More Than Words
Page 38

Take them. They’re yours.
Goddamn, that had been … incredible. Mind-blowing. I’d never felt anything like that. I … I stilled.
I didn’t use a condom.
Ah, fuck. It was the first time I’d ever had sex without one, even during my far-too-frequent drunken interludes, all the poor choices I’d made, I’d never gone without a condom—at least … at least that I could remember. I shut my eyes in self-disgust, thankful I’d received a full bill of health right before I’d left for France and sickened that I even had to think about that in reference to my pure, sweet Jessie. I blew out a harsh breath against Jessie’s neck, trying to expand my lungs, trying to calm my racing heart. I could feel hers pounding, too, and I put my hand over it, her life blood pumping beneath my palm, our bodies still connected intimately. “I didn’t use a condom,” I said, and her fingers, which had been running down my arm, stilled. “I’m clean, Jessie, I promise.” I couldn’t hide the shame in my voice. “The timing … is it okay?”
“Yes, I think so,” she whispered.
Jesus, I hoped so. Didn’t I? For the breath of a moment, I felt a burst of powerful euphoria, but I forced it down, extinguished it before it could grow and spread. No, I’d decided the day before that to trap Jessie in any sense would be wrong, the most selfish thing I could possibly do to her. But to trap her this way would be the worst of all because she couldn’t ever extricate me from her life even if she wanted to. She wouldn’t only be trapped, but she’d be trapped forever because she’d be the mother of my child. Our child.
I pulled out of her, regret filling my chest over the possibility that I’d just gotten her pregnant, that even now life might be blossoming inside her. I rolled away, but I couldn’t help reaching for her and pulling her back to me. I wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.
* * *
The Sunday morning air was warm and fresh, and everything smelled clean the way it does after days of rain. We’d woken early and showered, dressing and packing up the room somewhat somberly. There was a sort of quiet awkwardness between us, and I wasn’t sure if it was just the fact that our weekend was wrapping up or if Jessie had regrets about what we’d done.
“It feels like saying goodbye to a magical place we’ll never see again,” she murmured as she turned back toward the room one last time. I let out a breath, happy to know what her morning reticence had meant. She was going to miss this room as much as I was.
I smiled. It was magical, and we wouldn’t return. The sadness of that thought swept through me as I picked up our bags and closed the door to the room where I’d first made love to Jessie Creswell. My Jessie. We had only a handful of days left now, and they wouldn’t be here. They’d be back in the real world, where things were not the same.
Madame Leclaire checked us out, smiling warmly as we said goodbye. As we were opening the door, Jessie looked back and asked a question in French. Madame Leclaire laughed, her chest shaking with her movement as she answered. Jessie grinned and said something else, and then we left.
“What’d you ask her?”
“I asked if there were really any other guests staying at her inn.”
“And?”
“There weren’t.”
Huh.
Jessie glanced at me and smiled bashfully. For a moment it looked as if she were deciding whether or not to enlighten me, but then she said, “Madame Leclaire said sometimes the beginning of love is just a simple matter of proximity.”
Love.
Was it possible? Could Jessie really love me? For a second, just one quickened heartbeat, I let myself question the possibility before forcing my mind to move on. I couldn’t let myself hope for that. I couldn’t. Still, I smiled, thinking of the small room, the tiny bed. Close proximity had made for an amazing weekend. Good lighting hadn’t hurt either. I pictured the way the dwindling twilight had shone in the window, showcasing Jessie’s slender curves beneath the white nightgown, the way her skin had glowed like satin in the yellow light of dawn. The visions of her that way would stay with me until my dying day.
The car had mostly dried out in the few days we’d been at the inn, but it had a slightly mildewed smell that made Jessie scrunch her nose up. I laughed and put the top down. Hopefully the fresh air would help dry it more completely. Either way, I was glad I’d said yes when the man at the rental company had asked if I wanted the insurance.
Jessie sighed. “I’m excited to get back to work, but I don’t want this weekend to end.”
I took her hand, squeezing it. “I actually planned one more stop on the way back.”
“Where?” she asked excitedly.
“It’s a surprise.” I followed the voice of the GPS to the sign for the turnoff to Domrémy-la-Pucelle, the town where, I’d learned, thanks to Nick’s help once again, Joan of Arc had grown up. Jessie obviously knew, too, because when she saw the sign, she sucked in a breath, squeezing my hand.
“Oh my gosh, how did you know?”
“I did my research.” I grinned, pleasure radiating through me to see the delight on her face. “But if there are bikes involved, I’m out.”
She laughed. “Deal.”
We made a series of turns through the town, parking and walking hand in hand to the small, slope-roofed farmhouse where Joan of Arc had been born and raised. The main room was the largest, featuring a fireplace, tiled floors, and wood-beamed ceilings. I glanced around with minimal interest, mostly just wanting to watch Jessie as she wandered, trailing her finger over things in that way she did and leaning close to study the details. Every once in a while she would look up and smile with such joy, and it made my heart wrench with happiness. For now I’d enjoy every look of wonder that crossed her pretty face.
When we left, Jessie seemed to be reflecting on something, but I left her to her own thoughts, figuring they were focused on the work she was doing, the history surrounding her area of study.
We made one final stop, an ancient-looking church a short drive away from Joan of Arc’s birthplace.
“The Church of Saint Rémy,” Jessie said, a note of reverence in her voice. “This is where Joan used to come and pray. She was baptized here.”
We went inside, the interior silent, the scent of candles and some sort of pungent oil in the air. Jessie looked up at the high, arched ceilings, and I took in the dark, hand-carved pews and the colorful stained-glass windows. I wasn’t a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something in the air here, something … weighty that I could feel pressing on my chest when I closed my eyes. Here I could almost believe that a place could contain centuries of prayers, confessions, joy and grief, that pieces of those calls to God still hung in the air and had taken on a life of their own.
“It feels … different in here, doesn’t it?” Jessie asked, voicing what I’d been pondering.
I almost said yes, but I didn’t want to talk about a god I couldn’t believe in, a god who, if he did exist, had abandoned me when I’d needed him most. “I think it’s that smell, whatever it is, going to our heads.”
Jessie glanced at me, her eyes lingering on my face for a moment before she smiled. “Chrism oil,” she murmured, looking away. “It’s the balsam you smell.”
I put my hands in my pockets and followed her as she made her way to the front, where there was a stand with tiers of small candles. She lit a match and leaned forward, igniting one of the candles. She looked over her shoulder at me. “Do you want to say a prayer for someone?”
I shook my head. “No.”
She nodded and then walked toward one of the panes of colored glass nearby. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“What?” My voice sounded strained, and I cleared my throat.
Jessie tilted her head, still staring at the colorful glass featuring a woman in armor, who I assumed to be Joan of Arc, astride a horse and holding her battle standard. People gazed up at her in prayer, a mother holding her baby toward the warrior saint. “That a little girl who came here to pray once upon a time would one day be depicted in the stained glass. That a young, illiterate peasant girl inspired a nation.”