Waiting For The Moon Part 24

He knew she would pick up on that. "She was made in Heaven. Every G.o.d contributed something to make her perfect. Then she was sent to earth, and Epimetheus accepted her-though he was warned to beware of Jupiter bearing gifts. Epimetheus had in his home a very special jar which held all the ills of the world-"

"He should have thrown this jar away."

Ian stifled a smile. "Pandora was curious." Ian looked at Selena. "Curious is what makes a woman follow the sound of a wild animal into the middle of the night. Anyway, Pandora snuck down one night and opened the jar, releasing all the evil into the world. She closed the lid quickly, but not quickly enough.

Only hope was left inside."

Selena rolled onto her stomach and pressed up to her elbows, peering down at Ian with a frown. "She released all the evils onto the world and gave them no hope?"

"That's the myth."

She thought about that for a moment. "And they say I am damaged in the brain. I do not like this story."

"The other interpretation is that Pandora was sent in good faith by Jupiter, carrying a box in which each G.o.d had placed a blessing. Thoughtlessly she opened the box and all the blessings escaped. All except hope."

She smiled. "This is sensible. Who would put hope-it is so precious-in a box full of evil?" She nodded.

"Yes, Pandora was made to help man, not to punish him."

He reached up, smoothed a tangled lock of hair from her eyes. At the touch, so simple, so like something he'd done to a million women in his life, she smiled brightly.

Little things, a touch, a smile, they meant so much to her.

She plopped back on her back. "Tell me another story."

He reached blindly for a book, and finding one, 199.

pulled it onto his stomach. It was the story of Tristram and Isolde. For nearly an hour, he read to her, as the sun made its slow, elegant slide into the sea. He spun the tragic tale of a man trapped by honor into marrying the wrong woman, and of his wife-& good woman- consumed by jealousy for the other woman.

When he was finished, he turned slightly and saw that Selena was crying. Silvery tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and trailed down her pale temples.

"That is very sad," she said in a throaty voice. "Why would Tristram's wife lie to him?"

"She was jealous of Tristram's great love for Queen Isolde, and her jealousy cost Tristram his life. He died believing that his love had deserted him in his time of need."

"Why did Tristram not marry the woman he loved?"

"He was an honorable man, and honor demanded such a sacrifice."

Selena wiped the tears from her eyes and gazed up at Ian. Her hair hung in wavy strands along her damp cheeks. "This honorable. You have spoken of it before. I do not understand."

"It is more for men than women."

She frowned. "That is a bird."

He laughed.

"I have mistaken again. Sorry. I meant absurd. Is it important to be honorable?"

He felt a rush of bitterness at the naive question. "You are asking the wrong man, Selena. I have never been honorable in my life."

"Define honorable."

"Quite simply, honorable means moral, living your life so as not to willfully hurt people. To keep promises that you have made and never lie."

"And you are not honorable?"

He snorted derisively. "No. In my life, I have been inordinately dishonorable. I've done things designed to

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hurt people, and keeping promises was never my strongest trait."

Her voice fell to a whisper. "Why do you tell me such things?"

He leaned closer to her, so close he could lose himself in the mysterious darkness of her eyes. "As a warning, Selena. I don't want you to idolize me."

She laughed unexpectedly. It was vaguely irritating how funny she found his statement. "I do not idolize you, Ian. I feel love for you. I believe there is a most profound difference."

He felt like a fool, and d.a.m.ned if it didn't feel good. "Must you always say what's on your mind?"

She touched his cheek, a lingering caress. "I cannot speak what is on your mind."

"Ah, Selena." He sighed. She stared up at him, smiling, her face streaked with tears and sand, her hair clotted with leaves and pine needles. That absurd necklace around her throat. She had never looked more disarm-ingly beautiful. He realized in that second that he'd never understood beauty before, never revered it as he did in this moment. She was beautiful on the inside, in her soul. "You are ... perfect," he whispered.

"No. I am damaged."

He could have kicked himself for what he had taught her. "You are all that a person strives to be, Selena.

Good, kind, caring, loving, honest. Don't let the world-or me-steal that optimism from your heart."

She pressed toward him. "You think such things can be stolen. It is childish, Ian. Silly."

"But-"

"And you are honorable. You became a doctor to save people's lives. This must be honor. You touched me when you were afraid to, and this surely is honor." She pressed closer, close enough for a kiss. He felt the whisper-soft flutter of her breath against his lips, and it made him ache for more. "We are the same, you and I."

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The moment mesmerized him. She mesmerized him. "What do you mean?"

"Perhaps I was a bad woman before my brain damage. But I do not care what I was, I care only what I will be. The future is more important than the past."

"The future." He whispered the awesome word. Ah, the hope, the need. For years he hadn't allowed himself to think of tomorrow, let alone whatever came after that. And now here was this exquisite woman, telling him to believe in a future, to reach for it and believe in it. To believe in himself.

"I will make a begin with you, Ian." She gave him a heartbreakingly earnest look and got to her knees, taking his hands in hers. "I shall be honest and honorable-always. Will you vow the same?"

He got to his knees beside her. "Being honest is easy. Being honorable is d.a.m.ned hard work."

