To Have and to Hold (23 page)

At first, she'd feared dying in prison. That had seemed the ultimate horror, being nailed up in a prison coffin and thrown into an unmourned grave. But after her family was gone, she stopped caring, and soon she began to pray far death. She hated, hated, hated everything, especially a world where such an unspeakable travesty of justice had been allowed to occur. But even the hatred had waned as year followed empty year. "You erased yourself," Sebastian said, and she said, "Yes. That's it, exactly. I killed myself without dying."

She rested, exhausted from the telling. The lamp by the bedside had long since sputtered out; they lay in the dark, she listening to his breathing. She'd told him terrible things, painful, degrading truths she'd thought she would take to her grave. By rights, she ought to be frightened, but all she could feel was tired and relieved. Unburdened.

Extraordinary.

He still had her hand, but she thought he'd fallen asleep. She was surprised when he said, "Rachel."

"Hmm?"

"Who do you think killed Wade?"

She bunked, trying to see his face. "What?"

"Who killed him? You must have thought about it in prison. Who do you think it was?"

She tried to speak, but only a wheezing sound came out before her throat closed up. She realized she was squeezing his hand too tight, using all her strength. She let go and sat up in bed, hugging her knees.

He sat up, too, and put his hand in the middle of her back. "What's wrong? Are you crying?"

She shook her head. A pitiful lie—her eyes were swimming, face dripping; only by swallowing repeatedly did she keep back embarrassing sobs. Emotions she couldn't blame on weariness or tension hammered for release, threatening to burst out of their careful bounds. Sebastian had his arm around her shoulders, his hand on her wet cheek, trying to make her look at him. She knew him by now: he would keep at her, he wouldn't stand for evasions.

"I'm just—grateful," she got out, voice strangled. "Because no one believed me. You can't know—" She gave up, couldn't talk.

"What do you mean? That you were innocent? What rot. Don't cry, I can't stand it," he whispered, holding her against him, both arms around her now, and she was soaking his skin with tears.

She put her hand on her aching throat and told him the worst. "No one believed me.
No one."

"You mean . . ."

"My family."

There, it was out, the worst thing, the most grievous hurt. As soon as she said it, she calmed. The emotional storm passed, and she was left trembling in reaction.

"Impossible," he said lightly, stroking her hair like a father, rocking her a little. "I always knew it. I doubt if you could kill an insect. You're the gentlest person I know. And the saddest."

"Stop." Or she wouldn't be able to stop crying.

He knew the surest way to banish tears. He kissed her. Not like a father. He kissed her like a lover, slow and hot, their mouths wet, clinging, salty from her crying. As soon as she stiffened, he stopped. In unison, they lay back down on their separate pillows. "You're tired," he whispered. "Go to sleep, Rachel."

She was tired. She covered a yawn with her hand. "I could never sleep in prison." A minute later, she was dreaming.

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She dreamt she was in her prison cell, lying on her hard cot in the dark. Even though her eyes were closed, she could see everything. Someone was watching her through the spy hole beside the door. She feigned sleep, not moving, trying not to breathe. A key scraped in the lock. The door opened an inch, two inches, and cold, paralyzing dread congealed in her stomach. The eye in the spy hole was still watching her, and she knew who it was. Then her blanket was gone and her legs were bare. She wanted to push her dress down, cover herself, but if she moved he would know she was awake. The door widened.

She whimpered in fear . . . and the dream faded, grew vague. A low voice told her she was safe; someone touched her and called her by her name. She calmed, slept deeply, and drifted into a different dream.

She was in a flower meadow, lying on a bed of grass. There was no horizon; in any direction, the flowers stretched forever, soft and waving, every color imaginable. A man lay beside her, a different man, not the one in the doorway. This was the empty-handed man, the one who never hurt her.

