Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “But even then, you relented at the last minute. You didn’t force me to…”

  He groaned. “I couldn’t. It was easy enough to hate you when we were apart. And last night, when you defied me—proud and haughty—I could still consider you my enemy. Your pride only fed my hatred. But when your mouth started to tremble, I was undone!”

  She began to cry. “Oh, Nat! It was your hatred that hurt so. I didn’t care about my shame. But your hatred cut like a knife, tearing me apart. I kept thinking you must have hated me from the moment we parted.”

  “No. That’s what’s so funny. I guess I never really did. I knew I should because of Gramps. I guess I hated myself more for still loving you.”

  “Your grandfather,” she sobbed. “And your poor leg. I saw the scars…”

  He lifted her chin with a finger and dabbed at her tears. “Willough. Don’t.”

  “But your leg…”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks. The scars will heal. And the doctor thinks I should be able to walk more easily in another six months or so.” He pulled her into his arms and held her close, stroking her hair until her weeping subsided. His arms were warm and strong; her face was buried in the furry softness of his chest. She felt protected, comforted.

  And then, quite suddenly, it wasn’t comfort that her body craved. She felt a burning ache somewhere within her, a hot flame that seemed to grow without her willing it. Her senses had never been more alive: the feel of his hairy chest against her lips, the sound of his heart beating close to her head, the wonderful, masculine smell of him. She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. She was drowning in those golden pools. “Do you want me, Nat?” she whispered.

  “I’ve always wanted you,” he said hoarsely, and took her mouth in a burning kiss.

  She trembled and parted her lips to his searching tongue. Her mouth had not forgotten its lessons. She met his tongue with her own, tasting the sweetness of his mouth. Her arms circled his neck and she pressed her bosom against his chest, filled with a passionate yearning that ached for release. Panting, she drew away from him, her trembling fingers working at the ties of her wrapper.

  His strong hands closed over hers. “No. Let me do it. Let me make love to you, Willough, the way I’ve longed to. I’ve dreamed of this moment. Let me love you.”

  Her heart was melting. “You know I’m yours, Nat.”

  He peered deep into her eyes. “But will you trust me? Whatever I do? Will you know that I just want to please you?”

  “How could I not trust you? I love you.”

  He smiled. She had forgotten about the dimple in his cheek. He got out of bed and stood up, pulling her up to stand before him. His naked body was firm and ridged with muscles, dusted with a light covering of golden hairs. She let her eyes travel the length of him, feeling her excitement grow as she imagined his hard chest pressed to her breasts, his legs entwined with hers. Oh, God. She stood transfixed. But there was still a part of him that frightened her. Arthur had hurt her often, rubbing her raw with something she had come to think of as a cruel weapon. And Nat seemed enormous.

  “I do love you,” she whispered. For his sake she’d be brave. Because she loved him, she’d endure. Let him not read the doubt in her eyes!

  He laughed softly. “I said trust me, Willough.” He untied her wrapper and let it slide to the floor, then gathered up her nightgown and slipped it over her head. His hands reached out, closed gently around the soft globes of her breasts. His fingers stroked the velvety flesh, tracing tantalizing circles about her nipples; then his hands drifted down to caress her hips and cup her buttocks in his strong palms. “I could touch you forever,” he said. “Beautiful Willough.” He took her by the hand and pulled her to the bed, easing her down onto the pillows. He lay beside her and kissed her again while his hands explored the hollows at the base of her throat, her breasts, her flat belly. His touch was gentle; she sank into the softness of the pillows, moaning in pleasure.

  “I never knew a body could feel this way,” she sighed, luxuriating in the delicious sensations that he aroused with his hands, with his mouth.

  He stopped kissing her. “It’s more than just quiet pleasure, Willough. Let yourself go. Give yourself up to your feelings, whatever they may be. I want you to be reckless and wild. Hold me tight. Scratch me!”

  “Oh, Nat, I couldn’t!”

