Louisa Rawlings (23 page)

“Marcy…don’t…”

She unbuttoned his shirt and slid her hands across his chest, feeling his nipples grow hard even through his woolen undervest. “I will, Drew. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“What if I holler?”

She could hear the laughter in his voice, though he tried to hide it. He was weakening. She giggled. “Do you want Mrs. Marshall to have a conniption fit?” Her fingers had begun to work on the buttons of his undervest.

“Good God, don’t you have any sense of decency?”

“Not a lick. At least not when I’m in love.” She unfastened the last button, pulled open his undervest, and kissed his hard chest.

He drew in a rasping breath. “You devil.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back, fighting hard to resist her enticements. “Marcy, please…”

She pulled off his shirts and ran her fingers across his sleek shoulders, scratching at the patch of hair on his chest, feeling his muscles stiffen and twitch with each caress. He kept his hands clenched at his sides while she explored every inch of his beautiful torso with hands and lips, tasting the salty moistness of his burning flesh. She could feel him trembling, a throbbing that surged through her fingertips to quiver and pulsate within her own bosom. Her mouth went dry and she gulped madly, desperate for his touch. “Tarnation,” she said, her voice a soft croak. “Must I do all the work?” She reached for his hands and placed them on her buttocks over the thin skirt she wore.

He groaned in agony, then surrendered, pulling her close against him, kneading her firm young flesh through the skirt. He kissed her wildly, his mouth seeking her neck, her ears, her downy cheeks. At last, hands shaking, he stripped the few garments from her body and carried her to the bed.

Through lids grown heavy with passion, she watched him pull off the rest of his clothes. He stood silhouetted in the moonlit room, his beautifully formed body—broad-shouldered but narrow in the hips—making her heart catch. He lay down beside her, but made no move to touch her. “If I had the strength,” he said hoarsely, “I’d tell you to go this very minute. This is madness!”

She smiled. Even in the dim light she could see how much he wanted her. Her eyes traveled his body—the black thatch on his chest repeated in the black patch below that harbored something that waited, proud and overbearing. His brain might want her to leave; his body surely didn’t. It gave her an odd sense of power. He was tall and strong, in command of his world, sure of himself. And yet, lying beside her, he was helpless and enslaved. She liked the feeling. She’d too often felt like a child with him. A child he teased and kissed and loved—but a child. For the first time she felt like a woman. His equal. Someone he truly needed. She hesitated for a moment, then reached out and touched him, that part of him that was still so new and thrilling to her.

He gasped. “
Jesus
, Marcy…”

She withdrew her hand at once. “Is that wrong?”

“No more wrong than your being here tonight,” he growled.

He was still fighting it. Well, she’d fix him! “I said I was going to love you tonight, Drew. No matter what. And I will!” She began to caress him again, feeling a quivering, a swelling in her hand with each soft stroke. The feel of his hardness, the hot, dry flesh, was like a spark to her own flame, igniting within her, turning her insides to liquid fire.

He made a strangled sound deep in his throat and wrenched away from her. “Damn you.” He rolled out of bed and stood up; grabbing at her ankles, he hauled her violently to the edge of the bed. He separated her legs, slid his hands up to her thighs, and plunged into her, pulling her hips forward to meet his violent thrust. Again and again, as if he would force his way right through her. She had never felt anything so exquisite. She writhed on the bed, holding her forearm to her mouth to stifle her cries of ecstasy, and wrapped her legs around his waist. She felt her insides explode in a drenching rush; then Drew shuddered twice and collapsed against her, falling forward onto the bed to cover her body with his own.

“God, I love you, Marcy,” he mumbled, burying his face in her neck. They lay quietly together for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, until finally Drew stirred and sat up, peering down at her in the gloom. “What am I going to do with you?” He shook his head. “Coming to my room half naked.”

She laughed softly, her voice still shaky. “It appears to me you already answered that question!”

