Garters.htm (17 page)

Esme jerked up her skirts and began pulling on her stockings. Without being asked, Cleav hurriedly turned his back.

"Truthfully, I didn't understand why you wanted me to kiss her," he said. "I guess you knew what would happen."

"No!" Esme protested. "I didn't know what would happen. And I didn't want you to kiss her!"

"You were teasing me, Esme,'' he replied. "You aren't going to deny that."

"Well, yes… I mean no," she sputtered as she hurried her shoes on.

"You suggested I wasn't a man if I didn't kiss her."

"I didn't want you to kiss
her
." Esme came to her feet and hurried to his side. Turning him toward her, she reached up and laid her palm against the strong masculine jaw that had felt the consequences of Miss Sophrona's wrath.

"I didn't want you to kiss her, Cleav," she whispered. "I wanted you to kiss me."

For a man who just minutes previous had been given a memorable lesson on kissing women, Cleav was remarkably unhesitant. Wrapping his arms around the small of her back, he pulled her tightly against him.

Esme breathed a startled little "oh" of surprise and then eagerly tried to press his lips with her own.

"Wait!" he whispered urgently. Esme quieted in his arms. "This time I want no question about it.
I
am kissing
you
."

With that he lowered his head, gently taking her mouth with his own. The kiss was brief, transient, merely a flutter of sensation, and as he drew away, Esme felt a rush of disappointment.

"Open your mouth, Esme," he whispered hotly against her ear. "Let me taste you."

The thrill of his words scattered gooseflesh across her skin, and she readily parted her lips for his. This time the kiss was neither quick nor teasing. A hot passion boiled between them as Cleav sought to ease the fire by the wet wonder of Esme's mouth.

Esme ran her fingers up the strong arms that held her, caressing his broad shoulders. Sighing against his mouth,she reveled in the illicit enticements of his lips, answering each improper liberty with accessibility.

Her knees trembled, and for a moment she feared she might drop to his feet. But Cleav held her firmly against him as his strong hands cupped her backside and raised her off the ground. Her long, slim legs seemed to wrap themselves naturally around him. She heard him groan as if in pain before he pressed her hot, feminine core against his hard, masculine counterpart

Esme broke away from his lips with a cry, and she squirmed closer to him, aching with desire.

"Do you feel that, Esme," he whispered hoarsely against her neck.

"Yes, oh, yes," she answered breathlessly.

"That's what a husband gives to his wife in their marriage bed."

"Yes, oh, yes." She continued to wiggle against him, trying to get closer, much closer, so much closer.

It was heaven. It was hell. Cleav ground his teeth, viciously trying to regain his
control.

"You know what else it is," he whispered again, rolling his hips to give her a more accurate accounting of his form and dimensions. "It's what I would give to you if I were a cad."

"Oh, yes… what?"

She opened her eyes in surprise to find him staring at her, his jaw tight with self-control. They were both trembling with the force of desire. But Cleav held himself rigid as he removed her legs from his waist and set her feet back on solid ground.

"I am not a cad, Esme," he said gently. "And you are not someone who should be treated lightly."

"Cleav, I want…"

He held up his hand to stop her words."I know what you want, Esme." He allowed his hand to drop to her bosom.

Caressing her gently, he felt the nipples begging his fingers for attention.

"This is not what you want," he whispered hoarsely as he moved his hand up her throat to raise her
chin. "A quick tumble in the grass is not what you are hoping for," he insisted firmly. "You told me that first day in
the store what you really want," he said. "You want to many me."

Esme blushed and lowered her eyes. Cleav wouldn't let her off so easily.

"You want to marry me," he repeated. "But
I
do not, will not, marry you, Esme, not ever."

She opened her mouth to protest, bet he continued. "I know it hurts you to hear this, Esme," he said. "But it's like the alum," he insisted. "The pain is real sharp for an instant, but then the wound heats up right away. You have to understand, Esme, that I do not, will not, ever love
you
. And you are not the kind of woman I would ever choose for a wife."

He meant to be kinder, to
add
more
soothing words as
he broke her heart. But he still trembled from their embrace. His hard-fought battle with his own conscience was barely won. If he did not break it cleanly, honestly now, Cleav knew he might well be tempted not to break it at all.

"You deserve better than I offer, Esme," he said. "Because to a foolish hill girl like you, I offer nothing."

"Well, good morning," Eula Rhy greeted her son as he stepped into the kitchen.

Nodding politely, Cleav returned her greeting sleepily. "What are you doing up so early, Mother? Obviously you must feel better today."

"I'm fine," she replied and then hastily corrected herself. "I'm not
well
, of course, but I'm having one of my better days."

"I'm glad to hear that," Cleav said sincerely as he accepted the steaming cup of coffee cradled daintily in the bone china saucer she held out to him. He could remember when his mother started his day, and his father's, with hearty breakfasts of pone and sausage. These days Mrs. Rhy cooked only sporadically, more often than not for company rather than her son.