  He smiled. His eyes were heavy-lidded with passion. “Then I reckon I’ll have to get rid of the proper lady once and for all.” He bent his head to her bosom. She gasped as a wild thrill raced through her. What was he doing with his mouth? It was a feeling unlike anything she’d ever felt before. He sucked gently at one breast until the nipple swelled and hardened, then turned to the other breast and repeated the caress, his tongue circling the rosy fullness. She trembled and arched her back, straining against him, her body on fire with the feel of his hot mouth. She tried to say his name, but she was shaking too much to speak a word. His strong hands stroked her flanks, pulling her closer to him, until she could feel his hard body against the aching length of her. His insistent shaft pressed against her closed legs.

  He kissed her hard, his tongue plundering her mouth, turning her insides to liquid fire. “Open for me, my love,” he whispered.

  She hesitated, suddenly fearful. It had been so delicious—his hands, his mouth, his kisses. And now he’d spoil it: he’d hurt her. But she loved him. How could she refuse? Dutifully, she spread her legs and closed her eyes, unconsciously clenching her fists against his assault.

  She waited, eyes closed, while he positioned himself above her. But he wasn’t doing anything! Then she felt his mouth, trailing burning kisses down her belly. Lower, and still lower. “Nat!” she choked. His mouth had found the intimate core of her, kissing, nipping softly, sending throbbing shocks coursing through her. She writhed beneath his hot kisses and tangled her fingers in his curls. He shouldn’t be kissing her there! Surely it was wicked.

  As if he sensed her thoughts, he raised his head from between her legs. “Do you want me to stop?”

  She was wild—a savage, abandoned creature reveling in the pleasure he gave her. She raked her nails across his back, her whole being filled with hot desire. “Oh, God. No!”

  His body slid up the length of her, and he buried his face in the tumbled curls at her neck. “I will, though.” His hands traveled down her hips, pushed her legs together beneath him. She felt an aching disappointment; she had been ready for him, waiting, hungering. But when she tried to separate her legs, to welcome him, his strong hands forbade it. Instead, he pressed his hard shaft between her closed thighs, gliding back and forth, rubbing against her vulnerable softness. Tantalizing. Teasing. Again and again, while she gasped and moaned in a frenzy. She felt herself growing hot and moist, frantic for the feel of him within her.

  She clung to him, thrashing wildly, her teeth nipping at his shoulder. Her body was a hungry vessel, desperate to receive him. “Please, Nat! For pity’s sake…”

  And then he was in her, his swollen shaft plunging hard, gliding on the sweet emollient that her passion had released.

  She cried out, her hips rising to meet his impassioned thrusts. She was burning. Like the molten iron in the furnace, melting, white-hot. The flames grew higher, consuming her, swirling her into their midst, and ending with a great, fiery explosion that shook her body and left her breathless. At the same moment Nat inhaled sharply, surged against her in a final thrust of triumphant possession. As he wrapped his arms around her, her violent quivering subsided into trembling spasms. She could feel the pounding of his heart against her naked breast.

  In a moment her rapture had begun to give way to something else. All the years, all the arid years that she had denied her body, denied her very womanhood! A long-suppressed emotion bubbled in her heart, seeking release, until at last it burst forth. She began to cry, great wrenching sobs that shook her slim body.

  Nat withdrew from her, sat up, gathered her in his arms. “Willough. My love. Wh
at is it?”

  “I never knew…never knew a woman could feel that way. Oh God, I never knew!”

  He held her close, letting her heart unburden itself. “Never?” he asked at last, his voice filled with tender concern.

  She shook her head wordlessly. How could she tell him of the horror, the pain she had felt with Arthur?

  “Dammit,” he growled, “I should never have let you marry him.”

  She turned away, still filled with doubts. “No. Maybe Arthur was right. He called me frigid once.”

  He laughed softly. “Good God! After what just happened, you surely can’t believe that!”

  “Maybe it was just…an accident. The emotion of the moment…”

  “And you don’t think it will happen again?”

  “It never happened with Arthur. And I tried to be a good wife. A dutiful wife.”

