The Last Cavalier Page 11

In seconds she was before him with her stunning clear blue eyes and fire-lit wealth of soft auburn hair. He reached out to cup the cheek of the beautiful face and it felt as if all the desires within the universe burst forward within him. God, yes, she could make him forget the horror. Make him forget all he had left behind.

  Because she was so important to him. With her courage, her fire, her determination. And with her simple beauty.

  He groaned softly, then swept her up into his arms. Her fingers laced around his neck. Her eyes met his. Her brow rose delicately and the husky query in her voice sent hot shivers racing down his back.

  “You don’t mind barns, hmm?”

  The sweet clean scent of her was intoxicating.

  “Actually, ma’am, I’m mighty partial to barns.”

  Her lips curled in a slow, lazy smile. Keeping his eyes laced with hers, he walked the distance into the old red barn. He had happened upon the perfect place out there. A clean stall filled with fresh, newly mown hay. There had been an old blanket there, frayed but sweetly clean, too, and he’d cast it down already in very high hopes.

  He carried her there and laid her down, taking her lips, marveling at the sweetness of them, of the giving that lay within her. The delicate pink tip of her tongue met with his, parried, rimmed his mouth with heady sensuality, met and locked with his once again. He wondered if he would ever understand what was so different and wonderful about this woman. He didn’t think that it was time that had really changed her. From what he had seen so far, things changed, people didn’t. He had been lonely and bitter for aeons, it seemed. Loving his wife, hating her death. In all those months nothing and no one had managed to dispel his deep sadness. It had been war, and survival and responsibility, he tried to tell himself.

  But battle was not continuous—though it had seemed so at times. There had been nights in new cities, there had been women, lots of them. Women who made their trade with the soldiers, and women who had simply been left lonely too long, their men fighting the war, or lost to it. Often enough he found someone to ease those bitter fires of need that continued to rage in his body. But never someone who could touch his very soul. To change things. To change him.

  Never…

  ’Til now.

  And this was wrong, he tried to tell himself. He lifted his lips from hers, staring down at her as she looked back at him with beautiful, crystal-clear blue eyes, trusting eyes…sensual eyes. And damp, parted lips. It was wrong. Because he had to leave. No matter how wonderful this world was. He couldn’t abandon his brother, and so he shouldn’t be tarrying here. Maybe he couldn’t find the way back through the darkness. Maybe he did have to stay the night.

  He shouldn’t be spending it here, with her, making the ties of silk and fire between them all the tighter.

  Her fingers rimmed the length of his back, soft pressure bringing him back to her. Her lips touched his again. Melded with them.

  He didn’t care about the future or the past.

  Only glorious present.

  He felt her fingers pluck at the buttons of his shirt, then they were moving over his naked flesh. Something scalding burst and swept around him. He felt her touch like laps of flame as her fingertips and nails stroked over the expanse of him, through the short, crisp hair on his chest. Over his collarbone, lower, against the ribs, lower, near his waistline. The shirt was nearly freed from him already and he sat up, almost ripping it from his body. Those beautiful blue eyes of hers were still upon him, the rich length of her hair was spread out in the hay like a cloud around her head, still catching tiny rays of light to gleam reddish-gold. Her breathing was fast now, her breasts rising, rising and falling. He lifted her slightly into his arms, enough to discard the very soft shirt she had been wearing and discover another of her very fascinating undergarments. This one was all lace, a creation that covered, yet didn’t cover at all. Beneath the sheer fabric, the dark crest of her nipple was clearly visible. Just the sight of it sent waves of desire cascading and crashing over him. He linked his arms behind her, supporting her back, and set his mouth upon her breast, teasing the flesh through the lace, touching it lightly, then closing his mouth upon it. She arched back with a little cry, fingers digging into his arms. In seconds he was frustrated with even that brief barrier of lace and he worked his fingers against the hook that held it there. The garment fell free. He crushed her nakedness to his and felt the wealth of searing warmth, the hardened peaks of her breasts pressed so sensually to the wall of his own bared flesh. They were upon their knees, their lips melding again. His fingers ran down the supple length of her back, caressed her spine. Then they moved to her flat stomach and found the button at the waistband of her jeans. Then the metal closure that went up and down…down, at the moment.

