He felt a smile grow in his chest, sweeping the shadows back to their corners and knew Josh had it wrong. It was Marguerite who kept his nightmares at bay.

He cleared his throat. “I want to show you a special place on the grounds. Let’s go find you some clothes and good walking shoes so I can take you there.” She gave him a long look, which reminded him uncomfortably of how she studied her subs when they were trying to hide something from her, but at length she nodded.

“Okay.”

Chapter Nine

She’d brought a loose cotton gauze dress that provided optimal comfort over her assortment of aches and pains from the prior evening’s activities. They walked hand in hand to the water’s edge and he took her on a path along it, explaining more of the history of the plantation, identifying different birds they saw, flower types she touched as they passed. Marguerite had felt the tremor in his hands when he asked for her forgiveness. As she opened her dark rooms to him, she was making the intriguing discovery that it was providing the key to some of his. She wanted to know this man she’d chosen to call Master down to his soul, in a way she hadn’t tried to do even with the submissives who had offered her everything.

However, she wasn’t as ruthless as her reputation. She suspected the past twelve hours had drained him as emotionally and physically as they had drained her, so for now they walked quietly, talking of easy things. At his prompting, she described the trips she’d made to South America, India and other parts of Asia for different tea auctions and plantation visits, the people she’d met there. His arm slid around her waist, bringing her closer as the day became cloudier and a breeze started to build in strength off the water. “We’re going to get a storm.” He eyed the sky. “We’re about halfway to where I wanted to take you. You want to keep going or turn back?” She looked up at him. “Keep going. I’ll risk the storm.” He tightened his hold on her and they resumed walking. “Marguerite,” he said after a bit, his voice more serious. “I am sorry, about before. I’m an ogre like that, you know. I get impatient when the people I care about are threatened. When I feel helpless to make them feel better, safer.”

“A very male reaction. Men get angry and aggressive when things don’t go their way.” She stopped, gave him honesty. “And you do make me feel better, safer.” He half smiled, but something deadly moved into his expression, something that startled her, though she had sensed it was in him from the first time they’d met. “I can have him killed. There are men who owe me favors, who wouldn’t even blink at ridding the world of a piece of garbage like him.”

“I thought about it, several times,” she responded softly. “Even went so far as to make an inquiry or two. But…it’s not the right path. Not for either of us.” She tilted her head. “But thank you for asking. For offering.”

It was a remarkable exchange, Tyler reflected as they walked on, both of them now content not to say anything further on the subject. The first fat drops of rain began to fall and he grinned. “I told you. It’s going to get here faster than I thought. Can you sprint like that day at the tennis courts?”

“I almost beat you,” she reminded him.

Even with that, in the way of Southern storms the full force of the shower was on them in twenty more steps, a heavy rain that made the winding asphalt path slick and dark like a raven’s wing. Steam rose from the tarred surface, disrupted by the raindrops. She stopped, pulling her hand free to push her wet hair she’d left down for him from her face. He saw her eyes were laughing, her mouth quivering against the real thing.

“It’s like music,” she said, her voice rising over the wind. Lightning flashed over her, followed by the roar of thunder. His angel spread her arms and began to twirl, her hair spinning with her, the wet skirt fluttering with the wind, grabbing for slick purchase on her legs.

As it grew wetter, the dress’s white cotton fabric began to cling to her. When she twirled, she stepped into a puddle, splattering water on her ankles and the glistening curves of her calves. Gathering up her hair in her hands, she held it to the top of her head as she swayed with the movement of the wind, her eyes closing, her mind obviously concentrating on the presence of the storm on her body. She undulated her upper torso with that rhythm, began to perform a sensuous dance with the elements.

Turning and jumping as lightly as a dancer, then stomping in the puddle with both feet with the abandon of a child. She opened her eyes, stretched out a hand and he took it, moving with her in a spinning dance across the path and back. Taking both her hands, he swung with her in a wide circle, mesmerized by the way the water rolled down her face and the top curves of her breasts, revealed by the scooped neckline of the dress. He brought her into him, a turn that put her back against his body. He held her there, nudging her head to the side to suck beads of water off the side of her throat. When his hand came up to catch a cold wet nipple through the cloth, her back arched, rubbing her bottom against him. She broke away, headed down the path as her laughter— her laughter—called him to give pursuit.

