streamed into the room, carving his face in light. His eyes held pity, and she wondered what she’d exposed to him in her nightmare She glanced away, ashamed and afraid at what it might have been.
He touched her arm. “Who are you afraid of, Susannah?”
She pulled free and looked toward the window. The trees moved against the moonlight, reaching upward like scrawny, bony fingers. Like Ma Walker’s. She shivered.
“Everyone has bad dreams now and then.” He stroked her arm gently. “By God, I know I do.”
She took a shuddering breath and realized she was going to cry. Deep, ragged sobs clenched her chest and forced their way into her throat. Covering her face with her hands, she wept.
His arms came around her, and she went, hungering for comfort, aching for someone to care. She leaned against him, her hands still covering her face, and continued to cry.
He stroked her hair, tentatively at first, then more boldly. “It’s all right, Susannah. Cry.”
His touch and the gruff purr of his voice soothed her. Not since she’d been a child had anyone comforted her so, and never a man. It was soothing . . . so different from anything she’d ever felt.
Pulling herself together, she stopped crying and drew away from the warmth of his chest. She felt odd, strangely skittish having him so close to her in the darkened room.
With his thumb, he wiped her cheek, the tender gesture causing Susannah’s heart to ache with the poverty of need and she almost cried again. But she didn’t. Instead, she took his hand in hers, anxious to touch it, feel its warmth and gentle strength. Anxious to know a man who didn’t use his hand to punish, but to soothe.
Pressing her hand with his fingers, he brought it to his face; she touched the rough stubble of his beard. A moment, an ugly memory, encroached, and she tried to pull away, but he held her hand flat against his cheek until she no longer fought him. Her fingers, cold and clammy from her dream, warmed against his flesh. He began moving her hand slowly over his face.
“I’m just a man, Susannah, I’m not a monster. I would never hurt you.” His breath caressed her fingers as he brought them to his lips.
She felt the tingle of his touch all the way to her elbow, but his words frightened her. She wanted to believe. But words, alone, weren’t enough; they never had been.
He guided her fingers to the high, hard ledge of his cheekbone, then higher, to his forehead where she traced the scar, his thick eyelashes tickling her palm. “Who hurt you?” she asked, her voice soft.
“I got it during the war,” he answered, continuing to hold her fingers.
He brought her palm to his mouth and planted a whispery kiss there, sending Susannah’s heart into her throat and her pulse racing. Again, she tried to pull away, and again, he stayed her hand, pulling her toward him.
His face came close to hers and her breath caught in her throat. When his lips grazed her forehead, she gasped, unable to believe any man could be so gentle. As he planted slow, light kisses on her cheeks, she stiffened, but tried to fight it. She wanted to enjoy it. She wanted to, but . . .
His lips found hers. They pressed with an eager tenderness, and startled, Susannah pulled away. “No—”
The word came out a harsh whisper and she fought the nausea that squiggled into her throat. She was wild with fear until he released her, then she scrambled away from him.
With sad eyes, he studied her in the moonlight. “Who hurt
you
, Susannah? Who in the hell hurt
you
?”
She pressed shaky fingers to her lips, the fluttering memory of his touch still there, taunting her . . . haunting her. But she couldn’t give him an answer. And even if she could tell him
who
, she’d never be able to admit the rest of it. “Please.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Please. Just leave.”
She waited until he was gone, then she curled into a ball, unable to control the panic. He was a kind man. A compassionate man. But
He touched her arm. “Who are you afraid of, Susannah?”
She pulled free and looked toward the window. The trees moved against the moonlight, reaching upward like scrawny, bony fingers. Like Ma Walker’s. She shivered.
“Everyone has bad dreams now and then.” He stroked her arm gently. “By God, I know I do.”
She took a shuddering breath and realized she was going to cry. Deep, ragged sobs clenched her chest and forced their way into her throat. Covering her face with her hands, she wept.
His arms came around her, and she went, hungering for comfort, aching for someone to care. She leaned against him, her hands still covering her face, and continued to cry.
He stroked her hair, tentatively at first, then more boldly. “It’s all right, Susannah. Cry.”
His touch and the gruff purr of his voice soothed her. Not since she’d been a child had anyone comforted her so, and never a man. It was soothing . . . so different from anything she’d ever felt.
Pulling herself together, she stopped crying and drew away from the warmth of his chest. She felt odd, strangely skittish having him so close to her in the darkened room.
With his thumb, he wiped her cheek, the tender gesture causing Susannah’s heart to ache with the poverty of need and she almost cried again. But she didn’t. Instead, she took his hand in hers, anxious to touch it, feel its warmth and gentle strength. Anxious to know a man who didn’t use his hand to punish, but to soothe.
Pressing her hand with his fingers, he brought it to his face; she touched the rough stubble of his beard. A moment, an ugly memory, encroached, and she tried to pull away, but he held her hand flat against his cheek until she no longer fought him. Her fingers, cold and clammy from her dream, warmed against his flesh. He began moving her hand slowly over his face.
“I’m just a man, Susannah, I’m not a monster. I would never hurt you.” His breath caressed her fingers as he brought them to his lips.
She felt the tingle of his touch all the way to her elbow, but his words frightened her. She wanted to believe. But words, alone, weren’t enough; they never had been.
He guided her fingers to the high, hard ledge of his cheekbone, then higher, to his forehead where she traced the scar, his thick eyelashes tickling her palm. “Who hurt you?” she asked, her voice soft.
“I got it during the war,” he answered, continuing to hold her fingers.
He brought her palm to his mouth and planted a whispery kiss there, sending Susannah’s heart into her throat and her pulse racing. Again, she tried to pull away, and again, he stayed her hand, pulling her toward him.
His face came close to hers and her breath caught in her throat. When his lips grazed her forehead, she gasped, unable to believe any man could be so gentle. As he planted slow, light kisses on her cheeks, she stiffened, but tried to fight it. She wanted to enjoy it. She wanted to, but . . .
His lips found hers. They pressed with an eager tenderness, and startled, Susannah pulled away. “No—”
The word came out a harsh whisper and she fought the nausea that squiggled into her throat. She was wild with fear until he released her, then she scrambled away from him.
With sad eyes, he studied her in the moonlight. “Who hurt
you
, Susannah? Who in the hell hurt
you
?”
She pressed shaky fingers to her lips, the fluttering memory of his touch still there, taunting her . . . haunting her. But she couldn’t give him an answer. And even if she could tell him
who
, she’d never be able to admit the rest of it. “Please.” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Please. Just leave.”
She waited until he was gone, then she curled into a ball, unable to control the panic. He was a kind man. A compassionate man. But
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