by Betina Krahn
The feel of his arms around her released her tears, and her shoulders trembled as she cried against his chest. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the wing chair in the corner. Settling her on his lap, he cradled her head against his shoulder and caressed her hair and back with soothing strokes, giving her what comfort he could.
“I’m so afraid of losing her,” she murmured into his collar. “I couldn’t bear it.”
“I know,” he said, realizing with some surprise that he did indeed know. There was a soft spot in him for old Cleo, who, if her stories could be believed, might even have been his mother. And he sensed those feelings were a pale shadow of the pain he would feel if it were Uncle Paddington lying there, so still and cold.
“She won’t die, sweetheart,” he whispered against her hair, his voice thick with emotion. “She’ll be all right, I promise you.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder with a small, forgiving smile that said such promises were not his to make. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, and her lips showed the marks of her teeth. In that moment she was part angry child, part grieving woman, part hurting lover. And the ache crushing through his chest was for all three. From his depths rose a powerful urge to comfort her, to protect her, to merge his turbulent feelings with hers … and in that union, to make something that would last through the hurt and loss.
He took her face between his hands and brought his lips to hers. Sensation flowed, heightened by awareness of pain, fermented into a river of rich and complex pleasure … filling empty places, assuaging sorrow and loss and disappointment … both past and present.
Her head slanted and her lips parted. She drank him in, seeking his warmth and vitality, sliding her arms around him and pressing her body against his. Uncertainty and fear receded to the edges of her mind as his kisses washed softly through her, caressing her raw and tender nerves with each loving motion, healing, binding up her frayed emotions.
For a few brief moments she wrapped herself in him, reveling in the feel of his hands on her body, in the hardness and latent power of his frame. Her fingers slid over his collar and tie and loosened them. His skin was smooth and hard underneath, and as she caressed and kissed what she could reach of him, she drew strength from the familiarity of him.
Their kisses lightened, becoming nips and brushes of intimacy as they reached a mutual boundary. And together they settled into a passion-warmed but companionable embrace that was somehow different from anything they had shared before.
“She says such things. And somehow, coming from her, words seem wiser and truer than when others say them,” she said. “The other day she asked me if I’d ever waltzed. When I said I hadn’t, she said, ‘Don’t wait forever. None of us has forever.’ ” Tears welled in her eyes again. “I’m afraid she was right.”
“That doesn’t mean she is out of time altogether,” he said quietly. When she looked up, he was gazing at Cleo. “Talk to me, Toni. Tell me about her.”
Antonia laid her head against his shoulder and began to talk. She told him about meeting Cleo and bringing her home, and about the old lady’s early encounters with Hoskins, the neighbors, and the workmen who came to build shelves in the study. She smiled, warmed by the memories, and lulled by his presence into surrendering some of the anxiety she held so tightly. He was right; talking somehow eased the pain.
As one hour passed, then another, they took turns checking Cleo, giving her water, and holding her hand. His warm smiles and unswerving confidence in Cleo’s powers of recovery were a tonic for Antonia’s strained emotions. When he repeatedly insisted she sit for a while and rest, she finally relented. And the last thing she saw as her eyes closed was Remington holding Cleo’s hand.
Some time later she awakened with a start, in a mild panic. She couldn’t find Remington at first in the dim candlelight, but as she shoved to her feet and hurried toward the bed, she stopped, staring at the sight of him.
He was sitting on the bed, his back braced against the headboard, with Cleo wrapped in a comforter on his lap. He was cradling her in his arms the same way he had that day in the study. His head was tipped back against the bedstead and his eyes were closed. At the sound of her movement they opened and fastened on her.
“What are you doing?” she asked. But she knew somehow before he answered.
“She asked me to hold her before when she was cold, And she seemed … so cold a while ago …” He ground to a halt, looking a bit vexed by his own reasoning. He wanted to warm and comfort her, and that seemed the most direct and comforting way … the way Cleo had once chosen herself.
Antonia smiled through the tears collecting in her eyes. She knew in that moment that she was wholly, madly, and hopelessly in love with Remington Carr. And this one breathtakingly tender moment—feeling this overwhelming, exhilarating surge of love and affection and pride in him—would be worth all that had gone before and all that would come after. In all her life she had never known anything as powerfully sweet and enthralling as the emotion swelling in her breast. And she realized she’d probably been in love with him since the first time she’d seen Cleo in his arms.
“You don’t think I should?” he said, frowning lightly, watching the play of powerful emotion across her face and praying that at least some of it was good.
She went to the bed and climbed up in it beside him, stroking Cleo’s face.
“I think it’s exactly what she would want. She always did like handsome men. And you, Remington Carr, are without a doubt the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”
“I am?” The tension drained from his expression, and he gave her a smile that was nothing short of dazzling, even in candlelight. Especially in candlelight. “That’s a good thing to know.”
They sat like that for some time holding hands, holding Cleo, and feeling they had turned a corner.
The gray light coming in around the covered window said it was nearly dawn. Eleanor crept back into the room and paused, confused by the sight of Antonia and Remington sitting in the bed, holding Cleo on their laps. Her gasp of surprise jolted them to awareness, and Antonia slid quickly from the bed.
