by Nora Roberts
So we build monuments to the wars, and the dead sons. We tell ourselves not to forget. John and Sarah never forgot. And love endured.
It made her smile as she rose. The grass was green here, and the air quiet. She decided that the world needed places of loss to help them remember what they had.
She went home to write.
It was nearly time for evening milking, Rebecca realized, and she laughed at herself. How odd that she would begin to gauge the day by farm chores. With a shake of her head, she hammered out the next sentence.
Why had she spent all her life writing technical papers? she wondered. This flow of emotion and thought and imagination was so liberating. Damned if she didn't think she might try her hand at a novel eventually.
Chuckling at the thought, she tucked it into the back of her mind. There were plenty of people who would consider her present topic, the supernatural, straight fiction.
When the phone rang, she let the next thought roll around in her head as she rose to answer. Absently she reached for the coffeepot and the receiver at the same time.
"Hello?"
"Dr. Rebecca Knight, please."
She stiffened, then ordered herself to relax. Why should it surprise, even annoy her, that her voice hadn't been recognized? "This is Rebecca. Hello, Mother."
' 'Rebecca, I had to go through your service to track you down. I assumed you were in New York."
"No, I'm not." She heard the door open and worked up a casual, if stiff, smile for Shane. "I'm spending some time in Maryland."
"A lecture tour? I hadn't heard."
"No, I'm not on a lecture tour." She could easily visualize her mother flipping through her Filofax to note it down. "I'm... doing research."
"In Maryland. On what subject?"
“The Battle of Antietam."
"Ah. That's been covered very adequately, don't you think?"
"I'm coming from a different angle." She made way so that Shane could get to the coffee, but didn't look at him. "Is there something I can do for you?"
"Actually, there's something I can do for you. Where in the world are you staying, Rebecca? It's very inconvenient that you didn't leave word. I need a fax number."
"I'm staying with a friend." She turned her back, avoiding Shane's eyes. "I don't have a fax here."
"Surely you have access to one. You're not in the Dark Ages."
Now she did glance at Shane. He smelled of the earth, and carried a good bit of it on his person. "Not exactly," Rebecca said dryly. "I'll have to check on that and get back to you. Are you in Connecticut?"
"Your father is. I'm at a seminar in Atlanta. You can reach me through the Ritz-Carlton."
"All right. Can I ask what this is about?"
"It's quite an opportunity. The head of the history department at my alma mater is retiring at the end of this semester. With your credentials and my connections, I don't see that you'd have any difficulty getting the position. There's talk of endowing a chair. It would be quite a coup, given your age. At twenty-four, I believe you'd be the youngest department head ever placed there."
"I was twenty-five last March, Mother."
"Nonetheless, it would still be a coup."
"Yes, I'm sure it would, but I'm not interested."
"Don't be ridiculous, Rebecca."
She closed her eyes for a moment. That tone, that quick, dismissive tone, had whipped her along the path chosen for her all her life. It took a hard, wrenching effort for her to stand her ground.
"I'm afraid I'll have to be." And where had that cold, sarcastic voice come from? Rebecca wondered. "I don't want to teach, Mother."
"Teaching is the least of it, Rebecca, as you're quite aware. The position itself—"
"I don't want to be the dean of history, or the history chair, anywhere." She had to interrupt quickly, recognizing the old, familiar roiling in her stomach. "But thank you for thinking of me."
"I'm not happy with your attitude, Rebecca. You are obligated to use your gifts, and the opportunities your father and I have provided for you. An advancement of this stature will make your career."
"Whose career?"
There was a sigh. Long-suffering. "Obviously you're in a difficult mood, and I can see that gratitude won't be forthcoming. I'll depend on your good sense, however. Get me your fax number as soon as possible. I'm a bit rushed at the moment, but I'll expect to hear from you by the morning. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Mother."
She hung up and smiled at Shane brightly, over-brightly, while the muscles in her stomach clenched and knotted. "Well, cows all bedded down?"
