As You Wish (14 page)

Her body felt dangerously tantalizing, and her sleepy comment brought to mind how good it would be to snuggle up beside her for the night.  If she’d had her wits about her, she would have realized the dangers of her behavior.  Since she did not,
he
needed to watch out for her.

But her hair smelled like rosewater, and the flecks of light within the red mesmerized him.  He lifted a lock and ran his fingers through the silken strands.

“A shiny as hard candy,” he murmured.

“My friend Jeanine compared the color to cinnamon,” she said, gazing into the fire.

“Two temptations.”  His mind seemed to go off on its own pointless path.  “Which one is it?”

She gave a quiet laugh.  “Why don’t you taste it and see?”

His mouth fell open, and he stiffened.  He felt a stirring in his breeches and tried in vain to contain his wild thoughts.

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes, their lips only inches apart.  Raising one hand, she grazed the side of his head, so his hair tickled his neck.  “What flavor is yours?  Such a deep, rich black could only be licorice, I suppose.”

His breath came quick, despite his knowing he ought to steer her in a more serious direction.  But the temptation to return her teasing was irresistible.

“Why don’t you taste it and see?” he asked.

Her eyes rounded but only fleetingly.  Then she lifted a lock of his hair, the back of her hand brushing his ear lobe.  She paused, then leaned in close, as though she truly meant to taste his hair!

Then . . . she did.  Or she must have, also sampling his flesh, because he felt the tip of her tongue, warm and moist, just behind his ear.  For a moment she remained pressed close to him, and he thought, hoped, feared she would kiss his neck.  But she pulled back and looked into his eyes, emerald-tinted flames reflected in her own.

“Licorice?” he uttered, his breath rushing out.  He had not realized he was holding it.

“Much better than licorice.  But you haven’t tried mine.”  She tilted her head back and to one side, a gesture that proffered her neck rather more than her hair.

He knew she lacked lucidity of mind, knew he had to protect her from her own precarious mental state.  But he
needed
to taste her, now, while he could.  Shameful or not, a starving man had to feed.

Closing eyes that felt like they would burn under her gaze, he bent and brushed his lips over the soft skin under her jawline.  The scent of roses captivated him, and he pressed his mouth hard into her flesh, sowing downward to the curve of her shoulder.  He pulled her body to his, savoring the softness of her breasts against his chest.  He longed to plunge kisses downward, deep within the yielding neckline of her robe, but he checked himself.  He would have her mouth instead.  He had to have her mouth just this once, before this marvelous dream ended.

He glimpsed green fire in her eyes before leaning in to savor her lips.  She fed on his mouth in turn, hungrily answering his kiss.  She parted her lips to offer her tongue, faintly sweet with the taste of brandy--and ten times more intoxicating.

Intoxicating--nay, toxic, because the stupor descending on his brain prevented him from protecting her from herself--indeed, from him.  He fought his reeling senses and pulled away from her lips, holding her head between his hands to stare into her eyes.  He could feel her chest heaving against his.

“Leah,” he whispered.  “Good Lord, Leah, you have no notion what you are doing to me.”

She reached up and ran her fingers down his cheek.  “Only kissing you, David.”

“We must stop.  We must stop now.”  He summoned all his willpower and extricated himself from her arms.  How in heaven’s name had he allowed circumstances to go this far--nearly too far to turn back?

“We . . . don’t really have to stop,” she said quietly.  “There’s no harm in kissing.”

“No?”  He looked away from her, covering his lower face with his hand.  Perhaps his base birth did tell, after all.  A true gentleman never would have exposed a vulnerable woman to such an ignoble display of lust.  He was a cur indeed.  “My behavior is shameful.  If your mind were entirely sound right now, you would not even be sitting here with me.”

“My mind is sound.”

He leapt up from the settee, pacing the length of the hearth.  “Your judgment is impaired.  I know that, and I have behaved reprehensibly.  I never should have brought you here in the first place.  I am afraid I must escort you back to the manor house this instant.  If your shift has not dried, you can keep the robe.  Indeed, you must keep it regardless.”

