Page 59 of It Happened in the Highlands
The climax exploded within her with the awesome power of a summer storm. The air around her lit up and she could not breathe. And then she was simply sailing through a crystalline sky, colors she had never before seen flashing around her as she soared. She cried out his name and fought fiercely to reach for him.
Wynne held her as she descended, kissing her softly until she found she was still in his arms.
The sensations in her body continued to recede in waves, but as he worked at removing what was left of his own clothes, she felt her excitement and desire growing once again.
She heard him curse. His breeches were too slow coming off. She shivered in anticipation when he stood gloriously naked beside the bed.
“Make love to me, Wynne.” She lifted her hips, offering herself to him as he joined her.
The discomfort as he first entered her was sharp and quick and soon replaced by the wonder of their perfect fit. The haze of frenzied delight that followed, swept her up in wave after wave, lifting her, shattering her, until her bones dissolved into liquid, her flesh tingling and spent.
Lying together, they banished every specter of sadness and loss. Right now all that mattered was the two of them. All that existed was the affinity of two hearts and minds. Two bodies and souls. Tomorrow would be a challenge. And the day after. And many days after. But they would have time—a lifetime together—to face the world that awaited them.
For now, for tonight, each lived only for the other and basked in the afterglow of love.
Chapter 19
Grey mist rose from the river, the sun only a dull smudge of light above the phantom fields and cottages. The worn and battered graves in the kirkyard were dark with the damp. Beads of dew clung to the tufts of grass on either side of the path, and here and there a patch of daffodils hung their heads, waiting for the day to brighten. Jo needed to keep a hold on her emotions. It was as if she were going to the funeral of a friend, and she could not allow herself to break down when she needed to be strong.
They arrived early for the Sunday’s service and walked on in silence for some time until she became aware of the sound of the river running over shallows. A cuckoo called from a grove on the far bank, and the feel of Wynne’s arm linked with hers fortified her will.
It was time to go in.
They were the last ones who entered the church. As they seated themselves in the back row of the congregation, a spectral arm wrapped around her, surprising her with the comfort and encouragement it conveyed. Ghostly hands pressed her arm and gently touched her cheek, filling her with an unexpected sense of welcome. Jo knew it was her imagination, her anticipation of meeting those who shared with her the blood of the same forebears, of having long-held questions answered. But only in part. Her mother had been here.
The curate started the service, but Jo’s mind couldn’t comprehend the words. Instead, she wondered how many times a little dark-haired girl had sat in this church, perhaps in this very pew. Perhaps her wandering attention had been caught by the dark wood of the seat in front of her and she’d run her tiny fingers along the swirling lines of the wood grain. Perhaps she had practiced her counting on the rows of grey stones that shaped the arches of the windows and been distracted by the thought of spring flowers outside in the kirkyard.
Maybe, as she sat here with her mother and father, the worn coat of the stern old farmer sitting in front of them drew her eye, and she’d been tempted to pull the ribbon that held his hair back. The droning voice of the minister might have caught her attention, and she’d wondered why he wore such funny clothes and had such a strange hair when he looked nothing like that during his visits for dinner.
As she grew older, her gaze may have wandered from neighbor to neighbor. Her friend Josephine, who had the same name and loved to read. The two horrid boys from the next farm who teased her in the tiny school house at the end of the village. Perhaps those boys became less horrid as time passed.
Her mother had been here. Jo could feel her presence. As she studied the backs and the occasional profiles of the people in the congregation, she wondered which of them had known little Josephine Sellar, loved her, pined for her, puzzled over her disappearance.
Wynne’s hand closed around hers, their fingers entwined. She thought of Charles Barton. Had he come here too? Sat with her in this church, their arms linked together, her hand pressed against his side, as Wynne was doing now? What was the relationship between them?
The candles in the sconces and on the altar flickered and flared as a slight breeze wafted through the church. Mr. Kealy concluded the service, and Jo and Wynne stayed in the last pew watching the parishioners leave the church in clusters of twos and threes.
Old and young, women and men, children and old people. Many passed, deep in conversation with friends. Some paused and nodded. But the pleasantry was neighborly and gave no hint of recognition. Mrs. Clark saw them and stopped to introduce her husband. The four of them were the among the last to leave.
“Ye should know, m’lady, I thought of our meeting for much of the night,” Mrs. Clark told her as the women walked out ahead of the men. “Jo and I were bosom friends when we were but lasses. Always had our heads together, we did. But her family circumstances drew us apart. My husband says my memory ain’t what it used to be, but yer resemblance to my dear old friend set me back on my heels, I don’t mind saying. And now Mr. Kealy tells me ye might just be a relation to Josephine Sellar. I’m thinking it must be a blood tie.”
“This is the reason why I’m here, to discover if we’re kin or not,” Jo said, unwilling to offer more.
The sun had broken through the clouds during the service, and they found the curate standing in the midst of a small assembly outside. Jo decided they must be the families he’d promised to introduce to them today. Since last night, however, it was only the Sellar family that she cared to meet.
“Do you know which one of those people are Mr. and Mrs. Sellar?” she asked Mrs. Clark.
“The missus is homebound these days. Turned an ankle in the garden a fortnight ago. As far as her husband, let me see.” She squinted at the group and shook her head. “Can’t find him, m’lady. But perhaps Mr. Clark recalls if the gentleman was attending today or not.”
She turned to ask her husband and brightened, noticing a man coming out of the church.
“Just looking for ye, Mr. Sellar,” Mrs. Clark called to him. “This English lady and the captain here come all the way from Rayneford to make yer acquaintance.”
Wynne stopped next to Jo. But the older gentleman’s immediate reaction told them no introductions were needed.
“Josephine Sellar? Truly? I don’t believe it. It can’t be you!”
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