"Sit down, Rebecca."
"I'm starving." Terrified he would touch her and she would fall apart, she moved away. "I think there's still some of that chocolate cake one of your harem dropped off."
"Rebecca." His voice was quiet, and his eyes were troubled. She kept pressing a hand to her stomach, he noted, as if something inside hurt. "I think you should sit down."
"I can make more coffee. I've figured this thing out." She started to reach for the canister, but he stepped forward, took her shoulders gently. "What?" The word snapped out, her body jerking.
Careful, he thought, disturbed by the brittle look in her eyes. "So, you're from Connecticut."
She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders under his hands. "My parents live there."
"That's where you grew up."
"Not exactly. I lived there when I wasn't in school. You don't want to drink that," she added, glancing at the pot. "It's been sitting for hours. I'd said I'd make fresh."
"What did she say to upset you, baby?"
"Nothing. It's nothing." But he kept holding her kept looking at her with boundless patience and concern. "She wants me to campaign for a position at her college. It's a very prestigious position. I'm not interested. It's a divergence of opinion, and she's not used to me having an opinion."
It was simple enough, he thought, or it should have been. But there was nothing simple about her reaction. "You told her no."
"It doesn't particularly matter. It never did, on the rare occasions I actually got up the courage to say it. I expect my father will be calling shortly, to remind me of my obligations and responsibilities."
"Who are you obligated to?"
"To them, to education, to posterity. I have a responsibility to use my talents, and to reap the rewards. It's just a variation on 'Publish or Perish,' the battle cry of academia. Let's forget it."
He let her move away, because she seemed to need it. Her hands were steady as she measured out coffee, and her face was blank while she filled the pot.
Then, with a shudder, she set everything down. "I can't believe I'm doing this. This is how I got ulcers."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Ulcers, migraines, insomnia, and a near miss with a breakdown. Isn't this why I studied psychiatry?"
She wasn't talking to him, Shane realized, so he said nothing. But he was beginning to burn inside.
"Repression isn't the answer. I know that. It's one of the things that punish the body for what's closed up in the mind. It's always so much easier to analyze someone else, always much harder to see things when it's yourself."
Her rigid hands raked through her hair. "I'm not going to be directed this time. I'm not going to be hammered at until I give. The hell with them. The hell with them. They never did anything but make me into a miserable, neurotic freak."
She whirled back to him. Her face wasn't blank now, it was livid. "Do you know what it's like to be four years old and expected to read Dante in Italian, and discuss it? To sit at the dinner table, when you weren't shuffled off somewhere else, and be quizzed on physics or converse about the Renaissance—in French, naturally?"
"No," he said quietly. "Why don't you tell me what it's like?"
"It's horrible. Horrible. To have your own parents regard you as a thing, a rousing success of genetics. I hated it, but what choice do you have when you're a child? You do what's expect
ed of you. Then you get in the habit and you keep right on doing it even when you're not a child. One day you look in the mirror, and you see something so pathetic it hurts to look. And you wonder, why not just end it?"
The anger inside him turned to dry-mouthed shock. "Rebecca."
Impatient, she shook her head. "Maybe you fantasize about it, even obsess. And you're clever, you're so damned clever that you can find the most effective, the most painless way, to accomplish it. And, of course, the most tidy."
He didn't speak now. She'd shaken him down to the bone, and he was chilled to the marrow. This woman, this beautiful, precious woman, had considered ending her life.
She rubbed absently at the headache that throbbed dead-center in her forehead. "But you're too intelligent, too well programmed, to tolerate that kind of waste. It frightens you a little to realize you could actually do it, so you decide—being a practical person—to study human behavior, psychiatry, instead. A much more productive outlet, all in all."
"How old were you?" he managed, but had to take a steadying breath before he could go on. "How old were you when you..."
