Come the Night. Susan Krinard
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She rose, letting him see nothing of her apprehension. “Back to sleep, young man.”
He plunged back under the sheets with the energy of any ordinary eleven-year-old boy. Gillian was almost out the door when his voice brought her to a halt.
“Thank you, Mother,” he said.
Unable to trust her own voice, Gillian left the room. She almost went straight to the sideboard and the half-empty bottle of brandy, but she didn’t. Alcohol was a refuge of which she had no need.
Ross had. But he wasn’t the one who’d lost the skirmish between them. An hour or two was all the time it had taken him to win Toby over. He had never held a wailing infant in his arms, changed a nappy or soothed a little boy’s hurt, but Toby was already halfway his.
Was that how it happened to me?
The front door clicked. Hugh stuck his head into the room and glanced about warily.
“Is it safe?” he asked.
“Mr. Kavanagh is gone.” Gillian pulled the pins out of her hair and let it tumble down around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your walk?”
Hugh snorted. “Enjoy it? I was worried sick about you.”
“There was no need.” She sat on the sofa. “Mr. Kavanagh was quite civil.”
Hugh eyed the brandy as he sat in one of the armchairs. “What now? Do I buy a gun or start packing my bags?”
The idea of Hugh wielding a gun was as ludicrous as the notion of Ross among the delegates at the Convocation.
“I have decided that Toby will visit with Mr. Kavanagh over the course of the next few days,” she said.
Hugh hummed through his teeth. “That is civilized,” he said. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised you trust him so much.”
“I trust him because I will be with him and Toby every moment they are together.”
“Won’t that be a trifle…awkward?”
“I assure you that I will survive his company.”
“No doubt. It’s Kavanagh I’m worried about.”
Gillian began to be irritated. “What do you mean?”
But Hugh had fallen into a rare contemplative mood, and he rose and wandered aimlessly around the room until he reached the window. “I should be able to find something to do for a few days,” he murmured. “Yes, it ought to be rather interesting.”
Gillian didn’t ask him what he meant. She got up, went into the WC and drew herself a bath, grateful that there were no servants to deceive with a smile and a few hollow words. She sank into the hot water with a sigh. The liquid ran exploratory fingers over her thighs and arms and breasts, soothing her into a state of nearly complete relaxation…
Ross pushed her hair away from her face, letting her short curls run through his fingers.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Is this what you want, Jill?”
She pressed her hands into his back, feeling the flex of muscle and the strong beat of his heart. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m sure, Ross.”
“I haven’t…” He flushed beneath his tan. “I haven’t got any protection with me. If you want, I can find something to…”
“No.” She lifted her head to kiss the ridge of his collarbone. “I don’t want to wait. Nothing will happen.”
A slight frown crossed his face, but it lasted no longer than it took for her to pull him down. His hands were eager and a little rough as he touched her hips and breasts. She briefly wondered if he’d ever had a woman before. In a way, she wished he hadn’t. Then they would be the same, if only for this short while.
All thoughts fled as he began to caress that very private place between her legs. She hadn’t known there could be such a feeling in the world.
Ross was no longer awkward. He took one of her nipples into his mouth and began to suckle, while his fingers continued to work their magic below. Gillian began to get very hot and very wet, and her breath grew short.
“Now, Jill?” Ross whispered, his lips brushing her ear.
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Yes. Now, Ross. Now…”
Gillian sat bolt upright in the bathtub, splashing lukewarm water over its porcelain sides. She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks, fighting her way out of the dream.
She was alone. No one had touched her; no one had brought her to the brink only to abandon her, gasping and unfulfilled. Her memory had turned traitor, reaching up out of the past with cruel, grasping fingers.
Gillian got out of the bathtub and found a thick towel, wrapping herself tightly in the soft white cloth. At least she was alone; no one had witnessed her lapse.
And tomorrow? Would Ross look at her and surmise what had been going through her mind?
She went to the mirror and relaxed all the muscles of her face until there was no further sign of agitation. Not even full-blooded werewolves could read thoughts. And unless she were an utter fool, she wouldn’t betray by a single word or action that she even remembered their lovemaking.
The face in the mirror gazed serenely back at her. The lines about her eyes and mouth could scarcely be detected; no one would guess that she was thirty years old. Ross would have no reason to believe that she’d enjoyed anything less than a life of perfect contentment.
And hadn’t she? Hadn’t she found her place and purpose? Hadn’t she been given the most wonderful son in the world?
And who gave you that son?
Gillian spun away from the mirror and rushed to her bedroom, where she slipped into the luxurious silk-and-velvet dressing gown provided by the hotel. It felt decadent against her skin, and she almost took it off again.
Sir Averil’s wealth had paid for this expensive suite. There had never been any fine silk dressing gowns at Snowfell, but SirAveril was a proud man. His daughter must have the best accommodations on those rare occasions when she appeared in public, even though he had heartily disapproved of her coming to America.
Gillian rubbed her cheek against the velvet collar. There was no harm in the dressing gown. Just as there would be no harm in seeing Ross again. Both would soon be far out of reach.
She sat down at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair with long, rhythmic strokes. Tonight her sleep would be empty of dreams.
CHAPTER FOUR
CONEY ISLAND, Ross mused, was a place most werewolves would go out of their way to avoid, especially on a Sunday in May. And that suited him just fine.
He’d been sitting on his sofa, wide-awake after a sleepless night, when Gillian had telephoned. Her voice had startled him, even though he’d been expecting her call; he still wasn’t used to the richness of her tone, or the way it played along his nerves like the bow of a costly violin.
“Coney Island,” he’d suggested, after they’d dispensed with the exchange of meaningless courtesies and she’d made her proposal. “Toby seems to have his heart set on it.”
The sound of Gillian’s breathing had filled the silence over the line as she considered his recommendation. “Is it a suitable place for a boy of his age?”
Strange that she actually valued his opinion now that she’d decided to let Toby see him again; he’d begun to wonder if he’d judged her a little too harshly. But when she’d made it clear that she would be coming along, Ross had almost nixed the idea. He didn’t