Elusive Lovers

by Elizabeth Chadwick

  "Good. Now you get to fulfill my every desire."

  Kristin clutched the sketchbook to her chest and started to rise, but Jack had uncoiled from the fur like a snake from its place in the sun. In seconds he was in front of her, blocking the firelight before her knees unbent. He took the book and pencil and tossed them on the table. Kristin clutched his beautiful shawl around her like armor, and he let her, swinging her, still wrapped in blue and green, up into his arms. “I think you need the warmth of our fire,” he murmured into her ear.

  Kristin knew what he wanted. He might even have a right to expect it, given the fact that she'd just spent a fair amount of time staring at him without his clothes and drawing what she saw. Chaste wives didn't do things like that. So she had to argue or run. Talking never seemed to do her much good where Jack was concerned. Her only chance would come when he put her down, which he did before she could make any plans.

  He let her slide down against his naked body. Through her nightdress and shawl she could feel the steely brush of his—pleasure appurtenance. He was ready to make love, and she herself already felt the waves of liquid heat. They started at her hip from the spot where she had brushed against it. From her toes where they touched the silky fur, heat spread upward. The two tides met in her loins, forming a whirlpool as Kristin's knees buckled.

  Instead of holding her up, Jack lowered her onto the fur rug, and Kristin knew she wasn't going to say a word. Or jump up and run for her life. She was going to stay right here in his arms and fall into sin just the way she had on that picnic blanket and in the Windsor Hotel. Sister Mary Joseph was fading from her mind like a bird flying backward, like a song dying, as Jack, on the rug beside her, carefully unwrapped the shawl.

  "I like your nightdress.” He slid down beside her and ran his fingers in a spreading pattern from her throat down to the lace that stretched across the upper halves of her breasts. Kristin swallowed hard, feeling her nipples tighten. He used the middle finger to pull the center down so that he could drop a soft kiss between her breasts. She sighed, transfixed already. Again he spread his fingers and hooked the corner of the low, square neckline with his thumb, first rubbing the edge of her breast, sending a tremor through her, then running the thumb up under the lace to her shoulder. She lay perfectly still, the warmth of the fire on one side, the warmth of Jack on the other, waiting to see what he would do next, eyes wide and turned to his shadowed, fire-lit face.

  His smile was tender, absorbed as he slid the shoulder lace of the nightdress down inch by inch until he had bared one pink-tipped breast. “Rosebuds,” he murmured and bent his head. She trembled as his lips touched, as he flicked the bud with his tongue, circled it, sucked on it. He was so gentle. She couldn't struggle against a touch so gentle, a touch that washed her in trembling pleasure.

  As his lips melted her, he unbuttoned first one button, then the second at her wrists, then stroked her palms, one after the other, until her fingers curled. Then he rose and knelt over her, slipping the nightdress down her arms so that the lace band rubbed the other breast as it passed. The sleeves with their ruffled ends turned over her hands, and the lace dragged a soft abrasion down her ribs, over her stomach, catching briefly in the hair at the juncture, then scraping lightly, like fairy fingernails, over her thighs.

  As the gown pulled away, the fur caressed the skin of her back and buttocks, and Jack's lips followed from her breasts down until he paused at her thighs to kiss the soft skin, to breathe heat against her soft woman's hair and secret woman's place. She squirmed, touched by shock and a little fear, breathless with excitement multiplied a hundred-fold by the silky brush of the fur beneath her and Jack above her, whispering heatedly against her thighs, then touching her so intimately with his mouth, his tongue, that wordless cries burst from her lips and heated contractions racked her body.

  When the last spasm died away, he moved up over her, whispering, fastening his mouth to hers, covering her body with his. She pressed up against him, knees parting, feet sliding in the fur, rising to capture him in her body's heat. Groaning, Jack shifted to take her, setting in motion a slow, building plunge and withdrawal. Until all the slick muscles inside her clenched around him and drove him into a frenzy, out of control, filling her more deeply, more violently that he ever had any woman, and still he wanted more, and Kristin gave it. She cried out as the second run of spasms took her, lifted her, then Jack, beyond thought and sense into a world where they were one body, one melded rapture.

