Where Dreams Begin(56)

Moistening her dry lips, Holly sought for something, anything, to break the seething silence between them. “Maude tells me,” she said in a faltering voice, “that you went into my room last night after I took my medicine.”

“I was concerned for you.”

“No matter how kind your intentions, it was wrong of you. I was not in a condition to receive visitors. I don't even remember your being there, o-or what was said—”

“Nothing was said. You were sleeping.”

“Oh—” Holly stopped as her shoulders bumped against the wall, preventing further retreat. “Zachary,” she whispered.

She had not intended to say his name…she never even used it in her thoughts…but somehow it had slipped out. The small intimacy shocked her, and perhaps him as well. His eyes closed for a long moment, and when his lashes lifted, his black eyes were filled with a bright, hot gleam.

“I'm not quite myself,” she murmured, discovering that she was trembling all over. “My medicine…it's still making me a bit—”

“Shhhh.” Bronson took a lock of her hair in his fingers and lifted it from her shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently over the silken strands. He moved slowly, as if he were in a dream. Staring at the shining lock in his hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

Holly's knees weakened until she could hardly stand. She was astonished by the tender, worshipful gesture, the extreme care with which he laid the lock of hair back on her shoulder.

Bronson leaned over her, his big-framed body not quite touching hers. His nearness caused her to shrink back hard against the wall. She let out a serrated breath as he deliberately placed a huge hand on either side of her head, his palms flattened on the wood paneling.

“They're waiting for us,” she said faintly.

He seemed not to hear. He was going to kiss her, she thought. His tantalizing scent, the wonderful masculine spice of his skin, filled her mouth and nose as she inhaled deeply. Her empty hands flexed open and closed, shaking with the desire to pull his dark head down to hers. Confounded, she waited in sweet agony for his mouth to descend, while silent words spun through her head: Yes, do it now, please…

“Mama?” Rose's surprised giggle shredded the silence between them. She had returned to discover why they had not yet joined the others at the dining table. “What are you doing, standing together like that?”

Holly heard her own voice as if it came from a great distance. “M-my hair came loose, darling. Mr. Bronson was helping me to repair it.”

Stooping, Rose found the pins and handed them to Holly. “Here you are,” she said brightly.

Bronson lowered an arm, allowing Holly to escape, though his dark gaze remained on her. Taking a deep breath, Holly stepped away and refused to look at him. “Thank you, Rose,” she said, bending to hug her daughter briefly. “What a helpful girl you are.”

“Hurry, please,” the child requested, watching as Holly gathered her hair, twisted it in a coil and pinned it once more. “I'm hungry!”

The dinner was uneventful, but Zachary found that his normally voracious appetite had dwindled to nothing. He sat at the head of the table, noting that Holly had seated herself as far away from him as possible. Marshaling all his wits, he concentrated on keeping the conversation light, dwelling on safely neutral subjects, when all he wanted was to be alone with Holly.

Damn her…she had somehow taken away his ability to eat and sleep. Neither did he want to go gambling or wenching; all his desires were focused on her. Just to sit with her in a quiet parlor all evening sounded more exciting than spending a night in the bawdiest brothel in London. She aroused the most lascivious fantasies in him, and he couldn't glance at her hands or body or mouth without becoming acutely aroused. And she inspired other fantasies as well: images of tame domesticity that he had once scoffed at.

He longed for another of the intimate evenings they had shared, when everyone else had retired and they talked and drank before the fire, but it was clear that Holly was exhausted. She excused herself immediately after supper, barely looking at him, and retired early for the night.

For some reason Paula lingered at the table with him after the others had gone, sipping at a cup of tea while he drank a glass of dark reddish black port. Zachary smiled at his mother, taking pleasure in the sight of her dressed in a fine blue silk gown, her throat adorned with the pearl broach he had given her last Christmas. He would never forget the old, threadbare gowns she had once worn, the ceaseless work she had done to provide for her young children. She had been a seamstress, a washwoman, a ragseller. Now he was able to take care of her, and he would make certain she wanted for nothing.

He knew that Paula was often uncomfortable in their new circumstances, that she would have preferred to live in a small country cottage with only a cook-maid to serve her. However, he wanted her to live like a queen, and he would not allow anything less.

“You have something to say, Mother,” he remarked, swirling the port in his glass. He sent her a quick, halfsided smile. “I can see it in your face. Do you have another lecture to offer about my fighting?”

“It's not about fighting,” Paula said, curling her workworn hands around the steaming teacup. Her gentle brown eyes surveyed him with both affection and admonition. “You're a good son, Zach, in spite of your wild ways. You have a good heart, and so I've held my tongue when you've kept company with whores and ne'er-do-wells, and when you've done things that you haven't even the sense to be ashamed of. But there is something I cannot be silent about, and I want you to mark every word I say.”