Freedom's Price

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He led the paramedics—a man and a woman—inside, and he stood in the doorway, no longer needed, as they helped Marisala cut the cord and wrap the baby in a clean towel.

  Marisala came toward him then, exhausted and triumphant. Her new dress was stained. It was ruined, but she was smiling. Liam had never seen her look so radiant. “You were wonderful,” she said.

  “I was? God, you were. That was…it was…” He shook his head. Dear God, he was on the verge of breaking down and sobbing like a baby himself. He had to blink hard to keep back the tears that were welling in his eyes.

  “They’ve named him William,” she told him, blinking back her own tears. “After you.”

  Liam laughed—afraid if he didn’t do something he’d burst out crying. “Me? Why me?”

  Marisala took his hand. “Because if it wasn’t for your generosity, that little baby might’ve been born on the street. If it weren’t for you, he would’ve been born homeless.”

  Liam shook his head. “It wasn’t me. It was you. You brought them here. You gave them a place to stay and a way to save their pride. I did nothing.”

  She laughed. “Nothing? You’ve shown them respect and kindness. You treated them like human beings.”

  “I only followed your lead. They should name the baby after you.”

  Marisala touched his face. “They know where you’ve been,” she told him quietly. “They’ve already chosen to name their child after a man who is both kind and brave.”

  “I’ve done nothing,” Liam said again. “Even in prison—I simply endured.”

  The sound she made was somewhere between laughter and a sob. “But you did endure, and every day I thank God.”

  She turned away, wiping her eyes as the paramedics prepared to take both Inez and the baby to the hospital, to be checked by a doctor.

  Liam knew for a fact that he’d done nothing, except learn to hide. He’d done nothing, except forget that there were things in life that needed to be shouted about. He’d done nothing but try his best to stop living that life that had stretched out before him so pristine and filled with hope on the day he’d been born.

  He’d done nothing, because even though his body was free, he’d left his soul still locked in the darkness of that prison cell.

  Marisala heard the unmistakable sounds of Liam’s nightmare. A strangled cry, a flurry of motion, and then lights.

  All over the house, she heard him turn the lights on.

  The clock on her bedside table said it was 3:54.

  It had only been a little more than an hour since Hector had gone with Inez to the hospital. It had only been an hour since she’d fallen thankfully into bed and closed her eyes.

  She heard the sound of Liam on the stairs, heading back to his room, and she swung her legs out of bed. She crossed to her door, opening it wide.

  He saw the movement and turned to look at her. He looked exhausted, but she knew he wasn’t going to sleep anymore tonight.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said quietly.

  He was wearing only his boxer shorts, and despite the hum of the central air-conditioning, his body was slick with sweat, his hair damp and sticking to his face and neck.

  “You didn’t,” she lied. “I was awake—I couldn’t sleep.”

  He didn’t buy it for one second. “Yeah, right.”

  She came out into the hall. “Bad dream?”

  There was heat in his gaze that he tried to hide as he looked away from her. “Just go back to bed.”

  “I could do that,” she said. “Or…as long as we’re both awake, we could talk.”

  He sat down, right there on the stairs, as if his legs could no longer hold him up. “I’m not sure I know how to talk anymore.” He glanced up at her. “You know, about things that are important.”

  Marisala held her breath, amazed that he’d said even that much.

  He laughed, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded bitter. “I’ve become a pro at small talk, though. I don’t suppose you want to talk about the weather….”

  She sat down next to him. “What do you want to talk about?”

  He turned slightly to face her. “You’re good, aren’t you? I mean, in dealing with people. You have an excellent bedside manner.”

  Marisala wasn’t sure she understood. “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s good. I was thinking…it occurred to me tonight that you should go to medical school. You should be a doctor, Mara.”

  She laughed in surprise. “A doctor? Be serious.”

  He smiled back at her, and there was actually a trace of his old sparkle in his eyes. “I am. Dead serious, my friend. You’d be a fabulous doctor. You could specialize in obstetrics. You know, delivering babies. Helping create instead of destroy.”

  A doctor. She’d never considered that. But during the war she had spent as many hours tending the wounded in the hospitals as she’d spent on the front lines. “As a doctor in San Salustiano, I wouldn’t be able to just deliver babies,” she said, thinking aloud. Mother of God, was she actually considering this? “There’s a serious shortage of general practitioners.”

  He leaned forward, his eyes a blaze of blue intensity. “I’ll help you apply to medical school.”

  “I’d have to take classes for years.”

  “It’ll be very hard work, long hours…but I know you could do it, no sweat.”

  She looked up at him again. “Santiago won’t approve.”

  “I’ll talk to him. He’ll be fine. I promise.”

  Marisala believed him. If anyone could handle Santiago, it was Liam. Liam could charm anyone, he could handle any situation. Or so she’d once believed. “I’ll think about it.” She changed the subject abruptly. “So what were you dreaming about?”

  He was silent for a moment, just looking at her. The sparkle left his eyes and once again he looked almost ill with fatigue. He was silent for so long, she was certain he wasn’t going to answer. But then he did.

