Harlequin Historical November 2015, Box Set 2 of 2 (15 page)

He propped himself on one elbow and smoothed his hand over her breasts, her soft nipples, then moved to her belly. When he reached the dark hair between her thighs, she sucked in a breath.

“Are you frightened?”

“Not of you, no.”

“Of what, then?”

“I do not want to conceive.”

His fingers stilled. “Ah. When was your last monthly course?”

“It ended two days ago.”

“Then do not be concerned. It is extremely unlikely that you will conceive.”

He moved his hand again, lower, touching her with his fingers to ease his entry. Her mouth opened in a moan soft as a breath and she moved convulsively under his touch. He couldn't help smiling. She was responsive beyond his imagining. He wanted her first time to be wondrous for her.

She moved again, stretching toward him, opening her thighs. He put his mouth there and heard her breath catch. He stroked her soft folds with his tongue until she cried out. God, she was wonderful.
Wonderful
.

She grew wet under his mouth, wet and hot and...female. It was the only word that seemed right, and at this moment it seemed very, very right.

He brought his lips to her temple. “Winifred,” he whispered. “I want you very much. And I want you now.”

He rose over her and caught his breath when she reached her arms around his body and pulled him down to her. He placed her legs farther apart and positioned himself at her entrance.

“Keep your eyes open,” he breathed. “Keep looking into mine.”

He pressed into her. She was moist and tight and he could tell by her breathing that she was waiting for more. He took it slow, moving deeper a scant inch at a time, feeling her flesh stretch to take him.

Her eyes held his. “Do it now,” she murmured. “All of it.”

He drew a breath without moving, blew it out and drew another. Then he thrust hard. She caught her breath on a cry and then she was smiling up into his eyes and arching toward him.

He withdrew partway and thrust again, slowly, heard her whispered “yes,” and lost himself. Her sheath closed around him in spasms and with surprise he realized that she was climaxing. He moved inside her until he stopped thinking and let himself tumble over the edge into the sweetest oblivion he had ever known.

When he came to himself he could not speak. God, he prayed it had been half as good for her.

He rolled away from her, then pulled her into his arms.

“Winifred, what is between us is serious. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, I know,” she said. Her voice was soft and sleepy and he wanted her all over again.

She ran her fingers down his cheek to his chin. “I think loving someone is beautiful,” she murmured.

He caught her hand and pressed his mouth into her palm, then kissed her lips. “I want you to marry me.”

Her face changed. “I can't, Zane. I have a career. My teaching. Concerts. Obligations. I've worked hard to establish myself. I can't give that up.”

“Why not? Celeste did. She gave it all up when she married me.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I am not Cissy. She was my piano duet partner. She did not teach at the conservatory.”

He swiped the moisture off her cheeks. “I thought it was different for a woman.”

“Perhaps it is for some women,” she said. “But...” Her voice hitched. “But not for me. Could you simply move your medical practice to some other town?”

He blinked at the suggestion. “No, of course I could not. I have a partner, Samuel Graham. He and I built the hospital together. And Smoke River is my home.”

“But it is not my home. My home is in St. Louis. I am a professor of music at the conservatory there, and I cannot just leave that behind. It matters to me.”

“How much does it matter?”

“It matters a lot.”

“Winifred, I'm offering you everything I have, everything I am.”

“I know, Zane. And it still matters.”

Chapter Sixteen

W
inifred heard the crash of the front door and a thump as Zane dropped his medical bag in the hallway. He strode through the dining room and into the kitchen, and the splash of water told her he was scrubbing his hands. When he reappeared, he sank into his place at the dining table with a ragged sigh and dropped his head in his hands.

She stared at him as if he'd dropped from the moon. “Zane? Are you all right?”

“I know I must look awful,” he grated. “Haven't slept, haven't shaved in twenty-four hours and my sanity is hanging by a thread.”

His face looked gray with fatigue. “Whatever is wrong?”

He groaned. “Two new cases of cholera and an accident at the sawmill. Man lost the fingers of one hand. Damned dangerous blades on those belt saws.”

