Waiting for the Moon

The realization brought a wrenching sense of sadness and loss. "Do you remember that poem you read to me, 'The Lady of Shallot'?"

  A little of the wildness left his gaze, and for a heartbreaking moment, he was her Ian again, seeing her, listening to her. "Yes."

  "She was locked in a room, alone. She had but one rule to live by: She could not look down to Camelot. Then she saw Lancelot and she was powerlust not to look at him." Selena pressed up onto her toes, brushed the stubborn curtain of hair from his eyes. "I would have to look."

  It was a long time before he answered. They stood there, touching and yet not touching, their gazes locked. In the depth of his blue eyes, she saw his uncertainty and his fear, and it called out to her, made her understand for the first time that life was unfair, and that love could hurt.

  Lord, how it could hurt.

  His hands slid down the length of her arms, and she shivered at the intimacy of the touch. "It killed her to look at him," he said softly.

  "Yes," Selena said simply, knowing he saw the truth in her eyes. She, too, would die to see the world. Just once.

  "Jesus, Selena ..." He looked away from her. His sharp, patrician profile looked to be hewn from granite, hard and unforgiving. But she saw the tremble in his jaw. Instinctively she reached out, pressed her cold hand to his warm, stubble-coated cheek.

  She applied a gentle pressure, forced him to look down at her. "Do not be so afraid, Ian. I am not."

  "You aren't afraid of anything."

  "You are wrong. I am afraid of losing you. And I am afraid that you will look at me again as you have looked at me in the past few days."

  "And how is that?"

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  "As a ... possession."

  He sank slowly to his knees, drawing her down with him onto the cold, damp grass. Night curled around them, warm and intimate and cleansing. It was as if there were no world beyond them, nothing that mattered except their two souls in the midst of a great, starlit darkness.

  "I'm afraid, Selena." He said the words quietly. "And I don't know what in the hell to do about it."

  She snuggled up to him. His arms slipped around her, drew her close. She tilted her face up to his. Behind them, Lethe House winked in windows of golden light; the stars smiled down.

  "Kiss me," she whispered.

  Very slowly, he brought his hands to her face, cupped her chin as if it were wrought of spun glass. Then he bent forward.

  His lips claimed hers in a fierce, tender kiss that left her breathless. Instinctively she arched toward him, buried her fingers into the silky fringe of his hair, drawing him closer and closer to her. She couldn't get him close enough. She needed more, wanted him to be a part of her.

  "Slow down, little one," he breathed.

  The moist heat of his breath caressed her tingling lips. Drugged with newborn desire, she shook her head. "Don't stop."

  He laughed shakily and drew back. "We'd better stop, goddess. Anyone in the house could be watching."

  "I don't care."

  He gave her a crooked smile. "Surprisingly, I do." He got slowly to his feet and offered her his hand.

  A chill moved across her skin, brought a flurry of goose bumps. She looked up at him, feeling oddly off center. He stood tall and straight, his white shirt aglow in the moonlight. He acted as if nothing unusual had happened, and yet she felt as if the world had just slid off its axis.

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  Slowly she placed her hand in his, feeling the warm, moist heat of his flesh against hers, and she shivered again.

  Suddenly she understood.

  Locking her up, closing the doors. He'd been protecting her, keeping this moment possible. It wasn't about fear, although that was part of it; it was about stark, desperate need. About the essence of life.

  Already she couldn't imagine a life without Ian. She needed this moment, this sensation, and a million moments like it in her future, needed it like the air she needed to breathe. And yet she knew that he was afraid it was a mirage, something that wouldn't last.

  He thought there was someone out there who could take her away from him.

  She launched herself forward, cringing to him, at last understanding his fear. For the first time, sharing it.

  Please, God, she thought desperately. Don't let me own a husband.

  Without Ian, she wouldn't want to live.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, Selena woke early and went outside. She loved the twilight hours of dawn and dusk when the sun was a brilliant, colorful glow that obscured the horizon and painted the still-dark world in shades of purple and red and gold. As always, she wore only her nightgown. She cared little that the lacy hem got dirty and wet from her trek through the trees, that she came home with dark, freezing feet.

