To Love and to Cherish (21 page)

“Your parents?” She indicated two framed watercolor miniatures, and Christy nodded. She bent closer. So that was the famous old vicar, about whom she had never heard a single disparaging word. She’d thought he would look like Christy, but he didn’t; he was dark, not fair, and frail-looking, and the only extraordinary thing about him was his eyes, which were light brown, penetrating, and uncannily sympathetic. Christy had been influenced powerfully by this man, may even have chosen his vocation because of him. Looking at his portrait, she thought she could understand why.

“She was pretty,” he’d said of his mother tonight. Anne thought it an understatement. She was a beautiful woman, with her son’s blond hair and ice-blue eyes, and an expression that was, at least in this portrait, at once loving and ever so slightly ironic. She was fond of the artist, but her face said she wished he would hurry and get on with it.

A thought struck her. “Did you paint these?”

“Yes.”

“I should’ve known. Oh, Christy, they’re lovely. How old were you when you did them?”

“Twenty, twenty-one.”

“I’d like to see all of your paintings. You’ve kept them, haven’t you?” He nodded. “Could I see them?”

He smiled, shrugged. “Someday. If you like.”

“I would like.” She crossed the room to his bedside table, which was covered with books and papers. Stirring the papers, deliberately nosy, she saw that they contained notes for one of his upcoming sermons. She made a shocked face. “You write your sermons in
bed?
”

“When I’m stuck. Which is most of the time.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “you’re really reading it.” One of the books on the table was
A Treatise on the Philosophy of Agnosticism
; she’d left it for him last week in their hiding place.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She hadn’t even read it herself. She felt sheepish. Christy’s faith was based on study and contemplation and who knew how many hours of soul-searching, while her lack of it was based, if she cared to be truthful, on not much of anything at all. “What did you think of it?” she asked in a small voice.

“Haven’t finished it yet. Mostly I’m impressed by the dreariness of a man’s vision of a world with no God.”

“Let’s not talk about theology tonight,” she said hastily.

He smiled his patient smile. “All right.”

She remembered—had never forgotten—why she’d lured him up here in the first place. On slightly surer ground, she moved to the middle of the bed and sat down at the edge, smoothing her palms over the coverlet. “Soft,” she said—softly, giving him the full benefit of her smile. “Join me?” She raised her eyebrows, daring him.

He watched her without speaking for a long, long moment. Then he shrugged away from the doorpost and straightened his folded arms. Not smiling at all, he crossed the room to the bed, and by the time he reached her she’d stopped breathing. He put his hands in her hair, tipping her head up. “Anne,” he said, and kissed her with such tenderness, she could hardly bear it. She pulled him down beside her on the bed and put her arms around his neck, and in no time at all they were holding each other, exchanging soft, glad caresses. “I’ve been waiting all night to do this,” he confessed, and she whispered back, “Me, too.” She put her hands inside his coat so she could stroke his broad back and hold him tight against her, savoring the hard, muscular feel of him, all man, all hers. While he kissed her, he whispered in her ear, words that curled her toes and took her breath away. Was there ever a man like him? She could feel her heart stealing away, deserting her side and going over to his. Uncatchable now; she’d think about it later.

He held her jaw in his cupped palms and stroked her lips with his thumbs, urging them open with a gentle pressure. A sweet, heavy longing moved over her. Their lips met in the slowest of kisses, warm and damp, as intimate as lovemaking. She wasn’t sure how her hand had gotten on his thigh, but she loved the rock-solid feel of it under her stroking fingers. Christy made a soft sound in his throat and she echoed it, a low hum of sheer appreciation.

She had on a black lace jabot that buttoned down the front of her blouse. She said, “Oh,” when she realized he was slowly undoing the buttons. She pulled back to see his face—faintly flushed, beautifully intent; when he looked up from his unbuttoning, she saw that his pupils had almost eclipsed the clear blue irises. He spread his hands across her chest, above the frilly chemise, caressing her skin and making her sigh. Bending his head, he put his lips on the bare top of her shoulder. She breathed in the scent of his hair, stroking it, letting it tickle her between her fingers.

He began to tug at her corset, and she could feel his thrilling impatience through his touch. Her breasts spilled out, the top of the garment pushing them up like an offering, a gift. His strong hands covered her possessively. “My darling,” he murmured. “Anne, my love.” She closed her eyes, giving herself up to the delicious pleasure, feeling wanton—but safe, too, because she was cherished. And she was falling, falling, the coverlet at her back, and Christy’s hair a soft, sweet teasing on her breasts. She felt his lips kiss one sensitive nipple, and she arched her back, sighing his name.