She rose slowly, pulling the wrap closer around her body.  “I appreciate your concern for me, David, especially considering the lack of concern I’m used to receiving.  But I want you to know that
I
don’t believe my being here with you is the least bit reprehensible.  I wish you felt the same.”

He stopped in his tracks, shaking his head.  “Leah, you must try to think clearly.  Surely, you can see how perilous our being alone here is.”

“Okay.”  She pressed her palms together in front of her, as if about to deliver a speech.  “We’ll both think clearly.  Now, first of all, let’s establish just what is perilous here.  What would that be, David?”

He pressed his lips together tightly.  “No matter what delusions you may entertain, Leah, I know you have enough sense to realize your virtue is in jeopardy here.  If someone were to happen upon us now--let alone several minutes ago--you would be thoroughly compromised.”

She put her hand up over her mouth, only half-concealing a smile.

He threw his hands up in frustration.  “You show no anxiety whatsoever over your reputation!  Your recklessness is downright frightening.  Now, you said you would try to think clearly.  Do you truly not perceive any danger here?”

Her expression sobered, and she studied his face for a moment.  Bending down to retrieve their drinks, she handed him a snifter.  “Did you ever consider that the world might be a better place if an adult man and woman could choose to be alone together if they wanted?  Now I’m urging
you
to think.”

“I fear I cannot think at all at the moment.”  He swigged down a gulp of brandy.

“Don’t you think we ought to be able to sit here together if we want?  To snuggle?  To kiss or even make love?”

He froze with his glass in midair.  “Are you mad?  The world does not go on that way!”

“No . . .”  She looked into her drink, swirling the amber liquid onto the sides of the snifter.  “Not yet.”

He frowned at her apparent reference to the “future” she had fabricated in her head.  “What, precisely, are you saying?”

“Nothing.”  She walked to the chair where her shift hung and turned the garment so the opposite side faced the fire.

“Leah, how far does this future-time fantasy of yours go?”  He wondered whether he wanted to hear her answer, suspecting that the deeper her delusion went, the more difficulty she would have casting it off.  “Do you actually have ‘memories’ of life in another time period?”

She sat back down, again gazing into her brandy.  “I see no reason to tell you, since you’re so sure it’s all fantasy.”

“I am only trying to gauge the nature of your problem.  Do you have memories or none at all?”

“I have memories.”  Her focus remained fixed in her glass.

“And the events you recall cannot conceivably have taken place in this century?”

She met his gaze, eyes narrowed, but gave no response.

He gathered that her subconscious mind had actually invented ideas about her life in the future.  “What makes you believe they occurred in another time?”

Her shoulders sagged, and she set her glass down on the floor.  “I think I should go, David.  This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Why are you unwilling to discuss your memories?  I told you I would never send you to Bedlam.  Do you not believe me?”

“I believe you.  I just don’t want to talk about it.  Hand me my dress, please.”

He watched her a moment longer, noticing her expression had gone sad.  Suddenly, a new thought came to him: Perhaps she refused to try to work on understanding her problems because she had reason to avoid the truth.  Perhaps she had created a fantasy background for herself because her true past was too painful to retain.  If so, he might do best to indulge her for the time being.  When she grew ready to remember, she would remember.

Placing his brandy on the mantel, he fetched her shift from the chair.  The feminine softness of the garment absorbed him.  As he tested the material for dryness, he observed the fabric felt too fine for cotton, yet lacked the shine of silk.  He had opened his mouth to ask about the material when he noticed a label of some sort sewn into the back of the neckline--perhaps a name tag.  Curious, he tilted the little piece of cloth toward the firelight and read, “100% RAYON, DRY CLEAN ONLY.”  The letters appeared uniformly printed, as they would in a book or newspaper.

“What is this?” he asked.

“The tag,” she said, her gaze anchored on his eyes.  “Mass-produced clothing is labeled like that.”

He resisted inquiring what the term “mass-produced” meant.  Though he had decided to indulge her fantasy, he had no intention of encouraging further delusion.

“Look at the seams,” she said.  “Have you ever seen sewing like that?”

