He opened his eyes and squinted at the window. Lucy had pulled back the cream-colored velvet panels to let the morning light in. “It’s too sunny.”

  She chuckled, letting go of him as he headed to the bathroom. Having already dressed and fixed her hair, she had nothing to do this morning except take care of Heath. Despite the troubles at the Examiner—which could surely be resolved in a way that would allow both Heath and Damon to keep their pride intact—she was wonderfully, deliriously happy. It was hard not to shower Heath with an overabundance of love. She wanted to burst through his defenses with it—she wanted to surround him with it. But even mentioning the word love would be making a demand that he was not ready for. She would rein in her feelings as much as she could, waiting patiently until he could bring himself to tell her what was in his heart. After all that he had said and done last night, she knew that he cared for her. He had told her he needed her. How incredibly good it had been to hear him say that!

  She subdued her exuberant expression into something approaching normal and picked up the cup of steaming black coffee, being careful not to slosh the brew into the saucer. As she carried it into the bathroom, she saw Heath’s head resting on the rolled rim of the enameled bathtub, his eyes closed as if he had fallen asleep again. Gingerly she sat down on the lid of the water closet. Heath opened one eye and reached out for the coffee.

  Silently she handed it to him, resisting the urge to reach out and sift her fingers through the damp, slightly curling strands of hair that had fallen on his forehead. Heath took an experimental swallow and then another before he gave the cup back to her. “It’s not bad,” he said grudgingly, taking hold of a cake of soap and working up a lather.

  “Maybe in a few minutes you’ll feel like having breakfast—”

  “I wouldn’t lay odds on it.”

  Her smile was filled with sympathy as she looked at him.

  He looked away from her, devoting his attention to the soap. “I . . . hope I didn’t talk too much last night,” he said casually. “I don’t remember much about it.”

  Lucy pushed the nagging thoughts about Raine—whoever she was—right out of her mind. She didn’t want to think about her. And besides, it didn’t matter who Raine was, because she was part of Heath’s past, while Lucy was his wife. Lucy was his present and his future, and she would not allow anyone or anything to disrupt this satisfactory state of affairs.

  “No,” she replied with equal casualness. “You didn’t say much of anything.”

  “Oh.” His relief was poorly concealed as he proceeded with his bath. Discreetly Lucy enjoyed the sight of his lithe body as he lathered his chest with foamy white soap and rinsed off. After a few minutes, he paused for a swallow of coffee and smiled wryly.

  “Remember when you told me it was crazy for a Southerner to try to run a Boston newspaper? You might have been—”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Oh?”

  “Absolutely wrong.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “I seem to have missed a step somewhere along the way. When did you decide that?”

  “After I started reading the paper. I . . . I like your ideas. I like the way the newspaper is turning out, and other people will start to feel the same way. I know you’ll start making a profit when you lure in a few more advertisers.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with the promise of a smile. “I appreciate your faith in me. Unfortunately the paper’s going to be finished off by a second civil war.”

  “Then you’ll have to find some way to compromise. It didn’t seem as if you and Damon were having any serious disagreements before—”

  “We were. And they’ve all stemmed from the fact that our political, social, and moral leanings are entirely different.”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating—”

  “You don’t know Damon as I do,” Heath said darkly. “And if you did, you’d agree that the conflict over this editorial is going to happen again, because it’s not really about what happened in Georgia yesterday. It’s about his beliefs as opposed to mine, and they’re never going to mesh—”

  “You can find some common ground to meet on. Neither of you wants to try to fight the war over again, and you’ve got to remind him of that. You’re one of the most persuasive people I’ve ever met. I know you can talk him into taking a more moderate stand.”

  “Now who’s being persuasive?” He pulled the plug and reached for a towel as the bathwater gurgled down the drain. Roughly he toweled his hair dry and stepped out of the tub, wrapping the towel around his hips. “What if I can’t talk him into changing the editorial? If I write it the way I want it, he’ll leave.”

  “Then he leaves.”

  “We might lose the paper without him.”

  “Then it’s everyone’s loss. But the only one I’m concerned about is you. You’ve got to do whatever it takes to keep your pride and self-respect. You would never forgive yourself if you felt that you betrayed your beliefs and your people. It’s your paper. Run it the way you want, for as long as you have it.”

