Inseparable

by Christiane France

  The next store we come to is a bakery where they have English muffins on display. Trying not to think about the donuts earlier and the huge lunch I just ate, I press my nose against the glass, conjuring up visions of a roaring log fire and an English tea party like in the movies. I see a tray with mugs of hot tea and plates of toasted muffins dripping with butter and strawberry jam. And the butter dripping down Nick's chin, onto his chest and on down to his...

  I pull away from the window and make for the shop door. "Since you're trying to fatten me up, what do you say to muffins for tea at the hall?"

  "You're inviting me to tea?"

  "Unless you have something else you have to do."

  "What could be more important than hot buttered muffins?"

  I give an exaggerated sigh. "I don't know. But I'm sure I could come up with something if I tried really hard." Nick's sexy chuckle sends a frisson of excitement skipping down my spine as my imagination adds a bearskin rug to the mental picture of us stretched out before the warm glow of the fire. The library has an open-hearth fire, and I'm sure I saw a suitable rug in one of the bedrooms. "How many muffins do you think you can eat?"

  "I love muffins, so two or three for sure. But if there are any left over, there's always tomorrow."

  We go into the shop where I buy a dozen muffins and, after a moment's hesitation, two enormous chocolate éclairs the clerk assures me are filled with real dairy cream. There's tea, milk, butter and jam at home, so I'm all set.

  The sun is shining when we leave the shop--a thin, watery sun whose rays give off no warmth, but I'm hoping it's an omen my life is about to take a turn for the better.

  "Maybe we should put the shopping in the car and go for a walk along the river path. Help us work up an appetite for tea," Nick says. "What do you think? Do you like walking?"

  I can think of far more creative ways to work up an appetite, but this is England and, according to Ginny, I'm supposed to mind my manner and behave like a lady. "I'm learning to like it," I reply, but my reply seems to confuse him, so I add, "What I mean is that in L.A. everyone drives everywhere. If we want to exercise, we go to a gym."

  "Really? I guess gyms have their place, but me for me, I much prefer a good brisk walk through the woods and fields. Blows away the cobwebs and makes me feel like a new man."

  A bubble of laughter escapes my lips, and I slip my arm through his. "You sound exactly like one of those British actors I've seen on the talk shows back home."

  "I do?"

  "Mmm. All that stiff upper lip, cold showers, and the British bulldog 'we shall never surrender' type stuff."

  Nick growls softly and brushes my cheek with his lips as he wraps an arm around my waist, cuddling me close to his warmth. "You think I look like a bulldog?"

  "No. Bulldogs are short and fat. You're neither. Where's the river?"

  "Just past the pub where we had lunch."

  Although Nick seems to think walking by the river on a cold, damp day will be a wonderful, bracing experience, I have my doubts. Sounds to me like something I'd prefer to watch--preferably from the comfort of a nice warm car--than take part in. However, instead of wimping out, I smile and agree to go along with the plan by saying something inane like, "Lead on, McDuff". But, from the moment we leave the street and walk down the steps to the river, my doubts are confirmed.

  There's an icy wind blowing off the water that slices through my inadequate garb like razor blades. Within seconds, my face is numb with cold, my teeth are chattering eight to the bar, and I'm no longer wondering why the Brits always insist on wearing pure wool. This is extreme misery and then some. If I stay here much longer, I may have to think about investing in a sheep farm or two myself. Maybe I can train the lambs to wrap themselves around me for warmth.

  "Come on. I'll race you to the boat that's moored down there by those trees," Nick says, taking off at a trot. "Last one there's a rotten egg?"

  I think about turning around and going back to the car, and the fact I'm too old to be playing silly kids' games like this. But Nick has the car keys, and I know there's nothing like running to get the blood moving and warm a body up. Anyway, I'm not that old, I was a track star at school, and I never resist a challenge. Taking a deep breath, I dig in my heels, and zoom past him like a rocket. When he catches up to me, a little out of breath I might add, my breathing is normal, and I'm leaning nonchalantly against one of the trees.

