by Loree Lough
His stern expression told her that she did have to retire at eleven.
“But…but I like to watch the eleven o’clock report on Channel Two before I turn in,” she protested. “Besides, it isn’t like I’ll be doing anything to wear me out. Staying up late won’t hurt me.”
Unconsciously he ruffled Chester’s thick coat, frowning as he turned her words over in his mind. “I hate TV news—nothing but a serving of pap for the feel-good generation, if you ask me. So…”
“I didn’t ask you,” she interrupted, grinning.
He held up a hand, and she’d giggled.
“How ’bout we make it an every-other-night thing,” he had continued. “Tonight, the news. Tomorrow, bed at eleven.”
She hadn’t heard anything but bed. The word echoed in her mind. She hadn’t shared anything with him—not conversation or a meal, their home, certainly not a bed—in seven long months. Did he really expect her to pick right up where they’d left off, as if he’d been away on some fun-filled, weekend fishing trip with the guys? Didn’t he understand that during nearly every moment of their separation, she had reviewed thousands of scenarios that would explain his lengthy absence—shootings, stabbings, beatings, kidnappings—horrible, torturous images.
She blinked those images away. “There’s no reason for you to cart me upstairs every night, then back down in the morning.” Consciously, deliberately, she phrased it as a statement of fact.
“You can’t get a decent night’s sleep with a metal bar diggin’ into the small of your back,” Mitch pointed out. “You’ll sleep upstairs on a real mattress or—”
“I’ll be fine, right here on the couch.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, lifted his chin a notch. Mitch was not smiling when he said, “We can compromise on TV or not TV, but this subject isn’t open for negotiation.” He paused thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose I ought to give you some say in the matter….”
She should have waited a tick in time to display her victorious smile.
“You have two choices—sleep upstairs or stay upstairs. It’s entirely up to you.”
His stern expression, his cross-armed stance, his no-nonsense voice made it clear she would not win this battle, and yet Ciara couldn’t help thinking what a wonderful father he’d be if he disciplined their children with the same gentle-yet-firm attitude. She got so wrapped up in the concept that she didn’t give a thought to the fact that if she gave in on this point, they’d be sleeping together every night, like any other married couple.
And they were nothing like other married couples….
Chester looked back and forth between them and whimpered, reminding her of how helpless and afraid she’d felt when her parents argued.
“You’d really leave me up there,” she asked breathily, “all alone, all day?”
“I’d much rather have you down here, where you can keep me company, but we’ll do it that way if we have to.”
And so the deal was struck.
Ciara snuggled beneath the crisp top sheet, remembering the way he’d carried her up the stairs that first night. Her heart had drummed and her stomach had clenched. After all those nights alone, clutching her pillow…and pretending it was him…what would it be like, she’d wondered, lying beside the real thing?
Chester, who had become Mitch’s four-legged, shaggy shadow, had tagged along and flopped in a graceless heap on Ciara’s side of the bed. Almost immediately he’d rested his chin on his paws and fell asleep.
If only I could get comfortable that easily! she’d thought as Mitch tucked her in and turned out the light. It had been a dark night, without so much as a moon sliver to brighten the room, and for those first few seconds, Ciara blinked into the blackness, listening….
Silence.
Had he decided to sleep downstairs? Had he made up the guest bedroom for himself?
By then her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she’d seen his shadow pass in front of the window. Almost immediately, he’d been swallowed up by the blackness, and she’d strained her ears. First, the sound of heavy footfalls, padding across the carpeted floor, then a muffled clunk as his belted trousers had landed on the upholstered bedside chair. The mattress dipped under his weight, the sheet billowed upward, like a plaid parachute and settled slowly over them.
Then he’d rolled onto his side and slid his arms around her. “G’night,” Mitch had whispered, kissing her temple. “Sweet dreams.” He’d tucked a hand under his cheek, rested the other on her tummy. “G’night, li’l sweetie,” he’d added.
More silence.
Then the unmistakable, comforting sound of his soft snores.
