Mary Brock Jones (26 page)

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

Her hands began to roam. “You make me so.”

Spellbound, he could only sit on the bench, watching and feeling as her hands splayed over the muscles of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, down the lines of his back as she leaned up to him. Then they ran over the hard lines of his backside, and down, down his legs. Her eyes follow her hands, totally enthralled. Then those curious fingers moved up again, nearer and nearer, then closed about the thick staff of his arousal. He gasped and clenched his eyes shut as the most powerful wave of desire he had ever felt gripped him in its fury.

His eyes snapped open and he reached for her, all restraint now gone. His tongue plunged into her mouth as his fingers sought the secret heart of her, felt her moist invitation and thrust in and in, urgent now to ready her for him.

A feeling unlike any she could have imagined took her over and swept her on. She needed, wanted, now! There were panting cries. Hers?

“Hush, hush, sweet love. Soon.” He laid her back down, his fingers bringing her closer to what she needed, but he paused. She was wet, pulsing, so ready for him.

“Now,” she pleaded.

“Yes.”

His body lifted over in one swift move, his knee nudged her legs apart. Not gently, yet with exquisite tenderness. Then he entered. Filling her, stretching her. She made to draw back. It was too much. Her eyes opened, saw the strain on his face.

“Gently, sweet. Let me in, please, or tell me no, but do it now.”

She was frightened, but not as much as she needed whatever it was that came next. This was John Reid, the man she had come to love more than she had thought possible. Love and trust.

“Come to me now,” she murmured.

Relief swamped his face. He took her face in his hands and his tongue plunged into her mouth, promising and inciting her in a caress that set her whole body on fire. Then his body thrust into hers, just as his tongue had promised. Once only, and his fingers dug into her thighs, holding her still, letting her adjust, letting the sudden sharp tug fade into oblivion, even as his clever fingers played on the secret nub and brought her back to pulsing expectation.

He felt the first waves hit her, felt her arch her back, and he pulled out and thrust in again and again, swiftly, urgently, right to the core of her womb. With every thrust, he felt the clench of her body on his. Then a mighty plunge, and the promise was fulfilled with a mighty roar of triumph to match the wordless gasp of joy from Nessa.

It was long minutes before they came back to reality. Slowly, he eased himself from her, mindful of any pain she may have felt, then he settled her against his chest, tucked her head against his shoulders and pulled the blanket over them both. Never had he felt so content.

She laid her head on his shoulder, studying the strong line of jaw. She was filled, replete, safe. Utterly safe. She gave a small sigh of happiness and wrapped her arms around his chest.
Home
was the word that lingered in her head as her eyes began to droop. She slid into sleep.

They must have slept for some time. When Nessa woke again, the roar of the weather outside had died away to be replaced by absolute silence. The only sounds to break it were the occasional snap of the dying fire and the soft, shooshing of John’s breathing. She sank back into the shelter of his arm, even in sleep slung protectively about her. She had never woken up beside a man before. She should be embarrassed. She felt many things, but not that. Loved, wanted, at home, so comfortable she never wanted to move away from their makeshift bed.

Nothing could come of tonight. She could not do that to Philip, not yet. He would not leave her in this land, and he must complete his studies. What had happened was for tonight only, was between her and John alone. She should feel guilt, or shame at her behaviour, but how could something so joyous be shameful? She loved John. She could admit it here, to herself. This one night may be all she would ever have. It was beyond her to regret that.

“Hey, sleepy head,” rumbled the deep voice of the man beside her. She felt the vibration of it through her cheek, mixing with the strong beat of his heart. She looked up, smiled her joy at him and saw the echo of it on his lips in the flickering light of the fire’s dim glow. He looked happy, his mouth bent upwards and more relaxed than she had seen.

They made love again in that small tin shelter high up on the ranges, then slept, and woke again to daylight, silence, and the joy they found together.

It was late in the morning before they stirred again. The snow was deep enough outside to keep them safe from intruders. John had lain quiet in the night, watching and planning. If they returned home by midday, his staff would think they had set out early from Campbell’s. He was not about to have the world making light with Nessa’s name. Also, he did not want her to come to the altar for any other reason than the love they had found here tonight.

