Twice Loved (copy2) (46 page)

“Oh!” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Well, you goin’t’ let me in or not? It’s cold out here.”

“Oh, of course!” She stepped back and closed the door as he entered and headed immediately for the water pail across the room. Halfway there, he caught sight of the chair, pillow, and book, her discarded shoes, the trestle table pushed away from its usual spot and positioned nearby with a bayberry candle and mug easily within reach.

Without a word, Rye took the pail and headed out back. When he returned, he lifted the filled pail to the dry sink, glanced at the alcove bed, then at the closed door of the linter room.

“Where’s Dan?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?” Rye glanced sharply at Laura. She seemed twitchy, standing on the far side of the trestle table as if intentionally keeping it between them.

“To his mother’s.”

“For a visit?”

“No, for good.”

Rye’s assessing gaze moved to the spot where the humidor used to be, then he boldly stalked to the door of the linter room and flung it open. She watched his eyes take inventory of the room before he spun again to face her. “He moved out?”

Laura nodded silently.

“And where’s Josh?”

“At Jane’s.”

Without another word, Rye closed the bedroom door and strode out back to return in two minutes with an enormous armful of wood, which he deposited in the woodbox before heading out for another load. After the third trip the box was full, and he brushed the bark from his sleeves, then swung around with impatience emanating from every muscle of his body. “The back path needs shovelin’. It won’t take long.”

While he was gone, Laura put more cider to warm, added logs to the fire, and put a ring of spicy barley sausage on to cook.

When the back door opened again, Rye paused to ask, “Is there anythin’ else that needs doin’ today?”

“No, that’s all.”

He hesitated, watching her lift an arm to the mantle but keeping her back to him.

“I’ve put some sausage on to cook if you’d like to stay.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Yes.” She turned at last to face him squarely. “To supper.” The implication was clear. For a moment neither of them moved. Then Rye casually sauntered toward the fire while unbuttoning his jacket with one hand. He shrugged it off and flung it across the trestle table, eyeing the chair as he circled it.

“Looks like somebody’s been spendin’ a lazy afternoon here.” He stopped beside the arm of the chair, leaned over from one hip, and picked up the magazine from atop the pillow.

“I confess. And it felt wonderful.”

With the tabloid in his hand, he next took stock of the candle, her cup, her apron tossed across the trestle beside his own jacket.

“Aye, I c’n see that.” His mouth quirked up at one corner. “Mind if I try it out?”

“Not at all. Just don’t make yourself too comfortable.”

He plucked the pillow from the seat of the chair, took its place, and plopped the puffy thing onto his lap, watching Laura while she ladled hot cider.

“Here, I thought you could use this.” She offered him the mug, but when he reached it was with both hands, taking the drink in one hand and her wrist in the other. Twisting around, he set the mug on the table, then tugged her toward his lap.

“I’ll tell y’ what I c’n use,” She landed on the pillow with a soft plop. “And it’s not a cup o’ cider.” He still wore the navy blue knit bobcap. It rested against the tall back of the wing chair while his elbows indolently hooked its arms, and his palms contoured her waist.

“What, then?” she asked in a voice no louder than the hiss of the fire.

His lips opened. His glance dropped to her mouth. His hard hands left her waist and traveled up Laura’s sleeves to her shoulder blades before drawing her against his chest. She fell into the accommodating nest of his shoulder with a palm resting on Rye’s heart, looking up into his face as he bent his head over her. Even before his lips touched hers, she felt the tumultuous hammering through his thick, cable-knit sweater. It was at first less than a kiss, rather, a reunion after their long separation, a hello again, as his mouth met hers lightly, lightly. The tip of his nose brushed her cheek, cold yet, as were the lips that moved in a silken exploration across her own while his warm breath created dew on her skin. Then her head was moving slowly from side to side in answer to the movements of his, with only the crests of their lips brushing, as if in reacquaintance. Their tongue tips met and passed, moving on to dampen the perimeters of their mouths. The kiss widened, deepened, and with an easy turn of her body Laura sought the thick cords of his neck, riding her palm inside the high turtle-neck of his sweater while Rye slipped a hand beneath her knees and drew them over the arm of the chair.