He turned the neckline inside out, revealing an intricate pattern of looped, twisted and interlaced stitches, all amazingly equal in size and spacing.  He could scarcely fathom why a  seamstress would choose such an elaborate pattern for the inside of a garment.  “This must have taken an extraordinary amount of time to produce.”

“On the contrary, the work is done very quickly . . . by a machine.”  She continued to regard his face.  “By machine, I mean a tool constructed of multiple, moving parts, the way a clock is.  A sewing machine can whip out those seams in seconds.”

He glanced down at the labyrinth of stitches and the   peculiar printed label.  Gooseflesh rose on his arms.

But her explanation could only be nonsense.  The brandy, the flickering enchantment of firelight, the spell her lips and body had cast upon him--all these factors had clouded the line between reality and the fantastic until he could no longer trust his own judgment.

His fingers tightened on the fabric as anger welled up inside of him.  If he could have shaken sense into her, he would have tried, but mindless action would do no good in a case as complex as this.

“Put this on,” he said through clenched teeth, tossing her the shift.  “We shall leave in five minutes.”

He marched from the room and went to the study, slamming the door behind him.  The empty shelf where the brandy decanter usually stood glared at him, reminding him he should have brought his glass with him.  He could have used another drink to help settle the whirl of emotion agitating his mind and body--though mere alcohol would hardly blank out the disorder Leah Cantrell had brought into his world.

If the confusion of sorting out her life did no more than leave him with a predilection for spirits, he would be fortunate.  If he proved less fortunate, he might come out of the experience a madman.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Leah woke up in a flood of sunlight, realizing she must have slept late.  Between her failed attempt to return to the future and the so sweet, so brief romantic encounter with David, she’d had plenty to keep her up most of the night.

She stretched her arms above her head, wondering if she’d ever get home.  Worrying about it would only make her crazy.  If she were meant to return, she would find the way.  Meanwhile, she had resolved that whether her time in the nineteenth century were long or short, she wanted to spend as much of it as possible with David.  She also realized that to get close to him, she couldn’t live a lie.  Somehow, she would have to convince him of her story--a task that wouldn’t prove easy.

She climbed out of the high bed and washed her face with tepid water from a pitcher on the vanity.  A small mirror above the basin reflected the evidence of too-little rest: a paleness to her already light complexion and faint circles under her bloodshot eyes.  She would have done just about anything for a tube of concealer.

As she turned from the mirror, she almost tripped on a pile of clothes lying on the floor from the night before.  She stooped to pick up her sundress, thinking she really should have been more careful with the only evidence she had of her origins--the one physical remnant of her life in the twenty-first century.

Something from her own time period
.

An idea popped into her head, and she gave the heap of fabric a second look.  Could she offer her dress to the fountain as “fare” for her return trip?  An item of clothing didn’t have the same sort of value a coin did, but the dress
had
come from the right era.  And maybe Celtic deities honored a different form of currency than mere mortals.

As she stood, shaking out the wrinkled rayon, something fell out of the pocket and thumped on the carpet.  She looked down and, sure enough, the George III coin lay at her feet.

“The proverbial bad penny,” she muttered, bending down to pick up the piece.  “Only this one is a little too eerie for me.”

She shuddered and stowed it away in the cloth purse she’d heard Phoebe call a “reticule.”  Why did the damn coin end up back with her every time she tossed it in the spring?  If some greater power intended her to use it some other way, then how?  She remembered wondering about the original wish-maker when she first found the piece.  Was she supposed to return it to that person, whomever he or she might be?

Whatever
.  She put the purse in a drawer and hung her dress in the wardrobe, deciding she would think about both matters later.  Her problems had stolen away her peace long enough.  Right now, her stomach demanded attention, rumbling a desire for Cook’s flaky croissants and delicious marmalade.  If she could throw on one of Phoebe’s gowns quickly enough, she might still be able to get served.

Within ten minutes, she reached the entrance to the breakfast room, pausing at the door when she found she wasn’t the only one eating late.  David and his father sat together at the table, plates pushed aside to make room for a batch of papers spread in front of them.  Neither noticed her, their nearly identical mops of hair bent over their work.  In such proximity, she saw that David’s locks were a purer black than even the darkest of the marquess’s salt-and-pepper blend.