  What mattered were the sensations, the thousands of tiny unexpected pleasures. A mushroom squishing between her toes, the chilly kiss of dewy grass against her ankle, the icy slickness of the beach stones beneath her feet.

  She walked through the forest, touching everything, stroking a dozen leaves, noticing their different textures and scents. Birds twittered down at her from their invisible perches high in the spruce and pine trees.

  Invigorated, she plucked up her soggy, dirty hem and strolled back to the house, trying to master the wonderful skill of whistling. When she reached the house, she expected it to be full of people, but unfortunately, everyone was still asleep.

  With a sigh, she went to the parlor and retrieved her stitchery, snuggling into a comfortable leather chair to wait for the rest of her family to awaken.

  Beside the chair was the ebony japanned notion box 238

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  that Maeve had given her. Lifting the lid, Selena marveled again at the colorful spools of thread and yarn. She chose a bright purple and began to work.

  It took almost three minutes for her to lose interest- this was an improvement, and she was pleased. Yesterday she'd lost interest immediately. The small, white circle of fabric, drawn taut by a wooden hoop, taunted her, reminded her with every prick of the thumb that her fingers didn't work correctly. Normally it was not something she noticed except at mealtimes, but tasks like this were an unavoidable reminder. There was a curious tie between her brain and her hands, something Ian called motor skills, and hers were impaired.

  She laughed at the thought. Who cared? She didn't want to make needlepoint, or eat, for that matter; she did both only to please Maeve. Selena herself saw no need for another pretty pillow in this house. What Lethe House needed was gardens, lots and lots of gardens, where the flowers bloomed year round, in a dozen brilliant colors. And paintings of sunny days and brilliant blue oceans. And laughter, always more laughter.

  The study door creaked open. "Lord, Selena," Johann said, stumbling into the room. "Don't you ever sleep?"

  She gave him a quick smile. "Not much."

  He made a growling sound deep in his throat and took a long drink of the delicious-smelling brew called coffee. Forming his fingers around the delicate china cup, he glanced at the fallen needlepoint. "Having your usual success with fancywork, I see."

  "Yes. It is most frustration." She looked at him sharply, seeing the dark circles that accentuated his watery eyes. "You do not look healthy."

  He gave her a lackluster smile and sat down in the chair opposite her. "I'm dying, don't you know."

  Something cold touched her heart at the words.

  "Aren't you going to say something?" he quipped. "Some vapid remark about my future?"

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  She released a quiet sigh. "But you told me that you are dying. I cannot lie to you about that."

  He gave her another smile, this one sad and honest. "I appreciate the honesty, Selena."

  "What does it mean, exactly, that you are dying?" He looked at her strangely, and she thought for a second that he wasn't going to answer, then, very slowly, he said, "That is a big question, one that has obsessed the philosophers for ages. Death is ... like sleep, maybe, except that you never wa
ke up. When your heart stops, the body cannot function anymore. You're dead. Then they bury your lifeless body in the ground." He shrugged. "And your life is over. Most people don't know when or how they will die, but I'm different. I know that the syphilis will kill me-years from now. By the time I go, I'll probably be mad as a hatter and won't care at all." At his softly spoken words, Selena felt a sharp sting in her heart. A wave of emotion moved through her, unlike anything she'd felt before. The thought that Johann would one day be gone. "I know something of this sleep where there is nothing around you, nothing beyond you, from which you cannot awaken. It is frightening, the nothingness." "Yes," he answered.

  She leaned toward him, touched his hand. "You are so lucky, Johann." "What do you mean?"

  She smiled. This was one truth she understood. "Each day in the light is a gift."

  He looked surprised. "Yes," he answered, and she saw the sheen of tears in his eyes.

  She didn't want him to cry, so she said, "Tell me something that is not so sad. Tell me about Marie."

  "How did you know," he said with a soft smile, "that I always want to talk about her? No one ever really asks." He leaned back in his chair. "She was the most incredible woman I'd ever met, and I was crazy in love with her. Before I met her, I was . . . selfish and rich

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  and thoughtless. She made me question everything I thought I knew about right and wrong, and after I'd asked the questions, nothing was ever the same again. Death ..." He raised his palms in a casual gesture. "I would have died to spend a day with her, and God gave me years."