  He pressed her back against the hay, working upon her jeans, tugging them down against the length of her body. They fell free. In the dim twilight she lay against the old frayed blanket in the hay with an incredibly seductive beauty, the underthings she wore upon her hips very like that which had covered her breasts, all lace, something that covered, yet something that didn’t cover at all. He found himself reacting the same way. Having to touch her with the lace, against the lace, between the lace.

  He met her eyes for one fascinated instant, then leaned low against her, his tongue rimming the band of the elusive garment where it lay just below her hips. The sweet fragrance of soap on her skin seemed to pervade him as his tongue first touched flesh and lace. Her flesh was ivory, soft, taut, fascinating. She moaned and writhed and whispered something as the wet fire of his tongue first touched against her. He worked it lower, tasting her flesh through those wisps of lace. Lace, and lower still. Her fingers fell against his shoulders, kneading there. His name fell from her lips like soft raindrops upon him, again and again. She whispered a “no,” and he paused a moment. The exquisite shape of her lay against the hay, the beauty of her flesh, her slimness, her curves, the rise of her breasts. Her eyes were nearly closed, her head was tossing from side to side. He smiled and looked back to the lace. It had been the most sensuous stuff in the world. Now he was impatient with it, as well. He stripped it from her hips, down the shapely length of her legs. And he began to kiss and stroke her intimately again, sliding his tongue against secret places, feeling the writhe of her body grow wild and erotic, hearing her cries become reckless and gasped.

  He rose above her but she came up with him, pressing against him once again, her lips burning hungrily into his shoulder, teeth grazing his flesh, fingers stroking erotically upon it. In seconds. Her lips found his, his throat, his collarbone, and then moved wildly down the length of his chest. He felt her fingers at his waistband.

  At the metal thing that went up and down.

  Down…now.

  Her fingers were working against the material of his pants, shoving them low over his hips. Her hands curved over his buttocks and his breath caught while his heart thundered. Her hands moved and cupped around the bulging length of him and a hoarse cry tore from his own throat. He encircled her with his arms, lifting her chin, finding her lips. He kissed her with a hungry passion while she continued to stroke and caress him until he couldn’t bear another moment of it. Pressing her back, he rid himself of the pants. Amazingly, he paused another brief moment, absorbing the beauty of the woman against the hay, the red glory of her hair, the perfection of her body.

  All the wonder in those blue eyes that still gazed into his so openly and trustingly. He loved her face, loved the curve of her lips, the wonderful fire in her eyes.

  His eyes fell. He loved so much more. The rise of her breasts, the curve of her hips.

  A deep yearning groan escaped him. He was suddenly in agony; the pulse within him was so great. He rose over her, and then sank within her. Felt the feminine sheathing of her body, the sweet ecstasy of being inside her, one with her, knowing that his hunger would be eased. Their eyes met. He began to move and move. His arms wrapped around her. His lips found hers. Then nothing mattered but the mo
vement, the beat the pulse, the hunger that increased in each tenfold, and then, again. She was liquid beneath him, liquid that molded, folded, met and matched his every thrust and need. He heard the sweet, crystalline cry that escaped her and shuddered deeply. A thrust again, and again, and he echoed the sound himself, raggedly, hoarsely, explosively. The world burst and shimmered. It had been so long. He didn’t remember release like this, satisfaction so damned wonderful and sweet. He seemed to hold forever, loath to leave her, but then he eased himself to her side and swept her protectively into his arms.

  The world had gone absolutely mad. Yet how could he regret it?

  Even if John lay dying somewhere? If he had died already?

  He closed his eyes, tightening his arms around Vickie. But she rose up on an elbow, looking down at him. “What is it?”