  "What kept you?"

  Nick laughs and shakes his head. "Where on earth did you learn to run like that?"

  I feel much better for the short run. Warmer both inside and out, and hornier, too, when I catch a glimpse of the lustful look in Nick's gorgeous brown eyes. "It started when I was growing up, and one of our neighbors had a vicious dog that was forever getting out. Then I was on the track team at school. And later, whenever life started closing in, I'd drive up the coast and find a quiet place to run along the beach. Haven't done it in ages, though."

  Taking my hand, he pulls me deeper into the cluster of trees, then he moves in closer until our bodies are touching and our mouths only a millimeter apart. I feel his heat, and I know he's as aroused as I am. There's no one on the path but us, we're shielded by the trees, and we both know the next move's up to him.

  He puts his arms around me under my jacket, pushes up my sweatshirt and unclips my bra. I suck in a deep breath. The touch of his cool hands on my bare skin is unbelievably erotic. Already, my panties are wet, and my knees are having trouble in keeping my legs in the upright position.

  "I've been dying to do this for hours," he murmurs as he cups my breasts and brushes his thumbs over the tips.

  "Do what?" I ask in a whisper.

  "This." He unfastens my jeans, and pulls both my jeans and my panties down below my hips. Looking deep into my eyes, he begins to gently stroke my pussy. Then he explores a little further.

  At the first tentative touch of his fingers against my clit, I tremble with pleasure and open my legs a little wider to give him better access. I want him so much I can hardly breathe, but I hear the faint sound of a dog barking somewhere not far away, and I realize if we don't stop now, there's a good chance of us getting caught. The trees may prevent us being seen from a distance, but at this time of the year, the leaves are mostly gone, which means we're in full view of anyone coming along the path.

  He rubs the pad of his thumb along my lips, and I press my fingers against the juncture of his thighs. Sensation rockets through me and, suddenly, I don't care if the whole world sees what we're doing. He's hot, he's hard, his dick is straining to escape, and if we're fast, we won't get caught.

  I quickly undo the snap of his jeans, and as I lower the zipper, his throbbing penis jumps into my hands.

  His jeans fall down his hips, and I kick mine off. The next thing I know, he's lifting me up and as his mouth claims mine and I wrap my arms around his neck, he lowers me down onto his erect shaft.

  He takes his time entering me, setting my nerve endings on fire, and giving me a delicious taste of the satisfaction we both crave. He withdraws slightly and pushes back in, and I hear the dog bark again. Closer this time.

  The fear of discovery excites me, and I rock my body against Nick's, urging him to hurry. But he laughs and invades my mouth with his tongue, while he continues to fuck me with slow, measured thrusts. Capturing my tongue between his teeth, he starts to suck on it, and I feel my muscles tighten around his cock.

  I'm right there, ready to explode. And I know Nick is, too. Suddenly, the dog barks again, the sound so close I'm afraid if I open my eyes I'll see the wretched creature sitting beside us, an inquiring look in its eyes. But then I hear a male voice calling, "Rusty? Where are you boy?", and Nick's slamming into me with powerful thrusts that threaten to topple us over. The world around me shatters into a jumble of stars, sensations and feelings so powerful it's like floating on a golden cloud. But before I have time to really savor and enjoy, Nick's pulled out of me, dragged our clothing up into some semblance of dec
ency, and is bending down to pet a black Aberdeen terrier.

  "Where did you come from?" he croons to the dog, while I quickly finish fixing my clothes and run a hand over my hair. "Run away from our master, did we?"

  We return to the path with the terrier in tow, and I see an elderly man walking toward us. "Hah, so there you are," he says to the dog, then acknowledges us with a nod. "Sniff out a rabbit, did you?"

  "I think something in those trees caught his attention. Probably a water rat," Nick says, shooting me a sly smile. "But it must have gone to ground before he could catch it."