  “The baby,” he finally said. “I was dreaming about the baby.”

  Marisala frowned. “Inez and Hector’s?”

  “No.”

  Silence stretched on and on, until Marisala couldn’t stand it any longer. “Tell me,” she whispered. “Why won’t you tell me?”

  “Because it was terrible,” he said quietly, and she saw that there were tears in his eyes. “Because I keep hoping if I don’t talk about it, if I don’t think about it, maybe it’ll go away.”

  He sat in silence for a moment, his forehead resting in the palm of his hand, his elbow on his knee. When he looked up at her, his eyes were rimmed with red, but he still fought back his tears. Marisala wondered if he ever let himself cry.

  “It’s not working,” he finally admitted. “I haven’t forgotten any of it. It’s always back there, waiting for me to fall asleep. All those memories. They’re not just going to go away, are they?”

  She shook her head no.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  He reached for her, holding out his hand for hers, and she took it, lacing their fingers together. She had to fight her own tears as she held tightly to his hand, as she prayed he would reach out for her again, this time with words.

  One minute stretched into two, two into three, and still she waited.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

  “A pregnant woman was brought to the prison,” he told her. “I don’t know what she did, what she was being held for—she didn’t know herself. She was put in the cell next to mine. I didn’t know her that well—she was only there for a few days, but…”

  He stopped talking, and Marisala realized he was struggling to keep from crying. She wished he would just let go, that he would allow himself the emotional release. The Liam she’d known in the jungle all those years ago would’ve let himself cry. But this man had learned since then to keep everything inside. This man had learned to hide everything he felt—even from himself.

  “There was a vent that co
nnected our cells, it was barely an inch wide, but I could hear her, and she could hear me. We talked at night when the guards were asleep.

  “Then one day she was taken up top, and I was so afraid, because I knew they were going to beat her.” His voice broke. “How could they beat a pregnant woman?”

  He gripped her hand even tighter.

  “But they did. They whipped her. And when they threw her back into her cell, she told them she was injured. I heard her tell them that her labor had started, that she needed medical help, but the guards just laughed and locked the door. She gave birth to her baby alone in that cell. And then she died. She bled to death, Mara. God, they just let her die.”

  Liam let go of her hand and pulled her close, burying his face in her hair. He was crying. He was finally crying, but Marisala felt no satisfaction. Mother of God, maybe she had been wrong. Maybe it was better for him to try to forget all that he’d endured at the hands of the monsters who had imprisoned him.

  But his story wasn’t over. “She knew she was dying. She called to me to help her, to save the life of her baby. She begged me, but what could I do? I shouted myself hoarse, calling for the guards. I could do nothing—except listen to her die.”

  Marisala held him closer, weeping along with him, wishing she had the power to take away his pain.

  “And then,” he told her, “after she was dead, I heard the baby crying. For nearly eighteen hours I could hear her baby cry.”

  “I’m sorry,” Marisala said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “While I was listening to that baby cry, I thought that it was as bad as any of the tortures I’d endured. It was awful, Mara. But then…Then it got worse.” He had to take a breath. “Because then, the baby stopped crying. And then, I had to face that terrible silence.”

  He was quiet then, just holding on to her. Marisala was quiet too. There was nothing she could say.

  “How do I live with that?” Liam asked brokenly. “How do I live with that memory? With that—and all the others?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “I came home from that hell. I walked away, and I thought I was finally all right. I thought I could leave it all behind. But I can’t forget. I try, but I can’t.”

  Marisala could feel his scarred back beneath her fingers. She wanted nothing more than to help him, but she couldn’t. There was nothing she could do.

  Or was there? Maybe she could help him to forget—if only for just a little while.

  She turned her face toward him, feeling the rasp of his beard against her cheek. She brushed her lips across his, tasting the salt of his tears. She felt him pull back, but when she kissed him again, he didn’t move quite as far out of range.

  He did protest, though. “Mara, no—”

  She silenced him with another kiss, and with another, and another. And then, with a volcanic rush of need, he kissed her, claiming her mouth almost savagely, pulling her toward him.

  His hands slipped up and under the edge of her nightshirt as he crushed her to him, as he swept his tongue into her mouth, as he kissed her harder, deeper.

  She felt a flash of giddy disbelief. He wanted her. He was finally acknowledging that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  The sensation of his hands against her bare back was exquisite as he kissed her again and again, deep, dizzying kisses that consumed her and burned her to her very soul. She could feel his arousal and she straddled his lap, pressing herself against him, wishing for nothing between them—no T-shirt, no boxer shorts, and especially no doubts.

  She heard him groan as his hand cupped her breast, and she pulled slightly back and drew her shirt over her head in one swift motion.

  “Mara, we shouldn’t,” he protested, even as he touched her, even as he buried his face in the softness of her body, as he drew first one nipple and then the other into his mouth. The sensation was incredible, and Marisala cried out.

  This was what she had dreamed of for so long. Making love with Liam. There was no should or shouldn’t. There was only need. She shifted her hips, covering him more completely, feeling him strain against her.

