Nineteen

The sky began to darken as Caitlin walked from the men's huts back to the house. The breeze had stilled, and a mass of bruise-colored clouds gathered on the horizon. The air felt heavy and thick.

A storm was coming.

As if to confirm the thought, a low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.

She quickened her pace.

All things being even, the men had taken the news well. One became used to one's life being upended, she supposed. And if they were used to it, surely Caitlin should be. But somehow, the painful ache in her throat refused to be swallowed away.

She was halfway through the last field when the clouds overtook the sun and the rich gold of the ripening wheat dimmed. By pure habit, she reached out a hand and skimmed it over the tops of the stalks, feeling the kiss of the burgeoning kernels beneath her palm. She'd been here so long . . . half her life. She'd grown accustomed to the idea that this would be home forever.

What a sap she'd been.

She jerked her hand away and clenched it into a fist, holding it tight by her side. How had she allowed herself to feel so safe? Had she learned nothing from the story of Esther Abrams? She should have been anticipating this, preparing for it, but no—she'd looked the other way, chosen to forget all about that damn letter and carry on as if nothing could go wrong. Just as she had with Michael. She'd ignored the certainty of his leaving, put off even thinking of it. And now it was too late.

She trained her gaze to the ground, gripping harder till her nails bit into the flesh. With the pain came a flash of memory—that deed, with the stranger's name written where hers should have been. . . This farm might have been her home for the last twenty years, but it no longer was. The sooner she got used to that fact, the better. She didn't own the ripening wheat, nor the fencerow she'd built with her own hands, nor the orchard she'd planted, nor the hives.

The sound of the cow lowing plaintively to her calf drifted through the humid air, and Caitlin's heart ached at the sound. The cow. The calf. Again, that long, haunting sound, then the higher pitched answer. She would check on them to make sure they were secured before the storm. No matter whom they belonged to, they deserved to be safe.

She turned her steps toward the barn, then took a long steeling breath. This was not the first time she'd dealt with adversity. Life must go on. It would go on. All she could do was make the best of it.

She'd given Hud and Finn leave to depart whenever they liked. She'd just need to write them a pass, and they'd be on their way. Of course, she hadn't said as much, but she hoped they'd use the extra time to sneak in a few nights of freedom before showing themselves at the barracks.

She would offer the same to Michael, too. There was no sense in prolonging their parting. He could leave whenever he wished—

Without warning, the ach rose in her throat, now a searing burn, and she choked on a sob. At the same time, a sudden gust of wind kicked up the dust, lending a haze to the air. Her hair whipped in every direction; her eyes smarted. She covered them with the heel of her hand.

The barn door gaped open, and she ducked inside. Here, all was still and quiet. The cows had made it in, and the mare stood calmly in her stall, seemingly undisturbed by the rising storm.

Tears streamed down Caitlin's cheeks. She wiped them away. "Be safe, lovies," she murmured, as she closed the sliding doors that led to the pasture. Then she turned and stood in the shelter of the main door, looking out.

It still hadn't started to rain, and the wind had stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The sky had taken on a greenish cast, and the air held a charged, ominous feel.

Her eyes settled on the house. A thin trail of smoke rose from the chimney. A candle shone in the window.

Michael was waiting for her.

A flash of lightning lit the landscape. She didn't see it, but it was close—the skin on the back of her neck tingled, and in the same instant, a crashing boom of thunder shook the air. Another great sob wracked her, and she grasped the wooden doorframe to stay upright.

What would she do without him?

She'd always been alone. Ever since coming here—no, well before that. In that cold gaol in Cork where she'd nearly died, and even before that, on the streets when every day had been a struggle to keep the young ones fed and a roof over their heads. She'd had no one then—not to lean on, nor to talk to. Not since Ma and Pa died . . .

So why did it hurt so much to think of being alone once more?

It was that foolish vision she'd had of the two of them growing old together, living out their days, so peaceful and content. She should never have allowed herself that indulgence. It wasn't what she wanted, not really, and Michael might not have stayed anyway, even if it had been possible.

But it was such a pretty dream . . . Somehow, she just couldn't seem to let it go.

He'd said she could stay, not go to Scotland. Though she couldn't be sure if that was an offer or simply an observation. Even if he had been suggesting that they stay together after he was freed, what would they do? He had nothing, and neither did she. Everything she'd earned had gone to paying John's debts. There was no hope of obtaining land of their own. They could settle in Sydney or one of the other towns, but even with Michael, that kind of life would be intolerable. At least in Scotland she'd have land and quiet. A few jagged pieces of her dream, shattered as it was.

Another bolt of lightning split the dark clouds, and the wind picked up again, roaring through the trees, sending great waves tumbling through the fields. Then a grinding, low growl of thunder that seemed to go on forever, chasing itself around the sky and reverberating in her chest.

If it had been any other day, she'd have worried over the wheat, which was at that fragile stage just before ripening. It could very easily be flattened and ruined by a storm like this. But it didn't matter now.

There was a part of her that hoped it'd be ruined. Good riddance.

She closed her eyes. Balled her fists. Life must go on. It had to.

Then she pulled the barn door shut, hugged herself tight and bolted toward the house as the first few raindrops hit. The smell of newly wet earth flooded her nostrils. Just a dozen paces more and she'd be inside, dry and safe.