  He stroked her cheek, shaking his head. “You are magic,” he told her softly.

  She smiled, her lashes fell, and she met his gaze again. “Mmm. But I’ve lost you again already.”

  He lifted a hand in the shadows of the barn. “Guilt,” he said softly. “I’m here, with you. It’s as if I’ve touched heaven. And somewhere out there…”

  “‘Somewhere out there,’” she repeated. “War rages. And maybe there is nothing you can do. Maybe we’re not supposed to travel through time or change history. But you’re here. Through the violence of that dark tunnel. Perhaps you’re supposed to be here. Maybe you’re not supposed to go back—”

  He groaned hard, sweeping her back into his arms, then pressing her against the hay, his leg cast upon her. Her eyes were very wide and defiant at that moment and he felt both the sweet ache of sorrow and a new rise of passion.

  “How can we know what is supposed to be? How can we even believe what is?” He kissed her again, feverishly. Time itself was the rarity between them. He suddenly didn’t want to waste it. “I can’t even try to judge it, I don’t dare think about it. I have to go back!”

  She sounded as if she was choking. “You don’t have to go back! The damned war will be lost without you, men will die without you, time will go on—”

  “But it’s not so simple, or so grand!” he whispered. “My brother is back there, and whether the war is won or lost, whether the future is changed, cannot matter. I can’t see through God’s eyes. All I know is that I gave my younger brother a promise, and that I could not live anywhere with my sanity if I did not keep it!”

  “You could be trapped in that tunnel. Trapped forever.”

  “The tunnel is frightening. But I still have to face it. I still have to go back.”

  She fell silent, watching him. He thought that he saw the glint of tears in her eyes, and he kissed her. Her arms wrapped around him.

  They were silent for a long while. Then she murmured to him, “Gramps will be back.”

  He nodded, pulling away from her. He stood, collecting their clothing from the various places where pieces had landed. He was loath to watch her dress. Time had given her to him. Time would soon snatch her away.

  His fingers knotted into his palms. With all of his heart, he wished that he could forget time altogether. Forget the war, forget the blood, the death, and the heartache. Forget it all and just stay here. There must be endless new treasures to see in this new world, so many places to go, and they must be so easy to get to in those horseless carriages. Surely medicine had advanced, life had advanced—bathing had definitely advanced. He could just stay here. He’d been so damned determined he was going to be honorable in this new affair of his, and honorable still surely meant marrying the woman he loved. He had friends married to Northern wives. Some of them had run home, returned to their fathers. Still wed, they lived in different states. Many times, they were still in love, despite the war. Despite the distance.

  Different states, not different times, he reminded himself. He was falling in love with her. He wanted to marry her. Sleep with her anywhere, including her grandfather’s house. Make love to her on clean sheets, against the softness of a bed.

  It would be so damned easy to stay!

  His fingers tightened, his nails digging into the flesh of his palms. He couldn’t stay. John was back there. John was waiting. With the first light he was going back. He had to.

  But her back was to him then. She was just buttoning the pink shirt that draped so sensual against her shoulders. He dropped his hands gently upon her shoulders, drawing her back to him. He kissed the top of her head, and a rush of tension swept through him. He had to leave her. He couldn’t really ask her to come with him, ask her to leave a world of hot dogs and Coca-Cola and come back to a time when the fury of war raged and blood ran hot between two sides of a warring nation. She couldn’t come back; he couldn’t ask her to, and he wouldn’t want to endanger her.

  But leaving her now was already like leaving a piece of his heart. The best of it.

  She spun around in his arms. She saw the sorrow in his eyes. Luckily, perhaps, she misinterpreted it. She stroked his cheek tenderly, studying his eyes. “So much must hurt you!” she whispered. “And I’m so sorry. And honestly, Jason, I am a Virginian, I love Virginia, but more important, I’m an American, and you can’t imagine how important that has come to be over the years! What’s gone on between America and other nations since your time, you can’t possibly imagine. There have been wars. Horrible, devastating wars, wars with bombs that kill tens of thousands of people at a single hit.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry for what you’re suffering, but the North had to win. Had to. It was necessary for the United States to become the power that it did.” She hesitated. “Jason, if you go back, you can’t change things.”