Slowly, minute by minute, the ardor of the kiss grew until his tongue brushed the inner walls of her cheeks, and hers, his. Cradled in his arms, she felt the hand beneath her knees; spread wide, then slide up along the underside of her thigh to her buttock, where it pressed, warm and firm, learning her contours once again as his moist, full kiss rocked her senses. Laura’s hand moved from Rye’s neck to his hair, and blindly she slid the knit cap away to thread her fingers into the thick strands at the back of his head.

Long moments later, when the first kisses and touches had ignited an emotional fire, Rye lifted his head to look into Laura’s lambent brown eyes and whisper thickly, “I can’t believe we’re really alone at last.”

She caressed his warm skull, shifting her fingers in his hair until the aroma of cedar seemed to lift from it. “It’s been five months, two weeks, and three days.”

“Is that all?”

“But, Rye, before you came I was—”

“Later. We’ll talk later.” His mouth descended to hers again and he shifted her weight in his arms, turning her so that one breast pressed against him, leaving the other free. She held her breath as he withdrew the arm from beneath her knees and slowly brushed it up her thigh, hip, and ribs until at last her resilient flesh was taken warm within his palm. A shudder of delight quaked through her limbs as he caressed her breast, squeezing, then releasing repeatedly while his tongue dipped into her mouth and hers played a circle dance around his. Through the cotton covering of her garments, his fingertips explored the projecting nipple until it stood up all the more boldly with desire.

Against her open mouth, he muttered, “Let’s go t’ bed, darlin’.”

She shook her head in slow motion while his mouth followed. “No, I tried to tell you—” But his mouth closed tightly over hers, cutting off the words and inundating her with the wet, sleek texture of his tongue.

When he lifted his head again, it was to murmur, “If y’ won’t say yes, I swear we’ll do it right here in this chair.” A trail of miniature kisses passed along the side of her nose.

“Mmm ... that sounds wonderful,” she approved throatily, and felt him smile against her neck. “But we’re not going to do it anywhere, not until I’m your wife.”

“You are my wife,” he went on imperturbably, shifting their positions so that he could bend forward to cover her far breast with his mouth.

“No I’m not.”

“Mmm ... y’ smell good enough t’ eat. Y’ve smelled like bayberries y’r whole life long. Did y’ know that?” he murmured, ignoring her protest.

She was draped over the arms of the chair like a dust cover, head slung back limply while his mouth took possession of the crest of her breast, deliberately wetting the fabric of her dress and camisole, then biting the engorged nipple until it sent up an incredible aching. He twisted his head from side to side, playfully ferocious as he tugged at her hidden flesh, until a guttural sound escaped Laura’s throat and her hand sought his hair to urge more of the same. But a moment later she insisted again, “Rye, I’m not going to make love with you.” With her head slung back, the words were strident and forced. She pulled herself up, finding some hidden source of resistance, until she sat on his lap again.

“Who’re y’ tryin’ to fool?” he questioned, still teasing the hardened nipple with the backs of his fingers. The point of flesh pressed outward against the wet circle on her dress front —it was silly to deny that she was tempted.

“I’m as human as you are. I could no more have stopped myself from kissing you than I could when we were sixteen. But I’m being honest with you, Rye.”

Still he didn’t believe her, but grinned engagingly. “Well, while you’re bein’ honest, do we have t’ have this damn pillow between us?” He manipulated her as if she were no heavier than a rag doll, lifting her up and jerking the pillow away to toss it onto the floor. Then he unceremoniously grasped one of her ankles and swung it across his stomach until she found herself straddling him in the chair with her most intimate parts settled obligingly against the bulging mound of his arousal.

“All right, where were we?” he asked coolly. “Oh yes, you were being honest with me and telling me that y’ve no intention of makin’ love with me until you’re legally divorced from Dan, is that it?” But as he spoke, Rye tugged at the copious skirts of her dress and petticoats, which were pinned beneath her, hauling them hand over hand till she felt the lumpy hems scrape along her bottom, then slide free.

“Yes, that’s it,” she claimed, meaning it. But Laura sat on him now with only his trousers and her pantaloons between them. Unperturbed, he adjusted his hips, settling them more comfortably in the chair until his hardness and her softness fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“Mmm ...” His hands slid beneath the billows of cotton and found her two ankles, pulling them against his hips, then continuing to caress them through her scratchy wool stockings. “And y’ intend t’ hold out on me till March?”

“Exactly,” she replied in the calmest voice she could muster while his mischievous eyes glowed, partly in amusement, partly in desire.

