Hearts Made Whole (15 page)

If he'd slept an hour longer that afternoon, he wouldn't have known she was trapped in the cellar. Like everyone else, he wouldn't have heard her shouts. He would have searched the woods and town, yet he probably wouldn't have thought to look in this cellar. He tried to ignore the nagging voice inside that told him he shouldn't have been sleeping at all.

Even so, as the blackness and coldness had slithered under the crack in the door and crept toward them, his head had begun to fog and pound simultaneously. The realization began to sink
in that he wouldn't be able to take his pain medicine or drink his whiskey and that he was in for a long night.

She shivered. He was tempted to pull her onto his lap and wrap both of his arms around her and shield her like a blanket. But he had the feeling if he did that, she'd scramble to the other side of the cellar.

Aye, she'd let him hold her hand from time to time throughout the evening. But from her shyness each time he'd done so, he knew he needed to refrain from pulling her onto his lap. Instead he slipped his uninjured arm behind her back and positioned her in the crook of his arm, drawing her body against his. “To keep you warm,” he explained.

It took several moments before her body settled in and relaxed against his. Her body was thin and graceful and fit perfectly next to him. She was warm and soft, and he couldn't resist leaning his face into her hair. She had it tied into her usual knot at the back of her head, but it had loosened and the silkiness beckoned him.

Strands tickled his nose and jaw, and he had the sudden urge to unpin the knot and let her hair cascade down around her shoulders. Sucking in a final breath of her, he tilted his head back and rested it against the dirt wall, putting a safe distance between his wayward thoughts and the beautiful woman in his arms.

The top of her head brushed against his chin, taunting him with the need to press a kiss there. But he held himself in place.

He had the feeling it was going to be a long night in more ways than one.

Another blast of pain ripped through his head. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out at the intensity of it. He held himself rigid until the ache dissipated.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Though he couldn't see her face in the darkness, he could tell she'd leaned back and was trying to view him more clearly. He didn't want to admit his pain to her . . . not yet.

“I'm okay,” he replied, praying that his suffering wouldn't get much worse as the night wore on.

“I'm here for you too, you know.”

Her words told him that she probably knew more about how he felt than she was letting on.

He nodded, and for a long moment they sat silently listening to the wind howl through the cracks of the door.

“Sitting in this cellar brings back memories,” he said.

“Of the war?”

“Nay. Of my childhood in Ireland.”

Dark memories rose up from the graveyard of bygone days. He'd been young and thankfully didn't remember much of that torturous time of starvation, but there were certain events that came back to haunt him, no matter how hard he tried to forget.

Caroline didn't probe, one of the many things he appreciated about her. She waited patiently for him to speak and never pushed him if he didn't. While he was tempted to bury the memory of the time he and his sister had hidden in a cellar, he forced the words out.

“We were starving,” he began, “and so whenever we came across a cellar, we searched it for anything edible. Dad always went in ahead of us to make sure it was safe.”

It had been a rainy night, similar to the one they were experiencing now. He and Emma had shivered in the cold outside, drenched and weary, waiting for their dad's call for them to come in behind him. Ryan had prayed they'd be able to find
shelter and warmth for a few hours. And he'd hoped for a few greens or roots that had been overlooked by other scavengers.

“As Emma and I waited,” he continued, swallowing the bitterness that came every time he thought of that dark night, “I heard protests and then pained cries. I thought maybe someone was hurting Dad, so I stuck my head inside the cellar, even though Dad had told us to wait for him outside.”

He dragged in a sharp breath. “There was a family inside. A couple of boys and their mam.”

Caroline touched his arm. Her fingers spread over his tense muscles.

“The mam was almost dead,” he whispered. “And the boys were close to death too. But they'd started a small fire and were roasting a red squirrel.”

He swallowed again, and Caroline rubbed his arm, the touch giving him strength to finish. “Dad took the squirrel. And when the oldest boy protested, he hit him. The blow wasn't very hard, but because the boy was so weak, I have no doubt it killed him.”

Ryan had wanted to call out and stop his father, but he'd stood back and done nothing. He should have protested. He should have demanded that his dad return the squirrel. But instead he'd turned a blind eye and devoured the tiny bit of greasy meat, too hungry to care about anything else.

He hung his head, the weight of his sins crushing him, pain reverberating through his head straight to his heart.

“I should have done something,” he whispered harshly, hating himself for his weakness.

“You were just a child,” Caroline said, running her hand down his arm again. “You were starving. You didn't know.”

“But I did know!” His voice rose in anger. “I could have yelled
at my comrades. I could have gotten off my horse. I could have warned the boy.”

His mind flashed with the pale face of the boy sprawled on the ground, the blood trickling from the gash in his skull. The lifeless eyes stared up at him, accusing him as they always did.

“I should have done something to stop them from ransacking the house.”

“Your comrades? The house?”

Sharp knives lanced his temples, blinding him with pain. A moan slipped out. Somehow his mind had jumped from his childhood sins to the present haunting ones.

Caroline's hand rose to his cheek, her fingers cool against his skin. “You don't have to say any more.”

He shook his head. He had to tell her the truth about the weak excuse for a man he really was. She wouldn't be so kind to him once she knew. But at least she'd understand why he despised himself.

“The spring was hard that year,” he said. “Food supplies trickled into our camp slower than a winter thaw. So our officers formed groups to go out and commandeer food from the locals. I didn't want to go. But I decided maybe I could encourage my group to forage in the unplanted farm fields. I knew how to do it. I'd done it often enough in Ireland.”

The pounding in his head grew louder with each passing moment, yet he pressed on. “The first farm we came to, several of the men dismounted, but instead of going to the barn or the fields, they went straight to the house and made the family come out.”

