“Goddammit, talk to me!” Kit grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up to her knees, forcing her to face him.
She sucked in a breath. Her burn ached from the pressure of kneeling, but its throbbing was nothing compared to the crushing hurt inside her heart. She crossed her arms, hiding her breasts, and twisted in his grip. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever touch me!”
“What the hell is the matter with you?”
She was angry, she hurt, and she was ashamed because she’d given the gift of her body to a man who didn’t love her. And worst of all, she hadn’t done one thing to stop it. She stared at the clothes, her clothes, scattered nearby, and then looked down at the white, bloodstained drawers and stockings that still covered her.
“I just let it happen.” she whispered aloud.
Kit let go of her and shrugged into his shirt. He watched her and then ran an impatient hand through his hair. “We’re married.”
“No. You don’t understand.” Hallie kept shaking her head, as if by doing so she could erase what had happened.
“Look, Hallie, this is part of marriage. A man and a woman can’t live as closely as we will,” he gestured to the room, “without some sort of physical bond. We’re married and there is nothing either of us can do about it.As husband and wife, we sleep together.”
“I don’t want you.” She lifted her head and looked at him. “I don’t want you to touch me.” She began to cry. “This is your fault!”
“What?”
“I didn’t crawl into your bed drunk. I didn’t want you there then, or now!”
Kit crammed his shirttails into his pants and buttoned them. In two long, angry strides he reached the dresser where only hours earlier he had returned his personal belongings. He jerked a drawer out of the dresser and dumped its contents into his valise.
Numb and teary, Hallie watched him. “What are you doing?”
He shoved the last drawer closed, grabbed the valise, and turned around. “Giving you your wish. I promise I won’t crawl into bed with you again, Mrs. Howland.”
Without another word, Kit grabbed his coat and walked out the door, leaving Hallie alone, just as she had asked.
18
At first Kit thought it was the tight pain in his neck that woke him up. He was wrong. Something was stroking his chest. Still half asleep, he stirred under the covers. The stroking stopped. He sighed and was almost back to sleep when the petting began again, very lightly, first one long brushing stroke and then another. He willed his heavy lids open and stared at Liv’s cat.
Kit groaned and flung an arm over his eyes. “Damn cat,” he muttered before he forgot himself and began to scratch the cat’s ears distractedly. The cat settled her hefty self onto his chest and began to purr.
He lifted his arm and squinted at the cat. “What day is this?”
She turned her furry black head to the side so he could get the right spot.
“Right. It’s Thursday,” Kit answered. “Ten days... I should say nights. For ten nights I’ve been contorting myself to sleep on this”—he looked at his bare feet, propped on the carved arm of the sofa—”bed of torture, while everybody else sleeps in a bed—in my own house,” he muttered.
The cat opened one eye.
“Now I ask you, is that fair?”
Kit’s fingers rubbed her ear, and she shook her head, nudging slightly at his hand.
“Good. I’m glad someone is on my side.” He moved, and then winced at the sharp pain racing up his neck. “Damn women...”
The cat meowed, as if in protest.
“Sorry. Cat.At least you want me touching you.”
The clock in the hall chimed six times, and Kit knew he’d better get up if he wanted to shave and wash up in peace. Soon Maddie and Hallie would be in the kitchen, making breakfast and doing their best to ignore or irritate him.
“You know, cat, I don’t think those two have, together, spoken ten words to me since the wedding. Hell, Maddie still hasn’t stopped glaring at me, and Hallie—” Kit stopped. Conflicting emotions shot through him like those old marbles.
He felt guilt when he wanted to feel anger. He wanted to blame her for everything that had happened, but he couldn’t. He could only blame himself. He didn’t want a wife, but he’d married her and then made her his wife, physically, painfully. What a mess he’d made of it.He was a living, breathing, dichotomous fool who had better damn well decide what he wanted. He got up and placed the cat in the heap of warm covers. Naked, and rubbing his sore neck, he walked to the gun cupboard in the corner and opened the door, eyeing the stack of underwear and trousers that sat on his Colt case. He pulled out a clean pair of drawers and striped trousers and stepped into them. He took a towel off a rifle hook, slung it over a shoulder and opened the ammunition drawer to gather his shaving paraphernalia and toothbrush, then padded barefooted into the kitchen.
