When they came to the point in the road at which it branched in two, one fork leading to the Sinclair home andthe other to Limeglade, Christopher spoke again.
“You go on home, Luke,” he said. “I shall take Miss Shaw home and be back in no time at all. Tell Mama tokeep the tea hot for me.”,
Rebecca felt utterly dismayed. She had assumed thatboth men would ride to Limeglade with her, though now she thought of it, of course, it made no sense at all forboth of them to ride out of their way.
“Right,” Mr. Carver said. He touched his hat with his whip. “Pleased to have met you, Miss Shaw. Glad one ofus could be of service to you. Looks as if the rain is goingto hold off awhile longer. But very cold.” He hunched hisshoulders and turned his horse into the lane that led to hisdestination.
“Mr. Carver is right,” Rebecca said hesitantly. “It is not going to rain yet after all. I could walk from here,Christopher, really I could. You need not ride out of yourway.”
He looked down at her. “You are just about blue with the cold,” he said. “I thought you had more sense, Becky.You were too proud to borrow a vehicle, I suppose.”
Rebecca would have replied, but she was suddenly made speechless as he transferred his horse’s reins to the handthat also held her and with the other hand began to unbutton his greatcoat. A few seconds later she found herselfenveloped in its warm folds and pulled even closer againsthim. She dared not trust her voice to say anything. All herefforts had to be used to keep her head from contact withhis body. Even that battle was lost after a few minutes,though. The strain on the muscles of her neck was toogreat; she was forced to rest her head against his shoulder.
They rode in silence for the mile that still lay ahead before they came to the gates that opened onto the driveleading to the house. For all her resolves of the previousfew days, Rebecca found that she could not prevent herselffrom feeling an overwhelming sadness. It was so longsince she had been close to him like this. And he wasdifferent. He had lost his boyish leanness. His body hadhardened into well-muscled maturity. Yet it could be noone else but him. There was a certain feeling about beingwith Christopher that she had forgotten, a feeling of safeness, of rightness. And there was a certain smell about him, of soap, cologne, leather, perhaps—she was not quite sure what. That too she had forgotten until now.
She wanted to do nothing more than turn her face into his neckcloth, wrap her arms around his waist, and cry.Instead, she held herself rigidly still, trying to fight hertreacherous body, trying to think of Philip.
“You can set me down here,” she said at last when they were one bend away from the house. She did not wish himto take her right up to the door. She would be obliged thento invite him inside. And she did not wish the others toknow that she had ridden with him for a few miles. UncleHumphrey, or even Harriet, might remember somethingfrom the past and tease her about it.
She was relieved when Christopher drew his horse to a halt. For reasons of his own he must agree with her. Hedid not want Harriet, perhaps, to know that he had beenwith her.
“Very well,” he said. “You should not get very cold between here and the house. Tomorrow, Becky, if you areto teach, will you please take one of your uncle’s carriages? I imagine that this weather will persist for a fewdays yet.”
He swung down from the saddle and reached up to lift her to the ground. It was really not his fault. Rebecca washonest enough to realize that afterward when she had runto her room and had had time to calm down enough tothink rather than merely feel. It was her fault entirely. Hisown arms stayed quite firm. He did not intend that shetouch him on the way down. It was her own arms thatwent suddenly weak at the elbows. She had put her handson his shoulders to brace herself, but suddenly she lurchedtoward him so that she slid the whole agonizing length ofhis body between her high perch and the ground.
She sucked in a ragged breath of air and looked up into his face in dismay. “Christopher!” was all she could thinkof to say. Pretty stupid, as she admitted to herself later.Why say that?
“Becky!” He whispered her name.
It was those blue eyes that were really to blame, of course, but then, in all fairness, she had to admit that hewas not really responsible for those. She could not lookaway from them even when they came closer. Finally,when she could focus no longer she had to close her eyes.But that did nothing to break the spell because by that timehis mouth was on hers.
It was easy enough afterward to tell herself that she should immediately have pulled away and run for her life.The trouble was that one’s mind did not work quite rationally when one was being kissed by the only man one hadever loved, and the man one had loved so totally that noone had ever been able to take his place.
She was inside his greatcoat again, the coat and his arms wrapped around her, her own hands splayed warmly overthe silk shirt that covered his chest. (How had his jacketand waistcoat become unbuttoned?) And his mouth wasopened over hers, his tongue pushing urgently beyond thebarrier of her lips and teeth. She had forgotten—ah, yes,she had forgotten just how much he could stir her bloodand make her ache with longing for him. She pressedagainst him, the coat and his arms quite unnecessary tohold her close. She wanted this to happen, had wanted itfrom that first moment of meeting him on the lanewayhome a couple of weeks before. She wanted him. Sheloved him. He was Christopher, and she did not care aboutanything else. She did not care.
He ended the kiss and looked down into her bewildered eyes. His own looked unnaturally bright. “Becky,” hesaid very softly. “Becky, I am sorry. I am sorry abouteverything. But this especially. I have no right. I havecaused enough havoc in your life, I believe. Please forgiveme.”
Rebecca looked back, wide-eyed now. He was the old Christopher, human and vulnerable. But, of course, hewas not the old Christopher at all. And even that man hadbeen a figment of her imagination.
And then, finally, too late, much too late, she turned and fled.
Rebecca was walking in Maude’s formal garden the next afternoon, breathing in the heavy scent of the roses. It wasa warm day and the sun shone from a clear sky, despiteChristopher’s prediction of the day before. For once shehad stayed at home all day. It was not her regular dayeither for teaching or visiting the sick, and she had decidedthat she would not invent an extra errand.
She had been full of self-loathing since the afternoon before. How could she have allowed it to happen? Had shespent all those years working him out of her system andbuilding up self-discipline only to find that his mere appearance in her life again could bring all the barrierscrashing down? Was she prepared to give up the secureand satisfying life that she had rebuilt from the ruins of herold life?
The answer to both questions certainly seemed to be yes. While she had been in his arms, his mouth on hers,she had surrendered completely to a physical longing thatshould have died years before. She had wanted him andgiven in to that desire. She had loved him.
Her self-loathing of the moment came entirely from the fact that she still could not convince herself that she hadnot meant it. She did love him. She always had, evenwhen she had hated him most. She loved ChristopherSinclair, a man who had used her for his own satisfactionduring a few months when he had had nothing else withwhich to amuse himself and had callously abandoned heras soon as he found someone who could cater more satisfactorily to his tastes. He had had the money and all theexciting life of town with which to entertain himself in thesix and a half intervening years. And he still had themoney.
Now he was back again, bored again, looking for a female with whom to carry on a flirtation. It did not seemto matter who she was. Harriet had set her cap at him, andhe had lost no time in taking up the challenge. And he had certainly not hesitated to accept the open invitation sheherself had seemed to offer the day before by allowing herbody to sway against his.
She could remember one occasion when she really had deliberately done just that. They had been in the woodsbeyond the bridge, both perched in the low branches of atree while they talked and laughed over some nonsensethat she could not recall. When he had lifted her down, shequite deliberately and provocatively rubbed against him,giggling as she did so. She could even remember hiswords.
“Becky!” he had scolded. “Are you playing temptress?”
“Yes, definitely,” she had admitted, grinning up athim. “You have not kissed me all afternoon.”
“Have I not?” he had said, putting his arms around her and pulling her hard against him. “What an oversight. Ifully intend to do so now, though.”
