Rafe usually enjoyed chess, but after three games, he found it difficult to concentrate on strategy, especially with Maggie lying on the bed across from him, her cheeks turning pink from the wine and her lashes fluttering as she struggled to stifle her yawns.
Glancing up from making his last move, he said, “I think it’s about time for lights out. You’re really tired.”
She batted her lashes and made an obvious effort to look wide awake. As he watched her, tenderness welled within Rafe. “Oh, no! I’m not tired at all,” she assured him. “Are you?”
Not wishing to rush her, he returned his attention to the game. Five minutes later, he heard her stifle another yawn. He glanced up and saw that she was drooping with weariness, her long, dark lashes veiling her lovely eyes. A smile tugged at his mouth. He was quickly coming to suspect that his wife’s reluctance to call it a night stemmed from her dread of sharing a bed with him.
For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of returning to his own room. The notion had scarcely occurred to him than he firmly set it from his mind. The entire purpose of waiting to make love to her was to ease her into this relationship, giving her an opportunity to grow accustomed to him a little at a time. If he kept his distance and never touched her, accomplishing that goal would take forever.
It wasn’t an entirely selfish decision, though Rafe freely admitted, if only to himself, that he eagerly anticipated the moment when he could make love to her. The deciding factor, however, was Maggie. Quite simply, the longer he allowed her to sleep alone, the more she would come to dread his invasion of her bed.
Fear was a funny thing, with common characteristics shared by humans and animals alike. If left alone, instead of healing, it festered, increasing in proportion until it became gargantuan.
He sat up and faked a yawn, stretching his spine and shrugging his shoulders. “I forfeit the game. Call me a party pooper, but I’m beat.”
She sat up as well, her gaze fixed on the marble chess pieces as if they were long-lost friends. Rafe began gathering them up and returning them to the hand-carved oak box. Then he folded the board, fitted it inside, and snapped the lid closed.
After setting the game on the floor next to the bed, he pushed to his feet and corked the wine bottle, which was still a quarter full. Maggie had consumed two glasses, and he’d nursed only one over the course of the evening, half-afraid the taste of alcohol might make him start craving whiskey again. Luckily it hadn’t, which told him his dependency had been more emotional than physical.
Finished tidying up, he turned to regard his bride. She gazed back at him with unmistakable wariness. In that moment, she looked about twelve years old, the biggest thing about her those huge brown eyes. Rafe found himself struggling not to smile again. A pixie perched on a rosy blanket.
Skimming his gaze over her, he noted the feminine and inarguably mature curves of her body caressed by the flannel. It was the first time in Rafe’s life that he could recall envying a nightgown. His attention snagged on the crimson splash of cabernet over one softly peaked breast.
“I guess the first order of business is to give you your pills and then find you a fresh gown,” he said.
She released a long-suffering sigh as she took the capsules he shook out onto his palm. Rafe poured her some water from the pitcher he kept filled on the nightstand. After handing her the glass, he glanced at his watch and silently congratulated himself on making progress. He was twenty minutes behind schedule, and he hadn’t pressed her to drink any fluids all evening.
While she swallowed the pills, he stepped over to the dresser and began rummaging through the items of clothing Becca had gotten for her. When he turned back with a neatly folded length of flannel clutched in his fist, he found Maggie standing at the foot of the bed.
“I…” She gestured toward the bathroom. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
He gave her the clean gown as she swept quickly past him. When the bathroom door closed and he heard the lock click, he sighed and shook his head. His wife was painfully shy, which was becoming more apparent by the moment.
While waiting for her, Rafe kicked off his boots and sat on the edge of the bed. He considered stripping off his clothes and lying down, but given Maggie’s nervousness, that might not be a wise idea. Better to get her settled first and then join her. He also decided he’d be well advised to keep his pants on. His boxer shorts, at least.
It seemed to him that an interminable amount of time passed before she finally emerged from the bathroom, and when she did, she blushed as if she’d been doing something shameful. She wore the clean nightgown and she’d brushed her hair. Sable curtains lay like rich silk over her shoulders.
She came to a stop several feet away, her nervous fingers plucking at her nightgown, her gaze avoiding his. Observing her, he searched his mind for something he might say to help her relax. Not even a banal comment came to mind. Zeroing in on her sleepy eyes, which he considered quite a feat given the fact that her face had turned such a startling shade of pink, he said, “Sweetheart, you look completely exhausted.”
“Mmmm.”
She rubbed her palms on the flannel, looking as jumpy as a flea at a pesticide convention. Her gaze kept darting from him to the bed he sat on, as if she couldn’t decide which posed the greatest threat.