They lay without touching until she put her hand on his shoulder. Afterward she knew it had been the signal—that he couldn't touch her until she touched him, because that was their rule. Why didn't I do this sooner? she thought, or said, and the empty-handed man smiled just before he kissed her.

She could see their mouths, like two other people's mouths coming together. Delicious, how sweet, how luscious the kiss was. She changed the dream by an act of her will so that it could be her mouth under the man's, tasting and being tasted. Lips and then teeth, soft and then hard, and tongues gliding together with such serious playfulness, the perfect mouth caress. Drowning, she was drowning in sensation, and everything was allowed, everything was permitted.
Don't make me wait,
she thought, or said, and the dream changed again and they were rolling and turning over the crushed sweet grass, and the empty-handed man's hands glided on her skin, leaving color wherever he touched, blue-green over the white of her belly, bright yellow on her breasts, purple and crimson on her thighs. His body floated over hers and she had him, yes, and it was what she wanted, but—it wasn't enough, she couldn't
see
him, and everything was just out of reach. Half awake now, she knew it wasn't real, and she wanted to weep from the frustration, the maddening inadequacy of this dream.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring up into Sebastian's. Was it nighttime? He'd lit a candle; she could see the shadows flickering on the wall behind his bare shoulder. He watched her with his head propped on his hand, his brown hair tousled. She thought she would smooth her fingers back over the boyish cowlick—and realized she was resting her hand on his chest.

Then and now mingled, as fragments of the dream floated back in disorienting patches. Had she touched him in her sleep? Was he the one who had soothed her with his voice? She opened her mouth, but she couldn't think of anything to say. Her scattered thoughts came together, and finally she knew who the empty-handed man was. The connection slid into her brain smoothly, hardly causing a ripple, but afterward nothing was the same.

Why didn't I do this soonerl
the dreaming woman had wondered. Touching the man had been the key, the beginning. But Rachel couldn't speak, couldn't move. Some things never changed, and her fear was one of them. She couldn't move.

How would she have answered if Sebastian had asked her then if he could touch her? Too late; she'd never know now. And all she felt when he finally lowered his head and put his mouth on hers was gladness.

She lay quiet and passive, drifting between dreamer and actor, reluctant to decide, putting off thinking of anything. This was like the dream and not at all like the dream. Sebastian never hesitated, and all his movements were fluid and smooth, like a dancer's, and the way he loosened and pulled and peeled away her clothing was like a dance, a seamless ballet for bare arms and shy, naked legs. She could hardly wait to feel their stomachs touch, and for a little while that was enough, just the slide and press of their skin, his with a downy fleece of hair to rub against hers. The center of herself seemed to be in her belly, and she thought that heavy, intimate pressure would be enough. But it wasn't. She felt the dream-frustration, the identical emptiness at the real center, and she embraced him with her legs, and closed her eyes when he penetrated her.

Gentle and soft, sweet, unrushed, the quietest love-making, like a dance still, real but not real. The music was their breathing, and the slide of fingers on warming skin, and the whispery sound of kisses.
It's you,
she began to chant to herself at odd intervals. What did it mean?
It's you.
What did it matter?

She couldn't touch the goal he was urging her toward so gently, could not let go of herself to reach out for it. Did he know? Could he tell that this tender striving was futile? Oh, but it was lovely, the touching and the closeness, she wanted it to go on and on. He murmured something, a most intimate question, and she answered it with the truth—"No, I can't." He kissed her with a desperate sweetness that moved her and made her heart ache. "Sweetheart," he called her. Then he buried his face in her hair and set himself free, his body trembling a little in the effort not to hurt her. Holding to him tightly, she knew a moment's envy, because he could surrender his self-control as easily as hold onto it.

"I broke my word," he said when it was over, curling on his side behind her, pressing her back against him.

"Are you in pain?" she whispered. "Your side—"

" 'I won't touch you,' I said. Now I could tell you I'm sorry. Would you believe me?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure."

