Winter at the White Oaks Lodge (26 page)

I giggled, dropping beside him, and he curved around me at once, hands gliding over my back to my hips. He breathed against my neck and said, “You're so beautiful.”

“Touch me,” I whispered back, appropriating his wrists and drawing his hands up to cup my breasts.

“Dammit, woman,” he said, teasing me, stroking me firmly. I shivered and kissed his neck and he made the sound deep in his throat that I knew so well, before tipping his forehead to mine and saying with determination, “We've got to stop this. In two more seconds I am going to turn into something equivalent to the Hulk and rip that tiny shirt from your body.”

I muffled my giggles against his chest. But again I relented and we spent some time examining the picture with the magnifying glass.

“It isn't much to go on, but we'll find him. And her, Cora, whoever she was,” Mathias told me. “Whatever happened to them, we'll find out.”

***

Weeks passed
before I was willing to leave Millie Jo home without me; though she had been more herself every day, I wanted to be near her, just to make sure. But Mathias was endlessly patient. And so it was more than two weeks later that Mathias came to get me in the plow truck and once at White Oaks, we traded the truck for the snowmobile; Mathias took us directly to our cabin, parking near the front porch. Once inside I hurried to light candles and then helped him load wood into the old stone fireplace; the process was delayed significantly because we couldn't stop kissing. At last a small blaze was heating the room, leaping over the walls and painting our faces red-gold.

Mathias shook out the queen-sized down comforter I'd pilfered from the attic at Grandma's, spreading it before the fire so that we had a place to sit close. Once this was done, he helped me from my ski pants and coat, and I helped him from his, and then we were kissing again, me straddling his lap, his knees bent and both hands wrapped around my waist.

“I want…” he murmured, before I claimed his mouth again, tasting him, my hands buried in his thick black hair.

“What do you want?” I whispered, kissing the side of his neck, biting his earlobe, and he shivered.

“Honey, I want to give you your present,” he whispered intently, kissing my throat, his strong hands spread over my back. “Before all the blood flows away from my head, that is.”

I giggled and moved primly from his lap.

“Close your eyes for just a minute,” he said softly, and I did, my heartbeat increasing in intensity with each breath.

I listened as he moved from the blanket and rummaged for something that must have been in his coat pocket; I heard the scrape of a zipper and then he was before me once more, and his hand closed around my left, lifting it to his lips. He kissed me there, gently, and then he said hoarsely, “Open your eyes.”

I blinked and looked at once to his; he was looking so intently at me that all the breath caught in my throat. He cupped my left hand in his and then upon my palm he set the ring from this very cabin, the one that he'd found behind a stone in the fireplace. Tears blurred my vision even before he curled my hand between both of his and said, “Camille, I want you to have this. I want you to wear it, if you're ready. When I was little I told my sisters that someday my wife would wear this ring, and I want you to be my wife. We don't have to set a date, we don't have to rush anything, but I want to know that someday your name will be Camille Carter.” His eyes drove into mine and tears flowed down my cheeks. “I love you with my whole heart, and I know that I've loved you long before I met you. I am yours, and you are mine, and I don't know how I know this to be true, but it is.”

“Mathias,” I said, almost a sob. I took the ring into the tips of my right fingers and slipped it at once over my third finger, where it fit perfectly, as before. He made a sound in his throat and brought my hand to his lips, kissing the ring, before I threw my arms around him and clung. I said against his chest, quoting the inscription on the ring, “My heart is yours for all time. And I know that for truth.”

He rocked against me and we tumbled back to the blanket, where in the firelight we stripped one another of all pieces of clothing, slowly and intently, kissing each inch of bared flesh. Wordless, intense, never taking our eyes from each other. I felt removed from myself, completely melded together with him, to the point where we no longer even seemed to possess names; our names mattered not at all.
Him
.
His
.
Mine
. He was mine, and I was his, and nothing more mattered. He joined our hands, linking our fingers, bracing them just above my head as I curved my legs about his hips and took him within me, gasping as his hard length filled me absolutely. And we made love without saying a word, quiet and shattering and intense. At some point I shifted and clung to his shoulders, my forearms curled under him from beneath his arms, gripping tightly as he buried his face against my neck, driving into me. We grew slick with sweat, heat flowing between us, spilling from between my legs as he kept on and on, unceasing, and my body responded like nothing I'd ever known. I shuddered with release, repeatedly, our breath harsh and our hearts beating in a frantic double rhythm.

I love you so
, he told me, without words.

I responded in kind,
I love you. I will be your wife.

You are my love, Cora, and I will never leave you,
he said.

You are mine, my true love, Malcolm. I trust you.

And in the darkness we held fast, on and on.

About The Author

Abbie Williams has been addicted to love stories ever since first sneaking her mother's copy of
The Flame and the Flower
; and since then, she's been jotting down her own in a notebook. A school teacher who spends her days with her own true love, their three daughters, and a very busy schedule, she is most happy when she gets a few hours to indulge in visiting the characters in her stories. When she's not writing, teaching or spending time with her family, you'll find her either camping, making a grand mess in her kitchen at various cooking attempts, or listening to a good bluegrass banjo.

Check out all of her Shore Leave Cafe Books:
Forbidden; Summer at the Shore Leave Cafe; Second Chances; A Notion of Love.