by Susan Wiggs
“What a perfect day,” she said, flinging out her arms to embrace the air. She hurried down to the marsh pond. The wind had swept most of the snow away, and the surface was as clear as glass. Tom had made it slicker by tossing several buckets of water across it earlier in the day.
“Sit here,” he said, indicating the hump of a boulder at the edge of the pond. “I’ll put the skates on you.”
She obeyed without hesitation, which was new to Tom. Though not nearly as skittish as she had been, she still maintained a pronounced distance. Today she seemed easier with him. With each passing day, she relaxed a little more. He hoped he wasn’t just imagining it.
He knelt in front of her, the packed snow freezing his knees, and took her booted foot in his lap. He worked matter-of-factly, sensing that if he made a big deal over the fact that he was touching her foot, she’d get nervous on him. Her bones felt tiny and delicate, and her face looked as fresh as a child’s. Yet when he wrapped a tie around her ankle, she lowered her eyelids to half-mast for a moment, and she looked nothing at all like a child. Discomfited, he strapped on her skates, put on his own and held out his hand. “Ready?”
She stood, wobbling slightly and grabbing his hand. “Ready.”
“Are you sure you know how to skate?”
“Of course.”
They took a few clumsy steps to the pond. He had lain a plank across the thin, crusty ice at the edge, and he’d used a twig broom to sweep away all the snow. They walked across the plank, then stepped out, still holding hands. Tom started slowly, pushing with one foot and then the other, making sure she kept up. He needn’t have worried. All those snooty skating parties in Chicago had taught her a thing or two. She glided along with the fluid grace of a swan, her cloak and the ends of her muffler sailing out behind her, her free arm swinging easily at her side.
“We’re skating,” she exclaimed with merriment in her eyes. “It’s glorious!”
Hand in hand, they circled the pond, startling a snowshoe hare from the reeds. Redpolls and a lone goldfinch flitted nervously in the trees. Though the sky was bruised by the low, brooding gray of winter, the day had a stark beauty. When he was with her like this, Tom thought, it was almost enough.
Almost.
* * *
Deborah had never enjoyed a day of skating more. Unlike the mannered, well-groomed pairs that circled the pond in the city park, she and Tom skated with the exuberance of children.
“Want to go faster?” he asked after they had explored the shape of the pond, finding where the bumps were and the smoothest places for gliding.
“Let’s race,” she said, dropping his hand. “That is, if you don’t mind being humiliated by a woman.”
“Sometimes I think that’s why women were put on this earth.” The lust that addled his brain each time he was with her made him mutter, “Partly why.”
She pointed to the end of the pond. “Last one to that stump fixes supper tonight.” Even as she spoke, she brushed back her skirts and glided forward, claiming the lead. She spread her arms and laughed aloud, listening to the silver echo of her own voice rushing through the empty winter wilderness. She felt alive as never before. Cold air seared her lungs until they tingled and her long gliding steps carried her forward.
Inevitably, Tom caught up with her, then passed her with powerful strides. As he swept by, Deborah grabbed hold of his thick coat and pulled herself forward, surging ahead with a shout of delight. Tom roared out a protest and tried to break free.
They both lost their footing at the same time and came down near the edge of the pond. In a tangle of flailing arms and legs, they skidded to a halt in a snowbank amid the crackly reeds and bare thornbushes. Deborah found herself entwined in Tom’s arms as he lay flat on his back. On the shore, the dog launched into a fit of mad barking.
Breathless, she asked, “Did you hurt yourself?”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled, “no thanks to you.” But he wasn’t fine. When he lifted one hand, she saw that a three-inch thorn had pierced clean through his mitten, the sharp point protruding on the other side.
Deborah gaped at it. “Please tell me that didn’t go through your hand.”
With his teeth, he removed the mitten from his good hand. Then he grasped the thorn and yanked it out. “Not anymore.” He took off the other mitten, briefly inspected the puncture wound and put his hand in the snow.