Ciara didn’t know how long she’d lain there, snuggled against him, but listening to his steady, deep breaths had relaxed her, lulled her. Before she’d known it, the bright light of morning had beckoned her.
The morning after his return, Ciara had at first thought she’d been dreaming again, that he wouldn’t be there when she opened her eyes, and then she’d seen him there, flat on his back, gentle breaths counting the seconds. One hand had rested on his slowly heaving chest, big fingers splayed like a pianist’s. The other, he’d tucked under his neck. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and the shadow of a night’s growth of whiskers dusted his cheeks and chin. She had needed to use the bathroom, but he’d looked so peaceful—like an innocent boy, without a care in the world—that she hadn’t wanted to wake him.
Instead, she’d tucked the misplaced curl into place. His thick black lashes had fluttered in response to her touch. He’d focused on the ceiling and frowned, as though trying to remember where he was. A tiny smile lifted the corners of his mouth, and he’d slowly turned to face her.
“G’mornin’,” he’d said, the bass of his sleepy voice guttural and growly. He’d worked his arms around her. “Sleep well?”
Ciara had tucked her face into the crook of his neck. “Like a log,” she’d answered. “And you?”
“Terrific.” And as if to prove it, Mitch had yawned deeply. He climbed out of bed and thumped groggily around to her side, and carried her into the bathroom. “I’m going to go down and start the coffee,” he’d explained. “I’ll only be a minute, so don’t you move from there, you hear?”
“I hear,” she’d agreed as he closed the door.
Almost immediately, she’d noticed the milky white bottle in the wicker waste basket. “Homme Jusqu’au Dernier,” she said, reading the label aloud. Mitch had never worn that brand before he’d left…. Ciara couldn’t reach it without getting up, so she didn’t know if she liked his new cologne. She would ask him about it when he came back for her.
The clatter of cabinet doors and canister lids, and the sound of running water had blotted the question from her mind. And true to his word, he was in their room in minutes, opening and closing drawers and doors, his big bare feet thudding as he crossed from closet to dresser and back again.
One sleeve of his white T-shirt had rolled up, and the legs of his boxers had wrinkled during the night; his dark waves were tousled, his cheeks sheet wrinkled when he burst into the bathroom. “Finished?”
The little-boy, rumpled look had been so appealing that Ciara had been forced to look away to diminish the passion stirring deep inside her. She mumbled a polite “Yes, thanks,” and just like that, he’d lifted her into his arms and sat her on the edge of the bed.
On his knees, he’d gently gripped her wrists, held them above her head and slid her nightgown off. The nothing-but-business expression warmed as he focused on her naked stomach. Lifting his gaze to hers, he’d smiled tenderly, blinking and shaking his head slightly. He’d broken the intense eye contact, looked at her broadened waistline again and stroked its roundness.
The heat of his hands, pressing against her taut skin, sent eddies of desire coursing through her. “You’re beautiful,” he’d rasped, kissing every inch of her stomach, “so very beautiful.”
And then his eyes—dusky chocolaty eyes that blaze
d with need and yearning—had met hers. It seemed to Ciara that he hadn’t wanted her to read his mind and discover the longing there; why else would he have slowly, slowly dropped the densely lashed lids?
No, she’d thought, almost sadly, don’t shut me out. She’d placed a palm on each whiskered cheek, thumbs massaging the tight muscles of his jaw. She’d been stunned when he opened his eyes again, to see the thin sheen of tears glistening there. “I’m so sorry, Ciara,” he’d husked. “I should have been here, right from the beginning.”
His arms had slid around her, his ear cleaving to her midsection. “Can you ever forgive me?”
There had been moments, while he’d been gone, when Ciara had said she despised him. It would have been easier, accepting his absence, if only she could hate him. But try as she might, the words had never rung true. On the day they’d met, she’d fallen in love with his silly jokes and his opinionated politics and his bighearted nature. Standing at the altar of God, she’d vowed to love him for better or for worse, and no matter how many miles and months separated them, her last words on this earth would likely be “Oh, how I loved him!”