He’d never been adept at small talk, especially not when his companion was tense and seemed to have no inclination to hold up her end of the conversation. Instead she just stood there as if her feet had put down roots.
“Well…” he said, then immediately wondered why. Well, what, exactly? A few possibilities ran through his brain. Well…ain’t this a hell of a mess? Somehow he doubted she’d appreciate the attempt at humor. He settled for clearing his throat, which made him sound like sick diesel engine trying to ascend a steep grade.
Since he’d foregone his conjugal rights, Rafe couldn’t imagine what she thought might happen when they went to bed. As the seconds of deafening silence ticked past, it occurred to him that maybe she didn’t trust him to keep his promise. For just an instant, he felt offended. If there was one thing he prided himself on, it was keeping his word. But then he recalled what Ryan had said about people being afraid history might repeat itself.
Lonnie Boyle, the pus pocket. The bastard had undoubtedly made Maggie countless promises over the years, never honoring a single one, unless it was to carry out a threat. Coming from that kind of environment, was it really any wonder that she found it difficult to trust? In her experience, a man’s code of honor wasn’t worth much.
What really broke Rafe’s heart was knowing how very badly she wanted to trust him. The yearning was there in her beautiful eyes. There was also a pleading look in her expression, as if she were silently imploring him to do something, the problem being that he didn’t know what she needed from him. More promises? He could talk himself blue in the face and never take the edge off the anxiety she felt.
Rafe stood and crossed the room toward her, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to frighten her. Judging by the way her eyes widened as he approached, he might as well not have bothered. He heaved a weary inward sigh.
“Maggie,” he said softly, grasping her lightly by the shoulders. “Don’t be nervous. I’m not going hurt you.”
“Oh, I know that,” she assured him in a quavery voice.
Like hell. The truth was, she hoped and prayed he wouldn’t, but Lonnie had robbed her of the ability to feel certain of it. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, steering her toward the bed. “Let’s get you tucked in.”
She moved before him like a condemned person being guided to the execution chamber. When her knees connected with the mattress, she jerked. Beneath his hands, Rafe could feel her slender body trembling. He felt like the world’s worst bastard for ignoring that and sweeping back the covers.
“In you go,” he urged.
Her movements stiff and awkward, she slipped between the sheets, then scooted so close to the opposite edge she was in danger of falling off. Lying rigidly on her side with her back to him, she drew the blankets to her ears.
“Good night,” she said faintly. Then: “Should I turn out the light?”
“Please,” Rafe told her as he began removing his shirt.
Studiously keeping her gaze averted from him, she reached for the lamp switch. The next instant, the room was plunged into darkness. Blessed with good night vision, Rafe’s eyes adjusted quickly. Moonlight spilled in through the windows, painting the mauve carpet silvery gray and casting the furniture that lined the room’s perimeters into shadow.
After tossing his shirt aside, he stripped off his jeans. His belt buckle and the change in his pockets sounded off in the taut silence like a tambourine as the denim fell to the floor. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his socks and drape them over his boot tops. When he finally slipped between the sheets to join Maggie, he wore nothing but his boxers, which, considering the fact that he usually slept naked, was a concession.
When he settled a hand on her flannel-draped hip, she flinched as though he had touched her with a hot coal. Rafe pressed close, his chest against her back. Clinging to the edge of the bed as she was, she’d left herself no room to escape. That suited his purposes perfectly. He slipped his hand from her hip to her abdomen, splaying his fingers over her softness. Her stomach muscles convulsed the instant his hand settled. Even through the flannel, he could feel the looseness of her skin there, a sign of her recent pregnancy.
Her silky hair lay over the pillow. Letting his eyes drift closed, Rafe rested his cheek on a spray of curls, his lips and nose buried in the strands. She smelled wonderful, the faint scents of shampoo and bathing soap mingling with a sweet fragrance that was exclusively her own.
He could have sworn he felt her pulse quicken. How that could be, he didn’t know. His hand was on her belly, not her chest. He increased the pressure of his fingertips. Sure enough, he felt a rapid thrumming. The poor girl was so scared, she was one big heartbeat.
He cracked open one eye. “Maggie, honey, can you try to relax?”
“I’m relaxed,” she said, clutching his wrist even as she spoke.
Rafe lay there for a long moment, wondering if she realized she was digging her nails into his skin. He decided probably not. Judging by the force of her grip, it was a panic reaction. Every line and curve of her body felt knotted with tension. He waited for several minutes, hoping she might turn loose or at least relax her hold. No such luck. His fingers started going numb.