  He kissed her gently. “You’re all woman, Willough. No one ever made you aware of it, that’s all. You were too afraid, perhaps. Too filled with what was ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ for a woman to feel.”

  “But, Nat…”

  “How can this be wrong?” he asked. His hand caressed her breasts, her rib cage and flat stomach, then moved lower to the quivering juncture between her legs. He slipped his finger inside her, teasing her with steady, rhythmic strokes that left her gasping, her senses raised to a fever pitch. She could feel the hot bud of her passion swelling once again. Aching, yearning. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand. His eyes were twinkling. “Now tell me you’re a frigid woman.”

  She laughed nervously, her voice shaking. “I feel like a glutton. Can it be possible to…?” She couldn’t go on.

  “Now don’t start being a prude again! Possible to what?”

  “To…want you again so soon?”

  He chuckled. “It’s possible. And wonderful. And altogether what I was hoping you’d say. Because I’ll never stop wanting to make love to you.” He kissed her—a long, searing kiss that took her breath away—then pulled her under him. He possessed her once more, filling her with a joy that blossomed into wild ecstasy as his manhood claimed her again and again.

  I’m a woman! she thought. And abandoned herself to the delirious pleasures of her body.

  The next morning she didn’t want to open her eyes. She could hear from the twittering of the birds that it was day. But to open her eyes would be to see the ordinariness of the room in Mrs. Walker’s house. And there was nothing ordinary about the way her body felt—deliciously sated, fulfilled, warm, and contented. They had made love for hours, falling into an exhausted sleep as the first gray light of dawn had lit the eastern sky

  Of course, if she opened her eyes she’d see Nat. Her love. And that would be more wonderful still. She blinked once, yawned and stretched, opened her eyes.

  Nat was standing at the window, staring out at the overcast day. He was dressed in his shabby frock coat. She didn’t have to see his carpetbag waiting by the door; his bleak expression told her everything. “Nat,” she said softly. He turned, his amber eyes filled with anguish. Her heart sank. “It’s too late for us, isn’t it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’m tired, Willough. I’ve been tired for a long time. After Gramps died, there was nothing left. I was planning to go west. All summer long, I was just getting my strength back after the accident, earning some money so I could afford a grubstake. I just wanted to buy a piece of land away from the world. And now I can, with the money your father paid me.”

  “But why, Nat?”

  “I want peace, Willough. There must be peace for me somewhere! There’s still a war going on. Only now it’s a war against everything I hold most dear—decent people, God’s sweet earth—and the generals are men like your father. Maybe out west I’ll find peace!”

  “But you can’t go! Part of the MacCurdy business is yours now.”

  “I don’t want it. Men will still live and die…because of greed. Did you see the faces of Charlie and the other men yesterday? Suffering? Desperate?” He waved his hand toward the window. “And look out there. The ugliness, the destruction. Once upon a time, we knew how to keep a balance with nature. But not anymore. Maybe out west a man can live in harmony with the land. Without exploiting it. But here it’s still war.” He laughed bitterly. “Do you think it matters a damn to me if I’m on the side of the generals instead of the troops?”

  “Oh, Nat. It doesn’t have to be that way. If you’re a general, you can change things!”

  His eyes were sad. “And what about us? How soon would you regret your unrefined lover?”

  “Never!” she cried.

  “Here in the North Woods, no. But what about in New York City? That life is too much a part of you. It would happen again. That inborn snobbery would win out. Your mother would see to it.”

  “I’ll leave the city. I’ll divorce Arthur!”

  “Dammit, Willough, in some ways you are Arthur! Spoiled by civilization—like this land is spoiled.”

  “Oh, Nat, you’re unfair. People change. I’m not the stupid girl who sent you away a year ago.”

  “I don’t want to chance it. I’m too tired to go through it all again. First the embarrassment, then the coldness. Then the contempt, like a wall between us. The same as before.” His face twisted in agony. “God, Willough, I’m so sick of war!”