Kicking off the comfortable slides, she ran from him in bare feet, her arms wide like wings, ropes of hair spilling down her back wildly like a glossy cape. His heart had wings of its own, as if he were a young man again with no weights on his heart, but with the wisdom of his present age to know what a tremendous gift this moment was.

He caught up with her, seized her hand. They kept running, both running from shadows but running together, throwing off a light that he reflected might keep those shadows cowering in the past where they belonged.

Thunder rolled across the sky, punctuating the heat lightning over the horizon of the Gulf. They stopped to watch it, breathing hard from the physical exertion and the sheer pleasure of arousal, of being in love. It was in her eyes. For once, out here with nature, he believed nothing would interfere with it. He wanted to stay out forever but he saw her shivering. Unrealistic or not, he didn’t want her to experience a moment of discomfort, not when he could help it.

“The church.” He nodded to the small white clapboard building in the distance, about a quarter mile down the road. “That’s where I’m taking you.” Then he jumped, both feet coming down in the puddle next to her, splashed her good. Grinning at her, he put one toe in the water and lifted the loafer to sprinkle individual drops on her feet, as well as the hem of her now soaked dress.

“You—” She kicked a foot through the deep puddle, sloshing it along his wet jeans all the way up to his thighs. She took off again with him in hot pursuit.

When they arrived at the double doors breathless, Tyler pushed open one door for her. She hesitated, looking down at her clothes. The dress was practically transparent when wet and of course he hadn’t allowed her to wear any underwear. Putting a hand to the small of her back, he urged her forward. “There’s no one here. It’s all right. This is on my property.”

He closed the door behind her and they stood dripping in the narthex. Marguerite smelled old wood and peace. A great, hushed peace.

“This was the church that the plantation owner built for his family and his slaves.” When Tyler’s gaze ran over the deep wood paneling, the vaulted ceiling, his approval of the workmanship was reflected in his gaze. “I’d planned to donate it to the community nearby when we finished restoring it. It seems a shame for it not to be used by the living, but sometimes it feels like those long-ago spirits are still here. I imagine them attending on Sunday, finding answers to their various worries, comfort for things that seemed unsolvable. Coming to find tranquility.”

“Like us.” She moved into the main worship area where there were a dozen wooden pews lined up in two columns facing the front altar. Above it was a beautiful round stained glass window depicting a dove taking flight. The bird clutched a red rose with bright green leaves in her beak and a circle of cobalt blue framed the diamond-etched glass. Below, embedded in the wood floor of the raised altar area, was a wooden cross. A minister’s pulpit was located just to the left with a small table for candles waiting to be lit. Since a handful of them already were, she wondered if Tyler had come here earlier. Three phrases were embroidered on the linen tablecloth.

In memory. In prayer. In comfort.

“You restored this for your wife. To honor your love for her.” When he looked unsure of her reaction, Marguerite rose on her toes and brushed his lips with her own, tasting the rain between them, the heat of the storm. “Tyler,” she murmured softly, “you are such an idiot.”

A light flashed in her eye that Tyler would have recognized as teasing in any other woman, but he’d never seen her do it before. Not with him.

“A man devoted and faithful to his wife, who cared for her to the very end, even after she left him.” She shook her head, her lips pursed. “And I find myself with such a horrible man. Stalking me, by his own admission.”

Holding on to his hands, she leaned back from him on her bare heels. Swayed back and forth, the prominent display of her nipples as arousing as her sudden mischief.

“I can’t think why so many women would find a man like you invaluable. It’s probably just pity,” she decided. “A man with so few brain cells needs a woman to watch out for him.”

Tyler shook his head, smiling despite himself. She squeezed his hands. “Did she get a chance to come here?’

He nodded. “When we first came in here, she did a dance, an impromptu ballet up the aisle, along the pews.” He remembered it with warmth. “She loved to dance. Used it to express her every mood the way the rest of us use our voices or our faces. She brought her whole body into it. That day was a dance of joy, of reverence. You reminded me of her a little, just now. Out there. Your spontaneity.” Seeing he was flustering her, he changed the subject. “You seem to enjoy the peace in here. I guess I expected you might have some issues, some anger with God.” Marguerite shrugged. “I’m not sure I believe in the idea of a deity that micromanages our lives.”