A Mother's Love by Ruth Wind Page B

she pushed it out of her face.
    And there was the tree again, so tall and broad and ancient. “I asked the innkeeper how old this tree is, and she said there is a painting that shows it standing in the churchyard more than three hundred years ago.”
    He raised his eyes to the top of the tree. “Do you want to go sleep there tonight?”
    Kyra shook her head with a smile, but, surprising even herself, she took his hand. “I do want to go stand under it again.”
    Something flickered over his eyes before he said, “Okay.”
    And there came that rustling on her nerves, rushing down her neck as if someone blew on it, a rippling awareness of her tongue in her mouth and the cloth on her arms and the shoes on her feet came back as they walked to the edge of the shadows cast by the tree. Next door was the churchyard, shadowy and ghostly with its tilted headstones.
    Dylan stopped.
    â€œAre you scared?”
    He shook his head. “But I think I might break my promise if we go under there.”
    â€œWhat promise?” she said, and before he could answer, she tugged him into the shadows, pulling him to the very center of the darkness. The air was hushed and smelled of rain and rich earth, and Dylan stepped forward, pressed her back against the trunk and pressed his body against hers.
    â€œThis promise,” he said and kissed her, putting his hands alongside her face, his index fingers touching the edges of her earlobes, his thumbs at the edges of her mouth. His mouth was hot and layered with texture—lip, teeth, tongue, chin with a whiskering scratch across her own.
    She kissed him back, lifting hands to his cool, wavy hair, feeling their bodies press closer, thighs and bellies and chests, and again she thought of what it would be like to be bare with him. As if it were a reality, she shuddered, and he, sensing her response, made a deep noise and plunged deeper, one arm hauling her close, their tongues swirling and tangling and dancing.
    He came up with a gasp. “I don’t know what this is between us.”
    â€œMe, either,” Kyra whispered and pulled him back to her, pushing her hands up beneath his jacket, tugging his shirt free in the back so she could touch his skin. Cells just belowthe surface of her skin boiled up, bristling and hungry, and she made a soft sound when his hands skimmed down her arms, then back up again. Against her thigh she felt the thrust of his sex, and when his fingers slid under the neckline of her blouse, touching just the edges of her collarbone, she shuddered as violently as if he’d suckled a nipple.
    It frightened her, and with a gasp she pulled back. “Wait. I don’t know what we’re doing here. I don’t do this. I don’t make out.”
    He pulled upright, away. “No. I don’t, either.”
    In the very thin light making its way through the branches, he looked like something out of a dream—light skimmed the edge of his nose and his lower lip and his chin. Rakish and lost and lonely. In a panic, Kyra pulled away. “This is crazy. I don’t want to do this.”
    She turned and started walking away, her heart pounding. But at the edge of the dark shadow pool she paused and looked back at him. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she said politely.
    â€œDon’t go yet,” he said roughly.
    She took a step backward, pulling away from the tilt of his head, the promise in his voice—a promise not of sensual pleasure but of understanding. That was her great and terrible downfall and the thing she had learned about charming men: they traded in understanding, in a passion that was irresistible. Who didn’t want to be the great love of a person’s life? “I’m sorry,” she said and turned away from him.
    He caught her arm. “Wait,” he said harshly. “Look at me.”
    Kyra took a breath. Raised her eyes.
    â€œThis might be important,” he said,