horrible as he realized what they were—cigarette burns.
All at once, he thrust himself away from her. She heard his feet thudding on the carpet, heard the bathroom door open and close with a bang that shook the house. She pulled her robe back on, covering her shame, and huddled there weeping. Of course he would despise her now. How could he help it? He knew what she had allowed Ellis to do to her. He knew she was weak and ineffectual and useless as a woman, as a human being. The good effects of more than two years of counseling faded away. She wanted to die right there, but it came at her in waves as she curled into a fetal position and stopped trying to fight it. Marc had seen. And he left her.
Marc felt ill. Sharon had been physically as well as emotionally abused! He remembered her saying that her divorce had meant the end of pain. And he thought she meant unhappiness. Oh, Lord, how could she ever have trusted a man to come near her again? How had she ever managed to trust him? He groaned as he pounded his fists on the edge of the sink, fighting against the anguish that tore into him.
He loved her! He wanted to make a future with her, but she had been abused, scarred inside and out, injured by the man she loved! Of all the men for her to turn to, it should never have been him. Once she knew the truth, the trust would die. And when it did, that tiny, glowing brightness he had sensed still lived inside her somewhere wouldn’t burst into flames of love for him as he had been praying it would.
What he should do was get his clothes on, leave her house, get into his camper, and drive away. But where could he go? He wasn’t ready to go home. He had been so sure that he had found the place for him, the place where he could make a new life, be truly happy again.
But not without Sharon. He knew that now. Without her, he would never be happy no matter where he went.
He heard the door open and looked up, staring at the ghostlike little figure that came through. Her face stark white between the black brackets of her hair. She held his clothing in one arm.
In a tiny, frightened voice, she said, “I brought your things. Good-bye, Marc. I’m … sorry.”
He stared at her, his mouth in a hard, set line. “Why?” he croaked. “Why the hell did he do that to you?”
His fist hammered on the edge of the basin again, and she recognized the muffled sound that had made her hesitate outside the bathroom door for so long. The violence of it terrified her even further, and she backed up, out the door. He followed her, as she cowered away from him, her gaze never leaving his face. “No,” she whispered. “Please don’t be mad at me. I won’t let it happen again. I didn’t mean to upset you. I—” She gasped as his hands clamped down on her shoulders.
At once, he let her go, lifting a gentle hand to touch her cheek, shoving her hair back. He remembered how she had had the same haunted, stricken look on her face outside his camper on Christmas Eve. He’d been confused by that diffidence following each little spurt of entirely forgivable temper, but now he thought he understood it.
“Sharon.” He swallowed as he lifted her face and looked into her terror-filled eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me. Please, ma chérie , no fear. I will not ’urt you. You haven’t upset me. I was upset by what I saw ’ad been done to you, but I’m not angry wit’ you. How could I be? You are too precious ever to be harmed in any way.”
His quiet voice was calming, and his accent more pronounced. Oddly, that helped the fear begin to abate, as if some part of her knew that he was speaking from the heart, not taking care with his pronunciation as he usually did. But she still eyed him warily, still kept her back pressed into the corner in case the sight of it set him off again.
It was, he thought, as if she didn’t fully trust him not to turn on her in the next instant. He felt sick to his stomach, knowing his fury at what had been done
All at once, he thrust himself away from her. She heard his feet thudding on the carpet, heard the bathroom door open and close with a bang that shook the house. She pulled her robe back on, covering her shame, and huddled there weeping. Of course he would despise her now. How could he help it? He knew what she had allowed Ellis to do to her. He knew she was weak and ineffectual and useless as a woman, as a human being. The good effects of more than two years of counseling faded away. She wanted to die right there, but it came at her in waves as she curled into a fetal position and stopped trying to fight it. Marc had seen. And he left her.
Marc felt ill. Sharon had been physically as well as emotionally abused! He remembered her saying that her divorce had meant the end of pain. And he thought she meant unhappiness. Oh, Lord, how could she ever have trusted a man to come near her again? How had she ever managed to trust him? He groaned as he pounded his fists on the edge of the sink, fighting against the anguish that tore into him.
He loved her! He wanted to make a future with her, but she had been abused, scarred inside and out, injured by the man she loved! Of all the men for her to turn to, it should never have been him. Once she knew the truth, the trust would die. And when it did, that tiny, glowing brightness he had sensed still lived inside her somewhere wouldn’t burst into flames of love for him as he had been praying it would.
What he should do was get his clothes on, leave her house, get into his camper, and drive away. But where could he go? He wasn’t ready to go home. He had been so sure that he had found the place for him, the place where he could make a new life, be truly happy again.
But not without Sharon. He knew that now. Without her, he would never be happy no matter where he went.
He heard the door open and looked up, staring at the ghostlike little figure that came through. Her face stark white between the black brackets of her hair. She held his clothing in one arm.
In a tiny, frightened voice, she said, “I brought your things. Good-bye, Marc. I’m … sorry.”
He stared at her, his mouth in a hard, set line. “Why?” he croaked. “Why the hell did he do that to you?”
His fist hammered on the edge of the basin again, and she recognized the muffled sound that had made her hesitate outside the bathroom door for so long. The violence of it terrified her even further, and she backed up, out the door. He followed her, as she cowered away from him, her gaze never leaving his face. “No,” she whispered. “Please don’t be mad at me. I won’t let it happen again. I didn’t mean to upset you. I—” She gasped as his hands clamped down on her shoulders.
At once, he let her go, lifting a gentle hand to touch her cheek, shoving her hair back. He remembered how she had had the same haunted, stricken look on her face outside his camper on Christmas Eve. He’d been confused by that diffidence following each little spurt of entirely forgivable temper, but now he thought he understood it.
“Sharon.” He swallowed as he lifted her face and looked into her terror-filled eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me. Please, ma chérie , no fear. I will not ’urt you. You haven’t upset me. I was upset by what I saw ’ad been done to you, but I’m not angry wit’ you. How could I be? You are too precious ever to be harmed in any way.”
His quiet voice was calming, and his accent more pronounced. Oddly, that helped the fear begin to abate, as if some part of her knew that he was speaking from the heart, not taking care with his pronunciation as he usually did. But she still eyed him warily, still kept her back pressed into the corner in case the sight of it set him off again.
It was, he thought, as if she didn’t fully trust him not to turn on her in the next instant. He felt sick to his stomach, knowing his fury at what had been done
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