  He caressed the side of her jaw with his fingertips, sending a light shiver down her spine. “I should warn you that if we lose the paper, we’ll have to sell the house.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “And the furniture.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “And—”

  “We can pawn, sell, and trade off everything we own . . . but if you dare say one thing about m
y diamond, you’ll regret it for the rest of your married life. This ring is mine, and it’s not leaving my finger.”

  He grinned at her vehemence. “I wasn’t going to say anything about your ring, honey.” Bending down to kiss her, he left wet handprints on the waist and bodice of her gown, but Lucy was too enthralled by his hearty kiss to protest.

  “You taste like coffee,” she whispered when his lips left hers.

  “I could do with more.”

  “Coffee or kisses?”

  “Always more kisses . . .” He dropped a light one on the corner of her mouth. “But I was referring to coffee. Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Then why don’t you go downstairs while I get dressed? I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t be long,” she said, and paused in the doorway to look up and down his scantily covered body in a way that caused his blood to stir. She quirked the side of her mouth suggestively. “The . . . muffins will get cold.”

  As she left, Heath wondered bemusedly how she had learned to infuse such a simple statement with such a variety of innuendos. He also wondered how it was physically possible for him to want her so much again, when he had just spent the entire night satiating himself with her.

  Just when Lucy reached the bottom of the stairs, someone knocked on the front door with a demanding staccato. The butler came into the front entranceway to greet the visitor; he looked so uncustomarily harried that Lucy knew he hadn’t yet finished his own breakfast.

  “I’ll answer the door, Sowers,” she said.

  “But, Mrs. Rayne—”

  “I have an idea of who it might be. You may go back to the kitchen.” The grateful butler disappeared without hesitation, and Lucy went to the door, opening it in the middle of another flurry of knocking. As her intuition had led her to hope, the visitor was Damon Redmond. He was as immaculately groomed as always, but his eyes were bloodshot and there were tired lines on his face. He was leaning against the doorframe as if its support was necessary to keep him upright. “Good morning,” she said.

  “We all have our own opinions about that, Mrs. Rayne.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, and smiled as she opened the door to let him in. “Please join us for some breakfast.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “At least some coffee,” she coaxed, and he smiled wearily.

  “Have you ever met anyone who could refuse you anything? I doubt it.” Damon surrendered his coat to her without another word and followed her to the breakfast room. Lucy thought compassionately that he must be just as perturbed as Heath about the editorial; he looked as though he hadn’t gotten more than an hour or two of sleep. Quickly she handed the coat to Bess with a murmur about needing another place setting, then allowed Damon to seat her at the table.

  “Heath will be down here in just a minute,” she said as Damon settled into a chair across from hers. “As soon as he’s finished washing up and dressing . . .” Her voice trailed off into silence as she noticed that his dark eyes had flickered to the bodice of her dress. Looking down at herself, Lucy realized that one of Heath’s wet handprints was still clearly visible, right underneath her breast. She could feel her cheeks turning crimson. “He required a little assistance with his bath,” she said lamely.

  “Of course,” Damon replied, unfailingly polite, though she saw a dark twinkle in his eyes.

  “He’s in remarkably good temper, considering . . . everything.” She would not make any further revelations until she found out if Damon was there to decide on a compromise or abandon ship.

  Damon sobered instantly. “I couldn’t just meet him at the paper. I thought if we talked here beforehand—”

  “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “I would like to believe that there’s a good chance of reconciling our differences.”

  “He is a very reasonable person, Mr. Redmond. I know for a fact that he would like to find a suitable compromise between your position and his.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Rayne,” Damon said stiffly, “I didn’t have that impression yesterday.”

  “I am certain that many people think of him as being very . . . progressive—”

  “Very tactfully put—”

  “Perhaps too progressive. But he believes very strongly in what he is doing, and he feels a great sense of responsibility to his people. Surely you can understand that.”

  “I didn’t come here to debate with you—”

  “What I’m trying to tell you,” Lucy insisted softly, “is that if he feels you are approaching him with some understanding of his position, he will be much more inclined to listen to what you have to say. And, as you already know, if you try to best him in an outright confrontation, he will dig his heels in even deeper.”

  “Thank you for the advice,” Damon murmured. “I’ll try to remember it.”