"I needed to speak to you this morning," she told him.

"I waited for you last night, but you came in so late." Eula shook her head with disapproval. "What in the world do you do down at those ponds until near midnight? Shouldn't those foolish trout go to bed at a decent hour like the rest of us?"

Cleav managed a crooked grin at his mother's complaint. Last night it was the people who were restless, not the fish.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" he asked, unwilling to examine more closely his own unsettled condition.

"I spoke with Mabel Tewksbury yesterday—" Eula ended the phrase with a heightened lilt designed to convey excitement.

"Oh?" Cleav said, seemingly unconcerned.

Mrs. Rhy put out a frying pan on the stove and began stirring the cornmeal and water mixture that boiled in a pot beside it. "Mrs. Tewksbury says Sophrona won't breathe a word to her about the little spat you two had last weekend." She glanced back at her son at the table. "It's very sad for a mother when a child won't confide those things."

Cleav kept his eyes on the contents of his delicately patterned coffee cup, and Eula sighed with annoyance.

"Mabel's been trying to find out what happened, but that girl has been as silent as a stone." The fat in the pan began its noisy sizzle, and Eula focused her attention on it for a moment before pouring the thickened corn paste into the hot grease. "But yesterday," she continued without bothering to look back at Cleavis, "Sophrona says that she may have been unfair and judged you too harshly."

Eula turned to face her son, hoping to see a positive reaction to her words. His face revealed nothing.

"Mabel and I think that she's ready to forgive and forget and that you should strike while the iron is hot."

Cleav looked up at his mother but didn't respond.

Eula was exasperated. "I'm coming to the store early today. You pick up a nice little bunch of flowers for Miss Sophrona and go over there and see if you two can make it up."

Cleav raised his eyes to his mother's, but there was no obedient young son in his look. "Mother, Miss Sophrona and I are no concern of Mabel Tewksbury or yourself."

His mother's expression was incredulous. "No concern? You are our children. Whatever else are we supposed to be concerned about?"

He looked at his mother with eyes that were not particularly sympathetic. "I will make it up with Miss Sophrona in my own way, in my own time," he said flatly.

Eula Rhy smiled at him with just the right measures of approval and condescension. "Of course you will, Cleav," she told him. "I'm just letting you know that today is the right time and this afternoon at the Tewksbury parsonage is the right place." Mrs. Rhy plopped a generous amount of the thick, yellow fried contents of the pan onto Cleav's plate and set it before him.

He eyed it with disapproval.

"Mother, you know I don't care for mush."

"It's for your stomach."

"My stomach? There's nothing wrong with my stomach."

Eula shook a finger at him in maternal correction. "You can't fool me, young man," she told him. "I heard you myself way late in the night. Moaning in your sleep, like you was set to die."

Cleav's eyes widened perceptibly, and his face flushed redder than hot coals under molasses. His gaze dropped to the unappetizing mush on his plate, and dutifully he picked up his spoon and took a bite.

He missed his mother's smile of approval, unwilling to raise his head to look her in the eye. He had been moaning in his sleep last night, but it hadn't been the dyspepsia that pained him. Esme Crabb had haunted his dreams. Since that illicit kiss beside the pond, her image had become a most frequent visitor through his sleep.

Unlike the erotic dreams of his boyhood, where he'd felt satisfied and rested the next morning, today's morning light found him edgy, restless, and plagued by thoughts that were increasingly carnal.

Night after night her long, bare legs teased and tempted him, clutching at him in wantonness. Last night she'd wrapped them around his neck, and whimpering and begging, she'd pulled him to her closer, closer…

He'd awakened, disappointed, with a mouth full of pillow feathers and an ache that could not be soothed with a glass of fresh milk and a bowl of mush.

Just recalling the wicked fantasy made him stiffen at his own breakfast table. Not exactly the most respectable way for a gentleman to act. Certainly very inappropriate when sitting across the table from one's mother as she chattered on about the woman one is supposed to be planning to marry.

He took no pride in his illicit imaginings about Esme Crabb. Clearly, however, the situation was out of his control. He'd warned the young woman that his intentions were dishonorable, and he'd expected, hoped, that would be the end of her girlish infatuation. Still, she persisted in following him around like a shadow, flaunting herself brazenly before him.

"Sophrona is exactly the kind of daughter-in-law that I've always wanted," his mother was saying.

"Yes, Mother," Cleav answered absently. "She is without question the perfect choice for a wife."

"Then you mustn't delay a minute longer," she insisted. "This afternoon when she agrees to forgive you, you should propose immediately!"

"Mother!" Cleav's annoyance was tangible. "I told you that I will do things in my own time and in my own way."

Eula Rhy sniffed with disapproval. "Well, your 'own time' better be soon," she warned. "That horrible Crabb girl is making you the talk of this town. Miss Sophrona may not be interested in you if this goes on much longer."