She should have protested. Should have made a joke of it and eased away from him. Should have, could have…
Instead, she had gone very still, waiting, waiting…until he muttered something unintelligible, bent his head and kissed her deeply, completely, engaging all her senses for the space of several gloriously long moments. Then, and only then, had he released her, setting her aside so unceremoniously that she’d sat down hard on the steps as he stalked to the front door, flung it open and stormed out of his mother’s house.
After that, they had never been alone together again. Nor had they exchanged any words until the moment when they’d come face-to-face in the hospital emergency room. But Emma had sensed his waiting. And she had seen it in his questioning gaze the few times she’d caught him watching her.
He had expected her to do the honorable thing and call off the wedding, but she hadn’t had the courage. She had been terrified of the feelings he’d stirred in her. And she had wanted, needed, the safety and security that Teddy offered her too much to walk away.
She had been so foolish. So very, very foolish. And they had all paid the price in one way or another—Teddy most dearly of all.
“Emma, are you all right?” Sam demanded, his voice harsh, bringing her back to the here and now.
She drew a breath, the musky, masculine scent of him teasing her senses. Unlike four years ago, he held her away, his hands on her shoulders. But she could still feel the heat radiating off his body.
She wanted to close her eyes and curl against him. Wanted to press her lips to the pulse beating madly at the base of his throat—
“Emma.” He shook her once, just hard enough to get her attention without hurting her, then repeated slowly, “Are you all right?”
“I…I don’t know,” she murmured, staring at him in confusion.
Why was he being so curt with her? Didn’t he remember how it had been between them that day? Didn’t he want—?
“Did you hurt yourself when you tripped?” Sam pressed, his tone suddenly matter-of-fact. “Your ankle, maybe? Or your knee?”
“No,” Emma admitted.
“So you’re all right?”
“Yes. I’m…I’m just fine.”
He let go of her then and took a step back. Left without his support, she swayed slightly, and he quickly caught her again, this time grasping her by the elbows.
“I thought you said—” he began almost angrily.
“I am,” she countered, wrenching free of his hold.
To Emma’s dismay, a sudden rush of tears blurred her vision. Wanting only for him to be gone before he sensed her distress, she hung on to the banister with one hand and swiped at her eyes with the other.
“Well, you don’t look like you are,” he said, his voice gentling as he reached out and caught an errant teardrop on his fingertip.
“Oh, Sam…”
Touched by his unexpected tenderness, her tears flowed more freely. Embarrassed, she turned her face away.
“Don’t cry, Emma. Please don’t cry.”
Stepping forward, he put his hands on her shoulders and tried to draw her close.
Emma could think of nothing she wanted more than to be held in his arms. But not out of pity. Never out of pity. Sadly, that seemed to be all he had to offer her, though. Otherwise, why would he have waited so long to draw her into his embrace?
“Don’t,” she ordered angrily, straightening her shoulders, her eyes meeting his. “Just…don’t.”
Sam reared back as if she had slapped him with the flat of her hand, then released her. But he didn’t turn away from her. He continued to hold her gaze, instead, his bewilderment apparent.
What a pair they were, Emma thought, standing on a dimly lit staircase in the wee hours of the morning, eyeing each other warily, unable to overcome the tendency to strike out rather than soothe. With good cause, all things considered. But surely they could agree to some sort of truce.
“Sam, I’m sorry. Really, I—”
“No, I’m the one who should apologize. The way I spoke to you this afternoon and again just now—”
The high-pitched whistle of the kettle Emma had left on the stove interrupted them.
“Oh, I forgot.” Startled, Emma looked away. “I was going to make a cup of tea.”
“I’ll get it,” Sam offered.
“No, let me,” she insisted, brushing past him, glad of the sudden distraction.
She held the hem of her robe out of the way and hurried down the steps. Then, unable to ignore the demands of common courtesy, she paused in the entryway and glanced back at him.
“Would you like a cup, too?”
He seemed to hesitate, then shook his head, his reserve back in place.
“No, thanks. I think I’ll go on up to bed.”
As she watched, he turned away and continued up the stairs, finally disappearing into the darkness.
Overwhelmed by an unexpected sense of sadness, Emma made her way to the kitchen. What might they have said to each other if the whistling kettle hadn’t interrupted? Now she would never know, but perhaps it was just as well.
Whatever feelings Sam had had for her once, evidently they hadn’t survived the years they’d been apart. And the kiss they had shared—their kiss—obviously that had only been an aberration. One he seemed intent on never repeating again.
He had proved that on the staircase, hadn’t he?
Yes, undeniably.
At the stove, Emma switched off the kettle. She didn’t want tea, after all, she realized. But she did finish the glass of milk she’d poured. Then she trudged wearily back to her room. With luck, she might get three hours of sleep before her alarm went off. But luck hadn’t been on her side lately, and she knew better than to expect that to change anytime soon.
She tossed her robe over the armchair by the window, took off her glasses and set them on the nightstand and crawled into bed. She drew the blanket to her chin, closed her eyes and willed herself to relax.