  "How did you know you loved her?"

  "How do you know it's raining out? Or that you're hungry or cold or tired? Darwin thought it was instinct at its sharpest-nature selecting a mate for survival of the species-and maybe he was right. But when it hits you, it doesn't feel like science. It feels like magic."

  Selena remembered the first time she'd heard Ian's voice, the first time she'd looked in his blue eyes, the first time she'd felt his touch. Every memory with him, every moment, felt steeped in magic.

  "The way you feel about Ian," he said quietly.

  She laughed. She was unable to hide her thoughts the way healthy people could. Every thought, every emotion, felt larger than life to Selena; they filled her to bursting, made her laugh when no one laughed and cry when no one else cried. It was a simple fact. "Yes ,.." She loved Ian, loved him with all her heart and soul. But was it enough? Lately, she wasn't so sure. At least, it didn't seem to be enough for Ian.

  "Out with it, Selena. I can see your mind working."

  "This word ... husband. It troubles Ian much."

  One eyebrow winged upward. "That's an understatement."

  Sarcasm; she ignored it. "What is a husband? Exactly."

  He blew out his breath in a loud sigh that ended in another rattling cough. "Well, on the most superficial level, you know that a man and a woman can marry. Yes?"

  "That was the next word I was going to seek a definition of. Marry."

  He steepled his fingers and rested his chin on his fingertips,

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  peering at her. "Marriage is a promise before God to stay together until 'death do you part.' "

  "So if I have a husband, it means I have vowed to God to live with that man forever." "In a nutshell."

  She frowned. "We must live in a nutshell? I thought-"

  He laughed. "In a nutshell means ... exactly right." "Oh. So Ian is right to be afraid of a husband of mine." His smile faded. "Yes." "How could I forget such a man?" "I don't know-stranger things have happened. But I know that you weren't wearing a wedding ring when you came to us. All married women wear wedding rings to symbolize their vows." Selena brightened. 'Truly?"

  'Truly." He smiled again. "It's something that women devised to wheedle money from their betrothed."

  Selena smiled at him. "I am much relieved. This proves that I am not a wife to some husband."

  "Well, it's an indication. Proof would require something more ... physical."

  "I misunderstand. Such as a marking of some kind?" His lips twitched. "No, tattooing of spouses hasn't caught on yet. Men mark their territory in a more ... romantic way."

  "Ah. Kissing." She nodded. "Ian said that kissing me would be dishonorable."

  "Kissing and ... other things. Things that men and women do in bed together. And I will not tell you any more regardless of how prettily you ask."

  Selena felt very smart at the moment. "In bed. Yes. You mean a virgin."

  Johann took a quick sip of coffee, covering a smile. "A virgin is not a wife."

  "Ian must find out if I am a virgin, then." Johann spit up his coffee. It was a long moment before he spoke, and his mouth twitched suspiciously the

  whole time. "That would certainly answer the question of marriage once and for all."

  She sighed and sank back in her chair, inordinately pleased with herself. Really, this thinking business was not so very difficult.

  There was a buzz of magic in the air, of long-forgotten dreams resurrected and given life. Even nature felt it; the sea was a crashing wall of white, hurling itself against the shadowy barrier of distant stone. Overhead, the sky was endless and empty and black. A low blanket of fog caressed the ocean and slipped through the blackened forest. There was no reality anymore, no ground, no stars, no moon. Just an ethereal haze that curled around the house, lifted it above the earth like some magical Camelot in the woods.

  Selena's heart was pounding so fast, she felt lightheaded. Anticipation was a thrumming, pulsing presence in her blood.

  What should she do first? How did she go about this testing of her virginity?

  She'd tried to find a glimmer of information about the night that lay ahead, the task she'd set for herself, but such information was impossible to find. She'd tried first the big book in Ian's study-the dictionary. It told her nothing at all, gave no hint or reference. Then she'd asked people, everyone she saw. Johann refused to answer her questions; Andrew's face had turned the color of geraniums and he'd bolted from the room; Lara hadn't understood the question any better than Selena herself; and Maeve had only smiled softly and told her to clean up her room.

  She was on her own, that much was obvious.

