Remington peeled off his damp shirt as she had done and gave it over. “Why do you think there must be?” Under it he was wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt that fit him closely when it wasn’t wet, and since it was, he wore it like a glove. He pulled it over his head when she held out her hand for it.
Phoebe stared at his naked chest. It was not the first one she had ever seen, but it was easily the most appealing. In the theater, she was used to men with pasty complexions managing their figures with corsets and braces. Remington required no such artifice, and for reasons she could not clearly define, that put her out of sorts with him.
Somewhat impatiently, she said, “You have to know that you possess qualities attractive to women.”
“A man doesn’t get tired of hearing them, you know. Start with the A’s. Admirable. Amusing. Articulate. Attorney-at-law.”
And as quick as that, her irritation faded. “Ass. Go on. Go over there and get the blanket around you. Warm yourself before you rig the line.”
He rose, stepped past her kneeling figure, and went to the stove. It was Phoebe who thrust the blanket at him. He pulled it around his shoulders and held it in one fist while she used the time to adjust the knot at her breasts. They stood side by side for a long time. She felt him shiver and found his hand under the blanket. She threaded her fingers in his. Except to gently squeeze her hand in acknowledgment, he didn’t stir again.
It did not happen suddenly, or even by thoughtful design. Phoebe leaned into him, rested her head on his shoulder, and that was fine until it wasn’t. He opened his blanket and she stepped into the curve of his arm. He closed around her, embraced her. It was a light touch, an easy one, full of warmth. There was security, too, and comfort.
Phoebe knew he would not turn her away if she came to him. Did she want to come to him? She had never gone willingly to any man, but that had not necessarily mattered.
Fiona had taught her early that it might not always be her choice, and she had learned the truth of that when she was sixteen, between acts one and two ofMuch Ado About Nothing.It was a small blessing, she supposed, that she was three years older than Fiona had been when it happened to her. It was Fiona who drove him out when she surprised him in her dressing room. She stuck him with a hatpin to make him leap away and then raised welts on his back and buttocks with his ebony walking stick, the one with the silver-plated lion’s head. He had limped out of the theater by the back door, his shirt in shreds, his back bloody, calling Fiona every vile name he knew. Phoebe recalled quite clearly that Fiona had bested him there as well.
Fiona had been her champion, but it was left to others to comfort her. After all, there were four acts remaining and Fiona had the role of Beatrice. That evening, when they had retired to their rooms, Fiona gave her a revolting concoction to drink saying only that it would prevent the most serious of consequences. Phoebe understood precisely what that meant, and for eight days following the rape, Fiona asked her if she had begun her monthly courses. When she was finally able to say that she had, nothing about that night was ever mentioned again.
It happened a second time, and a third, both with the same man, a suitor of Fiona’s, but Phoebe never told anyone. She couldn’t. Montgomery Hobart the Third, heir to a textile fortune, showed her the diamond-encrusted stickpin in his ascot and promised—not threatened—to permanently scar Fiona’s face if she spoke a word. So she hadn’t. On both occasions she visited the gypsy witch who had given Fiona the drink that had seemed to be efficacious the first time. She was so sick with cramps that a physician was sent for. He asked her some pointed questions and she lied without the least compunction.
Phoebe made plans to kill Monty Hobart, plans she wascertain she could carry out, and there was still some part of her that regretted never having the opportunity to test her resolve, but Monty robbed her of that, too. Two weeks before he was supposed to visit New York again, he died in a factory fire.
Without preamble, she said, “I am not a virgin. Is that something you want to know?”
Remington blinked. “Howdoesyour mind work, Phoebe?”
“In leaps and bounds apparently. Are you sorry I told you? Does it make a difference?”
“You should be able to say what you like even if I can’t always—hardly ever—follow the path that got you there. As for it making a difference, it’d be hypocritical for me to say so, don’t you think? Not only am I not a virgin, but I’ve been standing here contemplating a path of my own, the one where I’ll encounter the least resistance getting you on that mattress again, preferably on your back and under me.”
Her throat felt very thick and there was a weight on her chest that made it difficult to breathe. She said, “Oh.”
“Uh-huh. So if you were a virgin, it wouldn’t be for long anyway—if I ever work out the path, that is.”
“Down.”
“How’s that?”
“Down. The path is down.”
“The shortest route, then.”
“Yes. The shortest route.”
Chapter Nineteen
First there was the kiss. Remington opened the other side of his blanket and Phoebe turned, stepped in, and then she was enveloped in his arms, cocooned. His head lowered, hers lifted. Their mouths touched.
Phoebe had little experience with kissing. When Remington had surprised her in the shed, planting that hard, brief kiss on her mouth, she counted it as her first true kiss. It was all she had to compare with what he was doing to her now.
He nudged her lips with his, parting them. She caught just a sip of air before he began to explore the shape of her mouth, and it was warm and musky on her tongue. She realized she had stolen that breath from him. That made her smile.
He felt the change in the slant of her mouth, thought he could actually taste the sweet bubble of laughter that hovered on her lips. He brushed her mouth. Once. Twice. Their lips clung. He touched the tip of his tongue to her upper lip. She shivered. A moment later so did he.
Neither of them was cold.
Her mouth opened under the pressure of his. Her lips were damp, soft, and sensitive, and what he did with his mouth and tongue kept them that way. She moaned because it was not possible to keep that sound trapped in the back of her throat.Hemade it impossible. It was all right, though, because she meant to give him everything.