She had felt the dampness between his skin and hers that morning, as Mitch had nestled his face against their unborn child. Any anger she had felt for him was swallowed up by his heartfelt tears. Every maternal instinct inside her had risen up, and she’d held him near, fingers gently raking through his plush chestnut curls.
One day soon, she would ask him about the assignment that had put time and space between them. But for those few moments, it hadn’t mattered where he’d gone, or why. He had come home, had come back to her.
He had sniffed, and shaken his head, then sat back on his heels to gather up the clothes he’d set out for her. He’d given the big white T-shirt—one of his own—two hearty flaps, and slipped it carefully over her head. She picked up the brush that had been hidden under the shirt. Mitch had held out his hand, and she’d handed it to him and, standing, he’d run the boar bristles through her hair, one hundred strokes; she’d counted them. “Shines like the sun,” he’d said, then he’d lifted her in his arms and carried her downstairs.
Though he’d daubed a light kiss upon her cheek each time he brought a cup of coffee, a plate of cookies, Mitch had not repeated any part of that lovely scene since…despite the countless hours she’d spent wishing and hoping that he would. Was it something hormonal, induced by her condition, she’d wondered, that made her ache for the intimacy of his touch? And why had he stoically withheld it?
They’d been back together for four days now, and Ciara decided the best way to divert her attention was to focus on the burning questions—where he’d been, what he’d been doing—that had plagued her while he’d been gone. When the time was right—and she’d have to trust God to tell her when that moment arrived—she would ask Mitch about the assignment. Had he wanted to take it, or had it been foisted upon him? The answer would make all the difference in the world….
Now as Ciara watched him folding towels as he sat on the foot of the sofa bed, grinning as Chester wrestled with a Lambchops doll, she said, “Mitch, let me help. Folding clothes is hardly strenuous activity, and I feel so useless.”
He looked at her and said, “Since I’m the one sitting here doing it, I know for a fact that the job requires the use of stomach muscles. You’re not doing anything that puts any strain on that baby.” Smoothing the washcloth he’d just doubled, he added it to the neat, colorful stack. “Got it?”
She flopped back against the pillows he’d stuffed behind her. “Got it,” she droned.
He reached for the laundry basket. “When I’m finished putting this stuff away, I’ll—”
Changing positions, Ciara winced slightly.
“What…?” He leaped up so fast, he nearly toppled his tower of towels. “What’s wrong?” His big hands gripped her upper arms. “Are you in pain?”
“Goodness gracious sakes alive, Mitch,” she said, frowning slightly, “my back is a little stiff from all this inactivity. It was a muscle cramp, that’s all.” Shaking her head, Ciara rolled her eyes and punched the mattress. “I hate being completely helpless. It makes me feel so…so.”
He stood for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, then heaved a deep sigh. “You scared me half to death.” He stuffed the linens into a wicker laundry basket and grinned. “Mrs. Mahoney,” Mitch said, rubbing his palms together, “get ready for the best back rub of your life.”
She grinned. “I’ve never had a back rub, ‘best’ or otherwise.”
Mitch’s brows rose. “Never?”
Ciara shook her head. “Never.”
“Never say never. Now, roll over, Beethoven.”
She wouldn’t have admitted it—not until she knew he loved her as much as she loved him—but having him near was like a dream come true. Ciara did as she was told. Hiding her face in the pillow, she closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip to gird herself. Those moments in their room, when he’d so lovingly held their unborn child, haunted her. He hadn’t left her side, had taken such good care of her, all without a word of complaint. She had worried in the hospital that he might not want this child; what had motivated his loving ministrations…love for the baby, love for her, or both? Until she knew, Ciara could not admit how much his physical presence meant to her.
He lay down behind her, hiked up the oversize T-shirt and ran his palms over her skin, paying particular attention to the small of her back. His fingers slid up, kneaded her neck and shoulders, then moved down to rub her biceps.