  The man and the dog continue on their walk, and Nick slips an arm around my waist. "Too bad we got interrupted," he says, straight-faced. "I was really enjoying that."

  "Me, too." I reach up and brush a lock of dark hair back from his forehead. Needing to touch him some more, I stroke his face and run my fingers over his mouth. "Too short, but very satisfying. We should maybe do it again sometime."

  "How about right now? We can go back to the trees." A devilish gleam appears in his brown eyes. "Or there are some woods a bit further on. Nice, soft, mossy ground in there and much less chance of any interruptions." His hands begin massaging my butt, and he pulls me in close enough for me to know he's more than ready for round two.

  "How about Foxton Hall? It's warm and dry. And there we can lock the doors, and know for sure there's no chance of anyone interrupting us."

  Bending his head, he kisses me softly on the lips. "I doubt if I can wait that long."

  I laugh, slip out of his embrace and back away. "Force yourself. Think of a roaring log fire, and muffins for tea."

  He comes after me, wrapping his arms around me and holding me tight. "To heck with the muffins. I'd rather think of you in the nude with the firelight painting patterns on your bare skin while I..."

  "While you what?"

  "Use your imagination." He chuckles and lets me go.

  Until today, the only man I've ever made love with was my husband, George. But I've read the books, and I've seen the movies, and I've discovered that talking dirty can be quite the turn-on. I bat my eyelashes at him and run the tip of my tongue over my lips. "It would be much more fun if you told me. Preferably in detail."

  Taking my hands, he draws me close again. "Tell you what?"

  "What you want to do to me. And don't leave anything out."

  "First, I want to take off all your clothes. One item at a time. Then I want to kiss every inch of your body until I see your toes curl under. After that I want to taste you, and..."

  "And then what?" I whisper breathlessly.

  "Then we'll make the tea and toast the muffins, and maybe watch a movie on TV. Unless, of course, there's something else you'd rather do."

  Laughing with glee, he releases my hands and takes off along the path, with me in hot pursuit.

  When I catch up with him, he lifts me off my feet and whirls me around until my head is spinning faster than my body, and I demand that he release me.

  "You're nuts, you know that?" I say, feeling like a giddy teenager as he sets me down and presses his hot mouth against my cold face. Finally, I'm back to living for the moment. I'm no longer cold or depressed. I actually feel happy. Almost like all the bad stuff with George never happened.

  * * * *

  When we get back to the hall, once again Nick goes through his weird I'm-so-glad-to-be-here-oh-no-I'm-not routine. The moment I unlock the front door and push it open, the apprehensive look is back on his face, and as we go inside, he glances quickly around, as if he expects a monster to jump out of the shadows and grab him. By the time we've walked the length of the main corridor and turn toward the kitchen, he's back to his smiling, relaxed mode, and generally behaving like he's glad to be back home.

  Home?

  Except this isn't Nick's home. At least it isn't right now, but I realize it may have been at one time. I know damn well Nick has a strong connection to the place, and his behavior makes me think he could have once lived here. I want to come straight out and ask him, but I'm hesitant. Partly because it's none of my business; partly because if he'd wanted me to know, he'd have told me right at the start instead of giving me that rigmarole about knowing the previous owner; and partly because I have a gut feeling there's a whole lot going on here I'm not sure I want know.

  I'm not Irish and I'm not fey, or psychic, but while the house is warm and welcoming to me, it seems to bring out mixed emotions in Nick. Something about the place sucks him in, as if he needs to be here, and something about it scares him, too. Sort of like the need to get near the fire for warmth, and at the same time knowing if you get too close, you'll get burned.

  I can't begin to imagine what's going on here, but I recall Nick's reaction when I mentioned ghosts. Perhaps someone he loved died here and for whatever reason that person hasn't passed over yet, and--

  "How do you take your tea?"

