“Now look—” I began, but he cut me dead with a glance, took me by the hand, and led me to a soft, puffy sofa there in the living room. He shoved me down into the stuffing.
“No—you look,” he said in anger. “I’ve known you twelve years, and in all that time, have I ever moved to put one finger upon you? There is no historical precedent for these fears you seem to be harboring.”
“We’ve never stayed alone in a deserted farmhouse before,” I pointed out.
“Do I possess the character traits of a traveling salesman?” he snorted, going over to the trunk near the fireplace, on which were stacked linens and towels. “There are nightshirts and blankets and quilts—and there are half a dozen bedrooms here—or so I’ve been assured. No man in his right mind, weary as I am, would trouble with all that complexity, to secure the holy temple of your person. Why don’t you go choose the room you want so we can get some sleep?”
I was being ridiculous, of course. All that he said was true—but that wasn’t what was bothering me. The fact is, I felt afraid—more than an hour ago, under the stark lights of the data center, when I’d had something genuine to be terrified about. The only danger here was … it was absurd even to think of it. There was absolutely nothing to be nervous about at all.
I plucked a nightgown from his arms without a word, and headed upstairs to find a room. Tor stayed below, rummaging about in the kitchen off the main room, and came upstairs at last with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.
He set one on the oak washstand near my bed, poured me some, and said: “Drink your nightcap—you deserve it. I’ll come back and tuck you in.”
“You needn’t bother,” I told him quickly. “I’ve found everything—the bathroom and all—for myself.”
He smiled and departed, softly closing the door.
I knew what was wrong, of course—I understood. I quickly disrobed and pulled the heavy flannel nightgown over my head. Tor made me feel weak, he drained my power. He had a way of sucking me into things way over my head, pulling me in deeper and deeper, as he laughed. I had been the most successful woman I knew—until this bank caper of his came along. But now I was in the quagmire neck-deep again, with no way out in sight.
But there was something else, far worse than this predilection for risking my neck. Other than my grandfather Bibi, Tor was the only one who could make me feel like a child that needed protection—not a feeling I’m especially fond of. He threw me into situations where I had no control—then raced to my rescue so I’d have to take his hand. He expected me to genuflect, like Tavish and all others, to his superior strength and intellect—to follow wherever he led. It really pissed me off. If I did what I knew he was thinking of tonight—he’d redouble his efforts, and try to steal my soul.
I poured water from the pitcher into the bowl on the washstand and splashed my face, looking at myself in the mirror. In those yards of cotton flannel, with that pinched face and mass of messy hair, I looked like a small boy dressed in a tent. Nobody would try to seduce someone who looked like that, I assured myself with a certain bravado. I scrunched up my nose in the mirror and stuck out my tongue.
Just then Tor came back into the room. He was wearing blue pajamas and had a pile of quilts in his arms.
“What are you doing running around like that in bare feet?” he said. “You’ll catch your death of cold. Get into bed.”
When I crawled between the cool, damp sheets, he tossed the quilts over me one by one. Then he lit the candle beside the bed and went over to flick the wall switch. The room was thrown into darkness, the candle glowing in a small circle. Golden fingers of light licked the walls, touching the oak armoire and brass bedstead. Beyond the lace-covered windows, the waves lapped the rocky shore.
Tor came over and sat on the edge of my bed, looking at me with those flame-colored eyes.
“Why are you sitting on my bed?” I asked him.
“I’m going to tell you a bedtime story,” he said with a smile.
“I thought you were so exhausted you couldn’t move.”
“Not quite,” he said. “This is something I’ve needed to do for a very long while.” I hoped that didn’t mean what it sounded like.
He leaned on the quilts, his hand resting over my belly. I could feel the warmth seeping through the thick goose down. I waited, without a word, for him to begin.
“Once upon a time, there was a little girl,” he said. “She was a very bad little girl.”
“In what way?” I asked.
“I think she wanted to be a little boy. She was very independent.”
“What’s so bad about that?” I said. “Sounds appropriately self-sufficient to me.”
“Don’t interrupt the storyteller, or you won’t hear the end,” he told me.
“Okay—what happened to her?”
“She got what she deserved,” he said. His voice was very soft. I felt the chill I always did when he spoke that way.
“And what did she deserve?” I asked—not at all sure I wanted to know.
“She deserved to get exactly what she wanted. Do you know what that was?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you did.” He smiled.
“How on earth should I know what she wanted?” I asked.
“Because you’re the little girl,” he told me.
“Oh—then it isn’t a story at all,” I said.
“It is a story—it’s your story—and only you know the ending. Perhaps I’m a character in it—but it’s up to you to decide what part I’m going to play.”
“What part do you want to play?” I asked—realizing all at once that I was skating on very thin ice, this time without an iceboat.
He continued to watch me in silence, his dark eyes and coppery hair burning like flame in the candlelight. I felt weak and strange, and knew I couldn’t move. It seemed his eyes were searching a place in my depths—a place I’d never tried to seek myself—a place cut off from the world, as we were cut off, here on this island.
