Song From the Sea (20 page)

Adam didn't finish the thought.

If it weren't for Callie, he reminded himself grimly, he wouldn't have been forced to go anywhere near the woods, and Nigel wouldn't have had the chance to pin him down afterward. He certainly wouldn't be sitting here having this absurd argument with himself.

Nigel was right. It was long past time for Callie to have her own life, and the sooner he saw to that the sooner she would be gone and life would return to normal. He was tired of all this confusion.

Adam abruptly stood up. Why should he take everything on his shoulders? Callie could damned well take responsibility for herself, and there was no time like the present.

Not bothering to think about the lateness of the hour or his state of undress, Adam marched across the room, opened his door, and strode down the hallway with determination, straight to Callie's room. He softly knocked on the door.

“Come in,” she called.

Adam quickly composed himself. He'd forgotten how her sweet, melodic voice always made him want to smile, and he didn't intend to smile, he intended to be firm. He was going to make concrete plans for her departure, and for once Callie was going to listen.

10

A
dam opened the door only to see Callie standing at the open window wearing nothing but a nightshift, her fair hair unloosed and tumbling down her back in a cascade of golden silk. The light of a nearly full moon streamed through the window, backlighting her supple form and outlining the silhouette of her body as if she were wearing nothing at all. His breath caught in his throat as his gaze helplessly took in her slender shoulders and back, the graceful swell of her hips, the perfectly rounded curves of her bottom, and her long, shapely legs. She looked like a wood nymph, wild and free and inexpressibly lovely.

Adam couldn't believe that his heart had started pounding as hard as if he were an adolescent looking at a half-naked woman for the first time. He took a step backward, hoping he could slip out unseen, but he didn't move quickly enough.

“I told you I didn't need anything else, Jane.” Her voice, low and dreamy, sounded as if she were a million miles away. She glanced over her shoulder, then spun around with a gasp as she saw him, her eyes widening and her hands reaching behind her to grasp the windowsill as if to support her weight.

“Adam! What—what is it?” Her surprise immediately vanished to be replaced by concern. “Adam? Has something happened? You look as if you've had a shock. Come in—here, sit down. Let me pour you a glass of water.”

She crossed over to him, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and gently took him by the elbow, steering him to the armchair next to her bed and guiding him into it as if he were an invalid. He watched her lean over and pour water from a pitcher, her small, beautifully rounded breasts straining against the material of her nightdress as she straightened and handed him the glass.

Adam couldn't have spoken if he'd tried. He sipped the water for lack of anything better to do, one hand carefully positioned over his lap where his traitorous body strained painfully against the confinement of his trousers. He couldn't believe he was sitting in Callie's bedroom with a raging erection, drinking a glass of water as if it were high noon and he had nothing more on his mind than a little romp—stroll, he quickly amended—in the garden.

Callie?
How could he not have seen her before? Dear God, she was beautiful, the most desirable woman he'd ever laid eyes on, and yet completely unaware of the sensuality she exuded from every fiber of her being.

“Why don't you get a shawl?” he croaked, the request made from sheer self-preservation. “I wouldn't want you to catch a chill.”

“I never catch chills,” Callie said, but she picked up a shawl from the back of the dressing-table chair obligingly enough.

Adam breathed a sigh of relief. Callie's frontal view was even more alluring than her backside, if that was possible. He really didn't need to be exposed to the delicious sight of her delicate, erect pink nipples beneath the flimsy shift or the darker patch of down that he could just make out beneath her flat belly as he tried to talk to her. He crossed his legs and tried very hard to think of turnips.

Wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, she hopped up onto her bed, sitting opposite him, her knees pulled up and her arms folded around them, bare toes peeking out from the hem of her shift. “Now,” she said when she'd comfortably settled. “Tell me what's upset you.”

You have, Callie. You're not supposed to be so damned desirable. You're supposed to be a nuisance, a problem to be solved. I'm supposed to be banishing you, not wanting to bed you.

“Adam? Whatever your trouble, you can confide in me. I am a very good listener.”

Adam tried to concentrate, not an easy task when Callie sat so close to him, her ripe mouth the color of a rosebud about to bloom, her dark eyes gazing softly and steadily into his as if she could see the secrets of his heart reflected in them.

That thought acted like a dose of cold water. He didn't want anyone looking into his bruised and battered heart, most especially Callie. “My trouble,” he said, “is you.”

“Me?” Callie's gaze wavered and fell to her hands. “I suppose you mean what I did today,” she said in a small voice. “I thought you accepted my apology too easily.”

“I accepted your apology fully. I do not say what I do not mean. That isn't what I was referring to.”

Her gaze crept back up to his, but now he saw uncertainty there, and even, if he wasn't very much mistaken, a touch of fear. “Perhaps you had better just tell me,” she said, catching the bottom corner of her lip between her teeth.

She looked so vulnerable, so very much alone, and he had to forcibly keep his hand from reaching out and stroking the flaxen lock of silky hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “Callie … I—I've been thinking.”

“It's time for me to leave, isn't it?” She thrust her little chin forward in that gesture of determination he'd come to know so well. Brave Callie, pretending she could take on the world, not ever letting on how scared she felt. “You needn't try to find the right words, Adam,” she said, the corners of her rosebud mouth trembling slightly. “I've always known that my time here was limited and I'm much better now, really I am. You need to get on with your life and I need to do the same. You have been everything that is kind, but I too am restless and my thoughts have turned to moving on.” Her eyelashes quickly lowered, but Adam had already seen the sheen of tears she was trying to hide.