  “It wouldn’t be like that.” She was desperate. How could she lose him?

  “You don’t understand,” he said wearily. “Before I met you, I managed to get along by cutting out my heart. You brought me back to life. But you brought me something else too. All the turmoil I was trying to escape. Do you realize how often we fought? Quarreled over every damn thing? It tore me to pieces. And the other night… God! It makes me sick to think of it. I behaved in a way I didn’t think was possible. Degrading you like that.”

  “Nat, it doesn’t matter…”

  “Dammit, Willough, I nearly raped you! How can you be good for me if you can bring out such ugly passions?” He gulped, struggling against his emotions. “Gramps had the right idea. To be alone.”

  “But I love you,” she whispered, knowing even as she said it that it was too late.

  “And I love you. But that doesn’t change anything.”

  She had to reach him. “What about Arthur? Have you forgotten that he tried to kill you? That your grandfather’s death was his fault?”

  He sighed. “I’m too tired even for revenge.”

  “I’m not! I’ll make him pay.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t waste your time, Willough. He’s not worth it.” He limped toward the door, picked up his carpetbag. “I’ve left a note for your father. There on the desk. I’ve refused the partnership. He can get a new manager too. If he’s smart, he’ll choose you. But he’s probably too much a fool for that. I’ve also written out a list of the agreements we made yesterday with the men. You can fill him in on the details.” He picked up a battered cap and jammed it on his head. His golden eyes were filled with tears. “You’ll haunt me, Willough,” he choked. “All the rest of my days. But I want peace. Maybe there’s something out west, some unspoiled wilderness, that can give it to me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “We’ll be getting into the Grand Central Terminal in half an hour, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, porter.” Willough smiled, looked out the window of the parlor car. “It looks like a fine morning.”

  “Yes indeed, ma’am. Would you care for another cup of coffee from the dining car?”

  “That would be nice.” She rubbed at the back of her neck as the porter moved off. Sitting up all night on the train from Saratoga—even in the relative luxury of the parlor car—didn’t exactly compare to traveling in Brian Bradford’s car, but it hardly mattered. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Her mind had whirled with thoughts all night long.

  She was surprisingly calm about Nat. He was wrong about her. After a year with Arthur, she wasn’t the same person. That idiotic child who’d been ashame
d of Nat because he hadn’t known which fork to use had vanished long ago. Don’t wish for something too much, Grandma Carruth used to say, or your wish is liable to come true. Well, her foolish wish had come true. She’d had a fairy-tale wedding to a well-tailored gentleman with impeccable manners. And the morals of a guttersnipe.

  After Arthur, she’d have been proud to be Nat’s wife. She sighed and brushed away a tear. But she never could have made Nat understand that. There’d been too much pain, too much hatred between them that he couldn’t forget. And too much grief in his life, burdening his heart. She understood his need to be alone, though it brought her misery.

  “I wish you peace, Nat,” she whispered.

  And Daddy too. All night long she’d played the scene over and over in her mind. Daddy in Saratoga, ashen-faced, drawn. And she—calm, controlled, seeing him clearly for the first time.

  “I don’t know how you did it, lass,” he’d cackled. “Getting Nat to turn down the partnership! I didn’t want to see it go to a stranger. Especially not after he put me over a barrel the way he did.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. It was his own decision.”

  “Well, all the same… I’m damned proud of you, lass. I had reports from Bill and Taggert. The way you handled the negotiations. And the fire. By thunder, I wish I’d been there! They’re all saying the whole furnace house would have been lost but for you. You know, Willough, Drew’s a disappointment to me. He came back from France to be my partner, then turned me down and went back to his fool painting after that little wife of his vanished.” Brian cursed softly. “And after I’d advanced him all that money too.”

  “Maybe painting is what he wants to do. Have you ever seen his work?”

  “I’m not interested in his work. And I’m not interested in him. You’re the one. You’ve got a head on your shoulders. Come into the business with me. Right now. I’ll give you a ten percent partnership right off the bat.”