Craving Beauty Page 8

  For that she could forgive him his secrets, give him the time he needed to learn to trust her. Like these children, his guard would only drop when he was certain of her, when he was convinced that she was his...body and soul. Where that certainty came from, she didn't know.

  "Huh?"

  She dragged her mind away from Marc. "It is a story of my homeland, of a princess who was also a dragon. I will tell you this if you show me how to make apple pie."

  It took a few more minutes of tantalizing bits from the story, but she soon had them hooked. One boy swept the floor clean, and then they showed her how to make apple pie. Brian fell asleep in her arms sometime during the story. Damian offered to take him from her.

  "No, I wish to hold him." She smiled at him, thanking him for his concern. "He's so very light, I worry."

  "He's sick a lot. I think he misses Becky."

  "Becky?"

  "His twin. When their ma and pa died, they put Brian here and Becky in some girls orphanage," Damian explained.

  "But that is wrong! In Zulheil, it's said that two who are born together are each other's heart. They are not to be torn apart." No wonder the boy was so frail.

  "Marc's doing something to help him."

  Hira thought to ask her husband about this later. For the moment she'd enjoy the children's honest company, and try not to think about the depths of tenderness this place revealed about the dark and moody man she'd married and was only now beginning to know.

  *

  Marc returned with Larry and Jake, carrying six containers of ice cream. What the boys didn't eat today would be savored later. He expected to find the kitchen in chaos, his princess overwhelmed by these tough kids who'd known more hurt than humanly bearable and yet had survived.

  When he'd realized that she was following him, he'd let his temper drive him into a situation that could mean terrible pain for those who least deserved it. Furious at her lack of trust in him, he'd reacted without thought, a strange experience for a man known in business circles as having a will of iron and a heart of ice.

  He hoped he hadn't damaged the boys' trust in him by leaving them with a woman who could destroy with one scathing comment. To her credit, she'd never disparaged either his scars or his background as a dirt-grubbing child, but even after he'd loved her this morning, her eyes had looked at him with such distance that he'd felt taunted into trying to tame her.

  He'd wanted to rub off some of that aloof sophistication and find out if there really was a living, breathing woman beneath the ice. He didn't want her to be only a beautiful shell who could shut off her emotions as easily as she'd shut him out of her bedroom last night. But, a part of him whispered, she hadn't locked the door. And he'd taken full advantage of that lapse.

  "Let's hope for the best," he muttered to himself, shouldering through the swinging door.

  He walked into a kitchen filled with laughter. Little Brian was fast asleep in his wife's arms, and tall and shy Beau was blushing but trying to tease her about something. The other children were gathered around her.

  She had flour on her nose and elbows. There was a streak of dirt on her designer yellow dress from Brian's shoe, and handprints on her skirts from other little hands. She'd begun the afternoon with her hair pinned on top of her head, but Brian had pulled strands loose. She looked disheveled and messy, and her face was full of such joy that his heart stopped for a minute. Lord, she was beautiful when she was all prettied up; messy and with a child in her arms, she was devastating.

  Painful tenderness cramped his heart. His hands froze around the bags he held. This was no ice princess. Despite all the times her facade had cracked, how had he failed to spot the truth about his wife?

  "What's so funny?" One of his ice cream helpers asked.

  Damian looked over. "Hira's been telling us stories."

  "Oh, man! We missed it," Larry grumbled.

  "Don't worry, I'll tell more."

  Marc couldn't believe the way she had them all in the palm of her hand. As the late afternoon progressed into evening, he expected her to wilt under the emotional demands of the attention-starved boys, but she seemed to glow. Much later, after dinner and the supervised completion of various pieces of homework, they sat down to watch the first hour of a video, a midweek treat the boys only got for good behavior.

  However, it quickly became clear that they weren't enjoying it. Despite the nonchalance they tried to portray, they were very worried about Brian. Once again he'd barely eaten anything. After settling the boys down, Hira went into the kitchen and made something with milk, sugar and the other ingredients she'd asked him to buy. Cuddling Brian into her lap on her return, she lifted a spoonful of the mixture to his mouth, her other arm holding him carefully.

