by Tracy Sumner
Charlie wanted to understand. She wanted to deny the jealousy she felt. But, she couldn’t quite accept another woman touching him. As liberated as she wanted to be, the sight of Marilyn’s hand on his arm ripped a gash deep inside her. It made her think harsh, ugly thoughts.
It didn’t help any to know Marilyn would be here when she left. Hellfire, she didn’t expect him to live the life of a priest. She knew, no, she recognized the reality of their situation. But still, it hurt.
“Miss Whitney? What do you think of Miss Cameron’s musical ability?” Her neighbor on the sofa leaned closer in expectation of her answer.
“I’m sorry?” Had he been talking to her for long? She hoped not.
“Miss Cameron. She is quite good. I love to hear her play.” He tapped his hand on his knee. “Absolutely divine.”
“Yes, she is.” Apparently, Miss Cameron had an admirer, and Charlie had been fortunate enough to get the seat next to him. “You know, I feel a headache coming on. I think I may take a moment to catch my breath. On the verandah.” She had a porch. Chase had a verandah.
Miss Cameron’s admirer stood with a bow as she swept by.
“I hope I don’t miss much. She is divine,” she added because she thought she needed to.
From across the room, Mrs. Peters’ stern gaze followed her. Charlie winked and flicked her fan against her head in salute. Her chaperone frowned harder. She couldn’t hear it, of course, but she did see the deep inhalation and release of breath she had come to know so well these last two weeks.
She took a sharp left as she entered the hallway. She wanted to escape Miss Cameron’s musical abilities. Escape the sight of Marilyn Elliot's hand on Chase's arm.
The verandah was just the place.
Marilyn Elliot’s gaze lingered on the man sitting beside her as he watched Miss Whitney exit the room. Against her best efforts, Marilyn liked the young woman, who had introduced herself with an outstretched hand. Marilyn had never shaken a woman’s hand before and was not sure how to do it. Grasp and squeeze? No squeeze with just a shake?
Charlotte Whitney had definitely been a surprise. Intelligence, spirit and a refreshingly straightforward manner, wrapped in a freckle-specked, sun-blistered package.
Marilyn smoothed her hand down the bodice of her dress. She and Adam had never had any more than a friendship that certainly went beyond the proper bounds of friendship. But she was a woman after all, competitive and rancorous at times. She admitted to being saddened to see him so entranced by another woman. She'd assumed what they shared was the most any woman was ever going to share with him.
Yet it took only a moment, to witness his gaze lingering upon Miss Whitney’s face—at once fierce and smoldering, the next warm and lovingly amused—to know what he felt for her.
Marilyn had to admit they were a well-matched pair. Intelligent to a fault, beautiful in a disinterested way, aggressive, honest, and of course, infatuated with a dusty old newspaper. Wouldn’t you know it?
Jared. Miss Whitney had called him that today, when they walked into the dining room together. Interesting.
Marilyn knew only a little of Adam’s family. Of course, she had heard gossip about the tragedies: the mother’s demise at a young age, the indifferent, tyrannical father who died in a steamboat explosion, the elder son’s death during a duel. Other than that she did not know much. Adam did not speak of his family. He used his middle name when he wrote, but she had never known anyone to address him by it.
As he shifted with a restless twitch, she felt a heavy pull in her chest. Leaning, she whispered near his ear, “Go have a smoke. This is dreadfully dull, but Kate’s a friend, and I have to stay.”
He turned to her, his gaze tight and calculating as if he expected her to say more. Dared her to.
So, he has not admitted to himself that he loved the girl. Marilyn almost smiled. That was more like the Adam Chase she knew.
“Go on.” She settled her hands in her lap and straightened her spine. “Kate will probably only play another song or two. We can take a stroll later.”
He squeezed her gloved hand and rose from the sofa.
Marilyn Elliot turned her attention to Miss Katherine Cameron, who was arranging her skirt and flexing her hands in preparation for another piece. Marilyn swallowed and tilted her chin, head held high. Adam’s gesture was meant to comfort, she was sure, but it had felt so very much like a farewell.
“Hello, stranger.”
Adam turned at the sound of her smooth murmur. He had been peering through the darkness, looking for her. As it was, he could barely see her, hidden in shadow, the moon providing only a feeble remnant of light.
“Looking for me?”
“No.” He released a puff of smoke.
She laughed, a seductive laugh, low and throaty. His hand shook as he lowered it to the balustrade. She was becoming a woman before his eyes, beneath the persuasive stroke of his fingers, changing in ways that excited him, made his blood dance beneath his skin.
He heard her walk toward him. Her slippers bounced off marble as she dropped them from her hands. She slid her arms around him and pressed her face against his back. “I think you were looking for me.”
Of course he was, but there was no need to give her more ammunition. “Whatever you say, love.” He denied the callousness of his words as he laid his free hand over hers, which were clasped together across his stomach.
They stood in silence, the darkness isolating them from the party. A light breeze carried the scent of roses, honeysuckle and tobacco. Somewhere a night owl called.