“Maggie?” he whispered.
“What?” she asked in a thin voice.
“Do you think by holding my hand that you can stop me from touching you someplace else?”
Her breathing stuttered and stopped. When at last she replied, her voice sounded choked. “No, of course not.”
“Then why bother?”
She relaxed her grip but kept her hand on his wrist. Rafe flexed his fingers to get the blood flowing through them, which instantly earned him another lacerating assault from her fingernails.
He considered trying to reassure her again, but since that hadn’t worked thus far, he opted to fake slumber instead, his hope being that she might feel safe if she believed he’d fallen asleep. He forced his body to relax and his breathing to change. Still, she lay there, body taut, hand vised on his wrist.
Rafe had a feeling it was going to be a very long night and far more torturous for her than for him. He counted the ticks of the clock pendulum. He tried to think about something else. When his thoughts returned to the woman in his arms, she was still taut as a well-tuned piano wire.
How much time had passed? Twenty minutes, possibly thirty? He only knew she couldn’t possibly get any rest this way. Christ. In that moment, Rafe detested Lonnie Boyle with a virulence that nearly choked him.
Even worse, it wasn’t a problem Rafe could openly discuss with her. She had yet to admit Boyle was even the father of her child, let alone give specifics about what the son of a bitch had done to her. How could Rafe swear to her he’d never do the same if they couldn’t discuss it openly?
I can’t let him do to Heidi what he did to me, she’d cried that afternoon in the hospital. The instant she’d said that, Rafe had guessed exactly what Boyle had done to her. When he thought about it, he still felt just as sick. Sooner or later, he would have to get her to talk to him about it. She needed to do that, to purge herself of the ugliness, if for no other reason. As it stood, she believed no one else knew the entire truth—that her stepfather had not only physically abused her, but raped her as well.
Rafe closed his eyes, hurting for her in a way that went bone deep. God. He wanted so badly to say, What are you so afraid of, Maggie? That I might do what Lonnie did?
The ability to trust in others was such a fragile thing and shattered so easily. Maggie had been betrayed by a man who should have been the one male in her life she could trust implicitly. Boyle had made a mockery of that familial bond by doing what he had, and in doing so, he’d left Maggie believing that men held nothing sacred.
Rafe wanted to tell her differently. But as deeply as he yearned to soothe her fears, he knew words alone would never be enough. The only way he could prove to Maggie that she could trust him was with his actions, holding her close like this and doing nothing more, teaching her by experience that the touch of his hands would never bring her pain. Slowly—moment by moment, day by day.
There was no quick cure. She needed time, and probably lots of it. Rafe’s only consolation was that she would be well worth the wait. Cradling her against him, he continued to feign slumber, hoping with every breath he drew that she would grow so exhausted soon that she could relax and drift off to sleep.
It seemed to him that an eternity passed before her grip on his wrist finally went lax and the tension left her body. She sighed then, her breath catching in a whispery huff like that of a child who had cried itself to sleep. She leaned more heavily into him, twisting slightly at the waist, her soft hip nudging his manhood. His shaft twitched and sprang to attention. Rafe stopped breathing, afraid the unaccustomed hardness might wake her.
He needn’t have worried. She was asleep. Cramped from maintaining one position for so long, he eased onto his back, gently drawing her with him. She murmured and turned. Seeking the hollow of his shoulder with her satiny cheek, she snuggled close, angling her bent leg across his thighs, her pelvis against his hip, her breasts molding to the hard planes of his chest.
He let his eyes fall closed. Maggie. God, she felt so soft and incredibly sweet. Being able to hold her like this was like receiving a miracle. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t make love to her. In time, that would change.
For now, he would take her just as she was and count himself blessed. As he drifted toward sleep, Rafe vowed to himself that no matter what it took, he would protect her and the people she loved from any more pain and ugliness. But as he slipped from semiconsciousness into troubled dreams, his confidence in his ability to do that left him.
He was once again in the back of the horse trailer, peering through the fury of a terrible hailstorm at the station wagon as it hovered at the edge of the embankment, about to carry the people he loved to their deaths. Only this time, instead of it being Susan and his children in the car, he somehow knew it was Maggie and Jaimie.
In that split second that somehow became an eternity in his dreams, just before the car plunged over the cliff, the face of the driver turned toward him. To his horror, it wasn’t Susan’s face he saw anymore. And, God help him, it wasn’t Maggie’s, either.
The face was that of Lonnie Boyle, and he was laughing maniacally.