“You’re so brave,” she said. “Doesn’t anything scare you?”
He shook the snow from his hand and put his mitten back on, giving her that crooked smile she couldn’t help but like. “You, Princess,” he said simply. “You scare me.”
Suddenly it occurred to her that she was lying practically on top of him. Their faces were so close, she could feel the warmth of his breath and smell the scent of pine and snow that clung to him. She found herself unable to move or look away. His eyes were a deep, moist brown, fringed by lashes of a startling length. And his mouth was such a delicious shape, she couldn’t help remembering his Christmas kiss and how it had filled her with such unexpected pleasure.
“Do it,” he said softly, holding her spellbound with a look.
“Do what?” she whispered, feeling an inner warmth that made a mockery of the weather.
“Kiss me,” he said. “That’s what you were thinking about.”
“Yes, but—I mean, no.” Her face felt unbearably hot.
“Kiss me, Deborah, and tell me you didn’t like it.”
“I can’t.” But she wished she could. Oh, how she wished it.
“Liar,” he said, his voice low and husky. “I won’t lie to you. I think about kissing you all the time. I want to. Bad.”
His words made her tremble—with fear or excitement, she wasn’t sure which. The urge to run seized hold of her, but just as quickly, it subsided, replaced by a keen fascination with him.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t be.”
She had no idea how to put aside her fear. Yet the temptation was so compelling that she couldn’t resist. She bent her head closer, a whisper away, a breath away, and then she touched her lips to his. The soft shock of contact reverberated through her. She pressed closer, wanting suddenly to know the deep intimacy of a kiss that did not make her afraid. She closed her eyes as her lips parted, and his tongue flickered almost playfully into her mouth. The sensation aroused a desperate heat inside her, and she made a quiet, involuntary sound of pleading and pleasure. Surrounded by the profound silence of the woods, they kissed long and deeply, and by the time she finally pulled back, she felt light-headed and amazed by her desire for him. Was this what a woman was supposed to feel for a man? This fierce pull of longing?
He stared into her eyes for a long time, and she tried to read the expression on his face. What she saw there was tenderness, a sentiment that should have seemed incongruous in a man so big and rough. And yet it didn’t.
She spoke before she knew what she was going to say. “I want to do more than kiss you.”
“I know,” he said simply.
“How do you know?”
He chuckled. “Not everything has to be explained in words.”
She grew very still for a moment, feeling a firm decision push up through her consciousness. It was a desire that had never once occurred to the Deborah of old, but now it came to her as naturally as the next breath. “Then…could we?”
The tenderness in his face disappeared, sharpened to implacable denial. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Yes, I do.”
He fell silent. His long body was so warm and vital beneath hers. The yearning inside her flared to a fire as she awaited his answer. She imagined his hands on her body, his mouth on her mouth, and the fire burned higher, hotter.
“Please,” she heard herself whisper. “You’re the one who said I can’t keep being afraid.”
He surprised her by grinning a little incredulously. “All right,” he said.
* * *
Nervousness and excitement held Deborah in their grip as they got up and took off their skates. She found herself chattering inanely about nonsensical things: the fact that a muskrat broke the ice in order to feed on water plants, that the heavy brooding clouds held the promise of more snow and that it would fall dark soon, and that if the snow passed over, they might see the northern lights.
Tom bore her nervous monologue with measured patience. He held her hand during the walk home through the woods, and when they reached the cabin, he stoked the fire until it was warm and cozy inside. Deborah removed her wraps and hung them on pegs to dry. Her hands moved slowly over the fabric as she thought about what she was about to do. She wondered if the fear would come later, or if it was truly gone.
Tom put aside the bellows and stood up. “Have you changed your mind?”
“No.” The answer, like the conviction, came swiftly.
He gently added another log to the fire. The room went dim, and then with a hiss the flames flared in an embrace around the wood. “I’ll make it all right,” he said. “With me, you won’t hate it.”