Sam set a large bowl of hearty stew in front of him and a smaller bowl for Winifred. The warm bread that accompanied it she had made herself that morning. She opened her mouth to mention it, then changed her mind. A man this tired hardly cared who baked the bread, or who made the stew or the apple pie they would have for dessert.

He polished off his bowl of stew and Sam instantly refilled it. Zane smiled wearily. “Where is Rosemarie?”

“She's asleep upstairs in my room,” Winifred said. “She's fine, Zane. We are all fine. You need not worry about us.”

“I worry anyway.” His eyes were red-rimmed but his gaze was steady. “Dr. Graham thinks we've got the cholera outbreak under control. We'll know for sure in the next twelve hours if no new cases come in.”

“Can you rest before you go back tonight?”

“No. Samuel's there alone and it's too much for one doctor.”

To take his mind off the hospital and the grim battle against the cholera epidemic, she told him about Rosemarie's day, how she had gobbled down some cooked carrots and smeared bread dough in her hair—little things that might distract him. He ate while she talked, smiling every now and then.

“Good stew,” he said when he finished his second bowl. He looked up at her. “Good bread, too. You make it?”

Winifred nodded. “Sam says my baking is almost as good as Uncle Charlie's.”

“I don't suppose there's much you can't do, if you put your mind to it.”

“We'll see. I'm in charge of the conservatory's summer concerts in the park this August. I've only performed in them, but I've never been in charge before.”

His face changed subtly, the warm light fading from his gray eyes. “August,” he repeated. “That's in two weeks.”

“One week. I must return early to chair the planning meetings.”

He said nothing else, but she knew he was disappointed, that he wanted her to stay until...well, for Zane there was no “until.”

He ate four bites of her apple pie and left for the hospital again.

* * *

At three in the morning, Zane dragged himself up the stairs and stumbled into his bedroom. Without lighting the lamp he shed his clothes down to his drawers, but when he turned toward the bed he realized he wasn't alone.

“Winifred! What on earth? I didn't expect—”

“I know you didn't. But you looked so tired at supper it decimated my resolve to stay away.”

He sank down on the bed beside her. She had on that soft silky gown again, the one with seventeen buttons up the front, and he had to smile. “Oh, my dearest girl,” he breathed. He was so exhausted he doubted he could undo a single one.

She pressed her fingers against his lips. “Don't talk, Zane. You need to sleep.”

With a groan he shucked his drawers and crawled in beside her. She smelled so good, like violets or roses, or both. He didn't care, as long as it wasn't hospital soap and carbolic.

She reached for him, pulled his head down onto her breast and stroked her fingers through his hair. He hadn't had a chance to shave; maybe it didn't matter.

“Winifred.” He murmured her name again and again until he let sleep take him.

Lying close beside him, Winifred felt tears sting behind her eyelids. She loved him. And she couldn't stay in Smoke River.

But she could give him this.

* * *

The train back to St. Louis left at four the next afternoon. Winifred laid the last item in her valise and resolutely snapped the lock closed, but she couldn't bring herself to move any faster. She felt as if both legs were weighted down with lead-soled boots.

Slowly she made her way down the staircase to the front hallway to wait for Zane to bring the buggy around.

Sam went up after her luggage and when he returned Yan Li appeared with Rosemarie toddling right behind her. The Chinese girl threw her arms around Winifred.

“You come back, missy. You promise?”

“I promise.” She hugged the young woman and turned away as Sam thrust a small wicker hamper into her hands.

“Supper,” he announced.

But by far the worst part about leaving was saying goodbye to Rosemarie. Winifred swung her up into her arms and held her tight, burying her nose against the baby's sweet-smelling neck.

“Oh, my darling child, how I will miss you.”

Rosemarie clung to her. “'Infred.” Winifred pried her tiny hands from around her neck and the baby began to cry. Winifred handed her to Yan Li and the wailing swelled. “'Infred. 'Infred.”

Her own tears clogged her throat.

