The Challenge by Edith Layton

Author:Edith Layton
Language: eng
Format: mobi, pdf
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Lucy lay wide-eyed, staring into the night. She couldn't sleep. She kept thinking of the reasons why. Because they'd arrive in England the next day. Because she was so full of plans and fears about what she had to do when they got there. And because she knew he lay just down a narrow corridor from her, and that she'd never lie so close to him again.

She shifted in her narrow berth. Her right side had grown numb, her left was cold, her pillow was hard, the muscles in her calves were cramping, there was an aching in her abdomen… lower. Not an aching, she admitted. A tingling, a swelling, a sensation she hadn't felt in so very long, a discomfort because she required a comfort she hadn't known for an equally long time. The ship rocked like a great cradle, but instead of making her eyelids droop as it usually did, the steady tempo was echoing in her own throbbing body. She felt it more when she thought of him. She'd thought of him all day long, and well into this last night aboard ship.

She was burning for Wycoff. She faced it, and sat up. She brought her knees to her chin, turned her head and rested a flushed cheek on them. She was thinking about the glimpse of his body she'd got that day when he'd plunged into the sea. She was thinking about his kisses and caresses, the feel of his lips, the touch of his hands, the sound of his voice low in his throat she'd felt vibrate in his chest and throb in her own. The man was so very good at kisses she couldn't help but think about how he'd be at all the rest. She'd been imagining it. And knew the imagining was not enough, not half enough anymore.

Her memories of Francis were tainted by the bitter disappointment of the life he'd left her to. But she'd loved him and loved the physical expression of it. She was no girl. The act itself she knew was nothing. She'd always thought it sad that something people built up to for so long, prepared for with words and poetry, kisses and caresses, should be in the end such a hurried, frantic flurry, over in less time than it took to cook an egg. She liked the prelude, though. The incredible intimacy of it. And then the deep, abiding satisfaction knowing she'd been so close to the one she loved.

She squirmed. She didn't love Wycoff. She respected him and liked him very much. She didn't know if she'd ever love a man again, and certainly not someone she couldn't trust. This was different. This fascination, this longing, this needing to be with Wycoff wasn't that. She wanted him. She faced it now, a day from England, a night from home, a day away from never seeing him again. Except in passing, perhaps.

He'd said he'd be a friend. But she didn't see much chance of it. They'd travel in different worlds.

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