But the storm didn't wait. There was another deafening crack of thunder, and the heavens opened up with a great whoosh. Sheets of rain lashed down, soaking her clothes and plastering her hair to her neck. It turned to hail, sharp pebbles of ice stinging her arms and her back. The wind blew hard, thrashing at her skirts and pushing her away from the fields, the orchard, the garden. Away from everything she loved. Everything she'd hoped for. Worked for.

She barreled through the back door—straight into the solid warmth of Michael's arms.

He'd been standing at the door, about to come looking for her.

She should keep running. Past Michael, past the pain, into whatever bleak future awaited her, but goddamn, she was just as fragile as the wheat . . . just as weak. She felt herself sink into him as her whole being wept, her tears soaking into his shirt.

He held her for a long moment, then drew back, his blue eyes clouded with concern. "Caitlin, I—"

She silenced him with her mouth, a bruising, forceful kiss. He grunted in surprise and retreated a step, then two, but she kept pace until she had him pressed against the wall. Even if he left tomorrow, Michael was here. He was safe. He was sureness and care and—and home.

Michael was home .

A great sob filtered from her mouth into his. Of course she'd lose him. He was home, and Caitlin didn't have a home. She never had.

Michael struggled beneath her. His breath was a pant. "Caitlin, what's—"

"No—just—" Again, she kissed him, pouring the feelings that had no words into him.

And somehow, he seemed to understand. In an instant, all his protest was gone. His palms came to her face, gripping her and drawing her closer. His tongue swept into her mouth, wrestling with hers.

Caitlin's hands skimmed over his arms and hips; then she frantically worked to undo his falls, hardly noticing when a button came loose and pinged across the room. When at last she'd completed the task, she pushed his trousers down, and he kicked them away.

Michael bucked into her hand. He moaned, the rough, guttural sound reverberating down her own throat.

His breath in her body. His body in her hand.

Her grip on him tightened.

And he understood. Of course he understood.

His mouth never left hers as he reached down and fisted her skirts, jerked them up, handful by handful until he had hold of the hem and she was exposed. She released him for a moment so he could pull the fabric all the way up and out of their way.

Then she leaned in and wrapped one leg around him, pinning him to the wall as she mashed herself against his hard length. She stood on tiptoe and pushed him into her wet slit, moving her hips to bring him closer.

Gor, it wasn't enough. She couldn't—

She stood on tiptoe, gripping him tight with her other leg, searching, frantically trying to fit him inside her, to fill her. A grunt of frustration escaped her lips as she lost her balance and tipped backward.

He caught her, his strong hands digging into her hips—but the pain was so right. In one swift movement, he picked her up, turning them both so Caitlin's back was against the wall. She leaned into its solidity and allowed him to take control, effortlessly lifting her the last few inches and sliding himself deep inside.

At last. Her mind released its hold, and sensation was all there was.

The feel of him inside her. Warm and solid. Home .

His eyes, blue as a summer sky. Deep as the sea.

He pulled out and thrust back into her with an animal's snarl, impaling her, pounding her into the wall.

Caitlin's head tipped back, but her eyes never left his. Her hands hung limp at her side, unable to move.

Nothing mattered. None of it. There was just the need—the wanting, then the having. The emptiness, then the fullness. With each thrust the want grew more urgent, more empty and vast, and the fullness more complete, more real, more perfect.

Until it all merged into one, and everything ceased to matter. The wanting, the having, the past, the future, the sorrow, the joy. Michael. Caitlin. None of it mattered. Just this. Here. Now.

She came with a cry—a cry of despair because she didn't want this to end.

But it was. It was ending.

Michael finished with one last, hard thrust. Then he stilled, his cock still buried deep inside her, and his forehead dropped to rest on the top of her head. His ragged breath blew loud in her ear.

The air in the house was close and hot, their skin sticky where it touched. The great gusts of wind had ceased, but the rain still fell, a constant clatter on the roof.

And then it was over. He slipped out of Caitlin, and her skirts fell back into place.

Michael lifted a hand to smooth her wet hair. His gaze settled on her face, and the storm in his eyes was like a knife to Caitlin's gut.

"You're drenched," he murmured.

Caitlin blinked back the tears. Tried and failed to smile. "It's raining."

Michael gave her one last look and bent to pull up his trousers. When he straightened, his expression had hardened back into its usual mask. "You should change into dry clothes." He turned away and walked toward the hearth. "I'll make tea."

She watched as he set two cups on the table, then a plate of bread. The butter dish.

Only a minute ago, they'd been as close as two souls could be. But with each passing second, they would grow farther and farther apart. Tomorrow, he'd leave. Tuesday thereafter, she'd board a ship and sail around the world. She'd never see him again.

Board a ship . . . The idea was like lightning illuminating the darkened sky. Suddenly, she could see what had always been there. Why had she not thought of it before?

Mr. James had said she could bring a maid. And Michael only had a month left on his sentence. He could still say no, but—

A tingling hope spread across Caitlin's chest as her mind whirred, putting the last pieces together.

"Michael—" In her excitement, his name came out more sharply than she'd intended.

He looked up, nearly splashing himself with boiling water from the kettle he was pouring.

"You could come with me."