A clutch of nervousness took hold, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. When she finally found her voice, what she said surprised her. “Truly?”
He smiled, and she realized with a start how much she had come to depend on that smile. “Oh, honey,” he said softly. “It’s one of the things I’m good at.” He held out his large, rough hand, palm up. “Come here.”
She hesitated, then put her hand into his and had no urge at all to snatch it back. Perhaps living in such close quarters with him for so long made her feel easier around him. Or perhaps it was the calm confidence of his stare as he brought her to the settle by the fire. He sat her down, knelt at her feet and took her heel in the palm of his hand. While he unbound her boots for her and slipped them off, his gaze never left hers.
“Here’s why you don’t have to be afraid,” he explained. “I won’t make you do anything. If you want me to stop, just say so, and I will. Word of honor.” He set aside her boots, took her hand and brought her to the bed. The low bedstead looked inviting in the falling dark of early evening. She stood uncertainly in the doorway.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, and nearly cringed when her voice broke.
“Oh, love.” He unbuttoned her dress slowly. “I do.”
“Why are you undressing me? Philip certainly didn’t do that.”
“What I’m doing is nothing like what he did. Nothing at all. It’s different in every possible way,” Tom said. “I want to make love to all of you.”
She stood spellbound as his big fingers made surprisingly quick work of her buttons. He peeled the gown to her waist and over her hips, then untied the drawstring of her warm wool petticoats. She found the sensation of his gentle touch unbearably provocative, and she shivered.
“Cold?” he asked.
She stepped out of the pool of petticoats and skirts. “No.”
“Still scared?”
“Maybe,” she admitted. “A little.” At the darkness that shadowed his face, she added, “But I still want this.”
And oh, she did, more than ever as he brought her to sit on the bed and went down on one knee before her, drawing her stockings down and discarding them. He took one foot in his hand, his thumb caressing the delicate arch. His manner of touching her went against all that was proper and right. This was the black sin railed about in Sunday sermons, the forbidden secret that led straight to perdition, and she wanted to go there, wanted it with all her heart.
Then, shockingly, he kissed the arch of her foot, his tongue darting out to trace the tender instep. She didn’t bother to stifle a gasp.
“So tiny,” he said, picking up the other foot and kissing that one, too. “You are so impossibly tiny, my love.” He looked up at her. “Will you take off your bloomers and shift?”
“Is that necessary?”
“No.”
She thought for a moment while he caressed her feet. “Very well. I will.” She stood and pulled the drawstring of her bloomers, then skimmed them down. Last came the shift, thin and nearly translucent from weeks of wear.
“Lie down,” he said. “Lie back and wait for me.”
She settled into the bed, feeling so unlike herself that this might be happening to someone else, someone wicked and sophisticated and dizzy in love. A heated lassitude enveloped her in a dreamlike state.
Tom undressed quickly, and she couldn’t help watching, awestruck by his size and musculature. When he removed his trousers, she tried to force herself to look away, but she didn’t. Instead, an involuntary whisper escaped her. “Dear sweet heaven.”
He grinned and came down smoothly to take her in his arms. “I’ve been called worse,” he said. Then he grew serious, taking her hand and gliding it down the length of his torso. “I won’t hurt you,” he said. “You can touch me any way you like. You can stop me whenever you want.”
She did like touching him, Deborah discovered. She liked the feel of smooth flesh over hard muscle, the extraordinary differences in his body and hers. He kissed her in a new, slow manner, his tongue pushing in and out of her mouth in a way that made her hips rise involuntarily. His hand played over her breasts and then went lower, creating a terrible, beautiful ache. His kisses trailed down her throat and lower still, making her mindless and helpless, yet at the same time filling her with a powerful and dark knowledge that she was not the cold, unresponsive creature she thought she was, but someone who could catch fire and burn with the pleasure of it.