The starless night had been illuminated by a half-moon. Though it hadn't been much light, it'd been enough for him to see the way his buddies had started roughing up the young woman who had answered the door in her nightgown.

“I shouted at them to get the food so that we could be on our way. When they entered the house, I expected them to return in a few minutes with food, but for some reason they'd decide to ransack the place. They smashed in windows, broke furniture, and ripped apart bedding.”

The darkness of the cellar seeped into Ryan. For a moment he was back at that house, seeing the look of fear and shock in the faces of that poor, fatherless family standing in the scant moonlight as their home was destroyed before their eyes.

“A young boy of about ten stepped forward.” Ryan had to squeeze the words out. “He waved his ancient hunting rifle and yelled at my buddies to stop. I could see his anger, could taste his hatred. And I didn't blame him. He edged forward until he was blocking the door. I wanted to call out to him to stay out of the way, to stick by his mam . . .”

Caroline's hand cupped his cheek.

He'd known what was about to happen. His gut had warned him.

“One of the soldiers came forward to confiscate the gun. The boy yelled at him to stop, to go away, to leave them all alone.”

Ryan could see the mother lurch forward, only to be held back by one of her daughters. The mother had seen the disaster coming too. And she'd glanced his way, her frantic eyes pleading with him to stop the maddening scene unfolding before them.

His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “But I didn't do anything. Not even when I heard the boy click the hammer in place.”

Caroline didn't say anything, but neither did she move away from him in horror as he'd expected.

“He didn't have the chance to aim. He took a bullet in the head and was dead the second he hit the ground.”

One of his comrades had fired the deadly blow. Even if the
shot had been to protect one of their own, Ryan knew it had been a needless death, especially because he could have jumped down and done something, anything to put a stop to the raid. Instead he'd turned away again, unable to watch as the mother had rushed to the dead boy's side. Her anguished sobs filled the night air.

An apology had stuck in Ryan's throat and it had lodged there ever since. He knew it would stick there until he returned to that farm in Virginia and paid them back for all the damage. The payment would never be enough to compensate for the loss of their son. But he had to do something, no matter how small.

“That's why I need the keeper job. So I can go back to that farm and pay for the damage.”

Caroline's fingers on his cheek were motionless. Was she too disappointed in him to respond? He exhaled a frustrated sigh.

She quickly reached around with her other hand so that she was kneeling next to him and cupping both of his cheeks. “You'll earn it,” she whispered. “And you'll repay them.”

“But don't you see? I stood back and did nothing. Both times.” His heart wrenched almost as painfully as his head at the knowledge that he should have done more. He could have been braver. But because he wasn't, he was no better than an accomplice to murder.

“You didn't mean for anything to happen,” she said firmly. “You didn't want it to.”

“I could have done something,” he insisted. His chest and eyes stung, and his throat ached from the pressure of so many unshed tears.

He could feel her rise higher, her hands splayed against his
cheeks. “Maybe you could have done something, but maybe it wouldn't have made any difference. You can't blame yourself anymore.”

Her admonishment was like a cool dipper of water on the hot battlefield. He'd shouldered his guilt for so long that he was weary of hanging on to it. And telling someone else seemed to lift the burden, even if only slightly.

“So now you see what kind of man I really am,” he said. “I'm surprised that you don't despise me.”

“I see that you're an honorable man.” She was close enough that the warmth of her breath tickled his face. “A man of integrity and compassion.”

He was tempted to reach both of his arms around her and pull her down against him. She was so near, so vibrant, so comforting. She was everything he needed. And although she knew his deepest secrets and scars, she hadn't reviled him. She'd accepted him anyway.

He didn't deserve her kindness. “You're too nice to me, Caroline,” he said, starting to lean away, knowing he wasn't worthy of her.

But she didn't let go of his cheeks. Instead her breath came nearer, hovering above his mouth.

The pain in his head dulled to a distant ache, and his muscles tensed. He wanted to kiss her, but he'd promised her that he wouldn't without asking her first. And how could he ask her now?

Before he could think of a solution, her lips dipped in and brushed his, tentatively. The touch was achingly soft and only fanned the frenzied fire racing through him. He held himself back, letting her take the initiative.

The fact that she wanted anything to do with him after his
confession amazed him. But that she wanted to kiss him? It was like a shot of healing tonic coursing through his veins.

She'd barely touched his lips before she retreated a fraction and her breath came in a gasp, as if she'd surprised even herself with her boldness.

He didn't move. He willed himself to be patient. To wait for her to kiss him again, this time more thoroughly.

For a long agonizing moment she lingered just out of reach, her breath coming in soft bursts against his mouth, taunting him, tempting him to close the distance. Then finally she moved in again, touched her lips to his but with more force.

The pressure was all the permission he needed to respond. He tilted his head so that he could meld their mouths, taking her completely, without reservation.

She met his passion with a strength of her own, responding to him with lips parted and eager.

He didn't want the kiss to end. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and pull her down on top of him. It would be so easy to tug her body against his. They were alone in the dark, and he could go on kissing her all night . . . if he let himself.

But warning bells clanged at the back of his mind, the admonition to stop now. That kissing her here alone was just asking for trouble. Already he risked sullying her reputation once everyone discovered they'd spent the night together in the cellar. If he hoped to salvage her character and modesty, he would need to do so with a clean conscience.

With a groan he dragged his mouth away from hers.

“I'm so sorry.” Her breath came in heavy gasps, and she let go of his cheeks. “Did I hurt you?”

His body cried out with the need to capture her and press his lips to hers again. Instead he took a wavering breath and told
her, “I'm definitely facing a long night.” Very long if that kiss was any indication of the passion that was possible between them.