by CATHY L. CLAMP; FRANCIS RAY; BEVERLY JENKINS; MONICA JACKSON; GERI GUILLAUME
“Thank you. Brought you the wagon wheel you ordered. Do you want me to put it on?”
“How about we wait until after the holiday? I won’t be needing the wagon for a while, and it’s terribly cold out there.”
It was an awful day. A storm was moving in from the west, bringing with it frigid winds and gray clouds fat with snow. “That will be fine. Is Lydia here?”
Lydia came out of the bedroom. “Yes, I am. Afternoon, Gray.”
Even in the simple day dress, she was a beautiful sight to behold. “I’d like to talk with you, if I may?”
He then turned to Mrs. Cooper and said, “Did she tell you I asked her to marry me?”
Miriam’s eyes widened slightly with surprise. She looked over at her daughter. “No, she did not.”
Lydia felt the guilt and wanted to clobber Gray for spilling the beans. “I didn’t tell you because you’ve enough on your mind with the wedding and all.”
Miriam didn’t reply to that but asked instead, “And how did you respond?”
“I said no.”
“I see.” Miriam looked from her daughter to Gray. “Then I shall leave you two to sort things out.”
Gray confessed, “I was hoping Lydia would join me for dinner?”
Lydia’s eyes met his. If she had dinner with him, who knew where the evening might lead? A part of herself greeted the idea with sensual anticipation, but the thinking part of herself wanted to decline. Restating her refusal to marry him and making him believe it once and for all seemed necessary, however, so she said, “Dinner would be fine.”
Gray had expected an argument from her and was pleased by her positive reply. “I’m on my way home now. Would you like to come along? I don’t know if the storm is going to allow much traveling later on.”
“Let me get my cape and I’ll be ready.” Lydia still felt bad about not informing her mother of Gray’s proposal and so vowed to sit down with her and bare her soul when she returned. Right now there was only time to give Miriam a departing kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back later. We’ll talk then.”
Her mother squeezed Lydia’s shoulder affectionately. “I’ll be here, but if the storm comes, you two stay put. Don’t want you trying to travel back in a blizzard.”
Lydia and Gray nodded their understanding, and a few moments later Gray escorted Lydia out into the cold.
By the time the wagon reached his farmhouse, it had begun to snow in earnest. The thick swirling flakes made it difficult to see, and the speed with which the flakes were covering the ground was a sure indication that the storm would be a major one.
The interior of the house was cold due to its having been unoccupied all day. Gray hastily built a fire in the parlor, and while it struggled to life he went to the grates in the other rooms and built fires. In the meantime, Lydia shivered before the fire in the parlor and tried to warm her ice-cold hands.
Gray soon joined her and had her exchange her snow-damp cape for a thick plaid flannel shirt that had come from his room upstairs. She drew it on quickly and found its large size and heavy warmth more than an ample substitute. “If it keeps snowing like this, you may not be able to get back home.”
“I know.” Lydia didn’t want to think about where being alone with him on a stormy night might lead because she already knew. His eyes told her that he did, too. “Did you really invite me here to talk?”
He didn’t lie. “Yes, and no. In reality, I just wanted to see you again.”
Her heart missed a beat. “I’m not marrying you, Gray.” Her words came out soft, not firm like she’d intended.
“I heard you the first time, Lydia. I just don’t believe you.”
The heat in his eyes touched her and she hastily looked away, but he gave her no quarter. He came and stood beside her. “Do you know why I don’t believe you?”
She raised her chin, determined to remain in control. “No, why?”
“Because I’ve tasted your kiss, Lydie . . . made love to you. You feel as deeply for me as I do for you.”
The words made her shimmer inside, and all the control she’d wanted to maintain began to evaporate. “I can’t deny what I feel for you.”
Gray was pleased by her response.
“But I can’t marry you.”
