Page 68 of With Love in Sight
“Caleb, what is it?” she whispered.
He shook his head with quick, jerky movements. “Nothing. It can wait.”
But lines of tension bracketed his mouth and radiated from his eyes. She reached up and laid her palm on his cheek, unable to keep from touching him.
“Please tell me,” she said. “Maybe it can help to talk about it.”
He gave a tortured shudder and reached up, gripping her wrist and imprisoning her hand against his face. Turning his head, he pressed his lips hotly into her palm. Her breath felt trapped in her chest, and every nerve ending in her body seemed to have settled on that sensitive flesh.
“Imogen,” he whispered against her skin. “Please let me kiss you.” When she made no answer, he raised his head. His eyes glittered in the faint light, his breath coming in short spurts. “I swear, that’s all I want, just a kiss. I won’t ask you for more. Just let me hold you, feel you.”
Her mind screamed that she should send him away and retreat to her room. But her body, her heart, cried out for his embrace. She gazed into his shadowed face, knowing what she should say. And yet the words would not form on her tongue. He held himself still, waiting for her answer.
Suddenly she caught the slight movement at his jaw. He was grinding his teeth together, forcing himself to be patient.
Her heart twisted. She knew the pain he felt was merely superficial, that he did not love her, only desired her. But even so she could no more deny him than turn back time.
Wordlessly she reached out for him. His eyes widened a moment before he grabbed her and hauled her against him. His mouth found hers, and she gripped his shoulders to keep her knees from buckling.
How badly she had wanted this. When last they had kissed, the night before their trip into Ketterby, Caleb had been infinitely tender with her, the kiss fleeting and yet heart-wrenching. Before that, in the knot garden, he had been wild, pulling a response from her that she had not wanted to give. Now he seemed to consume her with a focused intensity. His hands roamed over her back and hips, his movements slow, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of her. His lips devoured her own, eliciting a responding moan from her. One hand fumbled for the doorknob behind her, the other pressing her flush against him as he opened her bedroom door and pulled her through.
Once inside he closed the door and pushed her against the wall. Her body yielded to his, and she whimpered as she felt his arousal press into her belly. Heat and moisture flared in the center of her, and she writhed against him, desperately trying to get closer. His mouth moved to her throat, sucking at the tender flesh where it met her shoulder. Imogen gasped and arched her head to the side, silently pleading for more.
In reply he growled low, the vibrations on her skin leaving her shivering with need. One of his hands hiked up her skirts. He found the sensitive skin behind her knee, gripped it tight, hauled her leg up. And then he was between her legs, his hardness pressing through the barriers of their clothing.
“Caleb,” she moaned. Her hands were in his thick, silky hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. She felt him shudder in response, was dimly aware as his hands reached between their bodies and fumbled for the fastening at his breeches.
But he stilled. His chest heaving, he gave her one final, achingly sweet kiss before he lowered her feet back to the ground, disentangling her arms from him and righting her clothing.
She stared up at him blankly, wanting to cry from the need that still filled her. “Caleb?”
“I will not break my promises to you, Imogen,” he replied quietly. “You are far too important.”
He released her. Before she had time to react he was through the door, closing it quietly behind him, leaving Imogen to stare mutely at the space he had been.
Chapter 28
Early the next morning Imogen opened the door to the gardens and peered out, securing her shawl about her shoulders. The air was chilly, the sun not yet over the horizon. A faint mist lay over the land, and along with the pale gray light the landscape was cast in a ghostly pall.
A perfect morning for visiting a graveyard, Imogen thought wryly as she stepped into the dewy air and closed the door behind her.
She took a moment to get her bearings before setting out in the direction the housekeeper had indicated. Small, cold droplets of moisture pelted her face, misting her spectacles. She wiped impatiently at them and pulled her shawl closer about her as she strode through the sunken garden, past the small pond to the far end. At the break in the hedge, instead of heading straight to the avenue of oaks and the stone bridge as she had with Caleb that first morning, she turned right. She had a sudden vision of Emily running into them during that very same walk, nearly toppling her in her haste to get back to the house.
Emily had been coming from the cemetery, she realized now.
She walked on, the trees appearing from the fog, their branches like upraised arms embracing their early morning shrouds. Shivering, she hurried her steps. She wanted to get this over with, to return to the house before anyone else awoke.
Imogen had not been able to sleep the night before. She had been appalled with how quickly and completely she had surrendered to Caleb. She would have given herself to him without a second’s thought.
It had occurred to her, with a decided lack of surprise, that she was quickly running out of time. Not in the sense that she was leaving in a few days, but that her heart was once again winning the battle.
She knew she would refuse his offer of marriage when next he offered. Frances’s pain was too fresh in her mind for her to do anything less. But that did not stop her from loving him, from wanting him, from nearly giving herself to him again. And that she could not do.
There was still the matter of helping Caleb regain his closeness with his family. But how could she possibly accomplish that in the short time she had left…and without succumbing to Caleb in the meantime?
It had been in that moment, as she had lain in her bed, exhausted but unable to find rest, that she’d thought of visiting the boy at the center of the turmoil. She would go to Jonathan’s grave, she’d decided, and see if she could garner any inspiration from it. It was a mad idea at best. But she was willing to try anything at this point.
She had risen before dawn had lit the sky and dressed hastily by the light of a candle. And then she had sought out the housekeeper, who gave her directions to the family plot, and raced from the house before she could think better of it.
