Last Bridge Home by Iris Johansen
Yet, had she won? She could see him so clearly even as she wavered on the edge of sleep. Jon standing at the window with his back to her watching the snow gather on the paddles of the mill wheel. His hands jammed in the pockets of the hunter-green wool robe she had bought for him, and on his face the same expression of wonder that had been there tonight. No, that was wrong. She had never bought a robe for Jon. It was Mark who had stood at the window of her bedroom over thirteen months ago gazing out at the first snow of the season. The memory that had eluded her was suddenly there before her. She had come up behind Mark and slipped her arm in his, murmuring something about the ice on the roads. He hadn’t answered or made any comment but had continued to stare out the window for a long, long time with wonder and delight. Not Jon, but Mark….
“You don’t like this house do you?”
Elizabeth looked from the modernistic painting over the fireplace to Jon sitting next to her on the couch. “Why do you say that? It’s a very luxurious house. I’ve been very comfortable here this week.”
“You were examining that painting as if it were a particularly repulsive cockroach.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like abstracts. I sup pose it has something to do with my Yankee mentality. I have to have everything forthright and honest, no half-truths or subliminal per ceptions.” She studied the craggy boldness of his face. “I think you’re a man who appreciates total honesty.”
He glanced back at the painting and a faint smile curved his lips. “I thought I was at one time. Lately, I’ve found there are a hell of a lot of things that aren’t what they seem to be at first glance.” His gaze shifted back to the painting. “But it’s not only the painting that bothers you. You aren’t at ease here.”
She should have known he’d sense the slight discomfort she was experiencing. He had appeared to be conscious of even her tiniest shift of mood during the past week. She felt his gaze on her with constant alertness as if it were vi tally important that he observe and memorize everything she thought and did. She supposed it should have made her uncomfortable, but somehow it hadn’t. Instead, she felt protected and treasured. How odd that a sense of perfect security could exist side by side with the in tense sexual awareness between them.
Only a brilliant and extremely confident man could invoke and balance those two elements successfully. But then Jon was brilliant, and no one could doubt his self-confidence. She had also found he had a rapier wit and a passion for learning that was truly amazing. The intensity he possessed as one of his prime characteristics, became as irrepressible as the tide when channeled on any project or thought. The excellent library he had mentioned on the day they arrived was in constant use. A casual word to Jon could spark a search for knowledge that would last for hours or even days. His enthusiasm was utterly contagious, and she and Gunner found themselves constantly swept up and carried away by it. Though she had found out more than she ever wanted to know about stained glass, she thought ruefully. And all because she had re marked that the prismed sunlight pouring through the kitchen window reminded her of a Tiffany panel.
If Jon’s driving intensity hadn’t been tempered by a droll sense of humor, he would have been impossible to tolerate. Just when she was frustrated and ready to tell him where he could shove his precious research, he said something that made her laugh. The next minute she would find herself reaching for another encyclopedia or reference book and telling herself she was really doing this for herself, not the maddening man sitting at the desk across the library. After all, she had always wanted to know how stained glass was crafted.
It had been a week of learning for her in more ways than one. The long walks in the snow, the card games in the evening, these periods of peace and contentment in front of the fire after Gunner had gone to bed. They had all taught her facets of Jon Sandell she wouldn’t have dreamed existed.
Jon’s lips lifted in a lazy smile. “You’re looking at me as if I’ve just been placed in the same category as the abstract.”
“Was I?” Her brown eyes twinkled as she leaned back. “Well, you can’t say you’re either open or forthright. You’ve very definitely avoided revealing anything about your mysterious past.” She held up her hand to stop him as he opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t tell me. I know. I have to wait until after the baby is born. It doesn’t bother me any longer. I’m getting accustomed to men of mystery trekking through my life. I certainly don’t lie awake nights wondering if you’re hired mercenaries or—”
“Really? What do you lie awake and wonder about?” he asked softly.