She felt his breath on the nape of her neck. He was laughing. "Sweet Rachel," he murmured, "it would be a lie."

Arrogant as always. She did something she'd never done before: she initiated a kiss. On his fingers, which were entwined with hers. She felt his lips on her shoulder, then his teeth, his lips again.

After he fell asleep, she pretended they were married, an ordinary husband and wife taking their rest together, their arms and legs tangled unconsciously because they trusted each other. Loved each other. Since this was as close as she would ever come to that domestic ideal, she allowed herself to enjoy it. Just for the moment.

Sleep crept closer. Before it overtook her, she heard the echo of the whisper in her head again—
It's you.
Please, God, don't let it be true. But she was afraid it was true. If it was, she was lost.

12

"Mrs. Wade? You in there?" His arms were full of a big, bulky box; Sebastian had to knock on Rachel's door by kicking it with the toe of his boot. "Open up, Mrs. Wade!"

He heard rushing footsteps just before she threw open the door. Her surprised face was damp and she stiff had a towel in her hand; she'd been freshening up before she went down to see about getting the evening meal started—he knew her housekeeperly schedule almost as well as his own now.

"What's wrong?" she asked worriedly, staring at him, staring at the box.

"Nothing's wrong. Close the door, then come and open your present." He went past her and set the wooden crate in the center of her sitting-room rag. "Hurry, this present won't wait."

Her cheeks flushed pink. She sidled closer, holding her hands together under her chin. "Is it really a present?"

"Yes. It's a gigantic hat; Miss Carter and Miss Vanstone and I have been working on it for days." He laughed when her eyes went wide as saucers: she'd actually believed him for a second. Well, why not? He'd never told her a joke before. "No, it's not, you goose. Hurry and open it, will you?"
Before it opens itself.

She came closer. "What could it be?" she wondered, running her hand along the top of the box. Just then a snuffling sound came from within. "Oh," she said, and snatched her hand away. "It's alive!" Sebastian made a face, as if to say,
Who knows?

A small hook around a nail head was all that was keeping the lid down. She flicked it open with her finger and lifted the hinged top carefully, half an inch at a time. Before the dark gap was two inches wide, a nose and then a head poked through, then two yellow paws, and finally the writhing, wriggling body of the whole excited puppy, leaping out with a graceless but effective bound and landing on the floor at her feet.

"Oh, it's a dog," she cried softly, and immediately sat down on the floor beside it.

Sebastian knelt beside her. "I thought you might like to have it."

"Ohh," was all she could say as she stroked the animal's soft sides and let it sniff at her and lick her cheek.

"I told Holyoake to ask among the tenants and see if he could find one. I told him there was only one criterion—it had to be a yellow dog."

She lifted her head from the puppy's to look at him. He'd had reservations about the wisdom of this gift, but the expression on her face told him his idea was perfect. Inspired. "Oh, Sebastian." She shook her head at him, at a loss. He wanted to kiss her, but the dog got in the way and kissed her first. "What's his name? Is it a he? Where will I keep him? Oh, it's a
beautiful
dog."

It was hardly that. Halfway between a puppy and an adult, it was a gawky adolescent dog, vaguely retriever-ish, with something else thrown in, something too immature yet for precise identification. Hound? Terrier? Only time would tell. "Yes, it's a male. He may have a name, but William didn't catch it. He's yours now, Rachel, if you want him."

"Oh, yes, I want him. My brother had a dog when we were little," she confided. "They gave me a cat, but I always liked the dog better."

They sat on the floor together while the puppy began to explore the room. Sebastian watched her while she watched the dog, and her delight was his dazzling reward for a moment's thoughtfulness. She was beautiful. She had on her black dress today, and even though he'd grown fond of it in a way, as one grows fond of anything one associates with a lover, a sweetheart, he had hopes that he was seeing it for the last time. He'd ordered new gowns for her from a dressmaker in fixeter, and with any luck they'd begin to arrive this week.