Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  He instinctively slid his hand to her back, grazing the small hooks on her gown, and pressed her warmth against the side of his body, desperately wanting to touch her. “Georgia?”

  She stiffened and glanced up at him, her hand falling away from the rope and drifting down to his thigh. Her lips parted as her shadowed green eyes searched his face. “What is it? Is something wrong? You not feelin’ well?”

  Art thou afraid to be the same in thine own act and valour as thou art in desire?

  Were those his words responding to his heart in this moment? He didn’t know, but something chanted that if he didn’t attempt to make this woman his, he’d be missing out on the greatest opportunity he’d ever known as a man.

  He drew her closer toward himself, his hands rounding her slim shoulders, and whispered, “I want to kiss you. Can I?”

  She let out a shaky breath, the warmth of that mouth grazing against his own. “I’m not very good at kissin’.”

  Cradling her against the curve of his arm, he pressed her softness against his tensing body. “At least you remember what it’s like.”

  She tilted her lips upward toward his own and smirked. “You’re just tryin’ to make me feel sorry for you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Oddly, yes. I do feel sorry for you.”

  “Good.” He lowered his lips to hers. Closing his eyes, he savored the warmth of her soft mouth lingering against his own and better molded his lips against that delicate mouth.

  Her moist lips parted. Though he wanted to slide his tongue deep into that mouth and ravage it, he didn’t know if that was something he was supposed to do, so he lingered, hoping she would take the lead. He could barely breathe.

  Her hot velvet tongue instantly slid against his own, grazing his teeth. He bit back his own need to groan, as an ache overwhelmed his entire body. He slowly gave in to circling his tongue against hers, sensing the tongue was more than permissible.

  She tasted like spiced…whiskey?

  She grabbed hold of the lapels on his coat and dragged him down, down onto her, shifting her entire body beneath his own, until they were both practically hanging off the bench. He tightened his hold on her shoulders and waist and dug his booted heels into the floor of the omni to keep them both from falling.

  Pressing herself more savagely against him, she pushed her tongue deeper into his mouth, responding to his tongue so fiercely his heart pounded in disbelief. Entranced by the unexpected passion pouring out of her, he reveled in the way that wet tongue moved so erotically against his own. If this were the one and only kiss he were to ever remember as a man, he would honor it with never-ending, glorying pride.

  May the lightning of heaven consume me, if I adore thee not to distraction!

  Crushing one hand against her bonnet, he slid his other hand down the smooth fabric of her gown, curving it to her firm, corseted waist. He dug the tips of his fingers into the fabric separating them, feeling as if he were racing against his own mind and breath, trying to remain grounded in this incredible reality. He trailed his hand back up toward her breasts, rounding his hand around its softness and weight. His cock swelled from the touch, and the need to rip his clothes apart, in an effort to show her just how divine she was, consumed the last of him. He kissed her harder, frantically digging and grinding his erection into her thigh.

  Georgia tightened her lips in an effort to force out his tongue, digging her fingers into his biceps.

  Reluctantly breaking their kiss, he dragged her back upright and repositioned her sidesaddle onto his lap. He cradled her for a long moment, her uneven breaths matching his own. It was the first time in nine days he felt like he finally belonged to someone and he swore to himself that he would never let this or her go, lest he be swallowed back into nothingness.

  The omni around them swayed to a halt as the driver called out their stop. She shifted to move, but he fiercely held her in place. Reaching up, he trailed the tips of his fingers down past the faded ribbon of her bonnet toward the soft slope of her curving throat. “Take me out west with you,” he insisted in a barely composed tone. “I want everything you spoke of. Right down to the wind and the apple trees. I will give you every last nickel in my pocket if you promise to take me with you.”

  Her eyes widened. She shoved his hand away and scrambled outside of his grasp and off his lap. Stumbling forward and onto her feet, she caught herself against the narrow pathway between the two benches leading to the rear door of the omni. “Whatever do you mean you want my land and my apple trees? We barely know each other. Even worse, you don’t even know your name.”