How your hands would feel on my naked breasts. How your tongue would feel on … The answer sprang full-blown into being. But she didn’t wonder about those forbidden things. She very carefully kept herself from doing so. Her chest tightened and her tongue moistened her lower lip. “I don’t wonder about anything. I go right to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”
His eyes gazing into her own were entirely too knowing. “Don’t look now but your honest, uncompromising Yankee mentality just slipped a little.”
“No such thing,” she said crisply. “And it’s not that I’m not at ease here, it’s only that it’s not home. All this sleek modern decor.” Her gesture encompassed the room as well as the couch on which they were sitting. “I guess I prefer beautiful old furniture that has stood the test of time.”
“Like the antiques at Mill Cottage? You place great value on the concept of home. Why is that?”
“Concept is such a cold word.” She nibbled at her lower lip, trying to find the words. “And a home isn’t cold at all. It’s a place of tranquillity and love. When I was a child it was necessary for us to travel a lot. My mother was Denise Brandon, the concert pianist, and my father and I tried to accompany her whenever she went away on tour. We both hated to be away from the cottage, but it was better than being without my mother.” Her face softened. “She was a very special person.”
“I know,” Jon said gently.
“You’ve heard of her? She became very well-known in the United States before she died, but she would never accept tours outside the country.”
“I’ve heard of her.”
Elizabeth fixed her gaze dreamily on the blue-red flames of the fire. “I hated to move from place to place, but it made coming home all the sweeter. I can remember sitting between my mother and father in the car driving down the road toward the cottage. With every mile I’d become more and more excited. First, we’d pass the white barn with advertising on the roof, then there were four Burma Shave signs before we came to the red silo. Finally, we’d cross the old covered bridge and I’d know we were almost home. I love that rickety old bridge. It’s the last link between the strange and the familiar. The last bridge home.”
“The last bridge home,” Jon repeated. “I like that.”
There was a long lazy silence in the room, the only sound was the hiss and crackle of the burning logs.
“You do know I love you.” Jon’s voice was low, his gaze still on the flames.
She stiffened, jarred out of her cozy euphoria. “You couldn’t, it’s not possible.”
“It’s impossible not to love you. You’re warm and generous and loving. You fill me with laughter and lust and tenderness. There’s not a second of the day or night I don’t want to spend with you. There’s not a moment of my future I don’t want to share with you.”
She closed her eyes as waves of emotion washed over her. “No, it’s too soon. It couldn’t happen.”
“I love you,” he said again with absolute certainty.
He meant it. The knowledge caused the turmoil within her to take on added dimensions. She opened her eyes. “I don’t love you. I may never love you.”
“Yes, you will. You’re already coming close.” His gaze lifted from the fire to her face. A loving smile lit his rough-hewn face with rare masculine beauty. “Don’t worry about it now. I just thought you should know.”
She laughed shakily. “So you dropped it casually i
“Not casually. Nothing is casual where you’re concerned, Beth.” Something flickered in the brilliant darkness of his eyes. “But I’m trying to be gentle and civilized at the moment. It’s not easy for me. By nature I’m not a particularly civilized man.”
No, it wouldn’t be easy for Jon Sandell to temper his bold warrior instincts. Yet for her sake he was making every effort to do it. The realization touched her poignantly. “There’s too much standing between us. Too many things I don’t know.”
“They’ll be gone soon.” His index finger brushed her cheekbone. “Then there will be nothing between us more weighty than these freckles.”
“Perhaps. You’d know better than I.” The pad of his finger was gentle and caressing on her skin. She wanted to tilt her head, lean closer, offer more. “You’re the one with all the secrets.”
His eyes were studying her expression. “You like me to touch you, don’t you? I told you that we matched. I’m aching to have your hands on me.”
“No, I—”
His fingers moved to cover her lips. “Hush, I’m not rushing you. I’m being civilized, re member? I can wait.” He paused before adding in a tone a level above a whisper. “Maybe.” His thumb rubbed slowly, sensuously, over her lower lip.
