Remarried in Haste

by Sandra Field

  In a split second that was out of time thoughts tumbled through Brant’s brain. Rowan was watching him. Once again she’d see him opt for risk, for danger: the very trait in him that she abhorred. She’d forgiven him the episode with the bull. But would she forgive him one more time?

  He was risking all that he valued and longed to possess. Endangering his future with Rowan, the woman he loved enough to have bared his soul to her.

  He moved like greased lightning, and even then, from the corner of his eye, saw fear transfix Rowan to the pavement, her hands flying up in the air as though to ward off what she was about to witness. In silence and in utter desperation Brant threw words across the space that separated them: Forgive me, I’ve got to do this...I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.

  Then he lunged for the bright blue shirt, seeing a streak of yellow so close that in sheer terror he thought he was too late. Tires screeched. The stink of burning rubber filled his nostrils. He flung the little boy onto the grass, felt a glancing blow to his hip and struck the tarmac, from long practice protecting his head as he rolled into the ditch.

  Silence fell, an instant of eerie and total silence. For a moment, crazily, Brant wondered if he were dead, because all the breath seemed to have been driven from his chest. Then the child started to wail, the mother screamed her son’s name, the van door creaked open and footsteps raced toward him.

  Rowan fell on her knees beside him, her hands roaming his body with desperate haste, then cradling his head. “Brant—Brant, are you hurt?”

  He fought for air so he could answer her, the spiked grass rough against his cheek. More people had joined her and a police whistle was blowing with excruciating loudness right in his ear. As though the jolting his body had suffered had also jolted his brain, Brant felt his mind suddenly open to a moment of blazing insight. Intimacy, he thought. That’s the real danger, the one thing I’m afraid of. I have been for years, I was just too stupid to see it. It’s intimacy that I always run away from.

  It seemed truly ironic that—literally—he couldn’t find his voice to share this insight with the one woman who deserved to know about it. Pushing against the ground with his elbow, Brant sat up, his head spinning. Swiftly Rowan lowered his forehead to his knees, her hands clutching his shoulders, and he took the first painful heave of oxygen into his lungs.

  “The boy?” he gasped.

  “Screaming his head off and not a scratch on him.”

  A babble of voices was surrounding them. Through it Brant muttered, “Sorry...”

  “What do you mean?”

  He managed to look up. “I did it again. Went for risk.”

  Rowan, who in the last five minutes felt as though she’d lived through a lifetime, said unsteadily, “I thought you were going to be killed in front of my eyes. The policeman wants to know if you can stand up or should he send for an ambulance?”

  Brant had a horror of melodrama. “No ambulance,” he said, and with the policeman on one side and Rowan on the other, staggered to his feet.

  Rowan kept an arm around his waist, her eyes roving over him. He was swaying as if he were drunk, his face pale under his tan, his shirt smeared with grass stains and dirt. Wishing her heart would return to its proper place in her breast, she said with assumed calm, “How’s your hip?”

  He took a couple of experimental steps. “Nothing broken or sprained. For Pete’s sake let’s get out of here.”

  But first he had to endure the tearful thanks of the boy’s parents, the voluble apologies of the driver of the yellow van, and the official questions of the policeman. It seemed an age before Rowan was finally settling him in the passenger seat of a red sedan, their luggage loaded in the trunk. Brant told her how to get to the villa and leaned back in his seat. The roadway was spinning in his vision, so he closed his eyes. She said succinctly, “You don’t look so hot.”

  “Feel as though a whole herd of bulls has run over me. Rowan, I—”

  “We’re not going to talk about one single thing until we’re settled in the villa and you’ve soaked in. a hot bath for at least an hour,” she announced.

  “You sound like May.”

  “Be quiet, Brant.”

  Brant may not have been an expert on women, but he knew when to shut up. He drifted off into an uneasy doze, waking when Rowan turned down the driveway to Keith’s villa. With crisp efficiency she escorted him inside and, against his protests, carried in their luggage.