  She stared at her face in the mirror. She thought it was a pleasing face, in a pale, quiet kind of way. Idly she brought her hand up and began weaving the long mass of her hair into a braid, then tied it with a pink ribbon. A dozen flyaway strands curled along her fore-

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  head and cheeks, but she didn't waste time in trying to pin them back-they'd only pop free in a moment or two.

  Slowly she walked to her armoire and flipped the heavy mahogany door open. Maeve had filled the closet with dozens of colorful gowns. Silks, satins, velvets.

  Selena frowned. None of the dresses felt right. And all of them required that torture device of a corset. She drew back, thinking. If she didn't wear girl clothes, that left only two choices: the breeches she'd seized from Andrew or her nightdress.

  She turned back. Her nightdress lay across her bed, a filmy concoction of white silk and French lace that buttoned from the throat to the hem.

  It was the most comfortable gown she owned, and now, in the darkened room on the white, white bed, the color made her think of starlight and moonlight and magic.

  Smiling, she slipped out of her chemise and drawers and slid into the nightdress. The soft folds of silk caressed her bare breasts and legs.

  Then she twirled and went to the door, wrenching it open. The black hallway, quiet and still, lay before her. She hurried through the darkness and up the narrow stairway to Ian's room. There, she paused to catch her breath. It was too ragged and frayed to be blamed on the climb. Her heart was beating hard. So hard.

  She knocked sharply on the door. The sound was a gunshot in the silence, rap, rap.

  "Come in," Ian's voice slid through the door. He sounded tired and cranky.

  She flung t
he door open and surged inside. The room curled around her, shadows stacked on shadows. The only light came from a half-opened window.

  Smiling, she peered into the gloom and stepped forward. "Ian?"

  "I'm here." His voice, rich and melodious, came from the shadows near the armoire. She heard a move-

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  ment, then the whoosh of a match lighting. Blue-yellow light flared in the darkness, brought with it the acrid scent of sulfur. Candlelight haloed his sad face. He was sitting in a heavy black chair, pressed deep in the shadows, drinking his whiskey. A white lawn shirt gaped across his chest, slid down the ball of one shoulder.

  She moved toward him.

  He straightened, drew back in his chair. She heard the familiar tinkle of fine crystal against wood, and knew that he was drinking.

  "I thought you had stopped drinking."

  His answering laugh was short and sharp. "More of a pause, actually. Now, you should go."

  "I have come to ask for your help."

  Another laugh, softer, harsher. "And what do you need from me?"

  She stood before him. The moment felt brushed with magic, rich with the intoxicating scent of possibility. She drew in a quiet, shaky breath and smiled down at him. "You have been much concerned about my husband."

  He flinched. "Your potential husband."

  She laughed nervously. "Please to forgive me. My possible husband is upsetting you."

  "Yes."

  A quietly spoken word, steeped in so much emotion. It tugged at her heart, filled her with love for this man who sat here in the dark, brooding, thinking so strongly that he was dishonorable, and yet he hadn't touched her. Not last night and not now, when she wanted him to touch her so badly, her flesh felt tingling and raw.

  She kneeled on the cold, hard floor before him, setting her candle on the floor. He stared down at her through eyes that were dark with pain. "I know you are in pain," she said softly, "and so am I. It is the uncertainty-that is the right word, I think-the uncertainty that pains us."

  The glass slipped out of his hand, hit the floor with

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  a crash. The pungent scent of bourbon wafted upward. "That's what I feel like," he said in a rough, throaty voice.

  She frowned. "I do not understand." "I feel like a bit of spun glass in your hands, Selena. If you but close your hands, I would be crushed."

  The words confused her. She tried to make sense of them, to find some strand of meaning that she could draw forth, but nothing came to her. He was speaking of being crushed by her, but he should be speaking of the husband. She gazed up at him, her look steady and true. "Then I shall not close my hand."

  He released a ragged sigh. "Ah, Selena, everything is so simple for you. So easy."

  She smiled. "We have had this speech before. And everything is so difficult for you."

  "I made you a promise, damn it. I vowed to be honorable. For once in my miserable life, I'm trying to do the right thing, and here you are, in my bedroom in the middle of night, dressed for love... ." His voice thickened and broke off. "You should leave."