A Cry at Midnight (21 page)

He let her. By God, indulging her playfulness was the least he could do after ignoring her pleas for attention when the Crowders visited. He'd wanted to reach out, but propriety had kept him in check. Rose couldn't understand right now, but she would some day. She'd learn that society's expectations had to guide their lives, far more than fleeting emotions.

"It's the price we pay," he told Rose, leaning back so he could look into her wide blue eyes. "You'll see that someday."

He knew without a doubt that Randi didn't understand why he'd refused to hold his daughter. How could she not understand something so basic? Where had she lived or worked where a parent responded to their child regardless of the guests present or the social situation in which they found themselves?

Of course, children were rarely in the company of adult visitors, so perhaps the scenario hadn't come up before.

He nestled Rose close and strode across the room, angry that he was finding excuses for Randi's behavior. Angry that he couldn't put her out of his mind . . . or out of his house.

After standing at the window for long minutes, watching the fleeting clouds move across the moon, he realized that Rose no longer wiggled or explored. He patted her back, rearing his head back to look at her. Sound asleep, she looked so innocent and pure--so perfect--just as Randi had said that day in the garden.

Randi. Dammit, what did he have to do to get her out of his mind? She was everywhere. In the house, the garden. In his study, in Rose's nursery, and even the church. He couldn't travel in his carriage without remembering her anger at being relegated to the back pews at church. He couldn't stroll the grounds or walk the hallways without seeing her, sitting on the landing or on a quilt, having lunch or playing with Rose. Smiling, crying, fuming. How could a woman tie him in such knots after less than two weeks?

With a sharply indrawn breath, he turned away from the window. Rose needed to get to her bed, and he needed . . . No, he wouldn't finish that thought. He
needed
a well practiced whore to satisfy his needs.

He
wanted
a crop-haired termagant with rounded curves and enough passion to make his blood boil.

He took the stairs quickly but carefully, aware of his precious burden. Perhaps he would be able to give Rose over to Suzette quietly, then retire to his study. The cognac he'd purchased through contacts in New Orleans beckoned. He might curse the morning sun tomorrow, but tonight, he planned to deplete his stock of fine liquor.

#

Randi waited until the house was quiet and the clock downstairs chimed eleven, then ventured downstairs. She'd used up the pencil lead and had no way to sharpen her only sketching instrument. There had to be a dozen more in Jackson's study. Now was the perfect time to replenish her supply, or to find a pencil sharpener--although she doubted anything like that existed in 1849. Her sketch was coming along too well to be stopped by a technical problem.

She'd half-expected to be summoned downstairs for a confrontation with Jackson earlier, but none had arrived. She felt a sense of reprieve, but knew her luck was only temporary. Sooner or later--probably tomorrow--he'd ask her about her sarcastic comment about a new mother for Rose who looked good in dresses and planned parties like a pro.

But darn it, they'd made her angry by talking about women as thought that's all they were good for. Okay, maybe Violet wasn't good for anything, but most women were. Violet didn't even respect the memory of her own sister, setting her sights on the husband just months after he'd become a widower. So much for sisterly love, Randi thought, tiptoeing across the thick carpet runner.

No candles or lanterns were lit in the hallway, although she saw a faint glow coming from inside Jackson's study. She'd heard him come upstairs earlier, she thought, so this must be the equivalent of a night light. Certainly the room wasn't bright enough for him to be working so late.

She paused at the doorway, her hand cool against the smooth, fluted woodwork. A lamp burned very low on the desk, but there were no papers lying there, no sign that anyone was up at this hour.

She'd just slip in, get another pencil, and get back upstairs before someone caught her sneaking--

"Miss Galloway . . . of course," a deep, disembodied voice said from the depths of the study.

She froze, her hand covering the scream that threatened. Her heart beat so fast she thought her chest might burst. Suddenly there wasn't enough air in the room.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I should be asking you the same thing."

"I meant in the dark. Lurking around the study." She squinted into the shadows, finally locating him beside the window, half concealed by heavy velvet drapes.

"It's raining," he said softly, his words slightly slurred.

"I hadn't noticed. I just came down to get another pencil."

"Stay."

"No, I really can't," she said, inching backward toward the door.

"I insist."

"Why
?" she asked cautiously, still hoping to inch toward the door. If she could just make it out of the study, maybe her heart wouldn't pound so hard, or her breath catch in her throat.

"Maybe I want the company," he said, turning toward her. His face seemed shadowed and almost menacing in the near-darkness. "Does that seem so odd?"

"Well . . . yes," she answered. He didn't seem like the kind of man who wanted company, except the companionship of men similar to him in status and interests. She had a hard time imagining Jackson Durant snuggling up on the couch beside her and asking about her day--or expecting her to do the same.

He let out a disbelieving snort, then walked toward her. Randi resisted the urge to cower against the furniture, but she couldn't stop the tingling of her nerves in reaction to his nearness. As he stepped closer to the candle, his features seemed to soften and glow. Only an optical illusion, she told herself, but that didn't stop her from thinking that he was the most handsome, most interesting, man she'd ever known.

"I'm a man, just like any other," he said, as though he could read her thoughts. "Why do you find it so absurd that I'd like company from time to time?"

"Maybe because you seem so self-sufficient . . . and so confident. I can't imagine what we'd have to talk about."

"Can't you?" he asked, stopping too close. She breathed in his scent, plus the smell of some liquor she couldn't identify. "We've talked in the past."