  Tacitly they decided to change the subject as Bess came in with extra dishes and silverware. The maid fumbled slightly as she arranged a place setting before Damon, glancing at his dark, attractive face so often that Lucy nearly admonished her for being so clumsy about her work. Damon didn’t appear to notice the maid’s interest; his attention was completely focused on Lucy in a manner that was both flattering and disconcerting. Lucy passed him a basket of freshly baked muffins, admonishing him to take one of the larger ones. She smiled with pleasure as he put two of them on his plate. “I’m glad someone besides me has an appetite this morning,” she said.

  “Just because I’m in the midst of a personal crisis and potential financial disaster doesn’t mean I should starve to death as well.” Damon broke open a steaming muffin and spread it with butter.

  “How very practical.”

  “Of course. Nothing else is to be expected from a Redmond. The Cabots are blunt, the Forbeses are perverse, the Lawrences are tightfisted, the Lowells are cold. The Redmonds are practical.”

  How ridiculous. Lucy smiled at him while thinking privately that most of the first family traditions were pure nonsense. How could any one person belonging to a first family ever have a life of his own? Everything had been mapped out for Damon from the day he was born until the day he died, including his education, his friends, his business, his future wife—even his personality. She knew that many people had been shocked by his decision to buy a newspaper instead of following his older brothers’ footsteps in the world of banking. Lucy hoped he would continue to break away from the Redmond mold, for she had a feeling that quite a different Damon Redmond existed inside the somber young man his family had intended him to be.

  “I was also brought up to be practical,” she confided, pouring a generous splash of cream into her coffee and stirring it slowly. “For me, everything was always very organized and predictable. Decisions were easy to make. Problems were easily solved.” She shook her head reminiscently and chuckled. “And then I met Heath, and nothing has been the same since then. Nothing is simple anymore. It’s difficult to be practical around someone who can make the most sensible things seem absurd.”

  “He does like to approach things on a different level than the rest of us,” Damon admitted wryly. “A very complicated level. By now I should have figured out a way to avoid problems like this one. But so far I haven’t had much success at coming to understand him.”

  Lucy was saved from having to reply by Bess’s reappearance with a tray of food. Thoughtfully she lifted the coffee cup to her lips. It was so hot that she could only let a few drops of the dark liquid graze the tip of her tongue. She found it interesting that she and Damon would both have the same difficulties in dealing with Heath. Overly practical people would always think of him as someone beyond comprehension. There was a time when she, also, had considered it important to try to understand him. But there was no category Heath would fit in. There were too many pieces to the puzzle. It was better just to accept him as he was, ambiguities and all, and to be content with the knowledge that he needed someone like he
r, constant and unchanging, in order to keep his world in balance.

  Heath entered the room just then, stopping in the doorway as he laid eyes on the unexpected visitor. Lucy looked from his face to Damon’s, unconsciously holding her breath.

  “I’m not surprised you’re here,” Heath said dryly. “I haven’t yet heard of a Yankee hesitating to venture into enemy territory.”

  Damon held his white napkin up by the corner and dangled it as if it were a flag of surrender. “I came to inquire, General, if there’s any hope of a negotiated peace.”

  Heath smiled slightly, pulling out the chair next to Lucy and sitting down. “Possibly. You might start by passing the muffins.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lucy let out her breath and smiled as the negotiations proceeded and compromises were discussed. Neither of the two men at the table was so inflexible that he would sacrifice ambition for the sake of pride. And in Lucy’s opinion, neither of them would seriously consider giving up the newspaper. The Examiner meant more than money to them, more than ink and paper, words and columns. It had given two worldly men their only chance to be idealists, and they were not ready to relinquish that.

  It took hours of dedicated persuasion for Lucy to coax Heath into taking her to the Hosmers’ Christmas Eve party in Concord instead of attending the magnificent annual Redmond gala. But Christmas in a small town was different from Christmas in the city. There was less glamour and pageantry, certainly, but a Concord Christmas was old-fashioned and special. Every home was decorated with pinecones and holly; each room was fragrant with cinnamon-dusted pomander balls. The doorways were garnished with large bows and tiny round potatoes that had been covered with sprigs of mistletoe and long ribbon streamers. By long-established custom, anyone caught underneath one of them had to surrender a kiss.