He reached out and traced his finger over the soft, ripe flesh of her bottom lip. “You keep saying that,” he murmured. “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” He kissed her then, slowly, deeply. He nibbled her bottom lip and teased his tongue against the corners of her mouth. Lydia knew this wasn’t in her best interest, knew she shouldn’t allow this, but deep inside she didn’t want him to stop. In truth, she relished the feel of his lips upon hers, savored the way his tongue tempted hers, and so kissed him back as potently as she knew how. Even if he married another, Lydia wanted him to remember her as more than just his adolescent love.
While the wind and snow continued to howl outside, inside Gray’s parlor the temperature was beginning to rise. The kisses became deeper, the caresses more intense. When he began to undo the buttons on the front of her green day dress, she didn’t protest; she simply stood there with passion-closed eyes and kiss-swollen lips and let him. As he’d done the last time, he greeted each newly bared swath of skin with kisses that stole her breath. He breathed huskily against the scented skin of her throat, “Tell me why you won’t marry me, Lydia. . . .”
His expert fingers were slowly untying the ribbons on the front of her stays. When the task was done he parted the two halves and ran his warm palms over the already-pleading nipples of her breasts. “I need to know, darlin’.” Giving her no time to answer, he bent and sucked both dark buds gently. She responded with a strangled cry of joy. “Talk to me, please. . . .”
Lydia couldn’t speak. All of her abilities were muddled by his bold seduction. Desire licked at her insides like kindling. This novel inquisition had turned her body and senses into willing conspirators in her downfall. Both wanted nothing more than for him to continue. As a result, her hold on herself was almost gone. “I can’t marry you,” she whispered, breathed.
The kiss he gave her then was so overwhelming, it made her resonate like the peal of a church bell. His hand wandered beneath her skirts. A possessive palm moved over her hips encased in the wool trousers she’d donned to keep her legs warm during the ride here, and she groaned excitedly. The buttons were freed, and soon the pants were pooled at her feet. His ardent hands mapped the soft bare skin that remained, warming her legs and thighs more vividly than any trousers could.
“Now,” he whispered thickly, and slipped a potent hand into her drawers. The first touch found her already ripe and swollen. “Lydia?”
Lydia’s eyes were closed. The wickedly delicious manipulations made her widen her trembling legs. “No fair . . .” she breathed.
He smiled around his soaring desire and continued his slow play. “Fair . . .” he countered. Her nipples were hard as jewels. He bent and flicked his tongue over each. Her growl of response made his manhood harden more acutely. “Tell me, darlin’, or I’ll stop. . . .”
Climbing the peak toward orgasm, Lydia heard the velvet threat. “Don’t you dare. . . .”
His quiet chuckle floated on the silence. Gray was bluffing; he was so hot for her, nothing on earth could make him turn her loose, but she didn’t know that. He slid a finger into the soft, wet vent, and Lydia sucked in a grateful breath. Watching the reactions on her beautiful face, Gray eased his finger out, then back in, repeating the movements with a languid erotic rhythm until her hips began to move in aroused response. “I’m still waiting, Lydia. . . .”
“Oh, Gray . . .” she ground out. The last time he’d touched her this way, she’d been a novice, but now she knew where the rising sensations would lead.
“What?” he inquired thickly, not breaking the sultry cadence. He could tell she was almost ready, so to help her along, he lowered himself to his knees. “Lift your dress . . .” he commanded gently.
Shudder
ing, Lydia followed orders and stood with panting anticipation for the glory to come.
Gray gifted her with a kiss on the inside of each brown thigh, then asked, “Are you going to tell me . . . ?”
In the silence he drew down her drawers, and Lydia swore her legs would melt. His fingers touched her first, preparing her; teasing her, making her croon. With the tenderness of a lover he opened her, then demanded hotly, “Tell me. . . .”
His tongue found her, and Lydia groaned aloud in reaction to his carnal kiss. “Oh, Lord. . . .”
“Tell me. . . .”
Lydia widened her legs shamelessly, greedily.
“Tell me. . . .” He increased the pace of his conquering, leaving no part of her unloved.
