MM03 - Saturday Mornings (8 page)

“Is there anyone you want to call?”

“No.”

Her vehement answer shook him. He remembered Saturday night and her request to leave the dance early in order to see about Aunt Bertha. Nothing added up. But it was the wrong time to find answers.

“It's getting late,” he said. “Why don't we go to bed? Sometimes a good night's sleep lends perspective to problems.”

She allowed herself to be led to his spare bedroom like a trusting child.

“I think I have an old T-shirt around here that will do for a nightgown. I’ll be right back.

He went across the hall and dug in his closet for an oversized T-shirt with a Mississippi State logo, a big maroon bulldog snarling against a white background. At least it used to be white. Age and too many careless washings had turned the shirt a dingy yellow. It wasn't pretty, but it was soft and warm and serviceable.

When he reentered the bedroom, she was standing exactly where he had left her. She was like a statue. Wherever he placed her, that's where she stayed.

He held the shirt out to her.

“Margaret Leigh, here's your nightshirt.” She made absolutely no response. He tossed the shirt onto the bed. “Turn around, sweetheart. I'm going to unzip your dress.”

She did—slowly, as if she were performing a chore she had almost forgotten how to do. He lowered her zipper and slid her dress down her shoulders. Her skin had the fair and tender look of never having been exposed to the sun. Andrew resisted the temptation to run his hands down the length of that soft, inviting expanse of skin.

Think of her as your sister,
he told himself. The admonition helped, but not much.

He guided the dress downward, over her flat stomach, down her slender legs, until it pooled like wine at her feet. Underneath, she was wearing a peach-colored silk slip. No lace, no fancy trimmings, just a simple garment that hugged her body in all the right places.

She had an elegant body, the kind that went with long legs and an Audrey Hepburn neck. Another time he'd have lingered over it; he'd have appreciated it with his hands and his lips as well as his eyes.

Tonight he merely took note.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?”

There was no reply. A shudder passed through Margaret Leigh, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Are you cold?”

She shook her head, but he wasn't sure whether what he had said had registered with her. He thought of picking her up and tucking her into bed as she was, but he knew enough about women's lingerie to know that sleeping in a bra would be uncomfortable.

“I'm going to take off your slip now, Margaret Leigh.”

She looked at her dress on the floor with the same curious detachment she might have given a passing bug. It didn't seem to have any connection with her.

Andrew felt another shiver run through her when he put his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was warm to his touch. It wasn't the cold that made her shiver, he decided. It was fear.

“What are you afraid of, Margaret Leigh? I'm not going to hurt you.”

She lifted wounded violet eyes to his, but still she said nothing. He had seen that look on the face of mothers with sick children, and on widows. Without another word, he circled his arms around her and held her close. It was a warm and friendly embrace, a hug of affirmation, a touch of compassion.

She stood stiffly in his arms, and then she leaned her cheek against his bare shoulder. He cupped the back of her head, sinking his fingers into the heavy silk of her hair.

“Do you want to tell me about it, sweetheart?”

“No.”

He could barely hear her, even in the silence of the room.

“That's all right. I’ll be here all night, just across the hall. If you need me, all you have to do is give a yell. I'm well trained. I’ll come running.”

She made a quiet sound, like the whisper of wind through willows. Then she gave a small nod.

Everything about her was fragile, her cheek against his chest, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, her emotions. He didn't know what would happen if he finished undressing her. And now was not the time to find out.

Comfort would have to take a backseat to common sense. And common sense told him to get her into bed, settled and warm, as quickly as possible.

“I'm going to put you to bed now, Margaret Leigh.”

She nodded again, a small motion that caused her silky hair to brush against his cheek. He held onto her with one hand and reached for the nightshirt with the other.

“Lift your arms.” She did as she was told. He slid the shirt over her head, working her hands and arms through the armholes. Her arms stayed stiffly in the air until he caught her wrists and lowered them to her sides.

“There. That should keep you warm and comfortable.”