  He sat up. “You will need someone to build your cabin, till the land and chop timber. I can do that for you. I can.”

  She gawked at him, then shook her head and frantically arranged her skirts. “No. Don’t you be stickin’ your hands into my head and playin’ with my dreams like that. They’re my dreams. You hear? Not yours. Mine.”

  He swallowed, his chest tightening. “I need help, Georgia. I need help if I’m going to rebuild a sense of reality. And I think you’re the one to help me do it.”

  “Stop it,” she tossed at him in a harsh tone. “I’m not takin’ you with me and I most certainly can’t help you in the way you think I can.”

  “I know you can. I felt it before and after we touched.”

  She glared at him. “I know what you felt, Brit, and it wasn’t that. I’ve got plans and I’m sorry to say this, because I like you, I really do, but my plans don’t involve a man who doesn’t know his up from his down. A woman such as myself, who has very little to begin with, needs a grain of security. And you aren’t it.”

  He scrambled to his feet. “But that kiss—”

  “I shouldn’t have allowed for it. All right? I shouldn’t have taken advantage of you. You’re not in your right mind and it was wrong of me. Now just…just get off the damn omni before it takes off and we’re forced to walk half the night.” Throwing open the door, she hurried down the small stairs leading out of the omni and disappeared into the night, leaving him to feel again he belonged to no one and nothing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At Christmas I no more desire a rose

  than wish a snow in May’s newfangled shows.

  —William Shakespeare, A Pleasant Conceited Comedie Called, Loues labors loft (1598)

  ROBINSON JUMPED OUT AFTER Georgia, his boots thudding against the shadowed dirt road, and slammed the rear door of the omni. The boxed carriage reared forward, its large wheels kicking up dust that bit into his watering eyes. An overwhelming stench of festering sewage penetrated his nostrils.

  “Bleed me,” he growled, burying the lower half of his face into the crook of his arm in an attempt to block the assaulting stink.

  He swung toward Georgia, who was already crossing the wide, dimly lit street. She dodged an oncoming huckster and a peddler cart, disappearing from sight.

  He lowered his arm, his heart pounding knowing that his only connection to reality was abandoning him. “Georgia!” He jogged after her, the acrid air crawling down his throat. He swallowed, mentally willing away the sensation of nausea that threatened to heave out his innards. “Do you intend to loathe me for wanting to share in your dream of going west? That hardly seems fair.”

  Her shadow reappeared on the pavement just outside the dull, yellowing light of a gas lamppost. She paused and glanced back at him, dropping the folds of her skirts. “Your family is waitin’ for you, Brit. Try to remember that. Someone is out there sheddin’ tears for you, worryin’ themselves into a grave whilst you foolishly talk of chasin’ a dream that isn’t even yours to chase.”

  Why did he feel as if she was wrong? Why did he feel as if there was no one waiting for him? Not a mother. Not a wife. No one. “’Tis very difficult for me to care about people I can’t even remember, be they shedding tears for me or not.”

  Though he couldn’t see her face against the wavering shadows, he could see the softening of her rigid stance. She blew
out a breath. “I suppose I understand.” She waved him over. “Come. We shouldn’t linger. Trouble brews in the dark around these parts.”

  Drawing in the sharpness of the dank evening air, he crossed the dirt road toward her, the lone gas lamp flickering as it unevenly lit the mired path before him.

  He scanned the stretching width of the dank street. Cramped wooden buildings loomed in the surrounding darkness, murky-yellow lamps lighting broken windows stuffed with rags and heaven knows what else. Silhouettes of men and women lurked on the streets and hovered in doorways. Others casually lounged on the curb of the pavement in small groups, chuckling and having muted conversations as if respectably sitting around a table to dine.

  An old man holding a dented tankard staggered past on an angle, bellowing in an off-key tone, “The devil and me, together we pee, yessiree, the devil and me.”