  When he could speak again, he asked, voice hoarse and insistent, “Do you love me?” and she gasped “Yes,” still holding on to him as if he were the only anchor in a stormy sea, still wrapped around him like seaweed entangled with a wharf pole driven through the sand to bedrock.

  "At last,” he whispered, and pulled the blue-green shawl across their nakedness. Kristin lay a long time, letting senses other than her eyes take hold—the strange contrast of heat and cold, cold air; his heat against her body, the hearth's against her back; the silken fur beneath her, the scrape and caress of the scarf against shoulder, hip, and leg; the textures of Jack's body. In her nose she trapped the hot, smoky wood smell of the fire and the smell of Jack—the wine he had drunk at dinner, the cigar he had smoked, the clean soapy smell of his skin, the man smell of his body—and threaded through was the musk of their lovemaking.

  She shifted languorously so that she could rub against Jack and against the fur beneath her. “More already?” he whispered in a lazy, drowsing voice. He moved to accommodate her arm around his waist, her knee edging between his thighs, the soft pressure of her breasts as she nestled against his chest.

  She was silent again, still, dozing, waking. “What time is it?” she asked.

  Jack sighed. “You're right,” he murmured. “We can't stay here all night.” He rolled into a sitting position, then to his knees, pulling the shawl with him. The fringe tickled across her thighs, and she opened her eyes as he bent to scoop her into his arms.

  Time was important, she thought hazily as he carried her up the curving stair. The great clock in the hall, which he had imported from Europe, began to sound. She counted. One, two ... Kristin shivered. Was it before or after midnight? Three ... four. Each echoing gong from the clock made it more likely that she had committed a grievous sin ... five ... six. There had been no signs of dawn in the studio. Only firelight dying on the hearth ... seven ... eight. She turned her head into his shoulder and wept.

  "Sweetheart, what's wrong?” Jack edged through the bedroom door, then pushed it closed with his foot.

  "It was before midnight."

  "What was?” Jack laid her on the bed and crawled in after her.

  "When we—did what we did."

  "I suppose.” He wrapped her in his arms after pulling up her quilt. “I wasn't looking at my pocket watch.” He chuckled in her ear. “I didn't have a pocket."

  "It was still Sunday!” Kristin buried her head in the pillow and wept bitterly.

  Jack, still holding her, decided he knew a lot less about women than he had thought. Sunday? What did she have against Sunday?

  "Want to make love again?” he asked hopefully.

  "I don't suppose it makes any difference now,” she sobbed.

  Jack took that for a no, probably because he'd feel like a bounder making love to a crying woman. Even one who admitted loving him.

  Kristin overslept on Monday. Jack was not in her bed when she awakened, but other things had happened in the night after Jack carried her upstairs, after she realized that they had engaged in “the act” on Sunday and he didn't understand or, more likely, didn't care about the significance. They had made love a second time in her bed, Jack lifting her sleepy, aroused body to straddle his hips. The memory started those inner shivers again, and Kristin turned over on her stomach, squeezed her thighs together and did the multiplication tables until the feeling passed.

  However, multiplication would not absolve her of the many sins she had committed—engaging in “the act” on
Sunday; without thoughts of procreation; enjoying it; and in unnatural ways such as on the floor, lying on a bearskin rug stark naked, and later sitting on her husband's hips while he drove her insane with his words and actions. And after he had lured her into all these sins, had she denounced him? Had she prayed or run from the house or demanded that he stop immediately? No. Instead she had told him she loved him, let him stay in her bed, enjoyed herself with him a third time, kissed him back when he left her room before dawn. She was hopeless. Not an ounce of virtue in her. The only way she could ever hope to lead a proper and chaste life was to avoid temptation, which meant avoiding Jack, which meant running away.

  Yvette appeared with coffee. “Madame had a good night?” she asked smugly. The nightgown, which had been left behind in the studio, lay over her arm. Kristin grabbed her coffee and scowled. As soon as Yvette left, Kristin leapt out of bed, pulled the miserable, sinful garment over her head, and packed a small bag, which she shoved under the bed. At the first opportunity she'd be gone.