Adam couldn't do it. He didn't even know what he'd been thinking. His grand plan to march in here with an eviction notice and abandon her to the world at large was nothing more than cruel, and the world had already treated her cruelly enough. Callie couldn't possibly look after herself on her own. What she needed was protective, nurturing hands to guide her until she was ready to stand on her own two feet. By God, he had to admire her courage, though, trying to make it easier for him to toss her out. Only Callie, he thought.

“You misunderstand me,” he said gently, picking up one of her slender hands in his and holding it lightly in his palm, his thumb stroking over her fingers. “I have no desire for you to leave, none at all.”

“No?” she said, her eyes flying open. She stared at him in confusion, the tears overflowing and rolling down her cheeks, but she seemed unaware of them. “What, then?”

What indeed? “Actually,” he said, desperately casting around for straws, “I was thinking that it's time for you to have a proper wardrobe instead of making do with what the village can supply. We can go into Folkestone tomorrow, make a day of it. There's a seamstress there who is very accomplished, perhaps not up to London standards, but adequate for your needs at the moment. Would you like that?”

Callie's eyes narrowed and she abruptly pulled her hand out of his. “Adam Carlyle, you did not come in here at this hour looking as if you'd just been kicked by a horse to tell me that you wanted to go visit a dressmaker.”

He couldn't help smiling. Callie—she wanted all or nothing. He should have realized that he couldn't put her off with a flimsy excuse. “No,” he said. “I didn't.” He reached his hand out and brushed away her tears for the second time that day. “For someone who never cries, you're becoming a regular watering-pot.”

“Don't change the subject,” she said, pushing his hand away again. “You said I was the trouble. Other than the obvious, what else have I done to upset you so? You looked almost ill when you came in.”

Adam remembered why he'd wanted to simplify his life. “I wasn't ill,” he said. “I was—I was concerned. You've been much on my mind this evening.”

“Why?” she said with a puzzled frown. “I told you then that there was nothing wrong with me.”

“Callie, I found you sitting alone in a meadow, crying. People generally don't cry without a reason. Are you unhappy here? Has someone said something to upset you? Please tell me the truth.”

“No. Honestly, Adam. I am very happy here. Everyone has been wonderful to me.”

“Yes, yes, I know, and you're deeply grateful,” he said, before she could start in on that again. “That explains nothing to me. We are friends, Callie, are we not? Good friends, I hope.”

She nodded. “I believe we are,” she said, but she looked away, studying a point somewhere over his right shoulder, her cheeks turning a dusky pink. As Callie only blushed when she was telling a massive fib, having a fit of embarrassment, or trying very hard to hide amusement, he assumed she was either lying or badly rattled, since she couldn't have looked less amused.

He tucked a finger under her chin and turned her face back to his, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Friends tell each other the truth.”

“Oh, Adam, please don't push me, for I would be hard-pressed to explain,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Why don't you try? If you run into a stumbling block I will help you over it.”

Callie wiggled out from underneath his hand and slid off the bed, padding over to the window, her back to him. “Very well, if you insist,” she said, her voice so low that he had to strain to hear it.

He stood and turned toward her. Her hands were pressed flat against the wood of the sill, her head bent as if in defeat or prayer; he couldn't tell which. She looked very young and very vulnerable.

“I had a … memory.”

Adam's eyes sharpened and he held his breath, wondering if she finally trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

“It wasn't the usual sort of memory—it was like having someone you loved very much whispering to you from very far away, but I could hear the whisper as clearly as if you spoke to me now.”

“What did you hear?” Adam asked quietly.

“That I should listen to my heart, that my heart would tell me where I belong.” Her hands slipped to her face and her shoulders trembled. “Don't you see, Adam? That's the problem—I don't belong anywhere, and I'm afraid I never will.” A shuddering sob escaped her and then another.

Adam didn't stop to think. Crossing over to her in two strides, he gathered her up, turning her and pulling her body full length against his, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tightly, his cheek resting on the top of her head. He offered himself freely, a safe harbor amidst the internal storm that raged in her. Callie slipped her arms around his back, holding him equally close, her slender body shaking as she released the pent-up fears she'd been holding in for weeks.

When her sobs had finally quieted, Adam gently released her without a word and took her over to the chair. He sat down and settled her on his lap as if she were a small child, one of his arms around her waist. With the other hand he reached for the handkerchief on her bedside table and gave it to her. “Dry your eyes, Callie, and then we'll talk.”

He needed a moment to compose himself as badly as she did, for his heart ached—but not with the searing, bitter pain of loss, or the bleak, echoing emptiness that had been his constant companion. He ached for Callie's pain and he wanted to cry out that he couldn't carry her burden, that he couldn't even carry his own. But Callie needed him, and he would not turn his back on her, no matter what the effort cost him. She needed reassurance, and he would give it to her.

She wiped her eyes and nose and hiccupped. “I—for-give me, Adam. I didn't mean to be such a wet-goose. I've soaked your shirtfront.”

“If tears are as cleansing as they say, you have done a very good job of laundering it. Plimpton will be most pleased,” he said lightly, although his throat was tight and he spoke with an effort.

“You are mocking me,” she said, looking up at him suspiciously, her eyes swollen and her nose endearingly red.

“Not mocking you, only teasing.” Adam ran his finger down that little red nose. “Callie, why have you not told me before how you felt? I might have been able to help.” The words sounded empty, foolish, even as he spoke them.

“How?” she asked simply. “You have given me everything you possibly could. You cannot give me back my family or my home.”

“No,” he said. “I cannot do that. I cannot resurrect the past any more than I can change it. Believe me, if I knew how, I would.”