  "Come, laeha, you must eat this. I have made it just for you," she coaxed, her voice holding the exotic music of a faraway land of desert and sunshine.

  The sad-faced little boy opened his mouth and let her feed him a spoonful. His eyes widened. When a second spoonful was raised, he made no protest. Carefully, while the other boys ostensibly watched their movie, she managed to get a whole bowl of the rich mixture into Brian.

  Drowsy after eating, he snuggled into her body and fell asleep again, his thumb in his mouth. The habit had developed after the traumatic separation from his twin.

  Marc took the bowl and spoon from his wife, his chest tight with pride. "Thank you."

  Worried eyes met his. "He is too small."

  "I know, cher," he whispered. "I'm trying to find his sister." He touched her hair once and then walked into the kitchen, finding that she'd made more of the sweet treat than had been needed for Brian. Deciding the rest of the boys would like a taste, he took out small servings. "Here, extra dessert thanks to my wife."

  Soon, sighs of repletion sounded around the room. When he looked to see how Hira was taking this, he found her fast asleep, Brian's head cushioned on her breasts. In sleep, his princess looked as guileless as the child lying trustingly against her body. If he only knew which face--the sophisticate or the innocent--was her true self, he might have a way to understand the woman he'd married.

  *

  Hira woke when Marc took Brian from her. "We are leaving?" she asked, rubbing at her eyes.

  He nodded. "The others have gone to bed. They said good-night and come back soon." His eyes looked at her with a gentleness she couldn't understand.

  While he carried the sleeping boy upstairs, she went to the kitchen to tidy up, only to find it sparkling clean. Smiling, she located the shoes she'd kicked off, and stepped into them. When she went to say goodbye to the elder, it was to find the study disappointingly empty.

  A big hand came to rest on her hip. "Father Thomas didn't want to disturb you when he went to bed."

  She turned to look up at her husband, feeling drowsy and happily tired. "He is a nice man."

  Marc pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was so far from his usual passion, so tender that she just stared.

  He chuckled at her dazed expression. "You are not driving home. I've moved your car to the parking lot behind the orphanage. We'll get it later."

  Nodding, she let him lead her out to his truck.

  The drive home went quickly because she was exhausted. The next time she woke, it was to find Marc carrying her up the stairs to their bedroom. When she blinked and pushed at his shoulders, amused gray eyes looked down at her.

  "Did I sleep?"

  His grin was bright in the warm light of the small lamps he'd apparently switched on, on his way up. "You dozed off against my shoulder, just like Brian did on you."

  She yawned and then, without thinking about it, snuggled her face against his neck and went back to sleep. She was vaguely aware of him undressing her and laying her down on their bed. He didn't put her nightgown on her, but she'd expected that. But, though he slipped in naked beside her, he didn't do more than hold her tight.

  "Sleep, princess." A kiss on the pulse in her neck.

  He was cuddling h
er, she thought, smiling into dreams that were soft and pleasant. It was nice to be cuddled by an American hunter who was pleased with you.

  *

  The next day Hira went in search of her husband, feeling confident enough to ask him for something that was important to her. Unless she'd imagined his tenderness of the night before, Marc had changed his mind about her. Her heart bloomed with joy. Perhaps, after seeing her with the children, he no longer thought of her as a spoiled "princess" but a woman with a heart.

  Once more she found him the backyard, chopping wood. But this time a slow, seductive smile eased her passage to him. "Good morning." His eyes ran down her demure mint-green top and skirt, made in the way of her homeland. There was definite male approval in his gaze.

  "Good morning." She felt herself blush with sudden shyness. "Why do you chop wood when a fire does not appear to be required in this area?" she asked, trying to ground herself with mundane matters.

  His eyes seemed to brighten. "I prefer it to lifting weights. I give the wood away to the people who need it." His eyes flicked toward the bayou.