Almost immediately, the gush and splash of the shower running in the bathroom next door echoed all around her. Groaning audibly, she rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow over her head as a vision of Sam, standing naked under the steamy spray, danced through her mind.
Somehow, she was going to have to find an excuse to move back to her house until he left Serenity. She loved Margaret dearly and would continue to do whatever she could for her. But she wasn’t going to be of any help to anyone, herself included, unless she got some rest.
The kind of rest she knew she would never find as long as Sam was nearby.
Chapter 7
Sam had been sure the long, evenly paced run he’d taken through the deserted streets of Serenity would be just exhausting enough to allow him to sleep. But then, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Emma would be up and around when he finally crept back to his mother’s house.
Even when he’d spied the half-finished, still-cold-to-the-touch glass of milk on the kitchen counter, he hadn’t thought of Emma first. Rather, he had been concerned about his mother, fearing she might be suffering through a bad spell brought on by her illness.
Only when he had reached the entryway and seen Emma on the steps had he realized his mistake. He had halted in midstride, as unwilling as she obviously had been to initiate a confrontation. Then she’d tripped on the hem of her robe, and he’d had no choice but to save her from a nasty fall.
Just as he had done four years ago…
Cursing under his breath, Sam shut off the shower, grabbed a towel from the rack and scrubbed none too gently at the droplets of water trickling down his body. Talk about bad luck. He couldn’t have chosen a worse thing to have happen if he had tried.
As he’d caught her in his arms, he had been inundated by a wellspring of unwanted memories. Memories that had brought with them a pain so sharp he had almost cried out.
He had never thought he would hold her in his arms again. Had never thought he would feel her melt against him, her he
art fluttering as wildly as his, her eyes filled with a longing that surely matched his own.
He’d had no right to hope for such a moment, and so he hadn’t. When it came out of nowhere, it astonished him. But swiftly, surely, dismay had followed, halting him before he could compound the mistake he had made that June afternoon so very long ago.
Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself then. He’d had to try, just once, to let Emma know how he felt about her. As he had told himself that day, he had made one last-ditch effort—born of desperation—to stop her from marrying his brother before it was too late.
Though kissing Emma hadn’t been his very last effort. That had come on the winding road outside Serenity when he’d finally had Teddy all to himself—
Cursing again, Sam hung his damp towel on the rack, then pulled on clean shorts and a T-shirt. He had always prided himself on his self-control, but four years ago he had acted on impulse twice in three days. And in one way or another, he had destroyed everyone he’d ever held dear.
He couldn’t go back and change that. But at least tonight he had managed to rein in his lustful urges before he did any more damage.
Four years ago, he had wreaked more than his fair share of havoc in Emma Dalton’s life. Now, in spite of everything he’d done, she seemed to have found a small measure of peace and happiness. He wasn’t going to spoil that by inflicting himself on her again.
He could have kissed her tonight. Could have teased and tempted her with ease. He had seen the willing look in her eyes and had felt her yearning as she’d swayed against him. But he had caught her unawares, her defenses down. He had taken advantage of that situation once before, only to have her turn away from him. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. No matter how he ached to claim her as his own.
More than once while he had been with Emma Sunday afternoon, Sam had allowed himself to consider possibilities—all sorts of possibilities. But over and over again, he had reminded himself that there was too much standing in the way of their having any kind of future together.
His own lack of integrity topped the list.
He had no right to hope for a reconciliation where Emma was concerned. Not as long as he kept from her the truth about what had happened the day Teddy died. He couldn’t allow her to believe he had been blameless, then try to be a part of her life.
But neither could he come right out and tell her what he’d done. She would loathe him as much as he loathed himself for revealing—in a way—what she herself had chosen to keep secret.
There could have been only one reason for that. Their kiss hadn’t meant anything to her. Not compared to what Teddy had had to offer her. They had been together for years. He had simply stolen one kiss, then imagined she had been touched as deeply and completely as he was.
Unable to face himself in the bathroom mirror, Sam ran a comb haphazardly through his damp hair, then switched off the light. He eased the door open as quietly as he could, glanced up and down the hallway, assuring himself that Emma wasn’t anywhere nearby, and hurried back to his bedroom. Only when he was safe inside with the door shut did he draw a calming breath. One late-night encounter with Emma Dalton was about all he could bear.
Sam didn’t expect to get any sleep during what remained of the night. But for want of anything better to do, cooped up in his bedroom, he stretched out on the narrow twin bed and pulled the old patchwork quilt up to his waist. Lying on his back, one arm under his head, he turned and gazed out the window.
He knew it wouldn’t be much longer until the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn. And soon after that, he could get up and start another day.
Mentally he reviewed the list of small repair jobs that needed to be done around the house. Those would keep him busy, at least for a while. He could begin with the garbage disposal that wouldn’t grind and take it from there….
What seemed like only a short time later, Sam awoke with a start. Bright sunlight spilled through the window and spread across the bedroom floor. He had slept, after all. Much more deeply and, according to the alarm clock on the bedside table, a good deal longer than he’d expected he would.
