The Tender Vine (Diamond of the Rockies #3)
Kristen Heitzmann
ONE
I look on her whom life has bruised
in heart and mind and soul.
Though other hands have broken her,
now mine must make her whole.
—Quillan
SOFTLY SCENTED PINE. The downy embrace of a feather mattress. A slow paling of sleep.
Then the dull throbbing of every bruise drew Carina from her stupor. Someone stoked the fire in her stove. Raising heavy-lashed eyelids, she expected to see Mae’s soft, undulating form, but it was Quillan’s muscular back that bent to the task.
Panic brought her fully awake. Too many times she’d seen Quillan’s back, his stubborn gait carrying him away. His mane of light brown hair hung loosely over his shoulders, and she wanted to sink her fingers in—and grab hold. Oh, she knew his back. It was his face she longed to learn. He must have sensed her watching; he turned.
Would he cut her with cruel words after the closeness they’d shared last night? Not the intimacy of husband and wife; her injuries precluded that. But they had woven their hearts, and she feared now that he would pull away as he had every time he got too close.
She searched his face, hoping the things he’d seen and learned had changed him—Wolf ’s cave, his mother’s diary. Had he made peace with his past, his parentage, as it seemed last night? And was it enough to hold him? The fire gave his gray eyes the luminescence of a storm cloud sunlit from behind. His brow pulled together, but his voice was soft. “What’s the matter? Are you in pain?”
She was stiff and sore from the thugs’ beating, but she shook her head. “No, I . . . I thought for a moment you’d be gone.” Like their unborn child. A stabbing grief found a hollow place inside and lodged there. They’d hardly spoken of the baby last night. No more than to acknowledge the loss. Who would their child have been, had the beating not destroyed the baby inside her? She wanted to lash out, but Quillan’s repentance, his anguish that he hadn’t been there to protect her, was real.
He left the stove and crouched beside the bed, resting his forearm on the coverlet, the roping muscles visible beneath his cotton undershirt. “I told you I’m not leaving.”
He must see her doubt. And why not? In six months of marriage they were still strangers with a powerful bond neither could ignore, but in which she had yet to trust. She was the one pulling away this time. His tenderness left her more vulnerable than his gruffness ever had. He was the most unpredictable, annoyingly irresistible man she’d ever known. And when she considered her papa, her five brothers, and all her male cousins connected by blood, marriage, or otherwise, that was quite a laurel for Quillan.
He spread his pirate’s smile. “You should have chucked me, not the rocker.”
Carina glanced swiftly at the empty corner of the room. So he had noticed. How could he not? Perhaps he had even seen her deliver the rocking chair to èmie, though he’d said no word about it when he carried her back to bed like an invalid child for all the world to see.
“Oh, Quillan.” She reached for his arm. “I wish I hadn’t.”
“Think of the pleasure the Simms will have of it.”
So he did know. He was baiting her, mocking her rash, vengeful act.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, I deserved it. A more eloquent thrashing I’ve never had.”
“I was angry! And hurt!”
“I know.” He ran his fingers over her sleeve, down her hand, and along each of her fingers.
Her stomach shrank tight, and she reached up to his beard-darkened cheek.
He drew back. “I haven’t shaved yet. Just barely let the dog out and stoked the fire.”
She smiled. “You should grow real whiskers, not this roguish stubble you’re so fond of.” She’d seen him both overly mustached and clean shaven, but mostly as he was now. Just enough whiskers to look dangerous and disreputable.
He rubbed his scratchy jaw. “Roguish.” He looked down at her lips and she felt them warm, anticipating his kiss, but he didn’t come any closer. Nor had he kissed her last night, though he’d held her in his arms. Must she show she was willing? She started to raise her chin, but the whining and scratching at the door took his attention. Quillan stood and admitted Second Samuel, who bounded in, shaking frosty fur powdered by the morning’s snowfall. He crowded in to lick Carina’s hand.
She looked from the dog to the amused face of her husband. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re thinking something.” She waved her hand in small circles. “I see it in your face.”
“What do you see?”
She stroked the velvety softness of Sam’s ear as he continued to lap her arm with his tongue. “I probably don’t want to know.”
He grinned. “But it’ll drive you mad until you do.”
“Oh!” She pushed the dog away and flounced into the pillow.
He laughed. “Go ahead. Finish it.”
“Finish what!”
“Omaccio. Isn’t that what you meant?” He moved Sam aside and towered over her. “Omaccio, cad, ill-bred man. It goes with the whiskers.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
He leaned down, one hand gripping the maple headboard. “What did you expect?”