  The villa was nestled in a small cove; it had a red-tiled roof and white stucco walls, and was shaded by two tall African tulip trees. Trumpet vines and the pale blue flowers of plumbago clustered around the balcony, which opened onto a white sand beach and the jade green sea so typical of Antigua. The interior was cool, spotlessly clean and pleasantly furnished. As Rowan disappeared into the bathroom, Brant turned on the ceiling fan.

  His hip ached and he still felt unpleasantly dizzy; various sharp twinges marked the parts of his anatomy that had connected with the ditch. But these were minor ailments, he thought, compared to the way he felt inside. Scared didn’t begin to describe it.

  He found shaving gear and some clean clothes in his pack and heard the water turn off. Rowan called briskly, “It’s ready, Brant. I’ll be in the kitchen checking out the food situation.”

  She didn’t sound scared. She sounded as efficient and impersonal as if he were one of her clients, a conclusion that didn’t help one bit. Although the hot water felt wonderful, easing the tightness of his joints, Brant soaked for much less than the hour that she’d prescribed. Wearing only a pair of shorts, he went in search of her.

  The kitchen was empty. She was sitting on the balcony, staring out to sea, a bright red hibiscus tucked over one ear. “Rowan,” he said, “come here.” And wondered if she would.

  Without a word she got up and walked into his arms. As he pulled her to his body, she whispered, “Your heart sounds like you’ve just run a marathon.”

  “I’m running scared—that’s why.”

  Her head jerked up. “Scared? Of me?”

  “Of us. Whatever that two-letter word means.” Abruptly he let go of her, stationing himself with his back to the wall, his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “I had to rescue that little boy—are you upset because I opted for danger again?”

  “Oh, Brant—of course not! How could you live with yourself if you turned your back on children in danger, or little boys like Philippe whose fathers mistreat them? That’s utterly different from going off to Peru for two months at a time.” Rowan riffled her fingers through her disordered curls. “I was proud of you. Truly proud.”

  Some of the tightness in Brant’s chest eased itself. “I was afraid I’d blown it. For the umpteenth time.”

  “No way! Besides, even though no one ever rescued you, this morning you were able to save one particular little boy from a terrible accident...because of you, he’s alive and well. You could do a lot worse in this world.”

  His throat tight, Brant mumbled, “I hadn’t thought of that.” Looking straight at her, he spoke the simple truth. “You’re my rescue, Rowan. Only and always you.”

  Rowan was rarely speechless; but for once, Brant saw that she was bereft of words. Without finesse he added, “I want to go to bed with you. Now.”

  Her grin was as lopsided as the hibiscus in her hair. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You still want me?”

  “Why on earth wouldn’t I?”

  “After all I told you about my father...after the way I’ve behaved for so many years.”

  “Brant,” Rowan said, taking him by the hands, “of course I want you. Don’t you see? You’re becoming just the kind of hero I’ve always wanted.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re hauling your feelings out of the closet to the light of day. You’re letting me see you’re less than perfect. That you’re vulnerable. Don’t you think that takes courage? Plus I’m finally starting to understand what’s driven you all those years.”
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  “I’ve got another confession to make,” Brant said roughly. “All along the real danger’s been intimacy—I figured that out while I was lying half-stunned on the grass and you were holding my head in your lap. Don’t ask why it took me so long—some of us are slow learners, I guess. But intimacy’s the one thing I’ve always run from.”

  Rowan’s eyes were suddenly swimming in tears. “Little wonder, given your father.”

  “So I haven’t given up a life of risk, after all.” He traced the softness of her lips with his finger, smiling at her. “Not if I’m going to live with you.”

  She was laughing through her tears. “And you have to ask if I still want you? You come with me and I’ll show you how much I want you.” Taking him by the hand, she led the way into the bedroom, where she pulled back the sea-green coverlet. Then she stood still, looking flustered and suddenly at a loss. “I didn’t bring any sexy nightgowns. Didn’t think I’d need them.”

  “You don’t,” Brant said. “Cotton sheets on the bed, though.”

