In the Arms of a Hero. Beverly Barton

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      “No.” Her simple response was spoken flatly and loudly, a denial of her own desire and a rejection of his plea. She swayed before him and his hands held her waist, steadying her lest she lose her balance. “Don’t expect that of me, Max,” she said, her voice trembling.

      “All right.” There was no point in arguing that she’d entered into the kiss with a passion that was unmistakable. She was well aware of her own vulnerability, and he had to give her credit for her ability to back away from him, keeping her dignity intact.

      “You’re here because…maybe because I’m allowing my curiosity some satisfaction. Because I want to see just what it was about you that had me so in thrall to you when we were first married.” She looked up at him. “Maybe that sounds foolish to you, but I need to know…”

      “What?” he asked sharply. “Tell me what you need to know, and I’ll do my best to provide it. I’ll try to be what you want me to be, Faith.” And wasn’t that a new idea, he thought. He wasn’t the one who needed to make sweeping changes—not from where he stood, anyway. “I thought I was a good husband in the past. Obviously, you decided I wasn’t.”

      She nodded and turned aside, and his hands fell to his sides. “Well, you’ve got that right,” she said flatly.

      The anger he’d controlled rose again, and he walked to the kitchen doorway, opening the screened door and stepping out onto the porch. He allowed the wooden framework to close gently behind him, catching it before the taut spring could snatch it from his hand. And then he strode across the yard to the barn, the rain pelting him, soaking his clothing and penetrating the layers. By the time he reached the barn he was drenched, his boots sinking an inch into the mud with every step.

      And even the chill of sodden clothing and the force of the wind that required him to use a considerable amount of strength to open, then close, the barn door behind him, was not enough to cool the anger that roiled within him. Faith had never had the capability to turn him upside down this way during those early years of their marriage. Now her words of scorn brought his temper to a boil, and he recognized the fact that it was because he cared.

      Maybe cared too much. She’d scorned him, mocked him and told him she didn’t love him, and still he was here, asking for more punishment. He shook his head. The woman had him running in circles.

      His horse turned his head, the length of rope that tied him in his stall limiting his movement. And for a long moment, Max was tempted. His pride was taking a beating.

      It would be an easy matter to saddle the animal, although any sane creature, man or beast, would be reluctant to ride out into the downpour that pounded unceasingly against the barn roof. Yet Max could probably make the horse obey him, force him to carry him to town, and to the hotel. A train would be heading east within the next twenty-four hours. That was almost guaranteed.

      If he had any sense at all, he’d be on it, making arrangements for Faith’s inheritance to be deposited for her use, once the papers were delivered to the lawyers in Boston.

      The papers. They were even now in his pouch, beside the bed where he’d slept. And wasn’t that handy? The deciding vote had been cast, he thought, leaning his head against the wide doorjamb. Leaving right now was not an option. And unless he left while he was still angry enough to walk away, he feared his stubborn need for Faith would keep him here until he could breach her defenses and…and what?

      Make love to her? His manhood’s urgent plea for attention had subsided during the trek through the rain, but now it made itself known again at the thought of Faith in his bed. Or him in her bed. Either way would do, he decided with a rusty laugh. And neither way seemed to be in his immediate future.

      He spent a long moment contemplating a vision of Faith awaiting his attentions, and somehow could not visualize the body that hid beneath coarse cotton and sturdy underclothing. For he’d almost guarantee that the lace and fine fabrics she’d worn beneath her dresses in Boston no longer had a place in her wardrobe.

      “And who cares?” he said aloud, then looked around at the dim interior of the barn, as if some listener might have heard his words. His horse, and Faith’s in the stalls beyond, were patently uninterested in his presence, standing patiently in their beds of straw.

      He cared, he admitted. For a moment he desperately desired the chance to view her slender form again, to take special note of the formation of breasts and hips, the narrowing of her waist, the changes time had wrought in the body he’d once been privileged to own as her husband.

      Now, he stood little chance of ever owning more than he’d already snatched from her. She’d refused his suit, denied him in no uncertain terms. And he was hiding in her barn like a callow youth, pouting over his inability to seduce the love of his life.

      The love of his life. He was taken aback at the idea. He’d thought, long ago, that he could set her in a compartment labeled Wife and keep her there, taking her out now and then for his pleasure or to grace his arm, or sit at the head of his table as his hostess. And he’d never really known the woman inside the shell of elegant beauty she possessed.

      Now she was set free, had escaped the mold he’d formed for her, and in freeing herself, had filled him, heart and mind and soul, with her presence.

      The love of his life? Was she? Could he find another woman who appealed to him as Faith did? Did he even want to try? The answer was clear, as clear as if he looked in a mirror and faced the dour countenance he knew he wore at this moment.

      “I beg your pardon,” Max said. He stood outside the screened door, looking as bedraggled as any man she’d ever seen. The rain had long since ceased, and Faith had fed the hens and gathered the eggs, one eye on the closed barn door, behind which her husband was taking his ease.

      The sun shone brightly, and a nice wind blew from the west, drying up the puddles that dotted the yard. He’d trudged through them on his way to the house, his hair dry, but totally disordered, his clothing clinging to him, even as it dried against his body. He’d shed his shirt halfway across the yard, hanging it over the clothesline, then continued on his way.

      Sitting on the edge of the porch, he’d tugged his boots off, then wrung out his stockings before he hung them on the short line between two posts, where she made it a practice to pin her dish towels to dry. Now he stood before her, his dark eyes shadowed, his beard causing him to look unlike the male creature she had known in Boston, who took immense pride in his immaculate, elegant facade.

      He resembled nothing more than a man with an apology to offer, and she hesitated as she decided if she was willing to hear it. “You beg my pardon?” she asked, facing him through the screen.

      “Yes. I need to ask your forgiveness for my behavior earlier.” Humble was not a word she would have chosen to portray the Max she remembered from her earlier life. Yet it seemed an appropriate description for his appearance at her door. Hat in hand would be a more accurate depiction, she thought, except that his hat was even now hanging on a hook inside her kitchen.

      “My forgiveness?” she repeated, attempting to digest his meaning. “For the kiss you took? Or the assumption you made that I would toss back the sheets and invite you into my bed?”

      He looked taken aback at her words. “You’ve changed, Faith,” he said finally.

      “Have I? Because I speak my mind?”

      His nod was slow, his eyes lighting with amusement. “Not only that,” he said, “but СКАЧАТЬ