Ramsay(26)

Brogan pulled into the long curving driveway of what had been my home  until I was eighteen. A swell of emotion hit me as I stepped out of the  car, gazing upward at the beautiful stone Georgian mansion that had once  belonged to my family. I looked around slowly. The landscaping was  clearly untended, the home indeed unoccupied. Swallowing down a lump, I  turned to Brogan. "If you'd have just waited a little bit, you could  have had this house."

He studied me for a moment, a strange expression moving over his face.  "I wanted a property with a guest house for Eileen," he said softly.  "She's in college at Fairfield University."

"Oh," I said. Fairfield University was about a half hour from Greenwich.  I hoped I'd get more of a chance to visit with Eileen and hear about  her life, especially after she'd been so kind to me yesterday. "That's  great." Our gazes held for a moment before one side of his lips tilted  up. Almost a smile.

I turned and walked up the stairs, and using my hand as a visor to shade  the sun, I looked into one of the windows to the side of the massive  door. My eyes moved around the empty foyer, the sweeping staircase that I  had bounded down so many times . . . I saw myself as a little girl  running down it on Christmas morning, as a young woman in formal gowns,  gliding down, trying to look as sophisticated as possible as some date  or another waited at the bottom . . . Sighing, I stepped back. "Mind if I  . . .?" I used my finger to gesture to the yard and the surrounding  property.                       
       
           



       

"Of course," Brogan said, seeming to know exactly what I was asking and  stepping back. I wondered what he was thinking, where he would wander,  but I pushed it out of my mind. I needed to take this time for me.

"I'll meet you back at the car in a little while." He simply nodded.

I strolled around the property for a while, letting the many pleasant  memories fill my mind: listening for the sound of my dad's car every  evening and running to the driveway to greet him, throwing my arms  around his neck as he laughed and swung me around. I remembered how my  mother had loved the snow and how the first snowfall was always a  magical day in our home. My mother's laugh would be filled with joy as  we made snow angels and caught snowflakes on our tongues. I remembered  my mother coming into my bedroom to kiss me goodnight, before she left  for a night out with my father. I remembered her perfume, something  light and feminine that I didn't know the name of. I remembered how  she'd give me Eskimo kisses and tell me that someday I was going to fall  in love with a man just like she'd fallen in love with my daddy. And  someday I'd make a little girl as pretty as me. Oh Mama.

As I walked around the fence of the pool, I remembered laughing with my  girlfriends so many summers as we slathered on sunscreen, read magazine  articles aloud to each other, and gossiped about boys. Closing my eyes, I  inhaled the familiar scent: grass, flowers, and the faint smell of  horses nearby, a smell that lingered even though all the animals had  been sold. I turned around and looked toward the stable. It would be my  last stop.

As I strolled there, a feeling of peace came over me. There was no  particular reason for it-I felt sad, lost, my life in upheaval and  nothing was certain and yet . . . there it was. I wanted to believe that  for just a moment, my beloved parents had used the breeze to caress me  and tell me everything would be okay, and that somewhere deep inside I  knew it was true. I miss you both so very much, and wish you were here  to stand by my side. I'd felt adrift for so long, and recently-even  before Brogan had taken over our company-the resilient façade had  started to crack a little. I realized now that a large part of it was  that losing both parents by nineteen had been so grueling-harrowing-and  I'd never fully acknowledged that deep pain. That searing loss. Yet,  being within the grounds where I'd been raised brought welcome comfort.  Soothing smells. Calm . . .

Both my parents had died here, but it was the living I was remembering. And God, I'd needed this.

I tried the back door of the stable. Surprisingly it was open. The light  inside was dimmer, dust motes twirling lazily in shafts of sunlight  coming from the skylights above. The smell of old wood, hay, and the  faint scent of the horses that had once lived here mingled together in  the still air. I walked to the stalls and stood staring into the empty  space. My eyes filled with tears. "Oh Maribel," I whispered. She had  been my horse and part of this property I'd grieved the hardest for when  Ginny told me she had to sell it. She'd reassured me she had found a  good home for her, but I still missed her even though so much time had  passed. "Are they good to you?" I whispered.

Bending my neck, I rested my forehead against the rough wood. I heard a  small sound and whirled around. Brogan was standing by the open door,  looking unsure, his hands in his pockets. For just a moment I simply  stared at him. He looked so much like the boy I'd once known, the boy  I'd wanted desperately to be mine, the boy I'd once . . . loved. Yes,  I'd loved him. Some would say I hadn't known him well enough to love  him, that I'd loved my own fantasy of him, that I'd simply been young  and fickle, that perhaps I didn't even know what love was. But I didn't  believe it-even now, all these years later and with the eyes of a woman.  Something in him had called to me, something about him had spoken to my  heart in a way no one had before or since. Even now, standing across  from each other in the dim light of the stable where we'd first made  love, there was so much bitterness between us, so much heartache and  resentment, and yet my heart recognized something in him I could feel  but didn't know how to name.

"Hi," I whispered. Brogan walked toward me, never taking his eyes from  mine. The expression on his face was so intense, so filled with the same  yearning I'd known in his eyes before. It shocked me-touched me-filled  me with warmth for him, because I recognized what it was costing him to  let me see it. When he'd stepped right up to me, I tipped my head back  to look up at him, my breath catching. He brought his hand to my face  and used his thumb to wipe the tear from my cheek.

"Lydia," he said, his voice low and hoarse. "Mo Chroí."                       
       
           



       

A princess? No, no longer. But it was what he'd always called me, and so  it was special for that reason alone, especially when said that way. I  shook my head back and forth. "I just . . ."

"I know," he said. "I know." I leaned in to his touch. Maybe it was  because I was emotional. Maybe because it just felt so good to have  someone touch me with tenderness in that moment. Or maybe it was because  it was Brogan, and we were back together in the place where I'd once  loved him, and he was showing me a glimpse of his own vulnerability.  Maybe it was all those things.

I felt like I'd gone back in time for just a moment and I wanted to  grasp onto it and do it better this time. I wanted another chance . . .  another opportunity to make things different. And though I knew it  couldn't be so, right then it felt possible anyway.

My breath rushed out and I put my hand over Brogan's heart and felt it  beating steadily under my palm. "Lydia," he said again. A question, an  answer, a prayer.

His eyes changed, and I sensed his intention before he even moved. He  was going to kiss me. For the second time in my life Brogan Ramsay was  going to kiss me. And I wanted him to-possibly even more than the first  time. My heart beat out the plea and my lips parted a moment before his  head came down and his mouth met mine. The contact immediately sent  waves of pleasure radiating through me in an overwhelming rush of heat. I  whimpered and wrapped my arms around his neck at the same moment he  pulled me against him. His head tilted and his tongue swept into my  mouth and my tongue met his, sliding against it in a delicious caress.  It felt like a symphony rose in every cell of my body as I became  reacquainted so easily with his taste, his touch, the way he reached his  hands up the back of my shirt so he could run his fingertips over my  skin. I gripped him, but kept my hands still so he could focus on  exploring me. I remembered. I remembered the foggy, tortured look on his  face when he was experiencing too much stimulation at once, the way  he'd halt his movements based on mine. Not always able to give and  receive at the same time. But there was a dance I'd begun to learn long  ago and I heard the melody-felt the rhythm-as he pressed his body  against mine. I heard it and my body responded as if it was sung only  for me.