"About Rose, about . . . me." Actually, she'd always thought of those talks as interrogations, but she wasn't going to mention her observations at the moment. Jackson was in a strange mood tonight, one she wasn't sure she should encourage . . . although the idea carried a certain feminine appeal she couldn't deny.

"Then I suppose we've exhausted our topics." He eased closer, taking her hand in his and examining her fingers as though they were the most fascinating subjects in the world.

"We could talk about you," she offered, gently trying to pull her hand out of his grasp.

"I'm not very interesting," he said, smiling slightly as he focused on her face instead of her hand. He held her fingers firmly but gently, not letting her escape so easily.

"I don't know about that. I imagine you've done lots of interesting things in your life."

"More than I care to remember," he said in a husky, distracted voice. "More than you care to know."

His admission sounded dangerous . . . and exciting. "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

"Why don't I kiss you instead?" he asked, pulling her hand to his shoulder, capturing her waist with his other arm.

"That's not a good--"

Her words were cut off by his lips, descending without caution or restraint, taking her breath and every coherent thought in her head. The scent and taste of liquor was intoxicating, but not as much as his kiss. He kissed her as though their lips had met millions of times before, and yet with a gentleness that surprised her. He eased his tongue inside, testing her response.

And oh, how she responded. Her arms snaked around his neck, her breasts brushed, then fit tightly against his chest. He pulled her close, his arousal pressed against her stomach. She forgot to breathe.

She broke away from the kiss when her head began to spin, but he wasn't ready to let her go. With determination and skill, he stepped them back. Her thighs brushed the desk. As soon as she was pinned between his muscular legs and the solid wood, he kissed her again.

She knew she shouldn't return his passion. She should break away, save her sanity and her chances of leaving here with her heart intact. But her body wouldn't listen, rising on tiptoes to kiss him back, opening her lips and inviting him into her body, her soul. She'd wanted to know what desire felt like with Jackson, and she'd gotten her wish. How could she ignore the feelings she'd wanted so badly?

His mouth slanted across hers, kissing her deeply, his breath quick and hot against hers. Then he broke away to caress her cheeks, her neck, the skin below her ear, with his lips. She moved against him, earning a groan of approval from deep inside his hot, rigid body.

"I want you," he whispered against her throat, where her nightgown gaped open. She hadn't buttoned the confining garment all the way to the top, as she probably should. Now she was glad, because the narrow vee gave Jackson better access.

"I want you too," she admitted. "But with no questions, no problems, no complaints. Do you understand?" she whispered against his silky, long hair.

"I never understand what you say." He kissed his way up the other side of her neck as he worked more buttons free. "You're a mystery to me, Randi Galloway. I don't know who or what you are. All I know is that you make me crazy with longing."

Alarm bells began to ring, faintly at first, but then louder as the implication of his words sank in, as his clever fingers slipped inside the opening of her nightgown. He wasn't going to follow the terms she'd given. He wanted answers to his questions, a resolution to the mystery. He didn't even like her--he disapproved of everything that was important to her--and yet he wanted to make love with her.

Or maybe he just wanted sex.

"Jackson, wait."

"I've waited for two weeks. Why torture ourselves any longer?" His hand caressed the top of her breast, then slipped lower.

"Because I meant what I said. Because you're not thinking clearly. You've been drinking."

"I think too much," he whispered against her parted lips. "And sometimes you don't think enough. But not this time. Right now, neither one of us needs to think at all."

"But--"

He kissed her deeply, passionately, as his hand cupped her breast and his fingers sought her hardened nipple. They both moaned; she couldn't tell where one sound began and the other one ended.

She tried to push against his upper arms, but he was solid and strong--and aroused. Very aroused. She ignored the demands of her body that urged her to press tighter, to push up her gown and wrap her legs around his hips until he eased the empty ache inside. Making love . . . having sex wouldn't solve their problems, although she knew without a doubt the feelings would be so wonderful, so fulfilling.

But giving herself body and soul to Jackson Durant, who didn't share her values or even her century, would present new obstacles.

She broke from his demanding kiss. "Will you stop asking me questions? Tonight, tomorrow? About who I am, where I'm from?"

"Don't ask me to do that!"

"I have to. And what about other . . . complications? What if I got pregnant?"

"Don't back away from what we feel."

"I have to! One of us has to think, and you're obviously not in any condition to reason."

He buried his head between her neck and shoulder. "I'm not drunk."

He felt warm and solid, although she knew the sensation would be fleeting when they pulled apart, as she knew they would. "Maybe you're not drunk, but you've been drinking. Believe me, I'm not flattered to think you want me only because the alcohol is speaking," she scoffed. Frowning against his hair, she sobered when she added, "Jackson, I
can't
get pregnant. Do you understand? I will not allow myself to get involved with you . . . to get hurt by you."

"I won't hurt you."

"You can't help but hurt me," she whispered, stroking his black hair. "You'll never believe who or what I am. I know that now. And I can't start caring about you more than I do now. Not when you . . ."

"When I what?" he asked, pulling back to look at her.

"Never mind."

"Are you talking about your dreams? They're only dreams," he said, stroking her check, then down her neck. "You'll be safe here at Black Willow Grove."

"No, I won't. None of us will. And even if I believed you, if I thought the disaster wouldn't come true, there's something else you should know."

"What?"

She took a deep breath. "When I was younger, my brother Russell and I built a raft to float on the Mississippi. We used driftwood, lashed it together, and had a grand adventure planned."