McKettrick's Choice - Linda Lael Miller [124]
They lay entangled, neither one speaking. Lorelei had lost the capacity for language; her mind was too vast for thought, and her body had dissipated to such an extent that she was a part of everything, and a part of nothing at all.
Gradually, though, she began to funnel back inside her own flesh, becoming aware of her toes first, then, oddly, her elbows. It was as if, one by one, she remembered the scattered parts of herself back into being. And she began to weep.
Holt raised his head from the curve of her neck, cupped her chin in his hand, whispered her name.
She cried harder.
“Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because—because I’m never go-going to be the same!”
“Lorelei, if there’s a child—”
“It’s not th-that! B-before, I didn’t know—”
He frowned. “Didn’t know what?”
“That it could be like that!” Lorelei sobbed. “I’ve m-missed so much—”
Holt kissed her, very lightly. Kissed her mouth, and kissed away her tears. When he looked into her eyes again, he was smiling. “So, I can conclude that you’re crying because I didn’t make love to you sooner?”
She felt a flash of glorious rage, singing in the very marrow of her bones. “Why, you arrogant—”
He laughed, kissed her again. “Or maybe it’s because you think it would have been like that with any other man besides me.”
Her eyes widened, and if it weren’t for the weight of his body half-covering hers, she might have battered him with her fists. “Of all the—”
He caught her wrists in his hands, pressed them with gentle force into the pillows. “Settle down,” he said, still grinning. “It’s never been anywhere near that good for me, either.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
He ducked his head, still holding her wrists, and nuzzled his way to one of her nipples. “No,” he said. “This is.”
SHE WAS ALONE in the bed where she had either found the lost parts of herself or made the most spectacular mistake of her life. She felt Holt’s absence even before she opened her eyes.
She should have been exhausted, given that she’d spent most of the night bucking under Holt McKettrick like a horse that wouldn’t take the saddle, but she felt strangely exultant instead. As if she’d been trapped inside herself all her life, and he’d set her free—though not by wooing, not by cajoling or persuading. Oh, no. He had driven her out of her hiding place, and there was no going back.
Somewhere in the dooryard, a rooster crowed.
Lorelei sat up, biting her lower lip. What now? she asked herself. Would anything be different, between her and Holt, outside this room? Would they still be uneasy allies? Sworn enemies?
He hadn’t said he loved her.
She certainly felt something—but was it love? It was peculiar, but before last night, she would have said she knew precisely what she thought about everything from shoe-blacking to sailing ships. Love? Why she’d have recognized it instantly. She’d loved Michael Chandler.
Hadn’t she?
A light rap sounded at her door, and Lorelei scooted up against the headboard of the bed and wrenched the covers to her chin. “Who’s there?”
“It’s John Cavanagh, Miss Lorelei,” came the shy response. “The rest of us, we’re saddled up and ready to ride. Holt says you’d better come along, if you don’t want to get left behind.”
Lorelei flung back the covers and shot out of bed, snatching up her trousers and shirt. “Why didn’t someone call me sooner?” she fretted, hopping awkwardly about as she struggled into her clothes. Like Holt McKettrick, for instance!
“I can’t say, Miss Lorelei,” John answered, through the door. “All I know is, Holt’s got the bit in his teeth this morning. You hurry yourself up now. I’ll stall him as long as I can.”
Crimson-faced, Lorelei sat down on the edge of the mattress—where she’d behaved like a wanton fool the night before—and yanked on her shoes. She’d have blisters by the end of the day, but she couldn’t take the time to put on stockings.