  Robinson swallowed against the knot lodged in his throat. Is this where she lived? All of this felt wrong. She didn’t belong here amongst these grimy shadows and broken windows stuffed with rags. No wonder she dreamed of apple trees and open fields.

  A headache pinched his skull, making him squint in an attempt to fight against his sudden discomfort. He quickened his stride until he paused before her and a doorstep leading into a large two-story building.

  Something snorted and darted past his legs, making him jump aside in heart-pounding astonishment. A round, furless creature wobbled down the pavement and into the inky shadows of the night.

  He pointed at it. “What the hell was that?”

  “A pig,” she remarked, lowering her gaze and moving around him. “They’re always wanderin’ the street lookin’ for food. Much like everyone else ’round these parts.”

  He eyed her. “A pig? In the city?”

  She set her chin. “I hate to disappoint you, Brit, but in this ward, pigs are considered highly respectable citizens.”

  Sensing she was still irked with him, he edged toward her. “If I had known that I would upset you like this, I would have never kissed you. Know that.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “It wasn’t your fault. I willingly gave in to it. I just…I don’t want this turnin’ into a mess, is all. I’ve got plans for a better life and I don’t want those plans to fall aside, see? I’m not gettin’ any younger and the Five Points is agin’ me fast.”

  He dragged in a breath and let it out. It chafed knowing that he was nothing but an inconvenience to her, especially after that kiss. Did she kiss all men like that? “I have no intention to impose upon your plans,” he managed.

  “Good. It means we’ll get along.” She gestured toward the doorstep leading into a small building whose sparse windows were lit by warm light peering out from behind lopsided curtains. “Follow me and mind the step.”

  He lingered as she withdrew a key from a stitched pocket within her gown and opened the entrance door. Waving him into the blurring abyss of a narrow stairwell, she closed the main entrance door behind them.

  Grabbing his hand firmly, she guided him into the darkness. “Don’t let go.”

  “I won’t.” He tightened his hold, fingering her small, callus-roughened hand. It was odd to feel as though he was under her protection and mercy.

  She gently shook his hand. “Use your other hand to balance yourself against the wall as we go up. There are sixteen stairs. The first always trips everyone up, even me. So mind it.”

  He bit back a smile, touched by her mothering. After a few blind pats, he found the wall she was referring to and lifted his booted foot, placing it on the first step. He caught the edge and carefully slid into place. “You do this every night?”

  “I have to sleep sometime, don’t I?”

  “Are there no lamps to make use of?”

  “There are, but they’re usually dashed out by nine-thirty. We’ve had too many fires down the street.” She tightened her fingers around his hand and tugged him upward. “Can’t you go any faster? Raymond was three and fifty the day his heart stopped and he managed to run these stairs up and down in the dark as if he were twenty.”

  It wasn’t much of a compliment having that pointed out. Robinson released her hand and hurried up the remaining stairs, boldly taking two at a time in the darkness. Angling past her warmth, he jumped onto the landing with an impressive thud. “There. Did Raymond ever skip stairs in the darkness the way I just did?”

  “Never mock a dead man who doesn’t deserve it.” Her hand caught his arm. She tugged him toward the end of what appeared to be a blackened corridor. “There are two floors and four tenements on each floor. Most of the people livin’ here are men. Don’t know how that came to be, but don’t think the worst of me. It’s just how it is. Unlike them, I’m fortunate enough to afford my own tenement. Raymond knew the landlord, so I only pay three dollars a month for what could easily be six.”

  She released his hand and patted his arm. “Stay where you are.” There was a chink of a key being pushed into a lock and then a click and the door creaked open.

  Her heels echoed against the floorboards and he could hear the flint being struck. A glass oil lamp sputtered to life, brilliantly illuminating not only her pale face but a small yellow-wallpapered kitchen one could easily cross in but three strides. The heavy scent of starch, lye and soap drifted toward him.

  “You’ll get used to the smell,” she offered conversationally. “It’s better than the one outside, to be sure. I do all of my work in the front room as opposed to the yard outside, see. That way nothin’ gets stolen.”