He stayed quiet, plotting and dreaming of days to come. Of a small, brown-haired boy dogging his footsteps or a wee girl with her mother’s eyes, welcoming him home. Jacques would know where to find a parson, or he could ask Jean-Claud on his next pass through. He would ride over to the lower Dunstan. The police could give him a marriage licence, he assumed, but the parson was his major worry. If necessary, he would ride to Dunedin; but he didn’t want to wait so long.

Looking at Nessa in the bright morning sunshine only confirmed it. A bit shy now she turned her back to him as she found then donned her clothes.

She had pulled out her brush from her bag and tugged it through her hair as best she could without a mirror.

“I’m afraid there’s only a bit of snow up here to wash with,” he apologised. “I’ll melt some in the camp oven as soon as I get the fire going.

“Thank you.”

He pulled her close, drawing his hands through her hair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you more. This is a poor place to treat you to. But know that whatever I have to give, it’s yours.” His lips caught hers again and told her the truth of his promise.

It was much later still before they were ready to leave. It would be well on in the day before they made it home at this rate. Reluctantly, John checked her horse’s stirrups and made to leave. He could not resist a last, backward glance, then saw she was doing the same. There was a very special smile on her face. She turned to him and watched as he mounted. She held out her hand and touched it to his.

“It was perfect,” she said. “The best place I could ask for.”

Then they were off again.

It was only as they neared the homestead that it came to John that nothing had been settled between them. They were not yet in sight of the house. He pulled his horse up and waited while she did the same then wheeled to face him.

“So what happens next?”

Confusion broke across her face. “I thought…”

“No, not that,” he put in hastily, suddenly realising she thought he was talking about where she would stay. “Ada started preparing a room for you before I left. You can stay with the Coopers as long as you wish. That’s not what I meant.”

“You said I could help Ada out in return for board, and Jacques would have work for me at Chamonix—mending and such.” A line had appeared in her forehead and he ached to lean over and smooth it away.

“I wasn’t talking about work.” Could she be so obtuse? “I was talking about us.”

“Oh.”

She blushed and looked anywhere but at him.

“I’ll get Jacques to look out for a parson as soon as I can, and I can ride into Dunstan in a couple of days for the licence.”

“You’re not going back to Campbell’s?” she said first. But then she caught the meaning of his words. “A parson? No. You don’t understand. No, I can’t.”

“Nessa, we made love last night. I love you, and I think, no, hope you love me. That usually results in a parson and a wedding.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I thought you understood. Last night was… It was very precious to me. I will never forget it. But that’s all it can be … a memory. I am not free to marry you, not yet. Philip needs me. Until he has made his fortune and finished his studies, I cannot marry anyone.”

“Why not?” He felt like shouting, but it came out strangled as, in one move, all his dreams lay shattered. “Did last night mean nothing to you? That I won’t believe. I know you, know the kind of woman you are. Last night would never have happened unless you loved me. Admit it.”

She shook her head, pulling her horse back hard enough to jib at the reins and make it prance fretfully. He grabbed at the straps and held the horse firmly to halt it.

“Don’t do this to us.”

“I have to.”

“And if there is a child?”

She shook her head. “It’s unlikely.”

“But not impossible. I’m sending for a parson today. You can decide what you want when he gets here.”

He dropped her reins then and kicked his horse savagely on. He had seen the look on her face, the determined set of her chin. The flaming woman was serious! If Philip Ward had been in reach right now, he would not have vouched for his safety. How could she be so stubborn?

Nessa was saved from more arguments by the ruckus of their arrival. John had galloped past his own house and on to the Coopers’ without so much as a backwards glance. Part of her was amused as she viewed the stiff set of his shoulders as he rode ahead of her. She had lived long enough with a father and brother to recognise the signs of a man in high dudgeon.

