Gifts of Love Read online

  “Because I was a fool, and I thought you needed me, and I—” She was so upset she was shaking, and she was terrified to realize she was on the verge of blurting out the truth.

  “Why did you marry me?” came the relentless demand.

  Her eyes stung sharply. “Jason, don’t make me—”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you,” she choked, finally goaded into defeat. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you. That was the only reason…the only one.”

  Four

  A tremor went through Jason’s body, and he pressed his lips to her forehead. He had never wanted anyone to love him before. There had never been room in his life for anything or anyone who would distract him from his ambition. Until his engagement, there had been affairs, but never without the mutual understanding that they were temporary. Laura was the only woman he had wanted for always.

  “You’re cruel,” she sobbed, wondering what she had just done. It had been the mistake of her life to admit her feelings so soon. She should have waited, should have held her ground. “You’re a bully, and selfish, and—”

  “Yes, and a louse,” he murmured, brushing her tears away. He kissed her wet eyelids. “Don’t cry, mo stoir, don’t.”

  Desperate to soothe her, he kissed her with all the gentleness he was capable of. He reached down and pulled her arms around his neck, while his tongue flickered in her mouth. His muscled arm was hard against her back. Slowly her tears ceased, and her trembling fingers slid into his hair.

  At this sign of her response, Jason finished the kiss with an infinitely soft stroke of his tongue and took his mouth from hers. He had to stop now, or he wouldn’t be able to control himself. But her slim body molded to his, and her breasts shifted against his chest. He tried to move her off his lap. “We’ll be home soon,” he said gruffly, more to himself than to her. “We’ll be home and then—”

  Her red lips pressed against his, sweetly luring him away from sanity. Greedily Jason angled his mouth over hers, his tongue thrusting savagely. She writhed in response to the painful throb between her legs and returned his passion with equal force. His hand searched frantically through the mass of her skirts for her legs, her thighs, unable to reach any part of her through the tightly binding garments.

  The carriage stopped, and Jason tensed with a muffled curse. Laura gasped incoherently, her fingers clenching into his coat. It took several seconds for her to understand that they were home. She looked at Jason, her gaze unfocused. Her hair was falling around her shoulders, pins dropping right and left, her hat dislodged, and her clothes disheveled.

  Clumsily she raised her hands to her hair, flushing with mortification. She thought of the way the maids would giggle at the story of the cool, composed Mrs. Moran walking in with her clothes askew and her hair looking like a bird’s nest.

  The driver began to open the carriage door from the outside, and Jason caught at it easily. With a brief word to the driver, he pulled the door shut. Turning to Laura, he watched her twist handfuls of hair and jab pins in her chignon. “Can I help?”

  “You have helped quite enough,” she said in agitation. “How like you this is! When you want something you must have it regardless of time or place, and all other considerations be damned.”

  “When it comes to you,” he said, “yes.”

  She glanced at him then, and found a caressing warmth in his eyes that caused her hands to falter. Painstakingly she rearranged her clothes, repositioned her hat, and gave him a nod when she was ready to leave the carriage.

  After he walked her up the steps and into the entrance hall, Laura stopped in the middle of the polished parquet floor. Quickly the housekeeper came to take her cape and Jason’s coat. “Mrs. Ramsey,” Laura murmured to the housekeeper, “I’ll be down soon to discuss the plans for dinner. First I must change from my walking dress.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Moran. I shall send one of the maids to help you—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Jason interrupted matter-of-factly, taking Laura’s elbow.

  The housekeeper’s face wore a mixture of speculation and delighted horror. Clearly she wondered what might take place upstairs. It was still broad daylight outside—an unthinkable time for a husband to lay with his wife. “Yes, sir,” she said, and headed for the kitchen.

  Laura tried to pull her elbow from his. “Jason, I don’t know what you intend, but—”

  “Don’t you?” He guided her up the stairs without the slightest appearance of hurry.

  “This can wait until evening,” she whispered. “I know you must have many things to attend to—”

  “Yes, important things.”

  As soon as they reached her room, he yanked her inside and closed the door with his foot. His mouth covered hers impatiently, his breath a scalding rush against her cheek. He pulled off her hat and worked at her hair, scattering pins until the long chestnut locks fell down to her waist.

