Love, Come to Me(13)

“Of course I do. All women do, whether they say them or not.”

“But we can’t. I want you to be unspoiled on our wedding night. Like a bride should be.”

“You’re always so concerned about the way things should be,” Lucy said hollowly, the passionate desperation dying in her eyes. “What about the way things are right now . . . what about the way I feel?”

“You won’t have to wait much longer. We’ll set a date—”

“Soon. I know.”

“I promise.” He bent to kiss her on the forehead. Suddenly Lucy wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips hard against his, her young, ardent body molding to him. He froze in surprise, then slid his arms around her, beginning to respond to her feverish kisses. Lucy quivered in triumph, tilting her head back and clinging more tightly to him. She felt his masculine body, firm and well-exercised, tauten against hers. Against her abdomen there was a rising pressure and throbbing that she knew was the physical evidence of his desire for her.

Daniel pulled his h*ps away instantly. His face was flushed and uncomfortable. “Not now,” he said hoarsely. “I told you, Lucy, we’re going to wait.”

Some part of her rejoiced in the fact that she had affected him so strongly—at least she knew now that she wasn’t alone in her frustrated need—but another part of her sank in disappointment. When Daniel made a decision, he stuck by it no matter what. “All right,” she murmured, looking down at the floor. Shame was beginning to wash over her as she sensed his disapproval.

“You’ve got to learn not to be so impulsive. It’s difficult enough in moments like that to keep from taking advantage of you. But I respect you, Lucy, and in the end you’ll be glad for it.”

“I guess I will.”

“Of course you will.”

The snow from the February storm melted a little. The snowdrifts became solid and compacted around the stripped elm trees that lined Main Street. Lucy worked with her father in the store, which was unusually busy as people bought supplies to restock what they had used while being snowed in, everything from coffee and tea to beeswax and milled soap. There was little time to think about Heath Rayne and the small house on the other side of the river, where she had lived for two days in secret. But occasionally Lucy would pause while some detail of the Southern stranger would pop into her mind, like the exotic turquoise color of his eyes, or the way he had called her “honey,” and his sense of humor, sometimes dry, sometimes whimsical. It bothered her that she sometimes thought of Heath while Daniel was nearby, for then she had to think up various explanations for her blushes or her quietness.

Saturday morning in the store, Daniel and his friends were gathered as usual around the Seavey stove, talking, smoking the cigars that General Grant had brought into vogue, reliving battles they had been through. Lucas Caldwell was polishing the glass case where the knives were kept, while Lucy helped Mrs. Brooks select material for an everyday dress. As Mrs. Brooks left and the bell above the door swung back and forth jauntily, another customer came in. Folding a length of linen, Lucy paid no attention to the newcomer until she realized that Daniel and his friends had grown strangely quiet. Glancing at the doorway, she saw the flash of gold-shaded hair and the glow of deeply tanned skin, and she dropped her eyes to the counter hurriedly. Her hands shook as she picked up the linen and stacked it on top of other bolts of cloth.

“Good morning, Mr. Rayne,” Lucas Caldwell said easily. “Come to check on your order? It came in yesterday.”

“That and the mail,” came the distinctively accented reply. The sound of his voice, as warm and drawling as she had remembered, caused a silky ripple down Lucy’s spine. Unobtrusively her hands went to the sash of her Irish poplin dress, neatening the large bow that tied in back and straightening the ribbons so that they trailed properly over the plain overskirt and striped underskirt.

“Lucy, will you take care of that?” Lucas asked.

“Mornin’, Miss Caldwell.”

She forced herself to meet his gaze and saw a smile in the blue-green depths. Had he seen her checking her sash? And if he had, did he think that it was for his benefit? Conceited scamp! “Mr. Rayne,” she acknowledged him coolly. Her fingers were all thumbs, but she managed to go through the glass-partitioned boxes near the front door. There were two letters for him, one addressed in feminine handwriting. Resisting the urge to look at it more closely, she handed it to him. Their eyes locked again, and her heart beat faster at the fact that he was there, that the two days they had spent together had not been a dream, that he and she and Daniel were all standing in one room together.

“Thank you, Miss Caldwell.”

“Mr. Rayne,” Daniel suddenly said—his voice so different from usual, so filled with contempt, that for a second Lucy didn’t recognize it—“is our resident Confederate, Lucy.”

“My fiancé, Mr. Daniel Collier,” Lucy said to Heath, who fixed Daniel with an interested look, then turned back to her.

“Really,” Heath murmured dryly. It was all Lucy could do to keep her lips from curving into a smile, because she knew exactly what he thought of Daniel. She felt as if they were sharing a private joke. The amusement was wiped from her expression abruptly as Daniel walked over to her and stood side by side with her.

“Look close, Lucy.” A sneer pulled at his lips. “You’re always asking questions about the war and the Rebs we fought. This is one of those men who wounded and killed so many of our friends, and kept boys like Johnny Sheffield in filthy prisons until they died of smallpox.”