Sam marched through the front door with her valise, set it in the buggy at Zane's feet and then turned, as Winifred came down the porch steps clutching the wicker hamper and her reticule.

“Goodbye, Sam.”

“I take good care of Boss. You take good care of you, missy. Come back soon.”

Unable to speak over the tightness in her throat, Winifred could only nod. She patted the houseboy's arm, then climbed up beside a somber-faced Zane.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

She nodded again and swallowed hard against the sob that rose.

The station platform looked deserted and for one dizzying moment Winifred thought perhaps she had missed the eastbound train. But no, people were crowded into the station house to escape the blazing afternoon sun.

Zane handed her down and motioned to the shaded bench next to the building. They sat side by side without talking while Winifred steeled herself to leave Smoke River.

When the locomotive steamed in, neither of them moved.

Finally Zane stood, picked up her valise and offered his other hand to her. He shoved the leather portmanteau onto the boarding step and only then did he release her fingers.

Her vision blurred with tears. She hesitated, then pivoted back to him. He caught both her hands to his chest and held them tight.

She longed to twine her arms around his neck but people were beginning to spill out of the station house. Even though he'd kissed her right on the platform when she'd left before, she didn't want to cause too much talk.

Zane stood without moving. She couldn't look at him yet. In a moment she would feel stronger and then—The train whistle split the air. She did look up then, saw his mouth twist, his gray eyes fill with pain.

“Oh, Zane, it is so hard to leave you.” Her voice choked off. He dropped her hands and caught her close.

“Don't cry, dammit. I can't stand it.”

She did anyway. Tears spilled down her cheeks, wetting his face and the collar of his shirt. The train screeched again.

He pressed his mouth close to her ear. “I love you,” he whispered. “And you love me.”

Then he turned her toward the passenger car and gave her a gentle push. Clutching the picnic hamper, she walked forward three steps and climbed aboard.

The instant she took a seat in the passenger car she leaned out the open window and the train began to slide on down the track.

Zane stood motionless, watching her glide away from him, until she could no longer see him.

She wept all the way to Idaho.

Chapter Seventeen

August 5th

Dear Zane,

I arrived last night, travel-weary and sad. I miss Rosemarie already, and I began missing you the minute the train pulled out.

I had scarcely unpacked my valise when I was called upon to chair the meeting of the Summer Concert Committee. And, oh, the squabbling! Should we start off with a string quartet or a piano student recital? What will we do if it rains? Which wind quintet first? Flutes and oboes or trumpets with bassoon?

My, how petty musicians can be. Perhaps a conclave of physicians would be equally contentious, though neither you nor your partner Dr. Graham seem anything but cooperative and unflappable.

I dislike being in charge of such quarrelsome factions. In fact I am beginning to dislike the quarrelsome factions!

The weather is perfect for outdoor concerts in the evening, just a touch of breeze to cool the air. August always brings such gorgeous night skies, with stars like silver jewels on dark blue velvet. The usual staff picnics are out of the question because of the humidity, but I plan to go for long walks every evening.

I miss you. I wonder sometimes if we were fated to meet as we did, and to like each other so much. At other times I think God is surely playing a cruel joke. I am bereft, thinking of all that Cissy is missing—Rosemarie's mania for chocolate cookies and bread dough and her dear little sleepy face when she first wakes up in the morning.

I understand more clearly what my sister must have felt when she ran away with you to Smoke River. Practicing Mozart and Brahms must not have seemed important when weighed against not seeing you again.

Tomorrow I must begin to work on the Schubert piano quintet for the second park concert; it has a beastly final movement, full of racing arpeggios and spread-out chords.

Professor Beher, the bassoon player, is stopping in for tea tomorrow afternoon; I will bake chocolate cookies and think of Rosemarie.

And you.

Winifred

August 12th

Dear Winifred,

Your letter reached me at the end of a long afternoon of hospital rounds, during which I thanked whatever God there is that we have no new cholera patients. The last one, Mrs. Madsen, was released this morning.