  “Jason, I need time to think about all that has happened—”

  “You can think about everything to your heart’s desire. Later.” His hands moved restlessly from her breasts to her hips. “Did you mean what you said in the carriage?”

  “About your being a bully?” She tilted her head back as his lips found the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. “Yes, I meant every word.”

  “About loving me.”

  It would be useless to deny it now. Laura swallowed and forced herself to meet his dark eyes. Jason looked almost stern, his mouth set with a firmness that made her want to cover it with enticing kisses. “Yes,” she said huskily, “I meant that too.”

  Without another word he turned her around and unfastened the back of her dress. In his haste, his fingers were less agile than usual. The heavy dress collapsed along with masses of petticoats. Laura heaved a sigh of relief as her corset laces were untied and the contraption of stays and silk was tossed to the other side of the room. She heard the sound of cloth ripping and felt her torn cambric drawers slip to the floor.

  Shivering, she leaned back against him, her head dropping on his shoulder. His palm rubbed in a circle over her abdomen. “Tell me again,” he said against the perfumed softness of her neck.

  “I love you…Jason…”

  He turned her in his arms and hungrily sought her mouth with his, while he pulled the hem of her chemise up to her waist. Laura responded lovingly, her lips parting, her body arching to his. But as she felt the demanding pressure of his arousal against the inside of her thigh, she pulled away from him.

  “No, we can’t,” she said. “I must get dressed and go downstairs. Mrs. Ramsey will be waiting—”

  “Mrs. Ramsey be damned. Take off the chemise.”

  “I shouldn’t,” she said weakly.

  “Don’t you want to?” He approached her slowly, and she backed away until her shoulders bumped against the wall. She was mesmerized by the darkness of his eyes. When he stared at her like that, she could refuse him nothing. Unsteadily she grasped the hem of the chemise and pulled it over her head.

  Jason reached for her, his hands sliding over her back and buttocks. She wrapped her arms around his neck, every nerve kindling with the intense passion he aroused. Murmuring to her hoarsely, he lifted her against the wall, the muscles in his arms bulging. Her eyes widened, and she gasped in surprise as she felt him enter her in a hard, deep thrust. Obeying his whispered commands, she wrapped her silk-stockinged legs around his hips.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he rasped, kissing her chin, her cheeks, her parted lips. “So sweet…Laura…”

  Rhythmically he withdrew and thrust into her warm body, staring at her flushed face. Laura whimpered and tightened her legs, her heels digging into his muscled buttocks. She clung to him, her hands grasping frantically at his sweat-slick shoulders. Suddenly the exquisite tension coiled inside, tightening painfully. Gasping, she buried her face against his neck and felt herself burning slowly, slowly, her body consumed in a blaze of pleasure. Jason gritted his teeth as he str
ove to prolong the moment, but he was soon overtaken by his own release.

  After a long time, Laura became aware that her toes were touching the floor. She was wrapped tightly in his arms. Hazily she thought that she had never felt so safe, so protected. She pressed her lips to his shoulder. “I’ve always loved you,” she whispered, stroking the dark hair at the nape of his neck. “Even when you were cruel to me, even when you looked at me as though you hated me.”

  “I wanted to hate you.”

  “And did you?”

  “Almost,” he admitted gruffly. “When I saw you with Perry Whitton. I couldn’t stand the sight of another man’s hands on you.” He smiled ruefully. “I’d never felt jealousy before, and suddenly it was twisting at my guts. I wanted to strangle you only a little less than I did Whitton.”

  “There was no need to be jealous,” she murmured, still stroking his hair. “I’ve never wanted anyone but you.”

  Laura hummed carols as she hung gilded eggshells on the Christmas tree, which was small enough that she could reach all but the top branches. It was a week before Christmas, and she had been busy for days with holiday baking and decorating the house. The scent of evergreens filled the parlor, bringing to mind many childhood memories. Since she had not had time to make more than a few simple ornaments, her mother and Sophia had each given her a few to begin her own collection, including the angel with glass wings that she had loved since childhood. Painstakingly she and one of the maids had strung cranberries to fill the empty spaces, and their fingers were reddened and sore after hours of work. The rest of the room was decorated with garlands of holly, wreaths of gilded lemon leaves, pinecone clusters, and gold velvet ribbons.

