He heard the sound of Jo scurrying up the stairs, but he didn't hear Natalie come down. One moment he was staring at the spot where he thought she was standing, fantasizing about how sheer her gown might be if he could only see her, and the next moment he felt a jolt of surprise and pleasure as she pressed her warm body against his side. With efficient movements, she lifted his arm around her and grabbed his waist, grunting as she pushed upward with her shoulder to take the brunt of his weight. He didn't have the heart to tell her it was the opposite leg.
"Here we go, just lean on me until Jo gets back. No sense in taking risks in the dark."
"No,” he murmured, turning his head to get a whiff of her hair. He was a beast for fooling her, but a happy one. How many nights had he lain awake thinking about burying his nose in her hair, having her body pressed tightly to his again—
"I'm back,” Jo said, out of breath from her swift descent. She struck a match and lighted the candle, cupping her shaking hand around the flame until it caught, then handed it to Elliot. She stood shivering, hugging her arms over her chest with eyes round with lingering terror.
He raised the light and studied Jo's face. “What's going on?” he demanded.
Jo stuttered, “I—I saw you and I thought—I thought—"
"Jo, go on back to bed, I'll handle this.” Natalie's voice was firm. “You need to get some sleep."
Without another word, she scampered back upstairs. Elliot watched her until she disappeared into the shadows. “What happened, Natalie?” he asked softly. “What is it you're not telling me?” He felt her hesitation again, determined to drag it out of her. “I'm not leaving until you tell me. She's still terrified about something, and I don't think Jo scares that easily."
"Let's go into the kitchen and I'll fix us a cup of tea."
"Coffee, if you have it.” He frowned, but turned with her snuggled under his arm. His foot clanked against something in the floor. Ah, yes, the weapon responsible for his bruised shin. “What the hell did you hit me with, anyway?” He lowered the candle as he spoke, running the light along the length of the board. “Where did this come from?” It looked like cypress wood—
"Um, it came from the attic,” she said with suspicious haste. “Must have been left over from when your grandfather built the house. Come along, it'll be warmer in the kitchen."
"Don't you have any heating fuel?” He had noticed how cold the house was while sneaking across the foyer.
"Of course, but we don't waste it when we're asleep,” she retorted defensively, pulling out a chair and slipping out from under him.
He eased into the chair and stretched his leg out. He set the candle on the table as she knelt before him, her soft, gentle hands probing the area of his shin—on the wrong leg. Ignoring the rush of desire that quickened his breath, he said, “It's the other leg."
Her hands stilled. She looked at him, eyebrow arched. “Why didn't you tell me? You walked in here on your injured leg—” Clamping her lips shut, she bent to the task again, probing his shin until he winced. “It's not broken, but then you knew that, didn't you?"
He couldn't resist stroking her hair, which shimmered like molten gold in the candlelight. It felt like satin beneath his palm. “I've missed you,” he whispered huskily.
Her head shot up in alarm. “Why are you here, Elliot? Did you think to sneak in and climb into my bed?"
"No—"
"Did you think I'd just welcome you with open arms?” She leaped to her feet, the pupils of her eyes dilated and filled with wrath ... and something else he was certain she wasn't aware of; a mixture of hurt and suppressed need that struck an answering cord in his own heart.
He knew that feeling well. “Of—"
"Well, you've wasted your time, and mine. I don't intend to—to make that mistake again. There's nothing between us. Nothing. There can't be!"
"It wasn't a mistake,” he snapped. “And that's not what I'm here for, despite what your wicked little mind is thinking.” He smiled when she gasped at the insult. “You're good at insulting me, but you're not so good when the tables are turned, are you?” She continued to study him, her lips clamped tightly together.
His patience scattered by her continued silence, he reached out and yanked her to him. He kissed her hard, possessively, leaving her in no doubt about his feelings on the matter. Just as her cool lips began to heat up and soften beneath the onslaught, he thrust her from him. She'd never know—he hoped—how much the effort cost him.