Her lips parted. They were swollen, throbbing beneath his thumb. Her breasts lifted and fell with every breath. She felt as if each nerve in her body were sensitized to an acute pitch, and yet a languid heat invaded every muscle. She leaned slowly forward, her gaze clinging helplessly to his face. “Jon, this is crazy.”
She wanted him. The flush suffusing her cheeks, the glistening brown of her eyes, the soft pliancy of her body. All the signs were there. He could reach out and take what he wanted. He could pleasure her and, at least for a little while, she would forget suspicion. Per haps she would even forget Mark. How he wanted her. He ached. He throbbed. The muscles of his stomach were knotted, ready. He was ready.
But she wasn’t ready. Not yet. What she wanted now might not be what she would want tomorrow, and he wasn’t interested in a one-night stand. He needed tomorrow, he needed forever.
Jon’s fingers fell away from her lips. “It’s even worse than crazy. You were right. It’s too soon.” He tried to steady his uneven breathing. “And, Lord, I wish it wasn’t.”
She stared at him blankly.
A crooked smile twisted the corner of his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s surprised.” She made a motion to pull away from him. He stopped her. “No, don’t leave me.”
“I think it’s time I went to bed.”
He thought so too. It was time she went to his bed. Time she slept in his arms. He would be exquisitely gentle and …
“Stay with me,” he urged softly. He drew her close, pressing her silky brown head against his shoulder. “Just sit here with me and watch the fire. That’s not much to ask.”
As Elizabeth slowly relaxed against him, she wasn’t sure that was true. On the surface his request was innocuous, but she had the feeling he was winning more by restraint than he ever would with aggression. The wool of his sweater was slightly rough against her cheek, his hand stroking her hair was infinitely soothing, and the scent of soap and musk blended subtly with the aromatic odor of burning pine.
Lord, he was hurting. He concentrated on trying to block out the sensations tearing him apart, forcing each muscle to relax. It. took three minutes to remove the visible signs of his arousal. Desire still existed, but at least she wouldn’t be aware of it. She would feel safe. And, if he was lucky, tonight would be another step forward. Another mile traveled on the long way home.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” THERE WAS exasperation as well as amusement in Jon’s expression as he gazed at Elizabeth lying on her back in the snow, her arms flung wide.
“Making angels.” Her tongue was caught between her teeth as she briskly flapped her arms back and forth. “Now, hush. I haven’t the breath to do this and talk to you too. I feel as if Andrew’s lying right on top of one of my lungs this morning.”
Gunner looked up after he’d inserted the second pinecone eye in his snowman. “That looks like fun, maybe we could make an entire chain of angel imprints in a circle around my snowman and—”
“No, Gunner.” Jon stepped forward and pulled Elizabeth to her feet. He turned her around and began to brush the snow from her coat and slacks. “You’re as bad as she is. How long have you two been out here? She’s wet to the skin.”
“Since breakfast.” Gunner was frowning with concern as he looked at Elizabeth. “Is she really damp? Lord, I’m sorry. She seemed to be having so much fun I guess I didn’t think.”
“You seldom do.” The sarcasm in Jon’s tone was biting.
“Be quiet, Jon.” Elizabeth’s brown eyes were dancing as she glanced at him over her shoulder. “You’re just crabby because we were having fun and you were left out. It’s all your own fault. If you’d gotten out of bed at a respectable hour instead of sleeping until almost noon, you’d have been able to come out and play too. We’ve had a perfectly splendid snowball fight, and Gunner has made the largest snowman in the history of New York State.”
Gunner grinned. “Only New York? I was hoping that at the very least I’d beaten the North American record.”
Elizabeth tilted her head and regarded the eight-foot snowman critically. “I don’t know … There are some ice sculpture aficianados in Minnesota who’d be pretty tough competition.”
“Ice and snow are not the same,” Gunner said with royal hauteur. “I will not be subject to an unfair comparison.”