The orgasm exploded with a world-shattering force that buckled her, but he didn’t stop. He continued to ply her, love her, drive her, until she could take no more. “Because I’m barren!” she confessed hoarsely as wave after wave of pleasure buffeted her. “I can’t marry you . . . because I’m barren. . . .”
When she came back to herself, she was still holding her skirts aside, her undone dress and chemise framed her damp, hard breasts, and the pulsing between her legs was as strong as her pounding heart. Gray thought her the most fetching schoolmarm to ever command a classroom.
He rose to his feet and leaned down to give her a soft, soft kiss. “You’re such a silly goose, Lydia Cooper.”
She kissed him back. “Why?”
He drew away and looked down at her with serious eyes. “Do you honestly believe you being barren matters to me?”
Lydia turned away. “Yes.”
He turned her chin back and explained with love-laced tones, “No. It doesn’t. I told you before, it matters to some men, not all.”
“You say that now, but—”
“I’ll say the same thing a hundred years from now. I love you, Lydia. You.”
She didn’t dare hope that he might be speaking the truth. “Your parents worked hard for years. Surely you want it all to stay in the family.”
“It doesn’t matter. My foreman has five sons. I’ll leave the business to him. All I care about is spending the years we have left . . . together. Just the two of us.”
Lydia searched his handsome familiar face, and she began to cry.
He was so surprised, he pulled her close and wrapped her up in his arms. “Why in the hell are you crying?”
“I was so worried over all this.”
“Well, you can stop now, so how about we go upstairs and make this merger official?”
Lydia’s eyes sparkled. “You are so scandalous.”
“Me? You’re the one without any drawers.”
She grinned and punched him playfully on the shoulder. He grimaced dramatically, then hoisted her into his arms and carried her upstairs to his bed.
On Christmas Day, Miriam Cooper and Dr. Watson Miller stood next to Lydia Cooper and Grayson Dane in the Coopers’ small parlor. Miriam’s pastor, Reverend Leonard Keel, opened his Bible and read the words. Mrs. Dane, the only other person in attendance, cried more than either of the brides.
That evening as Lydia and Gray journeyed by sleigh back to their home, she said to him, “Do you know how much I love you?”
He grinned over at her. “Nope, how much?”
She leaned into him lovingly. “Enough to have waited fifteen years for this moment.”
He gave thanks for her and for himself. “I love you, too.”
Epilogue
Lydia closed down her school in Chicago and opened a new one in her hometown. On August 28, 1884, she gave birth to a six-pound baby boy. She and Gray named him Gabriel Cooper Dane. The doctors were wrong.
The Way
Back Home
BY MONICA JACKSON
Chapter 1
Anne Donald hunched her shoulders against the evening cold as she hurried across the campus. Reflections from the Christmas lights flickered on freshly fallen snow and turned the grounds into something resembling charcoal velvet sprinkled with rare, sparkling jewels.
Anne heard laughter echo behind her and her steps slowed. Turning her head, she saw Danitha Lewis and two of her friends coming toward her from the direction of the black student union. As they passed, Danitha gave a tiny nod of recognition but didn’t break stride. The other women didn’t bother to acknowledge Anne. Why should they? She wasn’t really one of them. She seemed to be doomed to be on the outside, looking in. It was her first year of graduate school and things still hadn’t changed.
Anne ducked her head down and hurried behind them. Their destination was the same. Danitha and her friends were also going to hear Dr. Trey Fraser speak on how to empower the African-American community. He was a young professor from Morehouse University—only twenty-seven—yet his controversial book had garnered much critical attention, most of it positive.
He’d written about the failure of integration and opined that the future of black America rested in its economic strength and the regeneration of the black family. Anne was entranced by the power and cadence of his words when she read them. Although her father had been African-American, she’d never known or been a part of the community that Dr. Fraser wrote about so passionately. What would it be like to be among people who acknowledged you as one of their own? she wondered.