“Be my wife,” he whispered, trailing kisses up and down the hollow between her breasts. “Marry me, sweetheart.”

“I can’t. Don’t ask me,” she got out, eyes squeezed shut.

“Anne . . .”

“Don’t ask me. Please, Christy. Be my lover.”

Very gently, he slid his hands under her shoulders and pulled her up, so that they were sitting again. His eyes were downcast, hidden by his long lashes. The kiss he gave her was different this time, still tender and loving but . . . sad. “I won’t ask you again,” he said in a murmur, brushing his fingers across her hot cheek. “At least, I’ll try not to.” His crooked smile twisted inside her painfully. He whispered, “I wish you could’ve loved me.” And then he stood up.

She blinked at him, dazed. “You . . .” Her heart slowed, began to thud in a dull, panicky rhythm. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Oh, Christy, please. Don’t—oh, don’t say we can’t see each other again—like this.”

He faced her. Where she’d ruffled it, his hair was wild-looking; he still had two rusty spots of color on his cheeks. “I wish I could say that. I’d better take you home now, Anne.”

She scrambled off the bed, pulling her loose clothes together across her chest. “Why did you touch me like that, then? Were you—were you trying to seduce me? And then—how could you stop? It’s not nice of you, Christy!” She felt like crying. “It’s not very gentlemanly to—to start that and then just stop, leaving me feeling this way—”

“I’m sorry, I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, fine!” She tried to laugh. “That makes me feel much better!” He turned away. “Well, then, when can we see each other again? When? You said we could. When can we meet? Say right now—when.” He didn’t answer.
“Tomorrow,”
she urged. She was on the edge of a terrifying capitulation, taking refuge in arrangements, schedules, details.

“No, I have to go to Mare’s Head.”

“Early?”

“In the afternoon.”

“Let’s meet in the morning, then. I’ll come to you—anywhere. Or you could come to the Hall for breakfast. No one will think anything of it.”

“I can’t.”

Panic fluttered again, closer to the surface. “Why?” He didn’t answer. “Why?” He just shook his head. “Why, Christy? Don’t do this to me. You could come if you wanted to!”

“No, I honestly can’t.”

She spread her hands. “But
why
?”

She thought he looked embarrassed. “You’ll laugh at me if I tell you.” She shook her head mutely. “Very well, then. I told you Mrs. Weedie’s surgery is tomorrow in Tavistock. In the morning. Miss Weedie—you know what she’s like; she’s beside herself with worry. I’ve made her a promise.” He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “I told her I would take on all her worries. Tomorrow morning. I told her she could set her mind at rest, let all her tension go, so she could be a true comfort to her mother. So now I have to . . .” He laughed softly, abashed. “I have to worry and pray for Mrs. Weedie tomorrow. In the morning, for about three hours, I should think.”

Anne pivoted, clapping her hands to her mouth. She went to the far side of the bed, sat down, and toppled over backward. A sob rose in her throat, but a laugh overtook it and got out first. With tears streaking down her temples and running into her ears, she managed to gasp, “I’ll marry you! You win, Christy, I give up. I can’t stand it.”

The paroxysm of despair and hilarity tapered off; she felt her emotions evening out. She twisted around, propping herself up on her elbows. “I’ll marry you,” she repeated, in case he hadn’t heard.

She couldn’t read his face; he’d withdrawn toward the door, into the shadows. “I know you enjoy making fun of me,” he said in a hollow, dignified voice. “Just now, though, I don’t think I want to hear it.”

“Christy!” He’d turned his back on her—he was leaving. She bolted off the bed and scuttled around it. “Wait!” He stopped, standing stiffly, so tall and straight—so dear! She had to take his arm and turn him around, bodily. “I’m not mocking you,” she said with urgent tenderness. “I’m sorry for all the times I ever did. I love you. I couldn’t tell you before because—well, what does it matter. Christy, I love you with all my heart! I want to live with you in this beautiful house.” She reached up with both hands to touch his face. “I want to have babies with you. Our children.”

“Anne—”

“I’ll make the worst minister’s wife who’s ever lived, but that’s your lookout now.” She stood on her toes and kissed him. “I will always, always love you, and I swear I’ll never stop trying to make you happy.”