"Researched suicide?" she said calmly. "Twelve. A dangerous age, all those hormones to deal with. A shock to the regimented system. You have to remind yourself that life, however miserable, is all you've got, and go on with it. It's easier to go on with it if you just close up, close off, lock yourself behind books and theories, credentials and degrees. Until you realize that's just a different kind of suicide."
She took a long, shuddering breath. "I'm tired," she murmured, rubbing her hands over her face. "They make me so tired."
Ulcers, a breakdown. Dear God, suicide. What the hell had they done to her? He wanted to tear them apart. All of them. Any of them who had ignored her heart to get to her mind. He wanted, desperately, to go back in time and find that young girl, to give her everything she'd needed and deserved.
But he could only reach out to the woman.
"Come on." He went to her, held her, close and gentle, despite the storm raging inside him. She needed his calm, not his fury. "Just lean on me awhile."
"I'm all right."
"No, you're not. But you will be." He damn well would see to it. "Hold on to me, baby."
So she did, and it was so easy. "She didn't do anything wrong, not really. We haven't seen each other in more than a year. I doubt she or my father would recognize me if we passed on the street. The change would surprise them."
He rubbed his cheek over her hair. She felt so fragile. Why hadn't he seen that before? Where hadn't he looked to see this hurt, vulnerable side of her?
"It doesn't matter what they think, only what you want."
"You can't always have everything you want. Once I wanted them to love me. I'd have done anything if they'd just said they loved me. You know the problem with a memory like mine? You can't forget things—even when you want to. I remember when they first sent me to boarding school. I was so frightened, so lonely and unhappy. They put me on a plane, didn't even go with me. I was six years old."
"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry."
"They could see I had an adult mind, but they never considered the child's heart. Well, I'm grownup now. I should handle it better."
"You're handling it fine."
"Not fine, but better." She eased back a little. "I'm sorry. If you'd come in an hour later, I'd have been over it."
"I want you to tell me what you feel." Very gently, he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. "I want to know who you are, and how you got there. I haven't been able to figure you out, Rebecca. All those different pieces of you that never quite seem to fit. Now they're starting to. Do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Don't call her back. Let her stew."
She smiled a little. "That's rude."
"Yeah. So?"
"She'll just call again. My father will call. They—" To prove her point, the phone rang. "There you are."
He tightened his grip before she could move. Nothing was going to put that shattered look back on her face while he was here to protect her. "I don't hear anything."
"The phone."
"We don't have a phone." Thinking only to give her peace, he kissed her again. And brought himself some, as well. "And we're not here, anyway."
"Where are we?"
He scooped his arm under her knees, picked her up. "Anywhere you want to go." As the phone continued to shrill, he carried her out of the room. "As long as it takes a real long time to get there."
When he reached the bedroom, he set her on her feet. The phone had stopped ringing, and he took it off the hook, then set the receiver in a drawer to muffle the buzz.
"That ought to do it."
"You don't even have an answering machine. It'll drive them crazy."
"Good." He'd have liked an opportunity to speak to either of her parents himself. But that could wait. At the moment, he had only one priority, and that was erasing the troubled look in Rebecca's eyes. "So, where do you want to go?"
She shook her head, her smile puzzled. "I thought we were there."
"This is just the starting-off point." He ran a finger down the vest she wore over a mannish shirt. "A tropical island? A—what do you call it?—mountain chalet? We could be snowed in. A castle, maybe." He brushed his lips over her brow. "Let's pretend."
"Fantasizing is often a—"
His lips slid down to hers. "Let's pretend. A long, empty beach, white sand, palm trees. Smell the flowers." Gently he kissed her eyes closed. "Hear the surf. Let's go there. I love the way your skin looks in the moonlight." He nibbled at her lips as he slipped the vest aside and slowly, so slowly, undid the buttons of her shirt. "There's moonlight on the water, on you. Pretty Rebecca." Lightly he cupped her breasts. "Come away with me."
