In The Face Of Death by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Read Free Book Online

“The other evening and now this. What must you think of me?”
    “Nothing to your discredit,” said Madelaine quietly, hardly moving as she spoke. “I think you do not trust what you want.”
    “That’s kind,” he said tightly. “Many another woman would be offended.”
    Madelaine turned on her side to look at him, regarding him with a serious expression. “If that’s not it, what is bothering you?”
    He met her eyes. “You are.”
    “Why do I bother you? Would you rather not be here?” she asked, more puzzled than apprehensive.
    “No. There is no place I would rather be,” he answered evenly.
    “Then why—?” she began, only to be cut off.
    “Because it is what I want,” he said bluntly, and stubbed out his cigar in the saucer she had set out for that purpose. “A man in my position, with a wife and a good marriage, has other women for necessity and amusement. It isn’t that way with you. You are not a convenience or an entertainment. You are not convenient at all. You are what I want. All of you. And I should not. I must not.” He started toward the bed, tugging at his sash and flinging it aside as he reached her. He stared down at her as his robe fell open. “Do you know what it means to want you so much, to go beyond reason with wanting you? I want to possess you, and I fear that you will possess me. I am afraid that once I touch you, I will be lost.”
    “Is that so terrifying a prospect?” she asked, moving to make a place beside her in the bed.
    “Yes.” In a shrug he dropped his dressing-gown to the floor, letting it lie in a velvet puddle.
    “Then come and stretch out beside me. We can talk like friends, all through the night.” She piled up two of the pillows. “I don’t require you take me.”
    “How do you mean?” he asked sharply.
    “If you do not want to touch me at all, you need not.” She regarded him kindly. “If you would like to, then you may.”
    He scowled. “How can you say that you want me, that you have me here, in your house, in your bed, and not care if I—”
    She sighed. “I’ve told you before, William—”
    “Don’t call me William,” he interrupted, seeking a distraction from the confusion that warred within him.
    “I won’t call you Mister Sherman, not here,” she said, slapping one of the pillows with the back of her hand; though it was dark, she could see his face clearly and knew that he was deeply troubled. She strove to lighten the burden of desire that so plagued him, and decided to stay on safe ground. “What does the ‘T’ in your name stand for?”
    “My friends and . . . and family call me Cump,” he said, swallowing hard.
    “Cump?” She was baffled.
    “My given name is Tecumseh,” he said at last. “The Ewings added William when they took me in after my father’s death. So that I could be baptized into their Catholic religion.” He sat on the edge of the bed and absently reached out to stroke her hair.
    Madelaine knew he had just given her a very special gift. “You’re named for the chief of the Shawnee.”
    “Yes,” he said with urgency as he reached out and wrapped his long-fingered hands around her upper arms. “How did you know about Tecumseh?”
    “I know he had a twin brother, Tenskwatawa, and they were both called The Prophet.” It was not a direct answer, but all she was prepared to give now. “Come to bed, Tecumseh. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
    He glowered at her, then looked down at himself, sighed, and swung his legs up and under the covers. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness. “What should we talk about?” he asked, his manner forbidding.
    “Anything you wish, or nothing at all. Either will please me if it is what you want.” As much as she wanted to lie next to him, to feel his flesh against hers for the length of her body, she, too, lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, noticing a faint crack in the ornamental plaster-work. She wanted to bridge the rift