Christy stared into her earnest green eyes; they still glittered from tears, and her cheeks were still wet and streaky. He wanted to believe her, but what she’d just said was too good to be true. She made an impatient sound and threw her arms around his waist. He held on tight; they were both shaking. “Just because of the Weedies?” he asked, incredulous.

“It was the straw. The damn last straw. The last damn—”

He found her lips and kissed her hard, blurring tears between their mouths—her tears or his, he couldn’t have said. “Anne, you do me such an honor.”

“No, it’s the reverse. Oh, I love you, Christy!”

“I love you.” His heart was too full to say more. He held on to her while he offered up a quick, uncomplicated prayer of thanks for this miracle. He couldn’t understand how it had happened. One minute he had her half-naked in his bed, and she wouldn’t marry him; the next, he was telling her about the Weedies, and she would. It made no sense—but he supposed miracles never did. He wrapped her up in his arms and lifted her completely off the floor, to celebrate.

“Oh, look at us,” she cried, laughing. He turned around with her and saw their reflection in the wardrobe mirror: two giddy, black-garbed people with joyful faces.

“Look at
you
,” he said, moving closer to the mirror. He put her in front of him and clasped her around the waist, beguiled by her dishevelment. She lifted a hand to cover herself, and smiled knowingly when he pulled it away. “Look at you,” he said again, more softly. Blouse and chemise gaped open enticingly; the cream-colored corset barely covered her nipples. “You look like one of those bawdy ladies in a Hogarth painting.” Laughing, she leaned back in his arms, a movement that swelled her bosom and stretched the corset tighter; that it still covered her at all struck Christy as another miracle. One of the lesser kind.

Anne sighed. “I don’t suppose we can make love now, can we?” she said without much hope. She wasn’t tempting him; she was just asking.

Impossible to think while he was watching her in the mirror. He put his head down, resting his lips in the warm hollow between her neck and shoulder, and closed his eyes. Impossible to think here, too. She smelled like flowers, and she filled his arms, fit against his body perfectly. She was his love. “Do you think I could let you go now?” He watched her lovely eyes widen in the mirror, felt her soft breathing change. “Share my bed tonight, Anne. Be my love.”

She turned around slowly. Her face had gone still. She licked her lips warily. “Won’t you feel guilty afterward?”

He smiled. “Don’t worry.”

“That’s not an answer. Will you?”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth. He had some idea that this had to happen, that they were meant to be lovers tonight. She had been brave, and honest, and to some degree she had given in, made a sacrifice. Now it was his turn. He wanted them to begin their lives together as equals; the thought of either of them being the “winner” repelled him. “I’ve wanted to love you with my body for such a long time, Anne. It’s what you want, too. You won’t deny me now.”

“But—I don’t want us to do anything that will hurt you, Christy. I truly don’t.”

“Don’t worry,” he repeated. It was the best he could do. That he would pay for this somehow, sometime, was a foregone conclusion to him, but she didn’t need to know it.

She studied him for a few more seconds, trying to read the truth in his face—before it occurred to her that, just at this precise moment, she might not want to know the truth. And that, if she gave him the chance, he might change his mind.

Unthinkable.

“All right, I won’t,” she said quickly, and stepped away from him so she could take off her clothes.

She thought he would help her, especially when she got mitten-fingered over the hooks of her corset. But he didn’t; he stood still and watched, his eyes heavy-lidded, a certain dangerous, barely leashed waiting in his posture that excited her and made her clumsy. The metal fastener at the back of her skirt defeated her. She felt her cheeks heating from frustration. “Christy—!”

“Turn around.”

She did, and bowed her head in patient, heart-pounding submission while he got her skirt off and her shift laces untied. Then he had to kiss all the places he’d uncovered, and she felt as if he were greeting her body, welcoming it in small bits and pieces, one at a time.

The way he touched her was unearthly sometimes; she could feel
reverence
in his skin when it caressed hers. It made her reciprocate, and think,
This is a miracle, this human lovemaking
. Making love. This was as close to divine as she could imagine being. Sacrilege, he’d say, but she felt it. The beautiful congress of their bodies was not completely right for him, she knew. It wasn’t blessed in the sacrament of marriage, so it couldn’t mean for him what it meant to her: glory—unexpected rapture—the deepest blessing she’d ever hoped for. She was sorry for him, she truly regretted it—but she wouldn’t have stopped if she could have.
“Christy, this is so right,”
she told him, naked now, holding him in her arms.