He kept up a steady, reassuring stream of chatter as he picked her up. She was limp and lifeless, without resistance, almost without a will.

“This bed has an old feather mattress. I used to love these things when I was a kid. Still do.”

He braced one knee on the bed, and the bed-springs squeaked. Margaret Leigh clung to him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He started to lower her to the bed, then he noticed the bedcovers weren't turned back. He didn't want to disturb her by putting her down again. Balancing her with one free arm and his knee, he managed the covers with his free hand.

It was awkward, but it worked. He lowered her gently to the sheets. She sank into the feather mattress, sighing. He arranged the covers over her with great care, tucking the blanket around her legs and snuggling it closely under her chin. When he had finished, he bent down and kissed her forehead.

“Sleep tight, pretty one.”

Margaret Leigh's gaze held him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and huge with pain. He tenderly brushed her hair back from her forehead.

“Everything will be all right, Margaret Leigh. Just you wait and see.”

“Thank you, Andrew.” He could barely hear her whisper.

“You're more than welcome.”

He left her bed and moved quietly about the room, doing small things that would make the bedroom a haven for her. He got a night-light off the closet shelf and plugged it in. Then he picked her dress off the floor, smoothed it down, and draped it neatly over the back of a chair. After he had done all that, he flicked the light off, left the room, and closed the door.

He stood outside her door for a long while, listening for any sound. When he was satisfied that she wasn't going to try to leave, he went across the hall to his own bedroom. Leaving his own door open, he stripped quickly and climbed into bed. The sheets felt cool and crisp.

He punched his pillow twice, an old habit of his, and was just turning onto his stomach for a good night's sleep when he remembered his nakedness. What if he had to rush across the hall in the middle of the night? It wouldn't do to rescue Margaret Leigh buck naked. She was a lady, even if she had tried to seduce him.

He climbed out of bed and slipped back into his shorts. He felt as bundled up and restricted as if he were wearing an expedition outfit for the North Pole, but he was willing to make the sacrifice. After all, it wasn't every evening a man was called on to be a hero.

He laced his hands behind his head and lay back on his pillow, staring into the dark. There was something heroic about being the one Margaret Leigh had turned to in her time of trouble. He felt about ten feet tall.

What in the devil was bothering her? What had sent her flying into the night?

His mind tried to latch onto some clue she had dropped, but he found himself drifting into sleep, lulled by the sound of pines whispering outside his window and the far-off call of a whippoorwill.

o0o

The sobs woke Andrew up. At first he was disoriented, then he came fully alert. He leaped out of bed and raced across the hall.

Margaret Leigh was huddled in the middle of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms around her legs, as she rocked back and forth and cried.

“Margaret Leigh,” he called from the door.

She made no answer. In fact, she didn't even look his way.

“I heard you crying.” He approached the bed with caution. He didn't want to say or do anything to upset her even more. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I want the world to come to an end.” She lifted her tear-streaked face to his. “Can you bring the world to an end, Andrew?”

Andrew McGill was a man of action. Furthermore, he knew that drastic need called for drastic measures. He threw back the covers and climbed into bed with her.

He pried her hands away from her legs and unfolded her like a pretzel. Then he wrapped her in his strong embrace and lay down with her.

“I can't bring the world to an end, Margaret Leigh, and in the morning, you'll be glad I couldn't.”

He spoke in the matter-of-fact tone his parents had used with him when he'd had some childish notion that the problems of the moment would last forever.

“Now, just put your head on my shoulder.”

He felt her stiffen as her mood took a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn from sadness to anger. Then she was shoving him, pushing his chest with the strength born of rage. He held her tight.

“No, don't struggle against me, sweetheart. I'm too big and strong for you. I’ll win every time.”

“You didn't want me. I offered myself and you refused.”

“You would have hated me in the morning. Be still, Margaret Leigh.”

She fought with hands and knees, clawing at his back and shoulders. And she was stronger than she looked.

