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Behind him, the woman made a quiet sound.
He crawled into bed beside her. As he drew his legs onto the bed, she made another sound and rolled onto her stomach.
He looked down, knowing immediately that it was a mistake. She lay with her face to him, her left hand so close to his body that he felt warmth from her fingertips. Black hairs fanned out roosterlike from her forehead, brushed the nape of her neck. The silver hoops in her ears glinted in the lamplight. She looked innocent in sleep, peaceful in a way he hadn't seen before, her sharp features softened by the dirty white blur of the pillow beneath her head. Her puffy lips, as soft and
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smooth as the pinkened underside of a shell, drew his gaze and held it.
He reached out, almost touched her before he stopped himself. His hand hovered above her back. Warmth seeped up from her body, traced the sensitive flesh of his palm. He moved his hand slowly, an inch above her back, down the length of her spine. When he finished, his fingers were trembling and his mouth was dry. He fisted his hand and brought it back to his side.
He leaned sideways and extinguished the lantern, then slid down in the bed and lay still, drawing the blanket up to his chin. The gentle ebb and flow of her breathing filled the room, echoed in the darkness, and felt painfully familiar.
It's not her. It has nothing to do with her.
A tightness squeezed his chest until it hurt to breathe. He sighed, hearing in the silence the tired harshness of the sound. It had been so long?a lifetime?since the loneliness had gnawed at him, left his insides ragged and drained.
But now, with her lying still and vulnerable beside him, he realized the burden of his isolation; it crushed against his lungs, squeezed his throat. He hadn't lain in bed with a sleeping woman since Emily.
Emily.
Those days came back to him, oozing up from the darkness of his past. He had taken it for granted then, that he could crawl into bed with his wife and hold her tight. He had drawn her close, held her thoughtlessly against him, never once realizing the impermanence of it all, never thinking that in the blink of an eye it could be ripped from him.
It hadn't been until it was gone, until he crawled night after night into his cold, empty bed, that he'd realized what it meant to sleep with another person. Just
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sleep. It represented to Killian everything that he'd had with Emily, every sweet, pure emotion he'd felt and lost and expected never to recover. Didn't even want to recover.
Beside him, the woman whimpered quietly.
He tried to ignore the sound, soft and somehow filled with sorrow. It was just a sleep noise, an involuntary release of breath.
He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the weak glow of the moonlight through his window, plunging himself into the solitude of complete darkness. But he couldn't ignore her, couldn't pretend he was in bed alone. Couldn't even pretend, not here alone in the darkness, that it was only memories of Emily that roused him right now.
It was Lainie herself. Something about her ... intrigued him.
The sound of her breathing mesmerized him, curled around him like gossamer strands. He could feel the warmth of her body alongside his, smell the sunshine and dust scent of her hair and the leftover hint of perfume that clung to her clothing. And for the first time in forever, he remembered what it had felt like to want a woman.
Shadows. Darkness, shifting in on itself, moving. The magpie chatter of young men's laughter.
"Here, chicky, chicky, chicky. Don't make us come after you." More laughter, piercing through the night.
Lainie thrashed from side to side, trying to get away from the voices and the darkness that swirled around her, weighting her arms and legs and dragging her downward, downward. She couldn't move, couldn't free herself. Her body wouldn't respond to her brain. Terror
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washed through her in an icy wave. Her teeth started to chatter.
Another sound penetrated the inky veil. The scratchy snap of a rope being drawn taut, the whispery rustle of hemp on hemp.
A scream built inside her, filled her lungs with pounding, pulsing life. She opened her mouth to scream. Thick, fetid air rushed in. Only it wasn't air, it was viscous and slimy and mudlike. The slime curled around her throat, coated her tongue. She coughed and gagged and tried to spit. The sharp, metallic taste of bile backed up in her throat. Nothing made it past her mouth except a feeble, terrified whimper.
"Don't . . . please ..."
Hands pulled at her clothing, clamped over her mouth. She tasted the salty moisture of sweat, smelled its humid odor.