And the beauty of it was that her touch was as powerful as his. She discovered this by cupping her hand against his chest and then shocking herself by stroking downward, deliberate and bold. He groaned aloud, parting her legs with his knee.
“Ah, Deborah,” he said in a broken whisper, “You are ready, aren’t you?”
“For what?”
“For…” He kissed her again in that surprising new way, and at the same time he held himself above her, braced up on his arms so they were joined only by their kiss. Then, ever so slowly, he lowered himself.
And panic seared her from head to toe.
“Stop,” she said in a thin, thready voice. She felt trapped, terrified.
“Now?” His big arms trembled as he held himself back.
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
His jaw hardened with taxed patience. He dipped his head to lightly kiss her. “I’m not him, remember? I won’t hurt you. I promise.” He touched her gently and whispered, “You’re beautiful, and every choice is up to you. Including the choice to trust me. And you should, you know.”
“Should what?”
He feathered kisses along her hairline. “Trust me. I never got frostbite on account of a woman. Because you’re not just any woman.” Despite their intimate position, he smiled. “You’re the princess.”
His sincerity, his humanity, touched her even as his humor charmed her. She noticed then that his brow glistened with sweat and his shoulders rippled with strain. Deep in his eyes, she saw a profound devotion. “Tom,” she said, her confidence returning. She reached for him with both hands, curving them up over the knotted muscles in his shoulders and lifting her head to kiss him. She opened her legs to accommodate him while her arms twined around his neck. She felt him touch her, and then there was a subtle insistent pressure and he was inside her.
Remarkably, there was no pain, only a rush of anticipation and soon, a sting of pleasure that made her gasp. That was when she knew beyond doubt that Tom was different. He became part of her in a way that made her forget this was not the first time. Tom’s gentleness and slow erotic pace made her feel safe and cherished, and she welcomed the rocking motion that fused their souls. The deep caress of his body against hers was like a match to a flint, igniting swiftly, inevitably.
Something strange and wonderful happened to Deborah in those moments. She felt herself rising to a peak where she hovered, a bird flying above the ear
th on wings of light, her breath held back in anticipation. Then suddenly she was swept into a maelstrom of sensation that made her cry out and cling to him. He quickened his motions, and she moved with him, close to him. He gave himself up with a single low-throated sound, and then settled softly over her, kissing her and saying her name between kisses.
Long moments passed. He moved to one side of her and drew the covers over them. Cradled against the bulky warmth of him, she tried to speak but couldn’t. Instead, she burst into tears.
Tom swore softly. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” She wiped her face with a corner of the sheet.
“Then what’s the matter?”
“I should have come to you clean and new. Not…sullied by what Philip did.”
He swore again. “He didn’t sully you. No one can. You are clean and new. That’s why—” He broke off and swore again. “Get that damn fool idea out of your head.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “You should rest. I’ll find something for supper.”
“I don’t want to rest and I don’t want to eat. I want to talk.”
He sighed. “So talk.”
“I can’t help but wonder if you would have made love to me if I was a virgin.”
“What?”
“Maybe you figured I was already compromised, so you might as well—”
“Oh for chrissake—”
“Is it true?”
“No.”
Early on, she had discovered one vital fact about Tom Silver. He told the truth. From the moment she’d met him, he had never lied to her, even when it would have been easier for him. So she had no choice but to believe him. “Thank you,” she said.
She wondered if he knew what she was thanking him for. She wondered if he understood what he had given her. He had shown her that she was not a failure in the art of loving someone with her whole being. He had taught her not to be afraid. Yet she could not say such things to him, and so she remained silent while he rose from the bed, pausing to kiss her tenderly and then getting dressed to build up the fire and fix supper.
This, she thought, listening to the quiet, comfortable sounds of Tom moving about the cabin while a warm veil of contentment spread over her, this was the essence of life. She didn’t need parties or social engagements or fine things. She needed the incredible feelings aroused in her today. She needed that forever.