He sighed and gathered her into his arms. “What
am
I going to do, Marce? I’m off to Paris as soon as I can. How can I ask you to wait for me?”

“Take me to Paris with you.” The thought popped into her head as though it had been waiting there.

“No. I can’t marry you. It wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“I don’t
want
marriage, Drew. I don’t want to be a burden to you. If we’re not married, and…it doesn’t work out, I can leave. It’s better that way—don’t you see?” She kissed him gently. “Say yes, Drew. If nothing else, I can be your unpaid model!”

Silence. Then “Why the devil not?” he muttered at last. “All right. I figure it’ll be about a week or so before I can get enough money together for the trip. Then I’ll come back and get you. Oh God!” He held her more tightly to his chest. “Are you
sure
, Marcy? I don’t want to bring you unhappiness. Are you really sure?”

“Do you love me, Drew?”

“You know I do.”

“Then I’m sure,” she answered.

Her eyes flew open with a sudden realization. Good gracious! she thought. Her scheme had come true! That long-forgotten, foolish scheme! She’d be leaving the mountains, the treacherous mountains that had killed her parents. And leaving with the man she loved.

She snuggled more firmly into Drew’s warm embrace. She’d be safe at last.

After hours on the train, his mind torn between memories of Marcy’s sweet body and anxiety about their future, Drew arrived at home in the city.

“Nice to see you again, Parkman.” Drew handed his hat to the butler and indicated his luggage, which waited on the stoop.

Parkman nodded. “I’ll have Brigid bring it to your room, Mr. Drewry. I trust your summer went well?”

“Very well. Is my mother in the parlor?”

“No. She’s upstairs in her sitting room. A sick headache.”

“Damn! I wish I could get her to throw out that tonic. She’s poisoning herself.”

“Quite so, sir.” Parkman eyed Drew’s travel-stained clothes. “Shall I draw you a bath, sir?”

“In a little while. I’ll ring for you. I want to see my mother first.” He mounted the broad staircase slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. She wouldn’t like it. She’d become terribly possessive these last few years, clinging, trying to tie him to her with bonds of sentiment. Bonds of the past. He hadn’t minded. It had seemed a small thing to indulge her. He had known that sooner or later he’d have to make the break, but put off thinking about it. Until now. And now he needed her. Brian had always been tightfisted about money, bestowing his monthly allowance with ill grace, muttering darkly about “my artist son” as though the words disgusted him. He’d never agree to subsidize the trip to France. Not even as a loan. But if Isobel talked to him…

Drew’s heart sank at the sight of his mother, reclining on her chaise. She looked terrible. She was pale and drawn, her hands fluttering toward him like nervous birds. And when he bent to kiss her on the forehead, he saw that her pupils were small pinpoints. Damn! he thought. She might have done without her tonic for one day, knowing he was returning.

“Hello, Mum,” he said gently. “How’s my girl?”

“How good to have you back, Drewry.” She sighed. “I’ve had the vapors all day. But you look wonderful. So healthy and robust. The country air must agree with you.”

“Yes.” He sat down beside her and held her hand, launching into an abbreviated account of the summer’s adventure: the fishing, the hunting, the painting. Yet all the while he was conscious of her nervous prostration, the edge of tension that might explode into tears or hysteria. It was not the best day to tell her his plans.

“And now you’re home,” she said at last. “I’ve missed you so. It’s been so lonely here, and Arthur…”

“What about Arthur?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid I’ve grown tiresome to him. I haven’t seen him very much this summer. But never mind. Now you’re home, dear boy. Home to stay.”

He frowned and stood up. “Not for long, I’m afraid.” She gave a little gasp. “I hate to tell you like this,” he went on quickly. “I know it’s sudden. But my summer of painting has shown me how much I
don’t
know. I must study…”

“Of course! You’ll return to the National Academy. I’m sure we can arrange to have you study under one of the masters.”