  “White ones at that.”

  “Boring.”

  “Let’s see what we can do to liven them up,” said Rowan with a charmingly shy smile.

  “Good idea,” Brant replied, and took a deep breath. “If it’s okay with you, we’ll skip the protection.”

  This time two tears dripped from Rowan’s lashes to run down her cheeks. “Oh, yes,” she said fervently, “that’s all right with me. Brant, I do love you so much.”

  Brant reached out for her just as she fell forward into his arms. “I love you, too,” he muttered. “Oh, God, how I love you. It’ll take me until I’m a grouchy old guy of a hundred and nine to tell you how much I love you.”

  “I don’t want to wait that long,” Rowan said pertly. “So you could show me. Right now.” As she began unbuttoning the top of her shirt, the hibiscus tumbled from her ear onto the white cotton sheets. Brant picked it up, and when she had bared her breasts, he let the tissue-thin scarlet petals brush her flesh, his eyes holding hers captive.

  In a low voice Rowan said, “Make love to me, Brant.”

  “Now and forever, I’ll make love to you,” he said, and with all the skills of his body and imagination, and with all the love in his heart, set out to do just that.

  EPILOGUE

  FIVE weeks later, as the first wave of warblers arrived at Point Pelee, Brant and Rowan were remarried in Toronto.

  Rowan wore a simple linen suit with her rowanberry earrings, and carried a rather motley bouquet of orange and yellow lilies that made Brant laugh, so typical was it of his tempestuous and beautiful Rowan. Steve, Natalie, Peg and May were among the small group of friends and relatives who’d gathered for the ceremony. To his great pleasure his former boss had flown in from New York; he’d brought with him an offer from a well-known publisher for a compilation of Brant’s best essays. Adding to that pleasure, Gabrielle was in attendance, as well. When she and Rowan had met the night before, they’d liked each other immediately.

  The sun was shining. Brant felt extraordinarily happy. This time as he repeated the simply worded vows he understood something of their complexities and their demands, as well as their incredible rewards; and this time he knew he’d keep them.

  At the end of the ceremony he kissed Rowan with all his fealty to her naked in his face, and heard Peg give a gratified sigh from the nearest pew. Afterward, as they drank champagne, he said to the two sisters, “I’m enormously flattered that you’re here and not out at Point Pelee glued to your binoculars.”

  “We have a hired car picking us up after the reception,” Peg said primly.

  “We wouldn’t have missed your wedding for the world,” May added.

  “Not even for a Bachman’s warbler,” Peg said.

  Rowan twined her fingers with her husband’s. “That, dearest Brant, in case you didn’t know it, is North America’s rarest warbler. We should indeed be flattered.”

  “Great party,” Natalie put in, rubbing her hip against Steve’s. She was wearing a fuchsia pink dress; Steve was having trouble looking anywhere but at her cleavage.

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “Kind of a rehearsal for us, eh, Nat?”

  “By the way,” Rowan said, “I’m afraid I won’t be leading the trip to Trinidad and Tobago at the end of December—the one you’ve all signed up for.”

  “You won’t?” May said in disappointment.

  “Why ever not?” asked Peg.

  Rowan smiled up at Brant. “I suppose the wedding reception isn’t exactly the time to make this announcement—but by then I’ll be eight and a half months pregnant.”

  “We just found out last week,” Brant added, putting his arm around her shoulders and feeling her body curve into his. “So we’ve bought a house in the country—we don’t want our children growing up in the city.”

  There was a flurry of congratulations. Then Peg said, “Of course you shouldn’t go to Trinidad. Not with the baby due.”

  “Absolutely not,” May said.

  “There’s no danger of that happening,” Brant said. “She’ll be here with me.”

  “The three of us,” Rowan chimed in. “Home together.”

  ISBN : 978-1-4592-5194-6

  REMARRIED IN HASTE

  First North American Publication 1999.

  Copyright © 1998 by Sandra Field.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any etectronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone beanng the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books SA.

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