But about your letter. I read it avidly while Samuel tried to gain my attention; finally he snatched it away and complained, “Well, for heaven's sake, man, if you'd just marry the girl you wouldn't have to write letters!”

Those are his exact words.

I wanted to punch him.

Yan Li and Rosemarie went for a “walk” this morning, mostly to gain some relief for that poor beleaguered cat of Sam's. “Kitty” is now Rose's favorite word. That and “'infred.” By the time you return at Christmas she will be able to pronounce your name properly; then she can start on “Nathaniel.”

“Daddy” is too easy for a child as intrigued with words as she is. My middle name is Austen; perhaps she might prefer only two syllables.

I admit to being jealous of Professor Bassoon's having tea with you. More than a little jealous, to be honest. I want no other man to share even a teapot with you, or win your admiration, or touch you. Forgive me for this, but I think it characteristic of the male of our species to be possessive.

Of late I find I cannot read poems by Milton, or Tennyson, or Wordsworth, or even the awful doggerel that appears in the
Smoke River Sentinel
every Saturday, written by women who have never been in love.

There is no point in denying how much I miss you. You know I want you in my life, and in my bed. And I know as surely as the sun rises each morning that I will never want anyone else but you.

Rosemarie now sits on my lap as I write this; those sticky chocolate fingerprints on the paper are hers. Well, maybe one very little one is mine.

Come back to us, my darling.

Zane

August 17th

Dear Zane,

Our second concert in the park was a huge success. The string quartet played brilliantly, the audience shouted bravos and applauded until their hands must have ached and afterward the president of the conservatory personally congratulated me on a “very fine example of musicianship.”

All I wanted to do was return home, take a cool bath and forget about next Sunday's concert. It isn't the weather that is oppressive; it is the strain of getting the violinist and the cellist to sit down together on the bandstand without hissing obscenities at each other! I pray that the trumpet and oboe players will be better mannered.

What is it that makes people go mad in the summertime?

I am starting to teach a few new piano students, but my heart is not in it. These are youngsters, girls mostly, who failed the entrance exam for conservatory admission and are attempting to challenge the ruling against them. I feel sorry for them, really. But had they worked harder, they would not be scrambling now.

Cissy would say—well, she did say, and quite often—that there was more to life than practicing the piano. In some ways I feel I am looking back at myself when I was that age, wondering about the choices I have made in my life.

I am not weary of music, or of playing the piano, or teaching, or of performing on the concert stage. But I am dreadfully tired of the politics of my conservatory and the petty concerns of some prima donnas on the staff.

My friend Millicent is not one of them. I pray that I myself will not turn into one of these.

My spirits are low tonight, as you can no doubt tell. The end of summer is drawing near and with it comes the ennui I always experience before the new term starts. This year there is a great restlessness in me as well. Perhaps I am just growing older. Or perhaps something is shifting within me.

Or perhaps I am simply missing you so profoundly I cannot think clearly.

Winifred

August 30th

Dearest Winifred,

I have surprising and wonderful news. Yan Li is expecting a baby! Yesterday afternoon she fainted in the kitchen as she was washing dishes, and when I examined her—Sam ran all the way to the hospital to get me—there it was: a tiny, very rapid little heartbeat. Sam is so stunned he cannot remember how to scramble eggs, but Yan Li is as unruffled as one of those chickens she has tamed. She should deliver next May.

She wants you to be here for the baby.

I want you to be here for any reason at all.

Winifred, when you left in July I swore to myself I would not beg you to return. I cannot in good conscience ask that you give up the professional career you have established, but, my darling, I cannot lie. I want you here with me. With Rosemarie.

I wish there were some way I could provide what you need for real happiness and fulfillment in your life, but in truth all I, or any man who loves a woman, can offer is himself, his love and his support.

You hold my heart now and forever. I have never loved to the depth and strength of what I feel for you now, not even with Celeste. God forgive me, but it is true.

At night I lie awake and write letters to you in my mind. And during the daylight hours you move always on the edge of my thoughts.

You are always with me. Always.

Zane