  But it wasn't that day. Maude picked her up in the downstairs hall and stuck to her like flour paste all day until the very moment that night when Kristin entered her room and shoved the dresser in front of the door. Her only satisfaction was that she didn't say a word to Jack. She wouldn't even look at him. By day's end, his high spirits, manifested so clearly at the noonday meal, had disappeared. By bedtime he was scowling.

  Jack was spending Sunday evening in the empty bar at the Denver Hotel with Robert Foote when a great explosion shook the town. Although Jack heard it, he didn't comment. He was brooding on the fact that his wife, after a night of unbelievably satisfying love, hadn't spoken to him in seven days. It seemed to have something to do with Sunday, but since she wouldn't speak, he couldn't ask with any expectation of getting an answer. He never saw her in the daytime without someone else present. She never left her blockaded room at night. Damnation! The woman had admitted that she loved him. Her confession had come in the heat of the moment, as it were, but love was love. It couldn't flourish in silence and grow on scowls. Double damnation! He was running out of ideas.

  Robert Foote, who had no marital problems to occupy his mind, took the explosion more to heart. “What was that?” he cried, turning pale. He set his glass down. “I don't know why I'm asking. It was dynamite. I guess, we'd better find out what happened.” He looked around the bar. A stained-glass beer sign had fallen off the wall and broken. Glasses had fallen from the shelves behind the bar. “It's bad enough that I lose my bar customers on Sunday night,” said Foote. “Now I'm losing my bar."

  Jack was glad to pursue any diversion that would take his mind off Kristin, so the two men went into the lobby. Various gentlemen were coming down the stairway in their nightshirts, asking questions. “We're going to find out,” shouted Foote, and they hurried to the street door. Owners who lived over their businesses came downstairs onto Main.

  "Where was it?” asked some.

  "Sounded like up Lincoln,” answered others.

  People emerged from their houses as Jack and Foote walked up Lincoln. “What is it? What happened?” everyone asked. The largest crowd was gathered in front of the Methodist-Episcopal Church.

  "Sinners have dynamited my church bell,” Reverend Passmore announced. “I call down the wrath of God upon the evil, drunken rogues of this town."

  Jack spotted his wife, standing among the sausage girls and maids of his household. All the women wore long shawls, for even in August the nights were cold. Peeking beneath the shawls were white ruffled garments. Petticoats? he wondered. Nightdresses?

  He inspected his wife, whose golden hair spilled down her back. She looked like an angel. Beautiful. Ethereal. And perhaps he was the devil she called him, for the sight of her didn't evoke any thoughts of God. Instead she inspired memories of their Sunday night romp. He wanted to carry her up the hill and take her to bed. Seven days was too long when a man had a wife like her. He wanted to do all the things they'd done in front of the fire—and more.

  "Who do you think done it?” asked a stranger.

  "Folks who wants to drink on Sunday. Who else?” replied his companion. “Hit's to git even for Brother Passmore makin’ the bars close down of a Sunday."

  "Think it coulda been Miz Maeve Macleod or her man? Heard she was that mad when the preacher kep’ a botherin’ her at the Chicago Irishman."

  "Or that pretty Miz Cameron he done preached the sermon on. Confabulatin’ associations or some such."

  Jack stiffened. What nonsense was this?

  "Women don't know nuthin’ about dynamite,” was the opinion of another fellow with red stubble on his chin.

  Jack relaxed.

  "Hell fire and damnation await all the sinners of this town,” boomed Reverend Passmore.

  No doubt, thought Jack dryly and noticed that Kristin had spotted him. It was time for another seduction, he decided. She looked ripe.

  "Where are the police?” bellowed Reverend Passmore. “Where is the sheriff?"

  Jack strolled over to his wife. “Time to go home,” he murmured.

  Kristin turned away, still silent. Maybe she wasn't as ripe as he'd thought. He'd have to work on it.

  Tomorrow was the day, Kristin vowed as she pulled the covers up to her chin. That walk up Nickel Hill after the dynamiting of the church bell had convinced her. Just the curving of Jack's fingers over her elbow as he escorted her home had set shameless sensations in motion. Accordingly, she had slipped out of her room when everyone was asleep, untacked and rolled almost every dry canvas in the studio, concealed their absence by stacking the wet canvases and the failures in front of the empty frames, hauled her choices upstairs and packed them in a second valise, which she hid under the bed with the first. One case for clothes, one for paintings. This time she would travel light, make herself less easy to spot if he came after her or hired detectives again. Unfortunately, she couldn't take art supplies, but she had money under the bed. All she had to do was divert Maude, and a way to do it had occurred to her.

