Love, Come to Me(34)

“And after the war . . . ?”

“I went to the plantation like a damn fool, thinking that they might need another pair of hands to help around the place. And they did. But not my hands.”

No home. No family. Lucy felt like weeping at her own tactless questions about his home when he’d had none to go to. “How . . . how did he die?” she asked, and he shook his head silently, refusing to answer. He looked at her with weary challenge in his eyes. “Why did you come up here?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why not? Because you don’t know?”

“Because I don’t want to tell you.”

She smiled suddenly. “That’s because you’re so contrary.”

He relaxed and closed his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You scared the wits out of me when you went back into the house,” she said reprovingly. “Why did you do it? To prove something?”

“To preserve Emerson’s manuscript for posterity,” Heath said, imitating Bronson Alcott’s ponderous way of speaking so perfectly that she almost laughed.

“Horsefeathers.”

“And I’m not afraid of fire, while it was clear that everyone else capable of going after the manuscript was.”

“Why weren’t you afraid?”

“When the worst happens, there’s nothing to fear anymore.”

The words, said so matter-of-factly, struck at her heart. Lucy could not stop herself from smoothing the tumbled, smoke-scented hair off his forehead. He made no response to the gentle touch of her hand. “The worst? What was the worst that happened to you?”

“When I was in my teens, the hotel caught on fire. I came back late, after a night of . . . ah, what should I call it? . . . ungentlemanly behavior, and I saw the smoke from a few miles off. My mother was sleeping upstairs. No one got to her in time.”

She murmured something soft and indistinguishable. Her fingertips drifted lightly through his golden hair in a repeated stroke.

“Cinda?” he said after a long while, his voice drowsy from the effects of exhaustion and her stroking.

“Hmmn?”

“I’m still going to raise hell with you for going in that goddamned house.”

“I can take chances if I want to. You did.”

“There’s a difference,” he said, his dark lashes lifting as he looked at her. She took her hand away as if she had been burned. “I’ve had more experience at taking care of myself.”

She frowned in a troubled way, her forehead creasing. “Heath . . . do you think I’m a child?”

“No. I wish to hell I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t feel this way about a child.”

He reached out and stroked the curve of her throat with his fingertips. The lines of his mouth gentled as he looked at her. His stare was so concentrated and intimate that she couldn’t move, not even when he sat up and wrapped his hand around the back of her neck. Before she knew it, she was leaning against his chest, surrounded by the scent of his bare skin. “Cinda,” he whispered, and she shivered at the purring sound of his voice. “You shouldn’t have come out here.”

“I had to see if you were all right.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

When had she been held so carefully, so possessively? He seemed to relish the feel of her against him. It was a heady sensation to be desired like this. His touch was different, special, and for a despairing moment she wondered why it couldn’t be this way with Daniel. Daniel’s embraces were familiar and comfortable, but they never caused sweet, summer-hot joy to surge through her.

Did she want Heath because he was forbidden? Because he was a Southerner? Her fingers curled into the tattered remains of his shirt as she clenched her fists.

“What is the matter with me?” she whispered.

“Nothing. You’re a woman . . . and you want to be needed.” He smiled slightly. “And need to be wanted.”

“But Daniel feels that way about me.”

“Then why is he so set on changing the best things about you?”

“The best things?” she repeated incredulously. “You call my temper—”

“I like your temper.”

“And my crying—”

“You’re tenderhearted.”

“And my useless daydreaming—”

“Your imagination,” he corrected softly. “I wouldn’t change any of it. Except for one thing. You don’t look well-loved, Lucy . . . you don’t look satisfied.”

Heartsick, she looked away from him. “Don’t say any more. You’re right, I shouldn’t have come here to find you—”

“But you did. And we both know why. You want to be rescued again.”

She was startled by his words. “W-what?”

“Pretend you’re mine,” he urged, his arms closing around her. “Just for a minute. Pretend there’s never been anyone but me, that I’m the one you’re promised to. Do it for me . . . I’ll never ask again.”

It was her secret fantasy. How had he known? He knew her well enough to tempt her when he knew she couldn’t refuse. She tried to think of Daniel, but his image fled from her grasp, and something she had no control over was urging her to tilt her head and surrender her mouth to his. Heath kissed her slowly, hotly, making the rest of the world seem to fade away. He was so warm, so gentle. She forgot she didn’t belong to him, forgot that there was anything wrong with wanting him. Drugged by the magic of his kiss, she let reality slip through her fingers.