Adam extinguished his cheroot and turned in the circle of her arms. She clung to him, her head pressed against his chest. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed her in. He smiled. She had loosened the chignon.
Waking in the middle of the night, when the horrible dreams threatened, was nothing new. With sweat rolling down his face and neck and the force of his expelled breaths shaking his entire body and finding her there was. Lying on her side often as not, touching him with her hand or her foot or her hip, as it was too hot to hold each other as they would in the winter.
Winter.
She would be long gone by then. He closed his eyes and kissed her softly, her hair clinging to his lips. The strands smelled faintly of lemon. “Your hair smells good.”
Charlie giggled and twisted to look at him. Her sapphire eyes were wide and clear, contentment and pleasure flowing from them. He envied her. Envied her absolute assurance. Envied the happiness she felt, which she seemed to be able to protect from events beyond her control.
He was struggling to protect his. At least until she left.
“Jared...”
His gaze settled on her mouth as she slid her tongue deliberately along her bottom lip.
He groaned low in his throat and again touched his lips to hers. She quivered and swayed into him, rubbing against his hard arousal.
My, she had learned well.
“Let’s” —she kissed the side of his mouth— “go down” —her lips trailed along his neck— “by the” —drawing his skin between her teeth, she sucked— “river.”
He wanted to; oh, how he wanted to. He wanted her on her back, her thighs spread, her legs wrapped around his waist. Her savage, urgent little breaths skating across his skin. He wanted to delve so deeply that he could not climb out. Disappear without a trace.
Except, he would take her with him, of course.
He frowned and pulled away. Now where had that come from? Was it a fantasy? It was a rather insufficient one compared to the others he had produced before she had come along. Where were the lacy undergarments and crude propositions? The full breasts and round hips? Now, he fantasized about being deserted like some bewildered pirate on a lone isle with Charlie Whitney?
Disgusted with himself and his pathetic daydreams, he thrust her aside. “Ow.” He lifted a hand to his neck.
She stared at him a moment, then spit out a short laugh. “You shouldn’t push a woman away
when she has your skin between her teeth.”
“Go inside, Charlie.”
She stopped laughing and narrowed her eyes. He hated the comprehension he saw reflected upon her face.
“You torture yourself for emotions no one could help feeling.”
“I can help them.”
Her eyes burned in that noble, persuasive way that made him believe what she said. Or want so badly to believe. She would have made a damn fine politician.
“No. You can’t. You’ll have some relief in this life when you realize that.” She squeezed her hands into tight fists by her side. “You aren’t God, Jared. You cannot control everything. You can’t control my feelings or your own.”
“Go inside, Charlie.”
She rocked to the balls of her feet and back again. Sighing, she bent to gather her slippers. She paused before leaving the verandah and smothered a yawn against the back of her hand. The lamp hanging by the door revealed a wicked glint in her eyes. “I think I may go up to bed. It’s so hot. Too hot for clothing, don’t you think?” She winked. “Night, Chase.”
He waited until she sashayed inside before he let his laughter come. She was the most incredible woman he had ever known. The most incredible he had ever dreamed of knowing.
And for two more nights she was his.
Two nights later, Charlie woke with a start. She sat, bringing her knees to her chest and hugging them close.
She laid her hand on his pillow. Cool to the touch.
She slid from the bed, neglecting the stool, stretching until she touched the floor. She padded to the window. Wind ripped in and pressed Chase’s long cotton shirt against her breasts and thighs. The night was foggy, a crescent moon providing little light. There was no chance she could see him. And all she could hear was the rhythmic slap of water against the sandy bank.
Where was he?
A faint noise sounded. Removed from the house, near the woods. She stuck her head through the window. Hoofbeats. He’d been riding at this time of the night?
Taber had been delivered yesterday, much to Chase’s pleasure and relief. He’d been worrying like a mother hen about the horse getting hurt on the trip north.
However, the sight of Taber in his stall had hit her hard. The pain had centered in her stomach, and she’d turned to tell him they were making a mistake.
That leaving, living a life without each other, was a mistake.
Then he’d turned to her with a soft smile and a kiss, and she just couldn’t...do it. She’d tried to tell him a thousand times since then: this is wrong, Jared.
Wrong. We belong together.
There were two truths that she could see. One was, he didn’t see. Whether this was because he refused to, or because he was too far gone to love someone again, she was not quite sure.
The second truth was, she loved him.
Loved him with a depth of feeling she had never imagined was possible. Loved him more than she loved herself, she guessed, if the lioness-watching-over-her-cub protectiveness was any indication. It went beyond lust, infatuation, even the respect and awe that had started the whole arrangement in the first place.
She sincerely cared about him enough to get on that train tomorrow morning and ride out of his life and back into hers. Because she’d decided that perhaps he was unable to love someone again. At times, their closeness seemed as painful to him as alcohol to an open wound. He flinched and pulled away, dodged questions and contact, concealed his feelings and his thoughts with false smiles and laughter.