She stumbled and caught herself, running a deliberate hand over her mouth as if to remove the kiss. Her eyes flashed with temper. “You—you're a bully!"
He stared at her heaving chest beneath the concealing cotton night gown, his gaze traveling hungrily over the curves outlined at the height of each breath. Curbing his raging need, he forced his gaze back to her face. “I'm here because I'm worried about you,” he stated.
"Why?” She uttered the word in disbelief as she stood trembling before him.
He wondered if she trembled from the cold, or from the same need that now tightened every muscle in his body. He'd like to think it was the latter, but he knew he probably fooled himself. Rubbing an absent hand over the lump on his shin, he said, “Marla hinted you haven't been feeling well.” For a telling moment, his gaze dipped to her waist.
She obviously didn't take the hint. “She had no right telling you anything. It's none of your concern how I feel."
"Maybe it is, if I'm responsible,” he said slowly, gazing pointedly at her stomach again. He saw the moment she understood his meaning; her face flushed red, and her eyes narrowed to slits. Those dainty hands curled into fists.
She was furious.
"Marla told you that? I don't believe it! Why would she tell you such a lie—"
"So it isn't true? You're not with child?"
"No, I am not with child.” She spoke between clenched teeth. “Now that you've satisfied your curiosity and appeased your conscience—once again—you can leave."
Elliot settled back in his chair, surprised to feel disappointed. He should be relieved, for he definitely wasn't in any position to become a father. Yes, he was insane, thinking for one moment, hoping for one second that fate would intervene and give them both a reason to overcome the obstacles in their paths.
Giving his head a slight, mystified shake, he said, “Now that we've got that cleared away, you can tell me what happened with Jo.” When he saw her stiffen, he lifted his hand. “And don't tell me it was nothing—I saw her face."
* * * *
Natalie would have told him anything just to get him to leave. How close she had come to breaking her vow, how very close he had brought her to humiliation again. Knowing it didn't make the want go away, either, she discovered. Right now she wanted to fling herself at him and lose herself in his kiss. Her breasts tingled and ached, and her thighs quivered wickedly at thought of those strong, burning hands stroking her.
And her heart ... Dear Lord her heart physically hurt just knowing he didn't love her. Wanted—yes, that was obvious. And it wasn't enough.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she said, “Okay, I'll tell you. Then you'll leave?” His eyes flickered over her like a hot flame before he nodded. She quickly swung around and began making coffee, trying desperately to forget he watched her. She cursed her traitorous body and slammed the kettle on the still-warm plate. With agitated movements, she stoked the fire and added a small chunk of wood. She was like that fire, banked to embers when he wasn't around; stoked to a fierce flame when he came near.
Why did it have to be Elliot? Someone she couldn't allow herself to love? She stifled a bitter laugh—as if she had a choice. But she did have a choice, she reminded herself. She did not have to admit, accept, or act on her love.
With this staunch reminder firmly ensconced in her head, she returned to the table and began to tell him what Jo had told her. Throughout the story, she carefully avoided looking at him, although she sensed his intent gaze on her face.
>
She felt guilty for betraying Jo's confidence, but the girl hadn't really said she shouldn't tell Elliot, had she? And he wasn't leaving her a choice. Surely Jo would understand?
Once during the conversation, she paused and got up to pour him more coffee. She pumped a tin cup full of ice-cold well water for herself before returning to the table. “So you see, for a moment Jo thought the man at the boarding house was the very same man that ... killed her mother. She's been jumpy ever since, and tonight when she saw you coming onto the porch, she thought—"
"I was that man,” Elliot concluded coldly.
She looked at him in surprise and confusion. He sounded angry, but why would he be? As she had explained according to Jo, the man had done nothing to Jo but remind her of someone she feared.
"Do you believe her?"
At his question, she frowned into her empty cup, remembering how she'd sensed that Jo wasn't being entirely honest. “I don't know. I can't think of any reason she'd lie, can you?"
He sat forward and cupped his hands around his cup. “Maybe she's too afraid to tell the truth,” he suggested.