He closed the quilt slowly into his fist above my stomach, not looking at me. His voice was low—it seemed to cost him something to speak.
“I want to make love to you,” he said. Then, so softly it seemed he was whispering to himself, he said, “Very, very much.”
I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the hallway, and the sound of the waves washing against the shore. I felt something falling inside of me—dropping away in pieces. I was scarcely breathing as Tor sat motionless, studying the flame of the candle as if he’d never spoken at all.
We remained there in silence for a very long time, neither of us moving an inch, his hand still gripping the quilt, as if it were a rock providing strength. After what seemed an eternity, I saw him close his eyes; he took a deep breath, and turned to me with an expression of irritation.
“Well?” he said impatiently.
“Well what?” I asked.
“I’ve just told you I want to make love to you.”
“What am I supposed to say?” I said defensively. I was shaken, really shaken, my resolution completely shattered. I hadn’t a clue what to do.
He stood up. “I’ve never before told a woman anything like that—and I may never do it again, when I’m met with such enthusiasm!”
“What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?” I asked, sitting up abruptly with the bedclothes spilling around me. I was completely at sea.
“My God, you’re impossible!” he said. He threw the covers aside and grasped me by the shoulders. He bounced me up and down in the pillows as if he’d throttle me—laughing all the while, as if he were unhinged. Then he dropped me in the quilts like a bag of potatoes and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” I cried in alarm.
“I’m getting something you need—stay there, I’ll be right back.”
Maybe it’s a shotgun, I thought as he disappeared into the hall.
My stomach felt like jelly and my legs were weak. I jumped out of be
d and paced around the room. A dozen emotions were warring within me—all of them unfamiliar. What in God’s name was I doing here? How could this be happening? I was so confused. What should I do?
Tor was gone what seemed an awfully long time. He returned at last, bearing a tray with cups.
“I thought I told you to stay in bed,” he snapped, setting down the tray. “Do you want to have pneumonia? It’s damp outside.”
“You sound like my grandmother,” I told him, crawling back into bed with some relief he’d returned.
“But I don’t intend to behave as your grandmother would,” he assured me. “Shove over—I’m getting in there, too.”
“What’s in the drink?” I asked, trying to chattily hide my dismay at the fact we were now side by side under the covers.
“It’s something good for your health and disposition—which could use some improvement, I might add.”
He handed me the cup, and I sipped.
“Say, this is wonderful, Granny. What is it?” I asked.
“Hot milk, honey, and brandy—an aphrodisiac. Wonderful for seducing young boys—I hope it works on you.”
He plumped up the pillows behind my head as I drank, then settled in and said, “I’ve another story for you.”
“Okay, what is it?” The milk was really wonderful and warm and sweet. I could feel its effects deep inside, like a soothing balm. It nearly calmed the hysteria that had been mounting.
“Once upon a time there was a little girl who preferred to act like a boy.…”
“This story sounds familiar,” I said between slurps.
“Only this time, it’s my story—not yours. Shall I proceed?”
“Go on.”
“She was wrong, you see. But though many had tried—no one had ever succeeded in showing her the advantages of being a woman.”
“That’s where you come in, I suppose?”
“Your feet are freezing,” he told me. “I told you to stay in bed. And stop wriggling around like that—I’m not going to torture you. This isn’t the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Let’s hear the end of the story,” I said. He was looking at me with that smile again. I tried to concentrate.
“This little girl had a friend she’d known for many years. They’d always behaved with great propriety toward one another. But he never knew—and she never knew—that they wanted to make love with each other. Not until they found themselves alone one night in a deserted house on a remote island—”
“I haven’t said I wanted to make love with you,” I pointed out, as much to assure myself.
“Oh, yes you have, my dear—though perhaps not in words. I know all the little things—I know how that confused mass of cogs works in there, the myriad tiny wrinkles in your gray matter. And believe me, too, I know what you’ve been afraid of all these years.”
I looked at him, there in the candlelight, and the fear came back at once in a hot gush. But I knew he’d only begun.
“You’re afraid of losing control, you see,” he said softly. “But control means nothing—even the control of one’s own soul—not if you have to build a fortress to defend it. It’s clear you’ve placed a value greater than gold on those walls of yours. Like it or not—they’re coming down tonight.”
I wanted to change the subject at once—I couldn’t even think of this.
“So what’s the end of the story?” I asked, my voice sounding falsely cheerful even to me. “How did the two friends wind up?”
“They made love—robbed a bank—and lived happily ever after,” he said with a smile.
“That’s not how my story would end,” I told him.
But he was looking at me as if my time were up. He took away the cup I still clung to and set it aside. Then he leaned toward me—eyes glowing, his lips inches from mine.
“I want you,” he said quietly.
“I’d have had a story with less sex and more action,” I said softly.
“I want you,” he repeated.
He turned my face to his, his hands buried in my hair. His warm breath, scented with milk and brandy, mingled with mine. He let my hair slide through his fingers, touching it as if it were watered silk.
“I want you,” he whispered again.