She thought she had gotten past a point with him, crossed a fence, a fence Adam Jared Chase had never meant anyone to cross again. So here she was, past the fence, but he was never going to let her go any further.
And she could not go back.
Sometimes, he had a fearful look in his eyes, and the fear hurt her more than anything had in a long time. More than all the nasty taunts thrown at her while she was growing up.
More than her parents’ deaths.
She had not been the one to blame for those events, but she was the one causing this pain.
She had promised she would leave when the time came.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the bed.
When the door opened a few moments later, she was curled on her side, her eyes closed, her lips pressed together.
His footfalls ceased as he neared the bed. The heavy scent of leather and horse radiated from him. It was the hardest promise she had ever fulfilled, to lie still when she wanted to grab him, pull him to her and smother him with all the love she felt.
But dear heaven, she did not want to make his life any harder.
She wound her fist into a tight ball under the pillow as he placed his hand on her face. His skin was moist with sweat. He sighed and ran his finger along her eyebrow, the curve of her nose. He brushed his thumb across her lips, so slowly, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of them.
Leave, will you! Go, dammit, go!
He turned as if he’d heard her. The door closed with a firm click behind him.
She guessed he never heard her weeping.
29
Regression
The act of going back to a previous place or state.
* * *
Miles kicked a pile of leaves from his path as he crossed the dirt drive leading to his house. He loved the intensity of fall. Crisp, raw colors. Colors you couldn’t create if you tried. But darn if the amount of leaves hadn’t damn near killed him. He’d about raked himself into an early grave and still leaves everywhere.
Thank goodness Charlie hadn’t accepted his offer to rake her yard. He really would be a dead man.
As he neared the house, Kath ran down the porch steps and launched herself at him. He grinned and dropped the rake, closing his arms about her.
“What’s this, my girl?”
Kath kissed his mouth and pulled back. She was nearly out of breath.
“Whoa, hold up.”
“Oh, Miles, I felt her move!”
“What move?”
She laughed and slapped his shoulder. “The baby, you ox.”
Swinging her around, he hugged her close. “My son is a strong boy already.”
“She is a strong girl.”
“Ah, Kathy, I’m thinking he’s a boy. Strong and fit, kicking already.”
She sighed, but smiled, and took his hand, leading him up the stairs and into the house.
The baby was due in late winter. Kathy and Charlie had been busy knitting and sewing, getting clothes and booties and such tiny things ready.
Charlie was almost as excited as his wife.
“Do I smell apple pie?” He patted his stomach.
“Yes, and you’d better enjoy it. We don’t have many good apples left. I need to preserve some for the winter.”
He sat at the table and poured himself a glass of tea. He needed to wash up before dinner, but a short rest wouldn’t hurt. Sipping the tea, he noticed a letter sitting in the middle of the table. He glanced at the front of the envelope before breaking the seal. “Another one?”
Kathy rolled her eyes before turning back to her pot of beans. “It’s absolutely ridiculous, if you ask me.”
He smiled. “Obviously no one is, my girl.”
“They’re both stubborn mules.”
“If you say so.”
“How many letters have we gotten?”
He lifted his gaze and sucked his lip between his teeth. “Hmmm...three or four, I guess.”
“Mercy. Charlie looks at them like they’re lost treasure, yet she wouldn’t touch one if you paid her a quarter eagle.”
He shrugged and returned to the letter. “What does that matter? You tell her what’s in them.”
She banged the spoon against the stove. “She says it doesn’t matter what they say. That’s he writing to you. Not to her. Like she doesn’t care or something.”
“Kathy, we don’t know what went on in Richmond.”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
“Landsakes. Just ask her what happened and put us all out of our misery.”
“I don’t know, Miles. She’s changed so much since she went up there. It’s like she’s older...wiser.”
Kathy was right about that. Charlie was different. Not different in a physical way. Not in any way a casual acquaintance would detect. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. The before-Richmond Charlie—as he’d come to think of her—had been a bit like a firecracker. Always restless.
The after-Richmond Charlie was calm...mature. He wouldn’t describe her as unhappy. He really didn’t know how the hell to describe her, and he was frankly sick to death of his wife asking him about it.
Charlie Whitney was her best friend. The best friend he’d had in a long time was sitting in Richmond, writing him letters. Miles had even written a few back, which was surely a first for him. He supposed he couldn’t chastise Kath for not asking Charlie what had happened. He hadn’t had the guts to ask Adam a damn thing, either.
“What does he say?”
Miles flattened the sheet on the table. He squinted, then glanced at Kathy to see if she’d noticed. She’d been bugging him for the last month or so to go see Doc Olden about getting spectacles. All he could think of was his father, rubbing his tired eyes and slipping on his lenses, gray hair ballooning about his head.
Surely, he wasn’t old enough to need spectacles.
“Do you want me to read the whole letter?” he asked.
“Of course, read the whole letter.”
He sighed. Women.
* * *
Dear Miles and Kath,
You should have received the cradle. A man in Richmond has been making them since I was a child. You can count on it being there for your grandchildren as well.