While she tried to explain, Remington returned their patient to her bed and tucked the covers around her. Then, as he turned away, he caught sight of her lips moving. He whirled back and sank to his knees by the bed, calling her name.
“Her lips moved—I saw it! Cleo—Cleo can you hear me?”
Antonia and Eleanor rushed to his side, holding their breath, their eyes fixed on Cleo’s face. After an agonizing delay and more prompting from Remington, the old lady’s eyes fluttered and her mouth moved.
Galvanized, they all began to call to her, coaxing her back to them. After a few moments her mumbles became clearer.
“C-come back … n-naughty F-Fox … I’m cold.”
“Cleo—” Antonia cried, squeezing the old woman’s hand. “Can you feel my hand? Do you know who I am?”
Cleo’s eyes fluttered open and she seemed a bit confused. But after a bit she seemed to grasp that Remington wasn’t Fox, that she was in her bed, and that she was going to be all right. Before she drifted back to sleep, she did manage to say “Toni,” and Antonia threw her arms around Remington in an outburst of joy.
Ever a man to make the most of a possibility, Remington covered her mouth with his, kissing her fully and passionately until she broke away to beam up at him through tears of happiness.
“I have to tell the others! They’ve all been sick with worry!”
In mere moments the room was filled with women in robes and dressing gowns, hugging and laughing and wiping tears. Remington was roundly hugged and patted and cried on, just as if he were one of them. And it didn’t occur to him for a moment that he wasn’t. But when Antonia made the round of joyful embraces and returned to him, he felt her soft curves pressing his side and it finally did occur to him. And he decided that being just “one of the girls” wasn’t quite enough. He took her by the wrist and dragged her toward the door.
/>
“What are you … ?” Antonia said, looking up at him. “I can’t leave—someone still has to stay with her.”
He turned to Eleanor, who was by the door. “You’ll sit with her, won’t you? Toni is exhausted and I’m going to put her to bed … and then go home.”
Eleanor nodded with glistening eyes, and Remington pulled Antonia out the door and down the hall to her room.
Something in the deliberate way he closed her door behind them and turned the key in the lock sent a shiver up her spine. When he came toward her, she caught her breath at the sensuous light in his eyes.
“I thought you were putting me to …”
“Bed. And so I am.” He ripped off his vest, shed his suspenders, and pulled the studs from his shirtfront while she stood watching, stunned. Every movement telegraphed his intentions, and he watched her eyes widen as he jerked his shirttail from his trousers and opened his French cuffs.
“And you were going home,” she managed.
“Oh, I will … sooner or later.” He flashed a wicked grin. “Buttons, sweetheart. I’ve waited a long time for this, and you’d better get busy if you want to keep that lovely dress in one piece.”
She began to fumble with her bodice buttons, hesitantly at first. Her heart was beginning to pound and her body was flushing with warmth. He was going to make love to her. And—oh, Lord—and she was going to make love to him—to the man she loved with all her heart!
Her fingers flew over her buttons, eagerness interfering with skill. She felt his eyes on her as she jerked the buttons from their loops and quickly dropped the bodice and started on her belt and skirt. Layer after layer hit the floor: skirt, petticoat, corset cover, and—with his help—corset. Then there were shoes, garters, and stockings, and in a shocking burst of rebellion, those white silk drawers with their pink satin ribbons.
She looked up to find him stepping out of his trousers, naked as the day he was born. And she gasped. The enormity of what he was about to do—not to mention the enormity of what he was about to do it with—froze her in place with her arms wrapped protectively over her breasts. For all her bravado and marital experience, she had still never seen a man’s fully naked body in her life. The sight was fascinating, terrifying, and somehow humorous, all at once. She bit her lip and watched in guilty fascination as he strode to the bed, threw back the counterpane and comforter, and turned for her.
She was standing there with her eyes as big as saucers and her arms clasping her body as if it were on loan from a vestal virgin. He gave her an indecently appreciative smile and braced with his hands on his hips, letting his hungry gaze roam her bare feet and pale legs and settle on her glaring white chemise.
“Off with it, sweetheart.” His voice was a seductive growl. “I have no more secrets from you, and I think, by now, I’m entitled to see the gift without the wrapping.”
She blushed and, when he made a move toward her, backed a step. “I’ll just … leave this on … if it’s all the same to you.”
It wasn’t all the same to him. But he studied her trim ankles, her shapely calves, and her reluctance, and decided to let it go for now. He reached out his hand and waited for her to put hers in it. He hadn’t realized his heart had stopped—waiting—until her touch started it again. With a wonderfully wicked and joyful laugh, he pulled her into his arms and poured a kiss over her mouth that ignited a flame in her blood.
“Love me,” she said between whiskey-hot pulls of his mouth, “until I’m drunk with it.”
“I intend to,” he declared between voluptuous bites of her neck. “And this time I won’t care if the queen herself walks into the damned room!”
By the time he sank with her into the center of that soft feather mattress, all he could think about was the sweetness of her mouth and the ripening hunger of her frame beneath his. And all she could think about was the heat of his skin against hers and the delicious determination of his body above hers. Each kiss, each touch, bore a quiet ferocity, a defiant joy at being alive and whole and together at last.
