Trial by Desire (Carhart #2)

His word? She wanted to trust him. She did. But…


“That would be the same word you gave me at our wedding ceremony?” She spoke primarily to remind herself. Because she was a fool to even consider speaking to him. A true fool to want to believe she could trust him. She heard his intake of breath. “You’re furious now, because I’m questioning you.”

“Furious?” His voice sounded amused. “Not particularly.” He touched the back of the sofa near her shoulder, his hand falling so close to her she could have kissed it. She looked up into his eyes and found nothing there but trusting brown. No anger. No fury. “I don’t think I really understood how much I hurt you until we spoke this afternoon.”

Kate couldn’t bear to look in his eyes any longer. His words were too close to her dreams, too close to her own wants. She was like to put an unfortunate complexion on them, and she had nobody but herself to hurt. She’d learned, all too well, that her marriage was a practical thing, something to suffer through and survive. Anger she could manage. But kindness led to hope, and hope would break her down.

“Is that what you see when you look at me, then? You see a frightened, wounded creature, one to whom you must speak softly?”

He didn’t say anything in response. Instead, he walked round the sofa and looked at her straight on. And now that he was in front of her, she could not look away. If she bowed her head, he would understand that she was afraid. That even now he could shatter her. And so she looked back. He reached down and took her arm and gently pulled her to her feet. He did not relinquish her hand, though, when she stood.

He was far taller than she, and as close as he stood, she suddenly felt small. She should never have even mentioned her fear. She could see the knowledge reflected in his eyes. She could feel it in the strong grasp of his fingers about her wrist. And now that she’d let slip that unfortunate truth, what else would she admit? That standing this close to him, she could smell the strong, masculine scent of his soap? That some unfortunate part of her longed to lean against him, to open herself once again to the heated touch of his hands on her bare skin?

Perhaps she would say that the primary thing that held her back was the fear that once again, he would be the one to walk away.

She pulled her hand in his grasp. But his hand was as steadfast and gentle as a velvet manacle.

“You must see me as the most pitiful, ineffectual, cringing little rabbit.” She pulled again.

In response, he set his hand on her shoulder and turned her to the right. “Look straight ahead,” he suggested. “I think I may be seeing you for the first time.”

Kate looked across the room. The fire burned low. The cavernous maw of the fireplace was framed by a simple mantel. Above that hung a looking glass.

She could see their reflections in that expanse of silvered glass—Ned, tall and strong, vitality wafting off him. In the mirror it seemed as if he were barely touching her—his hand on her wrist, his arm lightly overlaying her shoulder. Two simple points of contact. The mirror could not show how his touch seared her skin.

She shuddered. Looking at the two of them framed in the mirror seemed even more intimate than their wedding night had been. She could feel the warmth of his body behind her. She could imagine him taking one step in, enfolding her in those strong arms of his. She could feel the warmth of his breath against the back of her neck. And yet there was nothing anonymous about his touch, because she could not escape his eyes in the looking glass.

They sparkled with deceptive friendliness.

“No,” he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t look at me. Look at yourself.”

Her hair was so light it was almost colorless. Her skin seemed wan; her dress fitted to her form, bound and corseted and drawn in on itself, as if she were so insubstantial that she needed whalebone to prop her up. She looked like a dainty, breakable lady.

“I’ve seen you before,” Ned said quietly. “But I think it’s high time I look again.” His hand came up; she could see it in the reflection, before the callus of his thumb swept alongside her face. “First, there’s the line of your jaw. A perfect curve, held high. It’s one triumphant, resolute sweep. This line—” his finger traced it back again, and the hairs on Kate’s arm stood up “—this line says you are a woman who will brook no nonsense. I believe I have discovered that before.”

Kate swallowed. In the mirror her neck contracted.

His hand slid down that smooth expanse of skin.