Ciara relaxed her grip on the pillow, as unconscious sighs slipped from her lips. Her mind was wandering in a half awake, half asleep state, floating, soaring, surrounded by yards of satin under a sky full of puffy clouds when Mitch leaned forward and brushed her ear with his lips. “I love you,” he whispered. And lowering his dark head to hers, he kissed her cheek, softly, then more urgently as moved down the side of her neck.
He pressed so close, that not even the barest wisp of a breeze could have passed between their bodies. She was his, and he was hers, and at the moment nothing mattered except her fierce love for him. She trembled as his fingers played in her hair, shivered as his palms skimmed the bared flesh of her back, tingled as his lips nibbled at her earlobe.
He climbed over her then, putting them face-to-face, and placed his palms upon her cheeks. Raw need glittered in his eyes as he held her gaze, analyzing her expression, studying her reaction. She blinked, feeling light-headed, and hoped he wouldn’t read the passion smoldering inside her.
“I love you,” he said again, a tinge of wonder in his voice.
She looked away, shifted restlessly, but the look of helpless uncertainty on his face wasn’t that easily forgotten. He loved her. He loved her! Ciara ignored the voice inside her that warned her to be still, to be silent. It was surprisingly easy to admit the truth, once the words started tumbling out: “Oh, Mitch, I’ve missed you so.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, drove her fingers through his thick curls. She kissed his cheeks, his chin, his eyelids, punctuated each with a heartfelt “I love you.”
He cupped her chin in his large palm, his eyes scanning her face, as if to read her thoughts. “Do you?” he asked. “Do you really?”
She didn’t understand the pensive darkness in his eyes. Ciara held his face in her hands. “You know I do.”
“Just me? Only me?” he asked through clenched teeth.
He’d been so confident in her love before he’d gone away. What had he seen or heard or experienced to shake his trust in that love? Till now, she’d been struggling with her own emotions, trying to hold on to some semblance of pride. None of that mattered now. Ciara wanted nothing but to comfort and assure him, to restore his faith in her. She put everything she had into it, every happy memory, every heartache, every nightmare, every dream she’d had while he was gone. Would she have gone through all that if she hadn’t loved him? “I love you, Mitch Mahoney. Only you, and no one
but you.”
He closed his eyes and heaved a great sigh. She hadn’t thought it possible for him to gather her closer, but he did. The rhythmic thumping of his heart lulled her, soothed her and quieted the child within her.
He was smiling slightly when she tilted her face up to his. His dark eyes burned fervently into hers for a silent moment. His kiss caused a small gasp of pleasure to escape her lips. Her blood surged, her pulse pounded. “Mitch,” she rasped. “Oh, Mitch…” She loved him hopelessly, helplessly, blindly; the most powerful emotion she’d ever experienced. Heart and mind and soul throbbed with devotion as she pressed her pregnant body against his. He belonged to her and she to him, and this baby was theirs. “Mitch,” she sighed, “I wish…”
“Shhh,” he said, a fabric softener-scented finger over her lips. His fingers combed the hair back from her face, and he looked deeply into her eyes. What was that expression on his beautiful face? Fear? Regret?
And then she knew: Guilt.
Mitch felt guilty for having left her alone. No doubt he blamed himself for the complications of her pregnancy, as well. Hadn’t Dr. Peterson explained it to him? Hadn’t he told Mitch that her condition had been there, right from the moment of conception?
Something told her this was a situation she must handle carefully, delicately, or his ego could be forever damaged. Ciara would not do to Mitch what her mother had done to her father. She would not subject him to a lifetime of misery for not having done everything her way. Somehow she had to find a way to let him know there were no hard feelings, nothing to forgive, everything to forget.
Ciara snuggled close, closer, until his lightly whiskered cheek bristled against her throat. They lay that way for a long time, Mitch stroking her back, Ciara running her fingers through his dark waves as his warm breaths fanned her. Finally she felt him relax. There’s no time like the present to tell him he has nothing to feel guilty about, not now, not ever again. Ciara wriggled slightly, shifting her position so that she could meet his eyes.
She had to hold her breath in order to stifle the giggle…because she didn’t want to wake him.