She glanced up. A shiver stole over her at the hard gleam in his eye. He knew something, she realized. He knew something—or thought he knew something, and he wasn't going to share it with her.
With a weary sigh, she stood. “I'd like to go to bed now, please.” He mumbled something and tossed the last of his coffee down his throat. She swallowed, watching him. He was beautiful, and totally out of her reach. Her heart clenched painfully. To cover the sudden, crushing sense of loss she felt, she snatched her cup from the table and took it to the counter.
She shouldn't have turned her back on him, she realized with a stifled moan as his arms slid around her. Helplessly, she leaned into him, telling herself it was only for a moment—no more.
His breath scorched her ear while his fingers burned a path from her hips to her breasts. “Normally, I'd take you up on such a tempting invitation, but there are children in the house."
"Oh.” It was all she could squeeze from her suddenly empty lungs. He was such a brute, and she a gullible fool.
"Lock the door after I leave."
"Hickory—” she began, then stopped in surprise. Was that husky, seductive voice her own? Lord. Best she not speak at all, than to give him the satisfaction.
His knowing chuckle told her it was too late.
"Deny me all you will, sweetling. You want me, just as I want you.” With a regretful sigh, he dropped his hands away and stepped back. “I doubt Hickory will be out tonight. He was exhausted from riding his pony.” He toyed with her loose braid, his finger tip brushing her spine.
She shuddered.
"Tomorrow, I'll talk to him, warn him away from my woman,” he added on a teasing note.
"I'm not your woman.” And you're not my man. She clenched the edge of the counter and bit down hard on her bottom lip. She wouldn't turn around, and she most certainly wouldn't beg him for a kiss. Furthermore, she refused to acknowledge the rush of pleasure his words evoked.
His woman. Ha! She had learned her lesson the first time she'd danced too close to the flame. She was strong, intelligent, and didn't need a second lesson.
The first one had hurt quite enough, thank you.
She shot the bolt home with vicious force, then leaned against the cold door. She had to stay away from him—miles away from him. Well, she'd get her wish soon enough. When he sold Ivy House, he'd be on the first steamboat out of Chattanooga. In the city, he'd have his pick of single women who had nothing to do but please him.
Maybe he'd get together with Suetta again.
She flinched at the thought, then trudged upstairs to lie awake until dawn. While she was lying there, she might as well rehearse what she would say to her dear, meddling friend Marla. With child, indeed! She paused on the dark stairs and pressed a hand on her flat stomach, then firmly moved it to bannister again. Thank God, she could safely say she wasn't. History was not going to repeat itself.
Natalie steadfastly ignored the pang of disappointment she felt. It was perfectly normal, wasn't it? To dream of a having a child by the man she loved? A dream was, after all, just a dream.
Harmless.
Oh, yes. Marla was in for a long, enlightening lecture on how to give up on a hopeless cause.
Because she already had.
* * * *
By Tuesday, Jo had begun to relax, Natalie noted with relief. She no longer paused and stared searchingly out of every window she passed, and had begun to sleep through the night. Natalie knew, because she didn't sleep well, and took advantage of her restlessness to check on Jo and Lori frequently. Lori had developed another nasty cold, bless her.
But when the knock came at the door after lunch on Tuesday, Jo, who was in the kitchen making apple butter to take to the boys, shrieked, proving that she hadn't completely recovered from her ordeal. Natalie nearly dropped the jar she'd been drying.
"It's just someone at the door, Jo,” she reasoned, frowning at the girl's pale face and wide eyes. “I'll get it."
When she opened the door to find Elliot and Mr. McCormick standing on the doorstep—one looking very cheerful and excited, and the other looking far too solemn for her peace of mind—she turned as pale as Jo had been.
"Good—good afternoon, Mr. McCormick,” she stammered before turning to the one that worried her the most. “Elliot?"
His clear blue eyes darkened with regret as he stepped forward and ushered the banker inside and out of the cold. Stunned, she automatically took their hats and coats and hung them on the coat rack by the parlor door.