Unfortunately, he didn’t feel the least bit refreshed by the rest he’d had. Instead, he was so groggy it was all he could do to stumble down the hallway to the bathroom. And that, in turn, made him grouchy.
Much to his relief, neither Emma nor his mother was still upstairs at that late hour of the morning. Since they had left their doors open, he could see that both of their rooms were empty, the beds neatly made.
Good thing, too, he thought as he stalked out of the bathroom a short time later, tissue paper dotting the razor nicks on his cheek and chin. He was in no mood for feminine wiles, whether intentional or not.
Dressed in khaki shorts, a faded navy blue sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off and a battered pair of leather deck shoes, Sam finally headed for the kitchen.
The house was as blessedly quiet downstairs as it had been upstairs, and there was no sign of Emma or his mother in the living room, the dining room or the kitchen. However, the front door was open, which likely meant at least one of them was out on the porch.
He helped himself to coffee from the pot on the counter and a cinnamon roll slathered in icing from the bakery box on the kitchen table. Then, much as he would have preferred to be alone, he retraced his steps.
He hadn’t come to Serenity to sulk in solitude. He had come to find out exactly how ill his mother really was, then make sure she was getting the care she needed. He couldn’t do that unless he confronted her or Emma, face-to-face, and insisted one or the other of them answer his questions in a forthright manner.
So far, he had allowed his mother to avoid the subject rather than spoil her pleasure in his homecoming. But she had to realize he knew she wasn’t quite as hale and hearty as she pretended to be. No matter how brightly she smiled or how busily she bustled about, she couldn’t hide her fatigue or her fragility. He had seen the way her hands trembled when she thought she was alone. And he had glimpsed the weariness in her eyes on the rare occasions when she forgot herself and met his gaze head-on.
He knew she was only trying to protect him, but he wasn’t a child anymore. Hard as it had to be for her to accept, their roles had changed in a way neither of them had ever anticipated. Now he was responsible for her well-being. And, without the least bit of resentment, he intended to fulfill that duty to the very best of his ability.
They might not have been as close as they could have been in the past, but Sam had never doubted the depth of her love for him. She alone knew the whole truth about the moments leading up to Teddy’s death, and still she had refused to blame him. Though he had yet to be as forgiving of himself, her belief in him meant more than he could ever say.
As he opened the screen door, Sam spied his mother sitting in one of the rocking chairs out on the porch. He also noted that she was alone. His footsteps on the porch floor drew her attention from the book open on her lap. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled up at him, her cheerful expression not quite masking the fatigue shadowing her eyes.
“Well, sleepyhead, it’s about time you rolled out of bed. I was beginning to wonder if you were all right. Then I figured maybe the jet lag had finally caught up with you.”
“Something like that,” he hedged as he sat in the rocking chair across from her. Setting his mug on the table between them, he bit into his cinnamon roll. “Mmm, good…”
Her smile fading, his mother gazed at him thoughtfully.
“I hate to say it, but you don’t look like you slept twelve hours,” she murmured after a moment.
“I didn’t,” he admitted, licking icing from his fingers, then reaching for his mug.
“So you had a restless night, too?”
“You had trouble sleeping?” Sam eyed his mother with concern. “Were you—?”
“Not me. I slept like a log,” she cut in. “But when she came down to the kitchen earlier Emma mentioned she was up half th
e night.”
“Oh, really?”
Avoiding his mother’s increasingly avid gaze, Sam took another sip of his coffee. He had no intention of mentioning his early-morning rendezvous with Emma on the stairs. And though he wanted to ask where she had gone—since she seemed to have left the house—he wasn’t about to let on that he cared. Considering the way his mother had thrown them together yesterday afternoon, he knew better than to offer her even the tiniest bit of encouragement.
“I wanted her to stay home from work, but she insisted on going in,” Margaret explained. “Said she had a lot to do before we left for Galveston on Friday.”
“You and Emma are going to Galveston on Friday?”
Unable to hide his surprise, Sam swung around and stared at his mother. Telling himself avoiding Emma’s company was one thing. The prospect of actually having to do without it was something else altogether.
“Oh, you’re going, too,” she assured him blithely. “I’ve rented a house right on the beach so we can all be together, but still have lots of room to spread out.”
“Nice of you to let me know,” he muttered, irked with himself, as well as with his mother’s high-handed manner. Apparently whatever he thought about a weekend on the island wasn’t of interest to her. “Any idea how long we’re going to be there, or are you planning to reveal that information at a later date?”
“Until Monday,” she stated matter-of-factly, ignoring his sarcasm. “We’ll have to be on the road by eight-thirty. I have an appointment with my doctor at the medical center in Houston at eleven. There’s a slim chance that I’ll have to spend a few days in the hospital undergoing another round of chemotherapy. Otherwise, we can drive back to Serenity that afternoon.”
Sam gazed at his mother wordlessly, his earlier annoyance forgotten. He had wanted to talk to her about her illness, but he hadn’t been prepared for such pragmatism on her part. He hadn’t any idea how to respond.
The Major and the Librarian Page 8