Part of her was amused. The rest was lost. So much of what he said was true. There could be a child. They had made love last night. She was not a woman to do such a thing lightly, without love. She admitted it. She loved John Reid. But she had put aside her own needs for so long that she could no more contemplate abandoning Philip for a life with John than she could deny how much she longed to be free. She looked her fill at his home as he hurried her past, and was honest enough to know that she yearned to be able to stop there.

He slowed as he neared the Coopers’ house, and Ada’s welcome was warm enough to cover the signs of strain.

“Now, I’ve put Sally in with the two little ones, so you’ve a bed all to your own. We’re a mite noisy, what with the little ones, but you’ll get used to it, I dare say.”

Ada had picked up her bag and Nessa perforce had to follow her or engage in a tug of war to recover it. The older woman had already dismissed John, and Nessa was barely able to quickly bob and give him a brusque “Thank you” before she must hurry into the cottage. She was left with an image of a hand half-lifted to her and a grim frown on his hard face before she was bustled through the door. It shut behind her, and all she could hear was the sound of hoof beats. Madly galloping away from her.

She saw little of John in the coming days. She could almost have believed the night in the hut a dream, had she had not the odd bruise to treasure in remembrance of it. In bed at night, just after she blew out the light, she would tell each precious moment over to herself, remembering each touch, each caress, as of a bright chain of candy on a Christmas tree. It had happened. She might deny it during the day, might greet John with the careful cheer of a mere acquaintance; but she knew what had passed between them, and so did he. It was there in the way he made sure to capture her eyes at least once on each of his brief visits.

I am here, and I am not going away, those looks said.

She tried her best to ignore it. Ada made her feel so much at home that, within a day, it was as if she had been there forever. Jacques welcomed her with all the wily effusiveness of his Frenchman’s heart. They bargained happily for two heady hours, finally coming to an arrangement that she was sure he was secretly as pleased with as was she. She agreed to work in his store for three days a week, accepting translation work while there, and for the rest of the time she would take in the packers’ mending, with a cut going to Jacques, for ‘representation’ was his term. He sealed the deal with a Gallic flourish, clasping her hands and kissing her thoroughly on each cheek. The men laughed merrily and cheered him as with a shameless twinkle in his eye, he pulled out a bottle of wine to celebrate. What John would have done had he been there, she dare not guess.

But he was not. A few days after depositing her in her new home, he disappeared. She did not ask the Coopers where to. She knew. He had gone back to Campbell’s, to settle with the blackguard who had attacked her.

It should not have mattered to her. She was busy, occupied, her mind supposedly too full with her new duties to think of anything else. But every minute of every day, she was aware of his absence. By the third day, her nerves were stretched to near breaking point. She was worried for Philip, she told herself. Her brother was so young. Who knew what he might feel called on to do in defence of her honour? John should never have put such an idea in his head.

But in the dark of the night, she could not deny the truth. She needed to see John riding back down the hill, whole and safe. In her heart, she knew Philip was not at risk. John would not let him be. It was John who would confront Fox. John who would be in danger. And it was all her fault.

The third day after he had left was clear and sunny. It was late autumn, and the air carried the knowledge of snow on the tops in its touch. But the sun was shining and the day too beautiful to sit inside. Nessa had a basket of mending she had brought back from the Chamonix packers the previous afternoon, and she carried it out to the front of the Cooper’s hut. There was a smooth patch of English grasses there, eaten smooth by the sheep and cleared of the longer tussock. It was free of dust and even enough to set a chair and stool on. The cottage faced northeast, and today the breeze was light enough that it touched her skin in a pleasant caress.

The children were down by the yards, helping their father sort out a flock of sheep brought down from the hills yesterday, and Ada was inside making scones for their afternoon tea. Nessa was, unusually, alone.

A last cricket of summer called somewhere, and the breeze set up a rustling hum in the long tussocks beyond the shelter of the house. She breathed in deeply, smelling familiar English grasses and the more exotic fragrances of this land: the rich scent of the golden tussock, the warm, dryness of the dusty path, the stone oven aroma of the sun baking the flat limestone rocks.