What was going on? Why would he bring the banker to Ivy House? Unless ... unless he was hoping for a loan from the bank to keep Ivy House? But if that were true, then why the regret? She glanced at him again, hoping beyond hope that she'd misread his expression.
He stared back at her with something akin to grief. Definitely remorse, too, lurking in his bold blue eyes.
She closed her eyes in denial, then opened them again. “Elliot...? What's this about?” She saw him physically brace himself and knew she was doomed.
"Natalie, I—Mr. McCormick here would like to look at Ivy House. He's interested in making an offer,” he paused significantly, as if he had to force the words out, “to buy it,” he finished.
The blunt words hit her like a wave of heat from a hot oven. She covered her mouth with her hand to stem the tide of protests and pleadings that begged to be said. She wouldn't grovel, not in front of the perplexed banker. Elliot had warned her this was going to happen—but she hadn't been expecting it today! He'd promised—
"I'll explain everything later. I promise."
Oh, she knew how sincere his promises were. They meant nothing to her—nothing at all. He was a liar, and silver-tongued devil in disguise. The children might fall for his platitudes and promises, but not her. Oh, no, not her. He could make excuses until the sun refused to shine, but it would not make one iota of difference to her.
But he had known she wouldn't fall apart in front of the banker, the bastard! Trembling so hard she was afraid her teeth would knock together, she said, “There's no need to explain; I understand.” She did. Perfectly.
She didn't know where she found the strength, but she did. With a sweet smile for the banker, she gestured to the upstairs. “Would you like to start upstairs and work our way down?” Flashing a mysterious glance at Elliot, she added, “That should save us all some time.” With a surge of triumph, she saw Elliot's eyes narrowed with suspicion at her compliant tone.
She whirled and led the way upstairs, conscious of Elliot following close behind. She could feel those orbs of steel he called eyes boring into her back.
Oh, he'd be sorry he did this to her. Very, very sorry.
And extremely furious.
She thrust off a shiver of fear and topped the landing, opening the first door on the left, Cole and Brett's old room. “There are four bedrooms here upstairs, and a small bedro
om with an adjacent sitting room that Mrs. Boone used for an office. We all sleep up here, as you can see.” She stood aside and let the banker step into the room.
She had given Cole and Brett the largest room, since they shared. It was decorated simply with a full-size bed, armoire, two chest of drawers, and a small desk where the boys studied their lessons. The cold floors were bare of rugs, the boards worn smooth with age and wear. A huge quilt covered the entire wall separating the bedroom from the room next door.
Mr. McCormick gave it a cursory glance, then turned as if to go out of the room.
Natalie took a deep breath for courage and moved into his path. “No need to go out into the hall. We can go through here.” She whipped the quilt aside and stepped through the bare framework. It had once been a solid wall of cypress lumber, and it had been the first to go when they began making the doll houses.
Somewhere behind her—hopefully out of hitting distance—she heard Elliot gasp and mutter a nasty oath. She ignored him.
"As you can see, most of the rooms look the same.” She looked around, anywhere but at Elliot. She fancied she could feel the heat of his mounting anger.
When she thought the banker had had sufficient time to study Jo's room, she moved to the far wall and raised another quilt nearly identical to the one separating the boys room from Jo's, pausing to call out a warning. “Lori, Elliot and Mr. McCormick—the banker—are here to look at Ivy House. We're coming through."
Lori sneezed, then asked in a scratchy, weary voice, “Why's he looking at our house, Natty? Hi, Mr. Montgomery. Did you bring me something?"
They stepped through the skeletal framework one by one, Natalie careful to move to the far side of the room and away from Elliot. She smiled at Lori, who was propped up in her bed reading from an old tattered story book. She looked so small and defenseless among the mountain of covers that Natalie wanted to weep.
Several safe feet away, she felt Elliot's glare, jumping as he growled a greeting he just managed to temper in time.
"Lori. Natalie didn't tell me you were ill again."
"Just another silly cold,” Lori assured him. “I get them all the time, you know."
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