Taking one hand from my hair, he pulled the ribbon loose from the eyelets at the throat of my gown.
“What are you doing?” I tried to say. My voice was barely audible.
“What I’ve assured you you might rely on me never to do,” he replied with a wry smile. “I’m seducing you.”
“My God,” I murmured.
“Too late for faith,” said Tor.
He swept the hair away from my throat and buried his face in my neck as I felt the shock run like cold pinpricks through my nerves. He bit me there, and sucked the place, and the pinpricks filled with heat. When he leaned back to unfasten the other lace, he slid his palm over my throat and shoulders where the fabric fell away. I quivered as I watched him hovering over me, his skin bronze in the candlelight, his hair glittering like dark gold. He was truly so beautiful, I couldn’t bear it. All my resolve melted like ice in the sun.
I reached up, pushing his hand aside, and unfastened the top button of his pajamas, then one by one, the others in a row. He watched me without breathing, in a sort of trance, as he leaned on one elbow above me. His lips parted slightly, watching in silence, as I moved my hand over the hard chiseled muscles of his chest where his shirt had fallen away—the soft hair glinting gold in the dim light. Suddenly, he reached out and grasped my fingers and pressed them to his lips.
“You liar,” he whispered. “You’ve wanted it as much as I have—haven’t you?—from that very first night.”
“It’s woman’s prerogative to veil her desires in mystery,” I said, faintly smiling at my attempt at bravado.
He stared at me in astonishment—then his eyes narrowed for a flicker. “And it’s man’s prerogative,” he said, sitting bolt upright, “to rip away the veil.”
Grasping the throat of my flannel gown—with one vicious wrench, he slashed it apart to the waist. He bent over me, his mouth on mine; he bit my lips and my mouth was filled with the moisture of his. He pulled his fingers through my hair and moved his palms over my flesh until I trembled. Then, pulling the clothes away, he drew his body across mine. I could feel the impact of his flesh—the heat of his thighs as he pulsed against me.
I was taut and quivering like a rope about to snap; he was touching me in ways that made me ache inside—deep in places I hadn’t known were there. I felt my control unraveling, and I fought against the force that was sucking me down. It was all happening so fast—I couldn’t hold on.…
He seemed to know this, and pulled away to look at me. His hair was disheveled, candlelight flowed over him, his eyes glittered darkly. The heat of his passion filled me with an unbearable, aching longing. I wanted to drown in him. But still I could not let go.
Gently, he opened my fists I hadn’t known were clenched, and kissed the palms with infinite tenderness.
“Release it—let it go—you must, my love,” he said softly in my ear. Then drawing back to look at me again, he whispered: “Come into me.”
“I’m afraid,” I said in a small, choked voice. He nodded once, and smiled.
He folded his arms around me, and closed me into him. I felt the darkness swallowing me. I felt the dark blood beating in my veins.
I cried until I couldn’t feel anything. I cried up the years of boredom and anger, frustration and struggle and doubt. I cried up everything inside—and when I thought I could control it all, it burst like an unleashed dam once more. I cried up things I hadn’t known were there. The hot tears came, burning my throat until I couldn’t breathe and I gasped for air. I clutched at Tor, grasping his hair and shoulders as he held me—but still it went on and on.
It seemed forever before it all broke free, and the slow dragging sobs and the tears subsided. Tor held me and stroked me and rocked me, and twined his fingers i
n my hair, until at last the warmth washed through me, and I felt a sort of peace I’d never known. He kissed my head gently, and when I looked up, his face was streaked with tears—whether his or mine I couldn’t say.
“A blend of both,” he said softly, reading my mind.
I was somewhere in a void between sleep and languor, drifting on a quiet sea, lulled to the sound of the waves beyond the window.
“It’s unbelievable,” Tor told me, “but I still want you—not again, but still.”
“I think I’ve been quenched,” I admitted, with a smile.
“You?” He laughed, tugging my hair. “We’ve learned what a liar you are!” He pulled me up to him and kissed me as if drinking a draft that would never satisfy his thirst. “We must have been mad to have waited twelve years for this,” he told me.
“You were the one who was pooping around,” I assured him.
“I’m going to murder you for that,” he said fiercely. Then he added, “Actually—it seems you’ve killed a little part of me.”
“Which part? Not that one?” I said, touching him beneath the covers.
“No.” He laughed. “That one seems very much alive.”
“Which one, then?” I asked as he grasped the hand that touched him and kissed the palm.
“It’s hard to explain,” he said. “I’ve always believed that intellect and passion were a dangerous, volatile combination, hard to control. Passions can feed and grow like a hungry beast. The part you’ve killed in me, I’m afraid, is what kept the beast in check. One thing’s certain—I no longer want to control what I feel for you.”
“Why would you want to control your passion?” I asked.
Tor put his finger under my chin, and tilted my face up to his.
“You know, my dear—if you go on stroking me there, you’ll be sprayed with a great deal of passion in a place where you’re least expecting it.”
“Will you spray it on my stomach?”
“What on earth am I going to do with you?” he said, laughing and ruffling my hair.