“Do y’ mind if I test y’r will a little bit, Mrs ... ah, Morgan, is it?”

“Not at all,” she answered with a firm smirk. “Test away. As I said before, nothing more till we’re married.” She carelessly looped her wrists about his neck and laced her fingers together, accepting her bawdy pose with a blitheness Rye could imagine in no other woman.

“Y’ know I’d never be one t’ entice y’ into doin’ anythin’ against y’r will.” His warm palms slid up her calves to the shallows behind both knees, then back down, pushing the wool stockings to her ankles. He inserted thumbs and forefingers inside the ruched wool, caressing the hollows above her heels, then squeezing gently, massaging.

“I know.” Tingles sizzled up her legs. He was, as he’d always been, the consummate lover, inventive, irresistible. He could stir her senses in ever-new ways, as he was doing now. Oh, Rye, I want to go the limit with you ... but I can’t and won’t until he’s truly gone from between us.

Rye tipped his head to one side, lolled back against the chair with a lopsided grin, and requested in a husky voice, “Tell me again, then, what it was y’ invited me t’ stay for.” But beneath her petticoat his hands slid to her hips, tipping them back slightly until she felt the warm knob of masculinity meeting the feminine pulsepoint that couched him.

Her eyelids slid closed. Her breath fell harshly. “Sausage,” she murmured, following his lead in precisely the fashion she knew he expected.

“Then maybe we ought t’ eat. I think I smell it cookin’.” Her eyelids fluttered open and her lips curved. “You’re a nasty man, Rye Dalton.”

“Aye, and don’t y’ love it. Come here.” With total disregard for the state of her clothing, his arms tightened across her back—skirts and all—and he pulled her forward until their tongues met, as did their bodies, his lifting in invitation, hers pressing in answer. His right hand roved down her spine, caressing it through the rough cotton of her pantaloons, then sliding lower, around the curve of her buttocks, as she leaned forward, kissing him with an ardor that set their pulses pounding. When temptation was transformed to torture, they pulled apart and spoke simultaneously.

“Laura, let’s go t’ bed ...”

“Rye, we have to stop ...”

His hands squeezed her hips, but hers pressed his chest. Their eyes were so close together their lashes almost brushed.

“Y’ mean it, don’t y’?” he questioned. “Y’ mean t’ hold me off until y’r name is legally Dalton again?”

She backed farther away. “I told you that when we started this.”

“Why?”

“Partly because of what happened the last time we made love, partly—”

“Y’ mean Zach’s death?”

When she nodded, his frustration at last surfaced. An expression of annoyance darkened his features. “Laura, that’s ridiculous!”

“Maybe to you, but—”

“And anyway, you’re splittin’ hairs!” he interrupted. “What’s the difference between what we’re doin’ and what we want t’ do? You’re only justifyin’ your actions, that’s all.”

Singed because he’d hit on the truth, she immediately jumped from his lap and whisked her skirts down, facing him with the flares of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Rye Dalton, don’t you sit there accusing me when I’m the one that’s trying to do the honorable thing here!”

“Honorable! Ha!” Angry now, he sat sharply forward in his chair.

“Yes, honorable! We made a promise to each other not to dishonor Dan!”

“While he was in this house!”

“No, while he’s still legally my husband. But you conveniently forget that now.”

“Because you’ve got me in the state of a ... an appendix ready to rupture! I ache, damnit!”

Laura’s frustrations of the past nine months had built up until now, without warning, they fought their way out. She stood before Rye’s chair, little understanding that their tensions, both emotional and sexual, naturally sought release. Her temper blazed, then erupted in a rich, relieving spate of shouting.

“Oh you ... you oversexed ...” She searched for an adequately scathing word. “... goat!” She pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Dan hasn’t been gone half a day and you’re right at my door to take his place. Well, did you ever stop to think that maybe I need a little time to myself, without one man pushing me to stay and the other pushing me to go! I’m sick and tired of both of you fawning over me like I’m some prize at a fair. And who asked you to come here anyway, Rye Dalton? I was sitting here just as contented as a calf in clover when you came charging in here, and ... and ... ooph!” It felt so wonderful to yell that she went one step farther and yanked him by the front of the sweater. “Get out of my chair! I was perfectly happy in it all by myself, so just 
get out!"