Chapter Nineteen

“Jesus, Dora—show a bit of mercy, will you not?” The request came from Hare’s throat like a groan.

Dorothea didn’t feel particularly merciful. A host of other feelings burgeoned through her—victorious gladness at being in his arms, frighteningly deep certainty, and desire hot enough to set the room ablaze. If he thought she’d let go of him now for something as weak-willed as mercy…

Perhaps sensing her thoughts, he went on, “What about your reputation?”

“What about it? We’re alone here. No one will ever know.”

“I’ll know. By God, you’ll know. God and all the angels—”

“Don’t bring them into it.” She strained to see what lay in his eyes. “What’s so terrible about it? Is it wrong to be with the man I love? Isn’t that the purpose for which nature made us?”

“You don’t love me.”

“That again? Do you still mean to try and tell me how I feel? Haven’t you learned better?”

He closed his eyes, a man in pain.

“I love you, Hare O’Hare.”

“You barely know me. That’s not even my true name.”

“Then tell me.” She whispered it, and he opened his eyes to gaze into hers. “Give me all you are, here and now.”

“Seductress. Not bad enough you’re clever and beautiful. You have to—” He broke off.

“Have to what?”

“Make me believe you want me also.”

“Want you? I’m about to fall on you like a ravening beast.”

That coaxed a surprised laugh from him. “Dora.”

“Say my name again; I love how you say it.”

“Dora.”

“Speak it in my ear. In the dark, over and over again.”

He placed his lips against her ear, and she shivered delightedly.

“Oh, yes. Hare O’Hare—by whatever name—I do love you. What’s more, I believe you love me, too.”

“Oh, God …”

“Stop praying and do something about it.”

This time, before the kiss ended she had her hands up inside his shirt. Smooth, warm skin and hard muscle met her fingertips, and a line of hair that made her weak in the knees. She wanted that body against hers so much she could barely think.

“Touch me, too,” she requested wildly. He hadn’t denied he loved her. Coming from this man, it equaled a declaration. “Why don’t you touch me?”

“I’m holding back my desire by a string. A shredded string, at that.”

“Well, let go.”

She kissed his throat, moved her mouth down to his collarbone, leaving kisses all the way. The buttons of his shirt yielded to her fingers one by one. He stiffened like a stallion.

Suddenly she felt his fingers in her hair. It had mostly tumbled down during their flight; now he freed the rest of it, plunged his hands into the heavy tresses, drew her head back, and looked into her eyes.

For an instant she saw his soul—wild and hungry, and so loving it stole her breath. She distinctly felt his hard-held control snap before his passion rushed her in a kiss that claimed her body and spirit.

She forgot who she was, then, and who he was—surely they were meant to be one, sharing breath, being, and sensation. If they melded together now in the act she’d never yet completed, making one flesh, that could only be right. For the flesh must follow the heart which she presented to him in a glorious burst of gladness.

“Dora, Dora.” He sounded broken when he ended the kiss only to shower smaller caresses across her face. “Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.”

Victorious delight pierced her even as her heart told her full well this glorious moment had nothing to do with how either of them looked. Rather, they’d been fashioned by nature long ago to fill some deep need in each other. How miraculous they had come together at all.

“Bed,” she breathed.

That startled him. “Eh?”

“I think I saw a bed in the corner.”

“Dora, it will be all full of mice.”

“I don’t care. Go lock the door. Does it lock?”

He turned from her without a word, though she felt the protests gathering in him. She’d have some fancy talking to do yet, if she meant to have him this night.

She surveyed the room. Her eyes had now adjusted to the dim light, and she saw dust lay thick everywhere; an abandoned table, devoid of chairs, stood by the single dirt-streaked window. Several crates lay about and, strangely, a frying pan. The bare mattress in the corner had slid halfway off the bedstead. The room felt cold.

This didn’t match how she’d imagined losing her virginity—if she’d imagined it at all. That had never been more than a far distant, hazy possibility. She’d lived her life in a place of intellect; any man who approached that high altar would have had to win her, and not easily.

Now she used her knees to nudge the mattress back onto the frame and contemplated, truly contemplated, what she was doing. She intended to present herself on that altar to a man who fitted none of her preconceived notions.

And who yet fit her like a second skin. She wanted to be inside that skin with him, wanted it more than she’d ever imagined wanting anything.

Who knew passion had a force of its own? Who knew she’d succumb to it like a frail blade of grass before a scythe?

She began unbuttoning her shirtwaist with hands steady and certain. Hare returned from the door and wrapped his arms around her from behind, covered her hands with his.

“Don’t. I won’t have you here. It’s—it’s sordid.”

She sagged against him. Warmth, belonging. Rightness.

“No place can be sordid if I’m with you.”

“This is the very definition of sordid.” He drew a breath. “Dora, I can’t let you give yourself to me. I’m the son of a whore and a—well, I don’t even know what he was.”

She turned in his arms, her bodice open—an invitation. “I don’t know what he was either, but I know what you are—a fine man. I’d be honored to give myself to you. Here, now.”

“Madness.” But as if unable to help himself he slid his hands up to cup her breasts, first from the outside, and when she did not protest, very gently inside the gaping fabric, his rough palms against her skin.

Dora’s knees nearly failed her. More wonder than demand filled his touch; he caressed her carefully, the way he might handle glass.

She whispered, “No one will come to bother us, because no one knows we’re here—just you and me. Nothing can take this from us.” She brushed her lips across his even as she arched into his palms. “Do you trust me?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Then tell me your name—your real given name—so I might speak it when you claim me.”

“Timothy.”

“Timothy, I pledge to you my heart, and I give to you all I am—”

“No. Stop. I—”

“Do you mean to spoil this moment by beginning that again? Truly? With your hands inside my bodice and the whole night ahead, filled only with time?”

“And if I leave you with a child this night, beautiful Dora? It happens. Unwanted children are made in stolen moments of passion; no one knows that better than me.”

She caught his face between her hands. “What makes you think I wouldn’t want your child? I want all of you.”

“No, Dora. I care too much for that. I’ll hold you all this night long; I’ll kiss you and touch you. I’ll not create another such as myself.”

Tears flooded her eyes. Could she have found a finer man? “I love you, Timothy. Oh, how I love you.” And she drew him down on the bed.