  He caught her hands and kissed each of her palms. “Your grandfather was going to the library?”

  She nodded.

  “Can you take me there?”

  She nodded again.

  “Do we ride the horses?”

  She smiled and shook her head. “I have something called a Jeep Cherokee out back. It will be much less noticeable parked at the library,” she assured him.

  She took his hand and led him back around the barn to the drive where her bright red little Cherokee waited. The key was under the mat and she opened her door, found it and slid into the driver’s seat, indicating that Jason should sit next to her. He did, hands moving over the upholstery, eyes riveted upon the Jeep’s panel. “What are all those?”

  “Umm—that’s for your speed, that tells you how much gas—fuel—you’ve got. Let’s see…windshield wipers, radio—”

  “Radio?”

  Vickie geared the car into life. She switched the knob for the radio and laughed when he stiffened like timber when the music blasted on.

  He stared at her. “Airwaves. I think something like the telegraph probably led to all this,” she explained.

  He nodded. “It’s loud.”

  “It can be turned down,” she said, and did so. She started to drive. He stared straight ahead as she eased the car down the mountain, heading for the center of town. Luckily the night was quiet. There was almost no traffic. Everyone was either at his or her encampment or motel. Or maybe people were worn out from the day’s activities.

  Or resting for tomorrow’s. The hardest fighting of the real battle had taken place that third day, and it would be the same with the reenacting.

  Gramps was still there, she saw, as she parked in a space next to his old Buick. Jason stepped out of the car, looking at the buildings in the center of town. Many of them were old, some even older than the days of the Civil War. But some of them were new. The newspaper building was sleekly made with glass panels everywhere. Very modern. Jason just stared at it. At that moment, she heard the distant rumble of a jet. She looked up as Jason did. His hands on his hips, he stared.

  “Men have walked on the moon,” he murmured wondrously.

  “Well, those men—and women—are probably just flying from Washington to Memphis, or some like destination. That’s an airplane, not a spaceship. Moon travel isn’t c
ommonplace. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “they say that someday it might be.”

  “People can fly. They can just fly anywhere?”

  “Almost anywhere.”

  Vickie watched him staring up at the sky, fascination in his handsome features. His hands were set upon his hips and she found herself watching them next, remembering the way that they felt against her, sensual, exciting, tender.

  She was really, truly, falling in love with him. With his smile, with the flash of his eyes.

  With the way that he made love.

  And even with his determination to leave her. To go back.

  She cleared her throat. “Let’s go in. Maybe we can find out what Gramps is up to.”

  But as they started to walk into the library, Gramps was coming out. He seemed distracted and walked past Vickie without noticing her.

  “Gramps?” she said, touching his arm.

  “Vickie—Jason! What are you two doing out here?”

  “Jason wanted to come to the library,” Vickie said, frowning. “What’s the matter with you?”

  He had two very old books clutched in his hands. She saw that one was a history of Virginia companies of the Civil War, and another was an old, and probably out-of-print, history of Blackfield’s Mountain.

  Gramps looked at the two of them, shaking his head. Then he sighed. “Let’s go somewhere. We can’t just stand here in the doorway.” He peered at Jason, who was watching him with a keen interest. “You still hungry, young fellow? We got a great steak place just yonder and it’s late enough now not to be too busy.”

  “I’m still hungry, sir. But I still haven’t any money—”

  “Don’t friends invite friends to dinner in your time, Jason Tarkenton?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I’m asking. And if you’re any kind of gentleman, you’re accepting.”

  Jason bowed his head slightly, hiding a smile. “Thank you. I accept your invitation with great pleasure. And I even know what a steak is!”

  “Thought you might,” Gramps said, and he grinned, but Vickie saw that the humor wasn’t really touching his eyes. He was worried.