Love, Come to Me(46)

“I wasn’t!” she said, spluttering with fury. “And there was no need to make him jealous! Everything was fine until you came along.”

“Yes, I’m sure everything was just dandy, all during your three-year engagement with him. Three years! And you were still as clean and untouched as a new-minted penny. I’ll bet you begged him to make love to you. I’ll bet you nagged him to death about it while he put you off with mouthings of honor and respectability. What held him back, Lucy? Why didn’t he make you his?”

“He loved me. He respected me!”

Heath let go of her with a gesture of distaste and reached for his trousers on the floor. “Respect had nothing to do with it,” he said savagely, buttoning up the trousers and scooping up the rest of his clothes as he headed towards the door. “He finally understood that he couldn’t handle you. He realized he didn’t have the strength, the time, and God help me, the patience to deal with you. But you’ll never accept that. You’re planning to keep on hankering after him and dreaming about how it all could have been, instead of trying to find out how good things could be between us.”

“I didn’t do anything to stop you from . . . from taking me tonight. You were the one who started the argument.”

“Don’t be such a martyr. Poor, sinned-against Lucy. I’d sooner fight the war over single-handed than try to change your mind about your pure-minded ex-fiancé.”

Lucy said nothing, clutching the quilt over her na**d body; her fingers whitened with the pressure she exerted on the patchworked edge.

“Let me know when you’ve decided to grow up,” Heath added from the doorway, sounding a few degrees more controlled than before, and then he closed the door with unnatural quietness. She would have preferred a slam.

Lucy awoke reluctantly, dreading the crushing guilt that would face her as soon as she opened her eyes. Sliding lower under the warm covers, she tried to avoid the morning sunlight, which glared malevolently through the window. Her mouth tasted like it was stuffed full of chalk. Her eyes were mere slits as she peered around the empty room and clasped a hand to her head. She doubted that she could have had a worse headache had a train run right between her ears. Groaning, she burrowed her face under a pillow and thought over what had happened the night before. There were so many things that she had said, things she longed to take back and would never be able to. Blinded by anger, she had said them without thinking.

It seemed as if another person had been speaking and acting in her place. Surely she, who had always hated to hurt anyone, had not turned into the vindictive shrew of the night before. Her pride was stung by the recollection of the nasty things Heath had said to her, but still, remorse attacked her vigorously. His bad behavior didn’t justify hers.

Lucy wished she had ignored the whole subject of Daniel. Of course she still cared for him. That kind of love didn’t die easily, and she was still besieged with all the tender memories she had shared with Daniel: the times they had laughed together and held each other; the times he had walked with her by the river when the scent of golden willows was heavy in the air; their gentle kisses and long, romantic embraces. Even now that she was married to another man it was hard to believe that all of that was over. But she didn’t want to make Heath miserable, and she didn’t want to be a bad wife. It was just that he had an uncanny power to stir her up into a greater rage than she had ever felt before.

She wondered if he was still angry with her—how could he not be? I don’t want to face him, she thought miserably. But only a child would stay up here hiding in her bed when she could hear him up and around in the kitchen. She had to go downstairs and face him, no matter what dreadful things he might say to her, no matter how icy his blue eyes might be. Slowly she crept out of bed and hunted through the closet for her robe. The rich fragrance of strong-brewed coffee floated to her nostrils. The realization that Heath had made it made her feel doubly worse. I’m his wife, she thought guiltily. I should be doing that now.

Heath sat alone in the kitchen, his brown hands curled around a thick mug of coffee. His tousled blond head rested against the high-backed chair as he experienced the indescribable numbness that follows a sleepless night. He had always been one to accept the truth for what it was. A man never had control over his own destiny until he learned not to lie to himself. Only during the war had he let his idealism mask the truth. Like the rest of his people he had been too bullheaded to accept that they were beaten. Not until they were crushed and humiliated, not until disillusionment had eaten down to his very bones.

Now he had stolen another chance for himself—a chance to enjoy life again, a chance to care for someone—and he was throwing it away without meaning to. Lucy was going to come to hate him, and that was the last thing he wanted. He walked out to the small porch outside, taking a deep, hot swallow of coffee and looking down the road that led to town.

There were too many differences between them, with little ground to meet in between. She had never known hardship or want; she had never known the fear that drove ambition; she had never known what it was like to have everything and then lose it all; she knew nothing about any of the things that had gone into making him what he was. No wonder she didn’t understand him. No wonder he understood so little about her. But he understood her more than Daniel Collier ever had. He understood her enough to hurt her, and he had to keep his temper in check. If it killed him, he would keep it in check.