Chapter Fifty-One
A kiss in the rain. An aching need. A promise.
Is this what forever looks like?
I wrench at his buttons, open his shirt and kiss his neck. Then, as raindrops tumble from a cold dark sky, I run my mouth down his warm wet skin to his throat then back to his mouth.
He pulls me even closer, grinds words against my lips. ‘Never.’
‘Never?’
He lifts his head. ‘Don’t let me go.’
I put my hands either side of his face, rub my thumb across his lips. ‘I never will.’
He kisses me hard and then soft. He tightens his hold on my legs and spins us around until I’m laughing and breathless and giddy. I release his shoulders, wrap my arms around his neck, tighten the grip of my legs on his hips. I kiss his eyes, brush rain from his hair.
My teeth chatter. ‘We can go inside now.’
He carries me to the cabin, opening the door by pushing his elbow against the handle before lowering me to the ground and kissing me again. It’s warm in here, but even if it weren’t I’d be tugging at my clothes. He laughs and takes over, efficiently opening press-studs and zips. My jumper comes off, my long-sleeved T-shirt and a sleeveless top. He yanks me hard against his body.
‘You taste of toothpaste.’ I wrap my arms around his neck. ‘And rain.’
‘You taste of apples.’
I stroke his smooth face. ‘You shaved.’
‘I wasn’t prepared.’
I push back his hair. ‘You looked like a Viking.’
This kiss is different, long and deep and slow. He yanks off my bra and we struggle with our wet jeans before he picks me up again.
I wind my body around his. ‘Can we …’
He groans a smile against my mouth. ‘We can.’
The floor creaks as he carries me past the bed and leans his shoulders against the wall, never taking his eyes from mine. A push, a gasp, a moan. We find an aching desperate rhythm that takes my breath away.
‘Kit!’ I bite his neck, kiss it better. ‘Please.’
‘What?’
‘More.’
He teases my body, tempts and taunts; he plays with my mouth, tender then hard, until I explode in a mind-numbing rush. Loud and frantic, wild and ferocious, he follows. When he carries me to the bed and lies down, I lie on top of him.
‘Oh …’ I rub my cheek on his chest. I yawn. ‘Oh.’
‘Jeg elsker deg.’ He rolls us on our sides, kisses my nose.
I push back his hair and stroke his handsome face. ‘What does that mean?’
‘The first time I said it, we were at the cabin on the escarpment. You called me an arrogant bastard.’
‘You haven’t told me what it means.’
‘I love you.’ Certainty. Conviction. He strokes across my shoulder, runs fingers down my spine.
I push words through the tightness in my throat. ‘You said it way back then?’
‘I like to say it.’
‘You live in Norway and Antarctica and—’
‘I live where you do.’
‘I don’t expect that.’
‘Gordon will live with us at the saddlery.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘I can take care of his physical needs.’ He rolls and we’re on our other sides, facing each other again. ‘I have experience. I know these things.’
I kiss one of his eyes, then the other. ‘Nurses aren’t prepared to come all the way to Summerfield.’
‘If he needs it, I’ll pay for medical care.’
‘You can’t—’
‘Mackenzie.’ He threads his fingers through my hair, untangles knots. ‘Gordon wants to die at the saddlery.’
‘Yes.’
He runs a fingertip down my nose and over my mouth. He lifts my chin. ‘Marry me.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a tradition. I like tradition.’
‘Where would we live?’
Grumbling, he reaches for his phone and then, settling me on his chest, he scrolls through images. A graph. A series of pie charts on Antarctic ice. A two-storey house with a sloping black roof.
‘Wait. Go back a bit.’
He holds the phone between us. ‘My parents’ house in Oslo.’
‘It’s enormous.’ I enlarge the screen. ‘What a beautiful garden. Is that their dog? What’s her name?’
‘Lilje.’
In among work photos and photos of his family—mother, father, two handsome younger brothers sitting at a table in a garden— there are images of Summerfield. The wattle in flower in the main street. The saddlery sign. The long slender leaves of the gum near the bridge. A startling red bottlebrush.
‘I like the photo of Phoenix.’
He brings me closer, kisses the top of my head. ‘We can live in Summerfield.’
‘You’re an Antarctic expeditioner and scientist. What would you do there?’
‘Watch you at work, do my work remotely and …’ He strokes my back. ‘There are other documentaries. We can also work together.’
‘Really? Would Erik want that?’
‘He’s allocated New Zealand and Norway to both of us. There’ll be others.’
‘I won’t leave Grandpa.’
‘I won’t leave you.’
I take his hand, draw on his palm. ‘Jimmy could work in the saddlery and Rory could take up an apprenticeship. That would help with the workload.’
‘Sometimes we’re in Summerfield, sometimes we travel. I live where you do.’
‘Your family would miss you.’
‘My parents and brothers know about you. They want a daughter and sister. We go to them for holidays, they come to us.’
‘They haven’t even met me.’
‘They know me. They know how I feel.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘I’ve never loved anyone.’ When he kisses my mouth, the tingling starts up again, warming me inside and out. He trails a hand down my side to my hip. ‘I love you.’
***
A saddlery, a schoolyard, a main street. A river flowing under a bridge. Cold mornings, warm nights, the promise of rain in the springtime. Dogs and horses, flowers and eucalypts. Grandpa on the verandah, beaming a welcome with a saddle at his feet. I’ll never let go of the life that I’ve had, but I can have other things too. Waves on the shoreline, mountains and glaciers, golden-haired children.
A Viking.
I’m on my back and Kit, exhausted and sleepy, is lying in my arms. Marry . I try the word aloud. ‘Marry.’
Kit yawns, rubs his cheek against my breast. ‘Yes.’
‘I could take your hand whenever I wanted.’ When he lifts his arm, I thread our fingers. ‘When you have nightmares, I can hold you.’
He comes up on his elbow, narrows his eyes. A little bit of arrogance. A lot of uncertainty. ‘Can you love me?’
‘Aragorn Kit …’ I push back his hair. ‘I’ve never wanted anybody else.’
‘I found you.’
‘In Grandpa’s submission.’
‘His passion for his home, your father’s work, the sketches. I couldn’t forget them.’
‘Kit Thorsen, a scientist from Norway. Mackenzie Henry, a saddler from Summerfield. We needed Athena and Phoenix as well.’
‘Marrying me isn’t dangerous,’ he grumbles.
‘I was lying on the ground.’ I twine my arms around his neck. ‘You said I was impossible.’
‘You were, Mary Mackenzie.’ He nuzzles my neck. ‘You were in pain. Beautiful. Fearless. I couldn’t leave you.’
In a few hours, he’ll likely wake up, sobbing and searching. I’ll hold him close. I’ll keep him safe. I find the hair at his nape and gently stroke.
‘I can protect you too.’
He kisses my collarbone, tenderly searches my face. ‘Every night, we’ll sleep together.’
‘I’d like that.’
His mouth is soft, his hair is damp. He settles on my chest again, drapes an arm across my hip. I pull up the sheet, smooth it over his shoulders, bring him even closer.
‘Kit? Are you awake?’
‘Hmmm.’ His voice is slurry with sleep.
‘You asked if I could love you.’ A heartbeat of silence. Then he’s up on his elbow again, so very serious.
‘I will wait.’
I trace a line down his jaw and look into his eyes. ‘You don’t have to.’