  She set the glass lamp onto a wooden table set across from a brick hearth bearing a cauldron. She loosened the tie beneath her chin, the blue ribbons cascading in a flutter to her slim shoulders. She stripped the oval bonnet from her head with a sigh and glanced down, neatly retying the ribbon into a perfect bow. Bustling toward the wall, she leaned over a coal bin and hung her bonnet gently from a nail positioned next to another nail that held a faded wooden rosary.

  Her thick bundled hair appeared almost brown in the dim light, with only hints of bright red as she turned back to the chair and swept up a plaid apron. She affixed it around her waist with three quick movements.

  His eyes dropped from her slim shoulders to her aproned waist. It was like being her husband and peering into a very intimate routine. He rather liked it. It made him feel as if he were walking into his own home and into the arms of a woman who was his.

  Remembering the way her hot, wet tongue had eagerly moved against his own, he gripped the wood trim harder to force out any thoughts of wanting her in that way again. It was obvious she didn’t want more of it. Not from him, anyway.

  She glanced up and turned toward him. “Are you goin’ to stand there and let the world know I’m home? Shut the door.”

  He cleared his throat and stepped into the small room, shutting the door with a thud. He paused, noting three metal bolts. He gestured toward them. “Do you want me to bolt all three?”

  “That’s what they’re there for, Brit. To keep the world out. Unless your boxing skills are better than mine.”

  She had a reply for everything. He affixed all of the metal latches into place and turned back toward her. Sensing she was still annoyed with him, he held up both hands in truce. Meeting her gaze, he set them behind his back, locking a hand over a wrist against his spine. “I won’t grab for you.”

  She smiled, pulled out one of the two chairs from beside the small table and gestured toward it. “Sit. I’m over it.”

  If only he was.

  He strode toward the chair, pressing his hands tightly against his back, and sat, causing the chair to creak in protest. It wobbled beneath him. Carefully sliding back into it out of fear he’d break it, he slipped his hands out from behind his back and set them on his knees. He shifted, eyeing the small kitchen, and leaned forward to scan the two other adjoining rooms that light didn’t spread into.

  She gestured toward one of the small rooms he was looking at. “That there is the closet.”


  “The closet?”

  “Where I sleep.”

  “Don’t you mean the bedchamber?”

  She dropped a hand to her side. “Is that what you Brits call it?” She tsked. “You boyos certainly like to make everythin’ sound so much fancier than it really is. It’s a closet with a straw bed and a trunk. Nothin’ more.”

  He lowered his gaze down to his boots, sensing she didn’t particularly like the British. “Where do you want me to sleep?”

  She sighed. “You can sleep with me on the bed. There’s room and I don’t mind.”

  He glanced up. She was really looking to make him suffer. “I hardly think it wise we share a bed.”

  “There was no bed on that omni, Robinson, and yet neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves. Between these three small rooms, our bodies are goin’ to be rubbin’ up against each other quite a bit, so you’d best get used to it.”

  He feigned a laugh. “I might not physically survive you or this. I’m still a bit astounded by that kiss you gave me. It was remarkable enough for me to want more.”

  “I’ll agree that it was, but you really need to try to keep everythin’ buttoned up in those trousers from here on out. If the urge is particularly strong, just ask for some privacy and make use of your hand. All right?”

  He shifted his jaw, feeling his body temperature rising. It was like she was a man, not a woman. “I ask that you not talk like that to me, Georgia. I find it unsettling and vulgar coming from your mouth.”

  She clicked her tongue at him. “I’m a nun compared to all the other women around me, but I’ll do my best not to offend.” She drifted past him toward the cupboard and pointed toward a corked bottle. “I’ve got whiskey, if you want it. Came straight from the barrel down the street. ’Tis the best in the ward at a dime a gallon and has enough smoke and bite to make it worth your while.”

  He let out a low whistle. “In England we call that death.”