  Idly Laura wondered how Jason’s family would spend Christmas. They would probably gather relatives and friends at their home, sharing memories, talking and feasting together. Laura wished that she dared ask Jason about the Morans, and why they had not sent any invitations or cards. She had only seen a few of her in-laws once. Since Jason’s father, Charles, had passed away a few years before, his mother Kate had attended the wedding with some of her children, two of her daughters and one of her young sons. They had not come to the reception afterward. The Morans had been nicely, if plainly dressed, and they’d seemed to be quietly awed by their surroundings. “Brogues you could have cut with a knife,” her mother had said disdainfully.

  In the past year Laura had exchanged short letters with Jason’s mother Kate, but that was the limit of their interaction. She knew from those notes that Jason visited his family infrequently, always during his workday. He never invited Laura or mentioned the visits to her afterward—it was as if his family didn’t exist, as if she and they occupied separate worlds that only Jason could traverse.

  Deep in thought, Laura tapped her forefinger against her lips. She wished she could pay Kate Moran a visit. There were many questions about Jason that Kate could answer if she cared to. Laura wanted to know more about her husband, more about the past he found so difficult to talk about. Of course, if she asked for Jason’s permission to visit the Morans, he would not allow it. And if she went without his knowledge, there was the chance that he would find out.

  “I don’t care,” she muttered. “I have every right to see them.” She squared her small jaw. “I will see them.” Filled with a mixture of determination and guilt—for she disliked the idea of doing something behind Jason’s back—she considered the best time to do it. Tomorrow morning, she decided, after Jason left for work.

  The Moran home was located in a solidly middle-class section of Charlestown. The two-and three-family houses had once been inhabited by the well-to-do but were now occupied by the overflow of immigrants from the adjoining neighborhood. The street was well-kept, completely unlike the strings of crowded flats and garbage-filled passageways of the South End slum districts.

  Laura emerged from the carriage and looked up and down the cobblestone street with interest. It was a dry, brisk day. Lines of work clothes, colored blue, gray, and brown, flapped in the breeze. The air was filled with the scent of stewing meat and vegetables. A young couple walked by her, their arms linked, their heads swathed in knitted caps and scarves. They threw her a few discreet glances but did not slow their pace. A few children interrupted their game of stickball to stand and stare at her and the elegant carriage.

  After telling the driver to wait in front of the house, Laura went to the door unescorted. There was no brass knocker. She hesitated, then lifted her hand to rap on the scarred paneled wood.

  A boy’s voice came from behind her. “Yer knockin’ at my house!”

  Laura turned and was confronted by a small boy of eight or nine. A smile crossed her lips. He was a Moran, no question of it. He had black hair and dark eyes, fair skin, and ruddy cheeks that had not yet lost their childish roundness. His belligerent chin and aggressive nose pointed up at her.

  “Donal?” she guessed, knowing that was the name of one of Jason’s two brothers.

  “Robbie,” the boy corrected indignantly. “An who might ye be?”

  “I’m Laura Moran.” When that elicited no sign of recognition, she added, “Your brother Jason’s wife.”

  “Ooohhh.” Robbie regarded her wisely. “Ma says yer a foine lady. What d’ye want?”

  “I would like to see your mother.”

  He grasped the door handle in both hands, tugged it open, and held it for her. “Ma!” he barked into the house, and gestured for Laura to go inside. “Ma, ’tis Jason’s wife!”

  He urged Laura to accompany him down a long, narrow hallway lined with garments hanging on hooks. The hall led to the kitchen, where she could see the side of the cast-iron stove. There was a graniteware pot on top of the stove, and the air smelled of stewing apples. “Er…Robbie, perhaps I should not come in unannounced,” she said.

  He was puzzled by the strange word. “Unan…”

  “Perhaps you should tell your mother that I’m here.”

  “Sure now, I’m tellin’ ’er,” he interrupted, and called shrilly toward the kitchen. “Ma, ’tis Jason’s wife!”