Her gaze didn't waver. "I shall not fail."

Fear washed through him, then an exhilarating sense of hope. She was right; he knew it. He'd always known it. Honor, morality, optimism, they were all choices. Long ago, he'd made the wrong choices, taken the wrong road.

Did he have the strength to change his course?

"This is not so hard, Ian. Just a promise to try."

He knew he would fail; he always failed. But right now, in this magical moment, he couldn't deny her, couldn't deny himself. It was his last, best hope for his soul. "For you, Selena. I'll try."

"Psst."

The lisping sound seemed to come at Ian from a great distance away, floating in the darkness of his slumber. He turned slightly, pressed his face tighter into the feather pillow.

"Psst. Ian. You forgot to teach me to play croquet."

Ian blinked, came slowly awake. Grit burned across his eyes. "Wha . .."

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Selena was sitting on the bed beside him, hunched over so that her face was inches above his.

Candlelight cast a golden net across her face. She was gazing down at him through those beautiful, liquid eyes, and her lips hinted at a smile that was seconds away.

"You promised to teach me to play croquet," she said again.

He frowned, rubbed his eyes. Some hazy part of his mind thought this was a dream, that he'd somehow willed her here beside him in the middle of a cold night. "Tomorrow."

"You said today. Soon it will be midnight, and Johann told me that at midnight the day is over."

"Johann the genius? What does he have to do with this?"

"He helped me to set up the game in the backyard."

Ian wedged up on his elbows and looked up at her. She sat blithely beside him, wearing nothing but a wisp of a lawn nightdress. "Go to bed, Selena." His voice was hoa.r.s.e and thick.

She flipped back bis coverlet and pushed her small, bare feet in beside him. "All right."

He felt her slip into bed beside him. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, he was so stunned. He felt the heat from her body, the firm length of her thigh along his. His heart started pounding, sweat p.r.i.c.kled his brow. No one had ever told her that a maiden doesn't crawl into bed with a madman.

Honorable man, Ian.

A promise to try.

He jackknifed up and threw the coverlet back. "Fine. We'll play croquet."

She didn't move.

Reluctantly he glanced down at her. She lay still, her hair a tangled red-brown ma.s.s on the candlelit-gold pillow, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s a gentle curve of white lawn. There was a serenity in her eyes that stole his breath. "I knew you 203.

would keep your promise," she murmured, her voice husky and soft.

Sweet Jesus, he wanted to touch her. In the flickering candlelight, her skin looked petal-soft. A desperate groan caught in his throat. He staggered out of bed and stood there, breathing hard. Finally he forced himself to look away from her. He went to the window and stared through the tarnished gla.s.s until his breathing normalized.

He heard the quiet creak of the bed boards and the whispered pat of her bare feet hitting the hardwood floor. She came up behind him and stood there, waiting.

He tensed. Don't touch me. Please . . . The plea winged through his mind, took on the strength of a prayer.

She touched his shoulder. "Shall we go?"

G.o.d help him, for a second, he leaned into her hand, felt its heat on his skin. With a m.u.f.fled curse, he ducked and spun away from her. Yanking his pants off the chair where he'd thrown them, he stabbed his bare feet into the black wool and b.u.t.toned them up. Then he grabbed his wrinkled woolen coat and shrugged into it. He was careful not to look at her. "You'll need a coat."

She laughed, a low, throaty sound that aroused him as much as any touch ever had. "I shall get a rope ...

a wrap and meet you in the yard."

Ian bolted from the room in front of her and hurled himself down the creaking steps. He burst onto the back porch and slammed the door behind him, drawing deeply of the fresh night air.

He b.u.t.toned his coat against the chilly night and walked down the sagging porch, onto the blackened new spring gra.s.s. He was so deep in thought, it took him a minute to notice what she'd done out here.

Squat, yellow candles dotted the squared perimeter of the lawn. There was no wind, and the burning pockets of light danced and pulsed against the velvet backdrop of the forest beyond. Overhead, the sky was thick with

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bright stars, and the moon was a scythe of blue-white light that reflected itself in the metallic wickets scattered across the lawn. The sea was a distant, humming murmur in the background.

It was a lovely, magical setting, created by a woman who believed in fairy tales and happy-ever-after endings.

For years and years he'd stood on this porch, beneath the shadowy, wisteria-festooned overhang, and looked out over this yard. All he'd ever seen was a cold, square patch of gra.s.s bordered by towering trees. It had never occurred to him that it could be anything else.

When had he stopped seeing such beauty in the ordinary world around him? And why had he let the ability to create magic slip away from him without a fight? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. He'd never let the ability slip away; he'd never possessed it in the first place. Even as a child, he'd seen the world in cold, rational terms. It was something he'd learned early on. Life wasn't fair or just or kind. He wouldn't-couldn't-have conceived of creating a place like this.

The door whined behind him, then cracked shut. "Are you ready to play with me?"

The velvety bourbon of her voice washed over him, reminded him that for all his experience with women, he was out of his league with her. Her quiet naivete undid him, left him defenseless and vaguely out of control Are you ready to play with me?