  "Oh. I understand." Her husband was a man with a big heart, she thought, trying to stop twisting her hands in front of her. "I wish to ask you for something."

  He slammed the ax into the tree stump and faced her, hands on hips. The ridged musculature of his abdomen held her spellbound for an instant. She knew exactly what those muscles felt like under her hands. "Shoot."

  Alarm rocketed through her. Did he think she was a violent woman? "Why would I want to?"

  She could tell he was biting back a smile. "I didn't mean literally, princess. It's a figure of speech. It means, go ahead, speak what's on your mind."

  "You Americans are very strange." She looked down at the ground rather than the magnificent expanse of her husband's chest. "I wish to pursue some studies."

  "You want to take some classes? Pottery or something to occupy your time? That's fine with me."

  She told herself she'd imagined the patronizing tone of his voice. Surely, after everything, he didn't still see her as a pretty toy? "I wish to study management theory and economics. There are classes in those subjects taught at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette.

  "And since this is my new home, I thought I would also take advantage of the Center for Louisiana Studies and learn about Acadian culture."

  Her husband's bark of laughter had her jerking her head up. "Sure, princess."

  "Why are you laughing?" She couldn't bear to be laughed at, especially by this man who was so smart and loyal to the people whom he'd taken under his wing.

  His smile faded. "You expect me to take that request seriously?" He shoved a hand through his hair. "Honey, I know you're intelligent. I said I'd never stop you learning and I won't, but to be honest, I don't think you're up to the rigors of intensive study. You were raised to be a pampered wife, not an academic."

  She should have been glad that he wouldn't stand in the way of her dreams. Instead she found she wanted not only his permission but also his support. "I'm more than just smart. I'm determined," she insisted. "These things come to me naturally. I helped my older brother many times when he was stuck, but we didn't tell our father for he would've punished Fariz for asking my help."

  "Look, I said it's fine. Send the bills to me."

  He was already turning away from her, dismissing her. Rage choked her throat, blinded her vision, as years and years of being ground under a male's boot took its toll.

  A small hand pushed at Marc's chest, forcing his attention back to the woman in front of him. He expected to find her in a feminine sulk because he hadn't immediately supported her sudden desire to study seriously. If she'd wanted it that much, she could've pursued it in Zulheil, which had a world-class university and no restrictions on the entry of female students. There were also any number of scholarships she could've applied for if her family hadn't wanted to finance her.

  He didn't see what he'd expected. Hira was standing there, her hands clenched at her sides. Fury vibrated through her entire body. She was like a high-tension wire strung as taut as it could possibly be and not snap.

  "You are a...horrible man! You hurt me and do not even care to say sorry!" Pure anger sparked in those stunning eyes. "You don't care to get to know me. I'm just some toy to you, like o-one of those windup things that children play with.

  "Look," she said, imitating the voice of an infomercial presenter, her face strained white, "push this button and pretty little Hira will shatter from the pleasure of your touch, then touch this lever and she'll return to her place as a stupid, polished toy with no more brains than a vegetable!"

  He was frozen. This wasn't the calm, composed princess he was used to seeing. This woman looked as if her heart had broken, and she spoke to him with bluntness that sent him reeling.

  Seven

  His wife turned on her heel and stumbled. Reaching out, he grabbed the backs of her arms, stunned to find fine tremors shaking her entire body.

  "Let me go. Let me go," she repeated softly. "Just...let me go." Her voice hitched as she lost the battle with her tears.

  Deep inside, where nothing was supposed to reach, a lost part of him found its way to the light. "Don't cry, Hira. Please, don't cry." He pulled her trembling body back against his chest, his chin on her hair, his arms around her waist. "I'm sorry. Hush, cher. Hush." Emotion brought the boy who'd roamed the bayou back to the surface.

  She sniffed, keeping her back to his chest. "What do you always call me? Is it a bad word?"

  He found himself smiling. "No. It's an endearment." One that he found himself saying more and more, when he'd never been a man who threw the word around, charming women and breaking hearts.