When she’d heard that he was coming to speak at her campus, her finger had longingly traced his handsome dark brown features on the back jacket of the book cover. She was finally going to see in the flesh the man who filled her daytime fantasies and nighttime dreams.
Applause swept through the auditorium, accompanied by the scraping of chair legs as the audience stood to acknowledge him. Trey’s gaze swept the crowd, and his smile felt as if it were a mask. He still felt a combination of embarrassment and gratitude at the adulation. He waited out the enthusiastic applause until he could incline his head and move to the back of the auditorium to sign his books.
An hour later, another book slid into his line of vision. He automatically flipped it open to the title page. “What would you like me to sign?” he asked.
“It’s for me. My name is Anne Donald.”
“How do you spell that?”
“With an e.”
He looked up, and pale gray eyes set in a face with skin the tone of light buttered honey captured his gaze. She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Freckles sprinkled her tan skin, and her reddish brown hair was pulled tightly back into a bun. Despite her fair coloring, Africa was stamped in her features. Her nose was a tiny bit wider than what would be considered ideal. Her pink, moist lips were so full and sensual that at that moment he wanted nothing more than to taste them. Had her ghost eyes cast an enchantment over him?
A cough sounded from behind her and the spell shattered. He realized that they’d been staring at each other. He signed the book and slid it across the table to her. He watched her with a sense akin to loss as she picked the book up and moved away.
“Dr. Fraser?” the next person asked, pushing another book in front of him.
He forced his attention to the matters at hand. “Whom should I sign this to?” he asked, glancing at the rapidly decreasing pile of books to his left.
A little more time and he could retreat to the solitude of his hotel room. Speaking engagements, publicity tours, and pressing the flesh were necessary and, in many ways, a blessing, but they were something he had to force himself to do. He was happiest alone with his ideas, his fingers spinning words on the page.
Finally, the moment arrived when he could pull on his coat and walk out the door to his rental car. A memory of ghost-colored eyes returned, and he wished that there had been some way to get her phone number.
Then the Boston cold hit him with a physical blow and he shuddered against it. Maybe it was for the best that the woman had simply walked out of his life. Not only was she not his type, she also lived too far away from him. He couldn’t wait to return to the gentle Southern winters he was used to.
; “Dr. Fraser?”
He glanced up and looked into the ice-colored eyes he remembered. Was she a witch? How long had the woman waited out here in the frigid cold for him? Witch or no, there was something about her that felt like magic. He smiled at her.
“I wondered if you’d like a cup of coffee?” she asked. “I know you must be tired, but . . .” She bit her lip. “I’d really appreciate it,” she ended.
He couldn’t believe his luck. “That sounds wonderful,” he said.
She looked surprised at his sudden assent but fell in step beside him. She barely reached his shoulder. There was something familiar about her, like she was somebody he once knew well and had forgotten.
He wasn’t able to discern the lines of her body under the big, thick, and shapeless down-filled coat she was wearing, but from the softness of her chin he guessed she was overweight. He couldn’t understand why she interested him so. He’d always been attracted to lean, elegant model types—well-dressed women who wouldn’t be caught dead in the khaki-colored Michelin man–shaped coat she was wearing.
He reached his car and almost dropped his keys in his eagerness to get out of the arctic cold. He opened the door for her, and she climbed into the passenger seat.
As he started the motor, she removed her gloves and rubbed her hands together. He pulled out into the street, the tires crunching the snow. The silence between them had seemed fitting. It was too cold for words to flow easily, but it felt odd not to know her name.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Anne Donald. You signed my book.” She patted her bulky shoulder bag.
Anne with an e, he remembered.
“Take the first turn to your right to the coffee shop,” she said. “It’s about a block down on your left.”
He felt a tinge of uneasiness. His ready acceptance of her invitation was out of character for him. Right now he should be resting in his hotel room with a good book and a cup of decaf rather than driving around in the Boston snow with a woman he didn’t know.