  During the time I've been standing here, trying to solve the puzzle, Nick has made the tea and is taking two of the muffins out of the paper bag. "Umm. Just milk." I open the refrigerator door and get the milk, plus the butter and strawberry jam, then reach into one of the cupboards for plates. "Are we going to have our tea here in the kitchen? Or shall we light a fire in one of the other rooms and have it there?"

  "A fire sounds nice. I'll light the one in the library, and we can toast the muffins in there. They'll taste better than doing them in the toaster."

  Once again, Nick's choice of the library demonstrates to me his familiarity with the house. It's the smallest and most intimate of the downstairs rooms, and the one I'd have chosen had I been asked. I can't decide if Nick used to live here, or if he's spent a great deal of his time here. But why the big secret about his connection to the house? What is it that he can't tell me?

  Like the rest of the house, the library needs a good clean. But once Nick has the fire going and I've dusted off a low table and brought in a tray with the tea and everything else we need, I slip upstairs and grab the white fur rug I noticed during my orientation tour. It, too, is a bit dusty, but it's fake fur not the real thing, so I give it a good shake and drag it down the stairs.

  "Where on earth did you find that?" Nick asks as I throw the rug down in front of the fire.

  "In one of the bedrooms. You have a problem with it?"

  A shadow crosses his face, and he frowns. Then, once again, he gives an offhand shrug and looks away. "No. I'm just surprised to see an old thing like that here. It's not something I would expect a man like Sam McIven to own."

  Despite his denial, I have a feeling Nick does have a problem with the rug. In fact, I know for sure he does because he recognized the damn thing. And no one recognizes a run-of-the-mill fake fur rug sold by the hundreds of thousands a few years back, unless something about it triggers an important memory. Whether the memory is good or bad I can't tell because the look on Nick's face now can only be described as bland.

  "You said the house was sold lock, stock and barrel. The rug could have been here when he took possession."

  "Could be. Although I heard he was getting rid of what was here. Giving it away to the villagers and the charity shops. Anyone willing and able to cart away anything they fancied was welcome to do so."

  "As part of the renovation process?"

  "Presumably."

  "Well, after you left last night, I took a look at all the other rooms. Either no one wanted the old stuff, or Mr. McIven changed his mind about giving it away after he broke up with the girlfriend. Only the master suite has been redone. The other bedrooms are all furnished, but what furniture is in them is far from new. And the servants' quarters up on the third floor look like they haven't been touched in years. Not since the last servant packed his or her bags and moved on."

  I know something weird is going on here. And it's not just McIven's on, then off again renovation plans, or his romantic troubles. Nick goes on red alert every time he steps inside this house, and I'm desperate to find out why. But I can't ask him
directly. If I do, I guarantee he'll just fob me off. Tell me it's my imagination, or that I need to stop reading scary books.

  "Must have changed his mind," Nick says. "Or could be he just lost interest in the place after the break-up with Polly. He's hardly been here since that happened, and a few days ago, I heard a rumor that he's thinking about selling up."

  "Is there much demand for a house this size?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "On what a prospective buyer might want to use the property for."

  "Such as bringing his family to live here, or using it for some kind of commercial purpose?"

  "Right. Plenty of places this size that are too big for ordinary residential use are converted into hotels or conference centers. Sometimes even offices. Price, condition, location, the cost of making any necessary repairs or renovations all play a part, plus a whole lot of other things." He gives the fire a vigorous poke, sending a shower of golden sparks up the chimney. Putting one of the muffins on the tines of a long-handled brass fork, he holds it out to the flames. "Do you want your muffins lightly toasted, or burned to a crisp?"

  "Somewhere in between would be good."

  I sit down on the rug and, after a moment's hesitation, Nick sits down beside me and puts his free arm around my shoulders.

  "This is nice," he murmurs as he removes the muffin from the fork and puts it on a plate.

  "And this is even nicer," I say, taking the fork from his hand and placing it on the hearth, then pushing him down into the softness of the fur rug.

  He smiles as he pulls me on top of him. "Our tea's getting cold."