“No. I don’t like the way they’re teaching. It’s all studio work. Even up in the mountains, I couldn’t paint what I saw. I kept amplifying my palette, darkening my colors, overworking everything. Transforming what my eyes saw into what I’d been taught to paint in the studio. I might have been working from sketches by candlelight, for all the good it did me to be out-of-doors.”

“But where else can you study?”

“Paris. They’re working
en plein air
, somehow managing to put sunlight onto their canvases.”

She put her hand to her mouth, rubbing her dry lips. “Paris? How long would you stay?”

“I’d like to study for a year, at least.”

“A year!” Her voice was sharp with accusation. She took a deep breath. “I don’t see how it can be done. You might as well put it out of your mind. Your father will never allow it. He’ll cut off your allowance entirely.”

“I know that, Mum.” He knelt down and held her hand. “That’s why I’ve come to you. If you could persuade Father to lend me enough money to live on for a year…”

“But how could you pay him back?”

“After a year in Paris I should be able to earn a living from my paintings.” He laughed ruefully. “Or else I’ll have learned that I can’t paint worth a damn. In which case, I’ll give the whole thing up and become Father’s partner.”

“No! I won’t have it. Your painting means so much to you.” She pushed the hair back from his forehead. “Your father
might
listen to me. But even if he did, he would see to it that you felt beholden to him. How could you work under those circumstances?” She hesitated, then smiled. “Now I’ll tell you a little secret, my dear boy. I have a few bonds put away…nothing extravagant, mind you. Perhaps three thousand. You could live quite handsomely. And study as well.”

“Three thousand! Oh, Mum.” He thought of Marcy living comfortably, with the pretty dresses she wanted, the easy life. Perhaps he could even afford a servant for her. He kissed his mother exuberantly on the cheek.

She smiled wanly. “Though it will grieve me to be parted from you, I shall let you go if you promise to write me often. Now, I must see my banker. How soon do you intend to sail?”

“Two weeks at the outside.”

“Why then, I’ll even have time to arrange a small soiree to send you on your way. Saturday. That should give me enough time to make my plans.”

He cleared his throat. “I won’t be here on Saturday.”

“Why ever not?”

He hesitated. “I’m returning to North Creek on Friday.”

“
North Creek
? Haven’t you had your fill of the wilderness?”

“There’s someone there. A girl.”

She laughed—a small, nervous laugh. “You’ve had girls before. I would have thought you’d have said your farewells before you left the mountains.”

“I’m going back to get her. To take her with me to Paris.”

Isobel colored, two patches of angry red blotching her pale cheeks. “No! I won’t have it!”

“I love her, Mum,” he said gently.

“Love!” Her voice had become shrill. “What do you know about love, breaking my heart this way?”

He frowned. “What are you saying?”

“You’re all I have, Drew! Your father is gone. And I’m losing Arthur… I can’t bear to lose you too.”

“I’m your son. I’ll always be your son. What does that have to do with Marcy?”

She sneered. “
Marcy
. Common little country girl, no doubt.”

“Stop it, Mother!”

“Give her up, Drew,” she whined. “Don’t take her to Paris.”

“I
love
her.”

“I might even be able to manage four thousand.
If you give her up
.”

“Don’t push me, Mother,” he growled.

She half rose from her chaise, her eyes burning. “You ungrateful boy! You can starve, for all I care! If you think I’m going to hand over a single penny of my money so you can go traipsing all over Europe with some
trollop
…”

“Dammit! Stop it!”

“You wretch!” she shrilled. “Now you’ve taken to swearing at your own mother. Go to Paris with your whore! Go to the
 
devil!”

“As far away from here as I can get!” He stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind him, and marched down the corridor to his own room. He pulled open his bureau drawer, grabbed a small velvet box. Snapping it open, he withdrew half a dozen diamond studs that normally adorned the shirt of his dress clothes. He turned and tugged furiously at the bell pull. Parkman appeared at his summons.