  When Yvette brought her café au lait the next morning, Kristin said, “I think I'll stay in bed. You can have the day off, Yvette.” The maid's smirk told Kristin that Yvette thought she knew why madame was having a day in bed. It was the result of another night with Monsieur Cameron.

  "Très bien, madame," said Yvette. “A day off eez always welcome.” And she minced away.

  One down, one to go, thought Kristin. After an hour she went to the door and spoke to Maude, who was seated in the hall knitting. Maude cooperated by asking immediately, “You're still feelin’ poorly, Miz Kristin?"

  "I'm afraid I am,” said Kristin, trying to look sick. “I fear I caught a chill by going out into the night air for the bell dynamiting."

  "I'm not surprised, ma'am,” cried Maude. ‘Twas right cold last night, an’ us in our nightdresses. Still, I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Such excitement!"

  "Yes,” murmured Kristin. “You're going to have to go to the chemist's. The one just off Washington on Main."

  "Yes, ma'am, but what shall I get you?"

  Kristin, who was never sick, didn't know what to ask for. “See if he has Dewitt's Early Risers."

  "But that's for biliousness, not the chill."

  "And something for chill,” said Kristin hastily. “The chemist will be able to make a suggestion. And be sure you write down the instructions."

  "But ma'am, I can't write."

  "Then have him write them down, and you wait for him to do it, even if he's busy. Medicine is dangerous if not taken properly. I'd rather delay than make a mistake."

  "Yes, ma'am,” said Maude, looking worried.

  Kristin put her hand to her forehead as if dizzy and headed back to bed. “I'll just have a nice nap. You can knock softly when you return, and if I don't answer, let me sleep. My mother always said sleep is a great curative.” Kristin's mother had said no such thing. Lottie had done all the home doctoring. Maude helped Kristin into bed.

 
"I won't wake you, ma'am. Shall I send for the doctor?"

  "We'll try home remedies first.” She gave Maude a wan smile.

  "Or Mr. Cameron. Maybe we should send for—"

  "Absolutely not! I won't have him bothered.” Kristin closed her eyes and lay tensely listening for the sound of Maude on the stairs. Once she heard it, she leapt out, stripped off her nightgown, which she had been wearing over her traveling clothes, buttoned on her boots, and fished the two suitcases and her reticule out from under the bed. She could hear the front door close as she was making these preparations. After giving Maude a few minutes to turn the corner at Washington, Kristin tiptoed downstairs and out the front door. Luck was with her, luck and good planning. She knew everyone's schedule well enough to know where they'd be at this time. A valise in either hand, she walked as fast as she could toward Lincoln, which would take her to the railroad station. She couldn't be bothered with the ladies’ stop today. She had to make that morning train to Denver.

  "Mrs. Cameron,” called Father Boniface Wirtner from across Lincoln. Kristin tried to pretend she didn't hear.

  A miner stepped into her path and said, “That there priest in skirts is callin’ you, ma'am."

  The brief pause allowed the priest to cross the street and catch up with her. “Mrs. Cameron,” he puffed. “I've been meaning to talk to you."

  He's going to ask why I haven't been to confession, she thought. Could he insist that she go right now? What time was it? Even if she made up a few small sins and kept all the big ones to herself, she'd miss the train.

  "I saw several of your paintings at Mrs. Kathleen Macleod's house."

  Kristin stared at him helplessly. Had he found something sinful in the portraits?

  "Of the children. They were so charming. Our poor St. Mary's lacks a good deal in the way of holy decoration, although the ladies of the Altar Cloth Society do their best.” Father Boniface Wirtner stared at her with a mildly accusing look.

  "All right, I'll join,” she offered, glancing anxiously over her shoulder, thinking she heard the sound of the Denver train. How great a sin was lying to a priest? Would she have to find an Altar Cloth Society in her new home to make good her promise? Or was she so deep in unforgiven sin that it wouldn't matter?