The Highlander's Touch

Page 73

His lips curving in a faint, understanding smile, he said, “Go on, be angry with me, lass, for giving voice to the things you try not to feel. Be angry with me for saying aloud what you scarcely permit yourself to think—that a part of you resents your mother being ill because you cannot give yourself permission to live while she is dying. Be angry with me for saying that it tears you into little pieces, and that you feel you should suffer, because how could you not when your own mother lies dying? Be angry with me for demanding that you live now. Live with me. Fully.”
Her hands clenched around wads of blanket. She couldn’t deny anything he’d said. She did feel that she should suffer, since her mother was suffering. She did feel that every small smile she permitted herself was somehow a betrayal of Catherine. How dare Lisa smile when her mother was dying? What kind of monster could be happy for even an instant? Yet, she’d smiled occasionally, and even laughed, and then had hated herself for it. He was right on—this was what had been holding her back. An insidious little belief that she still had no right to be happy.
“Will you continue to punish yourself for sins not of your making? How much must you suffer before you feel you have paid in full? Would your lifetime be enough?”
Her lashes swept down, shielding her eyes.
“Would it be so wrong to plunge headlong into the love I offer you? Take—draw of life, suck it into your body, taste it with a vengeance.”
“Damn you,” she whispered.
“For saying what you think? Lass, I am the one you may say anything to. I assure you, I will understand. I doona care how ignoble you think your thoughts or feelings are. Feelings, emotions—they are neither right nor wrong. They cannot be assigned a value. Feelings are. By labeling a feeling wrong, you force yourself to ignore that feeling. And what you most need is to feel it, let it burn through you, then get on with life. You are not responsible for any of what happened to your parents. But to punish yourself for a having a feeling—och, lass, that is wrong. You felt some resentment—there is no shame in that. You are young and full of life—there is no shame in that.”
Lisa looked as if she desperately wished to believe him.
“It wasn’t your fault—not the wreck, not your mother getting ill, not your being brought here to me. Let go of it. Stand up, Lisa. Take what you want from me. Live now.”
“Damn you,” she repeated, shaking her head. Feelings long denied now flooded her.
She sat still, his words echoing in her mind. Then another voice startled her, because it sounded so like Catherine’s, resounding in her head: No more punishment. He’s right, you know. Do you think I didn’t see what you were doing to yourself? Live, Lisa.
Her hands were trembling. Could she? Did she know how? After years of refusing to believe that anything good might happen to her, could she reclaim the dreams she’d had of being a woman unafraid to love?
Her gaze swept over him. Magnificent Highlander, half savage, yet more civilized than most modern men. Tender, caring enough to penetrate her shell in a valiant effort to wrench her from it. She would never find a better man.
Live, she agreed.
Without a word, she rose to her feet, suffering the sensation that she was splitting into two different people. As if in the act of rising she slipped from her twenty-first-century body, leaving the old Lisa huddling on the bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow, vehemently denying her own needs. This new Lisa stood tall and composed, waiting for—inviting—his next demand. Ready to make demands of her own.
“Remove your gown, Lisa.”
Her breath clawed its way from her lungs.
“I said remove your gown.”
“What about you?”
“This is not about me. This is about you. Let me love you, lass. I promise you will not regret it.”
Lisa drew a shallow breath. He saw her heart as it really was, full of complicated and less-than-noble emotions, yet he wanted her. And in removing her gown she was dropping her barriers and extending her arms to welcome him. Welcoming what they could be together.
Her fingers felt stiff and clumsy as they moved over her clothing, but grew more nimble the more honest she was with herself.
“I want you. I am here for you. I adore you.”
I adore you … His words lingered. And she acknowledged that she wanted it to be just like this. To disrobe for this man, to offer him her body, to find the approval and desire she knew he felt for her. To reach out and taste what he offered, to turn her willing body over to him to be taught, initiated, savored.
To live.
Her gown rustled to the floor.