Elizabeth’s laugh rang out on the clear, cold air, and Jon experienced a pang of pleasure. How he loved to hear her laugh. The sound of her laughter was low and sweet and brimming with robust joyousness. Her face sparkled and her skin bloomed with a silky sheen. His throat tightened helplessly as he gazed at her. She was blooming. Her skin, her body, the tousled silk of her straight brown hair. All blooming. All radiant. Elizabeth.
“You’d better go inside and change,” he said gruffly, when he’d finally managed to tear his gaze away from her.
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at him. “Spoil sport. Just for that we won’t let you help name our magnificent creation. What do you think, Gunner? He looks terribly wise. Solomon?”
Gunner shook his head. “Too pompous. You can be wise without being boring.”
Jon suddenly felt very old and jaded. They were both so damn young and beautiful and full of the elixir of life. Last night in front of the fire he had been full of hope, but today he was bombarded by doubt. When had he last been able to shrug off responsibility and just enjoy himself? Hell, he couldn’t even remember when he had last let his burdens slide.
“What about Benjamin Franklin? He had a sense of humor,” Elizabeth suggested. “And he came from good Yankee stock, which is import—” She broke off as she shot a mischievous glance at Jon and saw his expression. The grin immediately faded from her face, and it clouded with concern. “Jon, is something wrong?” She took an impulsive step toward him. “I didn’t mean—” She stopped short as the world began to whirl around her in a blur of white and cerulean blue. “Jon!”
“God!” In two strides Jon was beside her. He lifted her into his arms and pressed her against his chest. “Pains?”
“No.” She shook her head. To her relief the world was steadying itself once again. “I was just dizzy for a moment. You can let me go now.”
“The hell 1 will.” He strode toward the lodge with her. His face was pale beneath his tan. Almost as pale as Benjamin Franklin’s, she thought hazily. “You’re going to bed to rest. Gunner, if you can tear yourself away from your artistic endeavors, you might make some hot tea for her.”
“Right away.” Gunner passed them at a run, bounding up the stairs of the deck. “She didn’t eat much breakfast. I’ll fix her a light lunch.”
“For heaven’s sake, it was only a dizzy spell,” she protested. “It’s perfectly n
“So now it’s my fault,” he said between his teeth as he climbed the steps of the deck. “I did not jerk you. I helped you to your feet.”
Her eyes twinkled up at him. “You helped me,” she agreed. “Forcefully.”
“I didn’t—” He drew an uneven breath. “Save your breath, and rest, dammit.” They were inside the lodge, and he was climbing the stairs to the second floor. “You shouldn’t have been out wallowing in the snow anyway. Don’t you have any sense?”
“I wasn’t wallowing. I was creating.” She giggled. “Though I admit from an observer’s point of view it might have been difficult to differentiate the two. The exercise was good for me. I haven’t been able to get out much in the last week.”
Jon didn’t answer but his lips tightened grimly.
A moment later he carefully negotiated the door to her bedroom and kicked it shut behind him. He crossed the room and deposited her on the bed.
She immediately started to get up. “I’m all wet. Let me change before I get the coverlet damp.”
“Sit still.” He shrugged off his coat, tossed it carelessly on the floor, and knelt in front of her. His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned her navy coat and slipped it from her shoulders. He drew the thigh-length, cable-knit sweater over her head and threw it on the floor beside his coat. “Lord, even your blouse is wet.” He rose to his feet. “Ill be right back. Take off your boots and socks.”
She made a face at the bathroom door as it closed behind him. Jon’s dominant streak was emerging with a vengeance. Oh, well, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge him. Perhaps it would make up for the hurt she had unintentionally inflicted upon him earlier. When she had turned and seen the expression on his face, she had been filled with such empathy it had shocked her. What could he have been thinking about, to cause that look on his face? She began to work at removing her suede boots. The wet snow had turned their pale beige color to a shade of dark brown. She was damper than she realized. The vigorous activity she’d engaged in all morning had kept her from being conscious of either the damp or the cold.