  She was on fire and she saw answering flames in his eyes.

  “Come to my bed,” she whispered.

  He wanted to. She knew he did. He was touching her hair, running his fingers across her breasts and her back, tracing the outline of the tiny flame tattooed on her arm, filling his hands with her as if simply looking wasn’t enough.

  He met her gaze, and she could see him give in to his desire. He stood, picking her up with him, and started up the stairs.

  And then the telephone rang.

  The answering machine picked it up after only one ring, as it always did. Liam paused, and from down in the kitchen, they could hear the sound of his recorded voice, telling the caller to leave a message after the beep.

  “I am sorry to be calling so late at night—or early in the morning, depending on your perspective, I suppose.” Santiago. That was Santiago’s voice.

  Liam stiffened, and the look in his eyes was that of a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “God, how did he know?”

  “I wanted to call to tell you that I am all right,” Santiago continued. “You probably haven’t even heard the news, but there was a fire earlier tonight at the capitol building.”

  A fire. Marisala slid down from Liam’s arms. On her way down the stairs she grabbed her shirt and slipped it on.

  “President Estes was injured,” Santiago was saying as she hurried into the kitchen. “I, too, was taken to the hospital, but all I suffered was a little smoke inhalation. I didn’t want you to hear the reports and think I was in any danger.”

  Marisala picked up the phone. “Hello? Santiago?”

  “I’m sorry, Marisalita, did I wake you?”

  “No. I was…We were…” She turned to see Liam standing in the kitchen door, watching her, his expression wary, as if he expected her to tell her uncle exactly what they had been doing. What they had been about to do. What she hoped they would still do, after she got off the phone. “We were awake,” she said, turning away from Liam’s distracting blue eyes to give her uncle her full attention. “We were…talking. Are you really all right?”

  “I am.” She could hear relief in his voice. “Felipe Estes was also lucky. We’ve just had word he’s going to be all right.”

  “Who set the fire?” she asked fiercely. “Who was responsible for such a terrible thing?”

  Santiago laughed. “You’re not going to believe this after all the violence our country has been through, but the fire was the result of a power surge during an electrical storm.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Quite positive. I myself saw the lightning strike.”

  “Thank you so much for calling. If I’d heard the news on CNN without knowing—”

  “I know,” he said quietly. “Is Liam close at hand? May I speak to him?”

  “Yes, he’s…” But Liam was no longer standing in the doorway. “He was here. I’ll go get him—”

  “No, don’t trouble him. It’s late. No doubt you’ve worn him out with your…talking.”

  Was it her imagination or had he really put an infinitesimal and innuendo-loaded pause into that sentence? Marisala felt her cheeks heat with a blush. Did her uncle guess that the conversation she and Liam had been having had not been one with spoken words?

  She had to say something, so she blurted out the first words that came to mind. “Santiago, I’m considering going to medical school to become a doctor.”

  He was silent, but not for as long as she’d expected. “What does Liam have to say about that?”

  “It was his idea.”

  “Have him call me. We will talk when it’s not the middle of the night. Good-bye, Marisala.”

  As she hung up the phone she turned to see Liam standing once again in the doorway. But unlike before, he was now fully dressed. He’d put on his jeans, a polo shirt, and his sneakers, and he held his car keys
in his hand.

  Marisala couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping you’d gone upstairs to take your clothes off, not put more on.”

  “Mara, I can’t stay here tonight. If I do, you know what will happen. You know where this thing between us will go.”

  She held his gaze. “I for one would like very much to go there. I think I’ve made that absolutely clear.”

  Liam had to look away. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. He couldn’t believe he was about to walk out of his house instead of taking this beautiful, dynamic, sexy-as-sin woman up to his bed.

  “You have,” he said carefully, not sure what to say to make her understand. Their relationship was too precious for him to risk ruining it forever. Just because he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted any other woman in his life didn’t give him that right. “And if I didn’t care so much about our friendship, and about my friendship with Santiago—”

  A combative glint appeared in her eyes. “This is between us. Santiago has nothing to do with this.”

  “Santiago has everything to do with this. Santiago is the reason you’re here in Boston,” Liam countered.

  “I want to make love to you,” Marisala said. “There. I’ve finally said the words.” She crossed her arms in front of her, taking a deep breath. “I won’t tell Santiago if you don’t.”

  He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Mara, this isn’t some game—to tell or not tell. Okay. Forget about Santiago. Let’s pretend he hasn’t asked me to be your guardian. Let’s pretend you’re right and he has nothing to do with us. Still, this is about you and me. This will change everything between us—forever. If we sleep together, there’s no going back.”

  “Sleep together.” She rolled her eyes. “You’re hiding again, this time behind euphemisms. Sleep together—it sounds so safe, so antiseptic. But we’ve slept together in the same tent many times, and I know that’s not what you mean. You mean if we let ourselves give in to desire. You mean, if you dare to fill me with your passion, if we make hot, sweaty, raw, ecstasy-filled, pulse-pounding physical love—”