"Anywhere," she murmured, and let him take her.
"There's no one but us." He drew off his shirt, always keeping contact with his mouth, on her lips, her cheek, the curve of her ear. "And nothing to do but make love. I want to make love with you, Rebecca. Only you, Rebecca. Day and night."
The words were seducing her. Words were powerful, she knew, and his were captivating her. His skin was under her hands now, wonderfully smooth and warm. His heart beat slow and thick against hers. She would have sworn she heard the waves hiss and rise on the sand.
"In the surf," she said dreamily as those wonderful hands glided over her. "With the water flowing up, then away."
"That's right. Your skin's wet and cool. Slick," he said as he continued to undress them both. "And it tastes of salt." Still murmuring, he lowered her to the bed. "There's starlight in your eyes." He could see it, though the last rays of the sun slanted through the windows. "Silver sparkling in the gold. We can stay as long as you like. As long as you want."
His mouth slid over hers, coaxing, giving, taking just a little more when her lips softened on a sigh. Beneath his, her body was soft, yielding, surrendering. She was with him now, he knew. Pulse to pulse. He wanted to show her what it was to be cherished.
So his hands were gentle, his lips tender, and each move, each shift, was fluid and patient. Loving. He lingered where he knew it pleased her most, going quietly, easily, sinking a little deeper with each stroke of his hands into the fantasy he'd created for her.
She was floating. It could have been water sliding over her, so sensitive were his hands. And the gift he brought to her was a liquid yearning as much of the soul as of the body.
She dreamed there was sand beneath them, wet and smooth. And the wind at the windows was the musical murmur of surf. The dim light seemed to be rich and silver with the full, rising moon. The exotic perfume of island flowers, the midnight sea that stretched forever, the romantic song of tropical birds.
And her lover was there, holding her.
"Where are you, Rebecca?"
"With you."
"Stay with me."
She wrapped her arms around him.
He loved her endlessly, building the pace, letting the curren
t take her up, over. When she tumbled down, he was there to catch her, to begin the journey all over again. Knowing she was lost in him, in them, was the most exciting thing he'd ever experienced. Each sigh, each moan, each catch of her breath, poured through him like wine.
Whispering her name, he drew her up until they were torso to torso and the pace had to quicken or he would go mad. He found her breasts, drawing them hard into his mouth when she arched back. When she cried out his name, it was like music, with a driving beat that burned in the blood.
He had shown her she was cherished. Now he would show her she was craved.
All she could think was that the storm was coming.
Now it was wild, windy, and the waves lashed against her, threatening to drag her under, into the swirling dark. And she would go, willingly, as long as she could stay with him. So, she clung to him, her mouth desperate on his, her body straining toward each shattering fall. She plunged her hands into his hair, took greedy handfuls of it when he lifted her up to race lips and teeth down her body.
She was drowning, and glorying in it. From some dim corner of her mind, she heard her own voice begging him for more.
The moonlight was gone. Now there was only the flash of lightning, the bellow of thunder. Still he held her up, assaulting her system, destroying her nerves. She could feel the muscles in his arms quiver when he shifted. And he was under her.
"Look at me." His voice was rough, raw, his fingers dug deep in her hips. "Look at me. I want to see your eyes."
She opened them, and through her wavering vision saw his face. It was tensed, strained. Beautiful. "Come inside me. Now, for God's sake, Shane. I need you."
"Who are you?"
"Yours," she said, then cried out when he lowered her onto him.
She couldn't breathe, was sure her heart had stopped. Her body curved back like a pulled bowstring. Staggered, undone, she stroked her hands up her own quivering body, from belly to breasts, then up over her hair, where they linked as if to anchor her.
He'd never seen anything more beautiful, more arousing, more exciting, than Rebecca lost in pleasure. He watched her head fall back, saw the intensity of the climax that ripped through her. To savor the moment, he held himself still, let her absorb every instant of that first assault of sensation.