“Good Lord, woman.” He bowed his back to get out of the way of her lethal knee.

“Get out of my bed.”

“It's not your bed, sweetheart. It's mine.”

She was still for a moment, and he thought she was calming down. Then she started struggling again.

He was glad. Her limp defeat had been frightening. Her rage would be cathartic.

“You beast. You blackguard.” Her fists had all the impact of a mosquito battling a tough-skinned rhinoceros, but her fingernails were drawing blood. “What kind of man are you? Refusing the request of a lady?”

“Ahhh, a lady, are you?” He caught her flailing fists and pinned them to the bed. “No lady I ever knew has a right hook like yours.”

She jacked her knees up again, and Andrew rolled on top of her. He braced her arms above her head and straddled her hips.

“Fight, pretty one. Get all that rage out of your system.”

“Rage is not how I plan to get this out of my system.” She bucked under him. “Let go of me.”

“How do you plan to get it out?”

“Sex.”

“Some other time, pretty lady.”

“Not with you, you backwoods Romeo.”

She twisted her head and took a bite out of his upper arm. He felt the pain of her teeth, but he kept his hold. He even managed a chuckle.

“I am that, my love. And more. Maybe someday I'll show you.”

“Put your money where your mouth is.”

She bucked against him again. It was almost more than he could take. Anger was always stimulating, and that natural stimulation combined with the proximity of her body already had him in a state that couldn't be disguised. He was almost tempted to give her what she wanted. But he knew it was an action he'd regret. No, more than regret. If he made love to Margaret Leigh in her condition, he could never again call himself honorable.

“Not tonight, sweetheart. Tonight, all I want to do is keep you from leaving here and doing something foolish.”

“A woman on the hunt is foolish? How about a man on the hunt?”

“Hungry.”

“Show me.”

“Dammit, Margaret Leigh.”

“Show me.”

His mouth slammed down on hers. And still she fought. They rolled across the bed together, mouths locked and legs entangled. It was a battle of wills. Both were determined to win.

Margaret Leigh didn't know the first thing about seducing a man, but she gave it her best shot. She pressed herself into Andrew McGill's big muscular body, teasing him with inviting little movements of her hips.

She was a natural, and just didn't know it. Andrew clamped down on his control, fighting the raging passion that threatened to take them both over the edge. He thought that if he kissed her long enough, she'd settle down and listen to reason.

She thought if she kissed him long enough, he'd surrender and give her what she wanted. She wanted to have sex. She didn't want love or tenderness or caring or even passion. She wanted pure, unadulterated lust. Any old body would do. But Andrew McGill would do better than most.

She rubbed herself against him, hating what she was doing but doing it anyhow. When had she crossed the threshold from heart-broken to enraged? And how many times had she crossed it? She was on a merry-go-round and couldn't seem to get off. Nor did she want to. If she got off, she'd have to face the truth. And the truth hurt too much. It was far, far better for her to drown the truth in decadence. Like mother, like daughter.

Once, when his hands glided tenderly down her back and his mouth promised heaven, she almost backed down, she almost rolled her face into the pillow and let the tears come. Andrew had been good to her, kind, considerate, sweet, generous. And he had taken her in, patched her hands, then undressed her and offered his bed.

No.
She wouldn't let herself get soft and sentimental. From now on she would be as tough as nails. She'd be cynical and hard, and she'd sin like the very devil. She was finished with trust, through with caution, disgusted with purity.

Andrew came up for air, his hold loosening. She took the opportunity to sit up and strip the T-shirt over her head. He grabbed her arm.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“I don't intend to do it for the first time with my clothes on.”

“Dammit, Margaret Leigh.”

She glared at him. In the dim glow of the night-light he could see the determination on her face. With one quick movement he divested himself of his shorts.

She sucked in her breath in shock, then she averted her eyes.

He could have gotten onto his knees and praised all the saints for that one small gesture, that one hint that Margaret Leigh wasn't quite the brazen hussy she was pretending to be. But he had better things to do.