Love, Come to Me(68)

“Why are there so many?” she wondered aloud.

Heath remained still under her ministrations, his eyes half-closing as she followed the pattern of faint ridges down to his abdomen. “That’s what happens when men are put on a battlefield, honey. They all try to . . .” He paused as he felt her unbuttoning his trousers, and when he continued, his voice was slightly unsteady. “They all try to stick each other full of holes. Cinda, what the hell are you . . . oh, God, that feels—”

“Well, I know a few wounds are only to be expected,” she said, leaning forward and kissing the base of his throat. Her tongue darted into the hollow, while her hand delved deeper into his trousers. She felt the ripple of his hard swallow against her lips, the rapid awakening of his masculinity under her palm. “But you look like you were one of the main targets.”

“They . . . they fire at whoever they see first. I was just a bigger target than most—”

“Much bigger,” Lucy agreed demurely, and he gave a strangled laugh, taking hold of her wrist and pulling her inquisitive fingers away.

“Little devil. You’re full of pepper tonight, aren’t you?”

“I was comforting you and your wounds—”

“They’re well healed by now, thank you, ma’am. I’m just glad you weren’t around at the time to tend me—your brand of comfort would have finished me off. Near the end of the war, just the thought of a pretty woman made stars dance in front of my eyes.”

“Ah . . . so you missed the company of all those beautiful Virginia belles.” Lucy’s slight smile disappeared as a new thought struck her. “Was there . . . was there one in particular that you missed?”

There was a brief hesitation before he answered. “Never a special one.”

Her curiosity sharpened. “Heath . . . about the women you knew before you married me . . . did they ever—”

“I don’t remember.”

“What?”

“I don’t remember anything about them.”

“You mean you don’t want to tell me. But I really want to know if they ever—”

“Honey, don’t bother asking anything about women from my past. A gentleman doesn’t talk about that with his wife.”

“But you’re not a gentleman anymore. You told me so.”

“We’re not going to talk about it.”

“Heath . . .” she said in a wheedling tone.

“You’d feel the same way if I started asking you about what you did with Daniel. You’d say you didn’t remember—”

“I do too remember!”

He gave her a mock scowl, raising himself up on one elbow and looking down at her. “Oh? And what do you remember? A moonlit stroll down Main Street and a kiss or two? It couldn’t have been much more than that.”

“Well . . .” she said, peering up at him through her lashes, “I have to admit, no one’s ever kissed me the way you do.”

Slightly pacified, Heath began to toy with the ribbons of Lucy’s gown. “That’s because all you knew were cold-blooded Yankees.”

“Heavens, you do like to generalize. I’m a Yankee, and I’m not cold-blooded!” She pronounced the last words coal-bludded, imitating his drawl perfectly, and then she grinned at him. “Or do you give yourself credit for that?”

“You’re getting mighty sassy, Lucy Rayne.”

“Guess you’ll have to take me down a peg.”

“Damned if I won’t.”

Over the next few weeks, their new beginning fulfilled some of Lucy’s wildest hopes. They both had their own worlds to conquer, and they each plunged enthusiastically into the work that lay ahead. The days were short and busy; the nights were filled with passion. In some ways, it all seemed perfect.

But there were still walls between them, and the walls were all the worse because they were never spoken of. They were always there, undefined, unmentioned, and Lucy would find herself running into one when she least expected it. Whenever she tried to find out more about Heath’s life before the war, he would use dozens of different ways to avoid answering; teasing her, making love to her, sometimes even starting an argument in order to change the subject. The same thing happened when she asked him questions that were too personal and probing. He would give her meaningless answers, or he would not answer at all. She was hurt by the realization that he didn’t intend to let her into his innermost heart, to share his secrets, share his pain. Yes, he would allow himself to enjoy her, comfort and protect her, but it was clear that he didn’t want to love her.

She didn’t know why, and there was no one to help her understand him.

In sheer self-protection, Lucy put up her own walls. If he wouldn’t yield any part of his heart to her, she would keep him outside of hers as well. She was sweet and affectionate, laughed and talked with him, responded to his lovemaking without reservation. But she never mentioned her secret thoughts and her private longings. She never let him get too close.

Love did not—would not—exist for either of them. Love waited outside the walls; denied admittance, it was feared and unwelcome. And so, their moments together were occasionally empty. Sometimes laughter wasn’t enough. Sometimes pleasure, or even affection, wasn’t enough.