  “Who is it, ye say?” came a woman’s voice, and Robbie took hold of Laura’s arm, triumphantly dragging her past the stove to the wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

  Kate Moran, a sturdy, pleasant-faced woman in her mid forties, regarded Laura with round blue eyes. A wooden rolling pin dropped from her hands onto the piecrust in front of her. “God save us,” she exclaimed. “Jason’s wife!”

  “I apologize for the unexpected intrusion,” Laura began, but her voice was lost in the bustle that suddenly filled the room. Jason’s sisters, both attractive girls in their teens, rushed in to see the visitor.

  “’Tis Jason?” Kate asked anxiously, her flour-coated hands pressed to her heavy bosom. “Och, somethin’ has happened to me firstbarn, me precious boy—”

  “No, no,” Laura said, “Jason is fine. Perfectly fine. I’ve just come for…” She paused, conscious of the many curious gazes on her. “I’ve just come for a visit,” she said lamely. “But I can see that you’re busy. Perhaps some other time would be better?”

  There was a moment of stillness. Kate recovered quickly, her worry replaced by curiosity. “’Tis plaised we are that ye are here. P’raps a cup o’ tea—Maggie, fetch the teapot, an’ Polly, show the lady to the parlor—”

  “I wouldn’t mind staying in the kitchen,” Laura ventured. She was conscious of the family’s dumbfounded gazes as she eased herself into one of the wooden chairs at the table. The room was warm and cheerful, and she preferred its informal atmosphere.

  Kate shrugged helplessly. “’Tis here ye’ll stay, then.” She shooed the children from the room and gave Laura a measuring glance. “An’ now tell me what yer about, me dear. To be sure, Jason knows nothin’ of yer visit.”

  “No, he does not,” Laura admitted, unconsciously resting her elbows on the flour-dusted oilcloth that covered the table. She hesitated before adding, “I’ve come to talk to you in the h
opes that you would be able to explain some things about his past to me. Jason isn’t an easy man to understand.”

  Kate gave a short laugh. “Nay, there’s no understandin’ that contrary, prideful boy, nor his fine notions. A hard head like his pa’s.”

  Laura was barely aware of time passing as she sat in the kitchen with Jason’s mother. The tea grew cold in their cups while the conversation lengthened. Kate’s mood relaxed from careful politeness to amiability. It was clear that she liked to talk, and in Laura she found an encouraging listener. She brought out an old photograph of Charlie Moran so that Laura could see the resemblance between father and son. “’Twas tuck the first day Charlie opened the store on Causeway,” Kate said, beaming with pride.

  “He was very handsome,” Laura replied, struck by the similarity to her husband—except that Charlie Moran’s face had been weathered and harshly lined by years of poverty and backbreaking labor. There was the hint of a smile in his eyes, however, and a vulnerable quality that was very different from Jason’s dark, cynical gaze.

  “I nivver showed this to Jason,” Kate commented.

  “Why not? I think he would like to see it.”

  “Nay, not after the way they left off.”

  “There was a falling-out?”

  Kate nodded vigorously. “It started wi’ that fancy school, that taught him that uppish talk an’ them high-tone words. Och, the boys tuck it on themselves to tease. An’ his pa told him not to spake so high-an-mighty.”

  Laura thought of how isolated Jason must have been, caught between two worlds. “But his father must have been proud of him,” she said. “It was remarkable for an Irish boy to attend Boston Latin, and then college—”

  “Aye, Charlie near to burst his buttons.” Kate paused. “But he fretted over it too, he did.”

  “Why?”

  “Charlie said ’twas too much schoolin’ by far. An’ he was right, it tuck me Jason away fer good.”

  “Took him away?”

  “Aye, ’twas plain as day. Jason would have none o’ the girls in the neighborhood, foine girls though they were. He would have none o’ his father’s store, an’ none o’ his family. The local lads pressed him to take a position at the Pilot—’tis an Irish paper, dear. He could’ve gathered a followin’ that would’ve led him to the state legislature. But Jason said he wanted nothin’ but to mind his own affairs.” Kate shook her head. “Ashamed he was to be Irish, an’ to be the son o’ Charlie Moran. ’Twas that they argued over the day before me poor Charlie died. Two stubborn divvils.”