Soon he peeled open the placket of her chemise, lowered his head, and dragged long, liquid kisses over the curves of her breasts, up her throat and across her mouth. The trail of liquid fire he left both chilled and burned her skin. As she shivered with response and reached for him, she felt him lifting away from her and sliding down her body. She opened her eyes and gasped as his chest settled provocatively over her lower legs, trapping them, and he laid a kiss on her bare thigh, at the edge of her chemise.
“What are you … ?” She tried to sit up, but he pushed her back down with a sensuous growl.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart, and just enjoy.”
Shocked by the sight of his head at her bare knees, she was grateful to do as he suggested. But to her surprise, the veil of darkness that closed over her sight somehow heightened her other senses. His mouth against her thigh felt as if it were reaching through her very skin. Pools of heat formed in her muscles, collecting the liquid sensations he was pouring along the curve of her leg. And he added tantalizing flutters and sensuous raking motions that caused her to hold her breath.
With exquisite patience he proceeded up the slope of one thigh and then the other, nudging the fabric farther up her leg with each brush of his lips. Then he paused and slyly pushed the back of her chemise up, using her own responsive movement to free it beneath her. When his kisses resumed on the curve of her hip, she squeezed her eyes tighter and tried not to give in to the urges that were trembling her limbs and slithering through her body.
Ah, but he wanted her to give in to them; he demanded she surrender to them unconditionally. And when he nuzzled the curls at the base of her belly, she gasped and squirmed, part in protest, part in invitation. His tongue darted along that sensitive groove and found her aching center. Almost before she realized what he was doing, he had moved on.
Inch by delicious inch, her chemise retreated up her body: along her waist, up her ribs, and over her breasts. He literally kissed it from her, collecting and savoring every responsive movement of her body along the way. She writhed and undulated, exploring some sensations, begging others. Her hands flew over his bare shoulders, her fingers wound through his hair, and as he gradually stretched out over her body, her legs entwined with his, exploring his own long, muscular limbs.
She opened her eyes and found him staring down at her, his eyes black and hungry in the soft, filtered light. And as she watched, transfixed by the hunger in his face, his mouth reached her breast and fastened possessively on her nipple. She gasped, watching the movement of his mouth against her … suckling, teasing, nipping her tightly aroused flesh.
Suddenly every muscle in her body was hot and primed; she had to move, to find his body with hers. She tugged at him, whispering, “Now … now … now …”
He curved over her, molding to her, settling hard into the hollow between her parting thighs. He fitted himself against her and began to move, rasping her sensitive flesh, varying each thrust, watching her response. And when she wrapped her legs around him and arched against him, whispering his name again and again, he realized the time had come, drew back, and entered her.
She stilled, holding her breath, then met his second thrust, and his third with strained, seeking motions. It was familiar and yet so very different … the fullness, the liquid heat, the ripples of sensation, the sweet burning that was like an itch permeating her flesh. Only that divine contact, only that searing penetration could relieve her need, and she tightened her legs around his, welcoming him, claiming him, taking him deeper. Suddenly he was there … all of him … hers … hot, driving. When he stilled within her, she still felt a pulse of movement. Through the churning roil of sensation came the realization that it was his heartbeat … within her … joined to her.
She went still and opened her eyes and lifted his head from her shoulder to look into his eyes. Could he feel hers, too? In all her life she had never imagined the intimacy of that moment. Breast to breast, bodies joine
d, hearts pounding … it was as if they were one body, one flesh.
“Two hearts, beating as one,” she whispered, unaware she had said it aloud, or that Remington would know both what it meant and where it came from.
But he did know. He sank his arms beneath her, cradling her head in one of his hands. “I feel yours, too, sweetheart. Come with me … now …”
Then he joined their mouths and began to move within her.
Long-denied hungers flared and drove them together with an intensity that defied all attempts at control. They arched and strained, reaching for each other, exploring the depth and breadth of pleasures both had waited a lifetime to experience. She rippled and writhed beneath him, abandoned to all but the sense of him and the delicious tension mounting in her body. Quicker, closer, harder they pressed, until she was caught by a torrential updraft that flung her aloft, through barriers of self and sensation.
Her senses shattered, releasing her from her body and propelling her into realms of pure emotion, pure being. And as she soared, filled with brilliant, expanding light, she felt him rising and taking flight with her. The boundaries of self dissolved, and for a time they mingled without the encumbrance of thought or even action. In the pure essence of love, each knew completely and was completely known.
And as they slowly returned to their senses, quaking with release, shuddering with pleasure, each knew beyond all doubt that they were loved.
Remington slid onto his side, turning her with him, sheltering her heated body against him as the passionstorm passed. He grinned at the feel of her bare skin under his hands as he stroked her.
“Ah, sweetheart, you feel so—” But as he drew back to look at her, he found her eyes closed and her body suddenly limp against him. She was exhausted. He smiled and brushed her hair back from her damp face, pressing a kiss on the end of her nose. And in moments he was asleep, too.