  "Why are you being nice?"

  The question rocked him. "Am I not nice to you?"

  "No." Bluntness again. "You treat me like...What is the word that Damian used yesterday to Larry?" She raised her hands and he could tell she was furiously wiping her eyes. "Yes, you treat me as if I am a nitwit." She sounded very proud at remembering that derogatory term.

  "You send me shopping so I'll be out of your way while you do real work, and you get your secretary to make me appointments at these beauty salons where I'm so bored I complete all the crossword puzzles in every one of their silly magazines."

  He winced because she was right. He'd asked his secretary to arrange outings for her so that he could work in peace and quiet at home. The strange thing was, he'd found himself missing her. When she was home, he tended to go searching for her. That realization made him take a hard look at his actions. Was that why he'd sent her out? So he could pretend he wasn't falling for her?

  "You have my most humble apologies if you think I treated you like a nitwit." He turned her in his arms and she came, though the face that looked up at him was defiant. "I don't think that of you."

  She narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps."

  There would be no easy acceptance of his apology from this woman. Marc found he didn't mind. He didn't want a wife who hid her emotions the way Hira's mother did to placate her husband. "What can I do to make it up to you?"

  He knew that if he didn't fix things now, his wife would sublimate her pain and anger just like Amira, and he'd lose a piece of her. Tomorrow she'd be gracious and forgiving, and all the while she'd be living her own life in her thoughts and dreams, a life that he'd never again be invited to share. He didn't want that. He wanted all of her--spirit and soul, passion and heart.

  "Nothing." She squared her shoulders. "I need nothing from you, husband."

  His temper ignited, overwhelming the remorse. He was suddenly furiously angry at the way she refused to give him any rights over her, as if he weren't good enough. As if he should beg for her attention. She was treating him like another beautiful woman had a lifetime ago, and he'd had enough, more than enough.

  "Except my money, you mean," he taunted. "If I wasn't keeping you in the style to which you're accustomed, you'd be out on the street."

&
nbsp; This time there were no tears. Hira's face paled under that golden skin and then she whispered, "And you say you are nice to me? I'm alone and without family in this land. You know I have no one and so you can say these things."

  His gut roiled, the burst of anger buried under an avalanche of self-hatred. "Hira..."

  She kept talking. "I thought, maybe, you were a good man but you are just like my father."

  He bristled. "I'm nothing like that tyrant."

  "My mother always had to beg him for money." She damned him with those exotic eyes. "Oh, she was given expensive clothes and jewels. Father made sure they were delivered to her like clockwork. We had to keep up the--what is the word--yes, image.... We had to keep up the image of the rich merchant."

  Marc just stood there, letting her talk in that soft voice that was so unlike the vivid woman he'd come to know, feeling more and more despicable with every word she spoke. Until he'd married, he hadn't known he had such a volatile temper. No one else had ever made him angry enough to be cruel.

  "But she had to ask him for every cent if she ever needed spending money or money to buy her children gifts, or even to go out to have lunch with a friend. Because of their uniqueness, she couldn't sell the jewels without destroying the reputation of the family, so she was dependant on him." Her eyes were distant and pain filled, as if she were reliving the humiliation her mother had gone through day after day.

  "He'd sit in his study chair like a pasha and have her stand there like a supplicant, with no rights. He'd make her beg for money as if it was not her entitlement as his wife, who worked so hard to make his life agreeable. As if she hadn't borne him three children, even though she was a fragile woman whom the doctors had advised to stop with only one." Sadness filled every word, ripping at his heart. "And yet he made her beg. Even the lowliest servant was ensured of his weekly wages but not my mother of her income." Her chest was heaving, the only sign of the anger she'd subsumed so well.

  "Okay," he said. He'd never been a man who ran from the harsh reality of his own flaws.

  "I don't understand." Her eyes remained wary, the haunted shade of a wild creature who'd been captured and was waiting for the pain to begin.