“Rachel.”
She raised her hand. “As you said, I have given this much thought. While the path is not set in stone, I do believe the congealing of our relationship to be the best defense against his future threats.”
“Future threats?” Robert pushed himself up. “Rachel, what issue he held of my courting you should be a moot point.”
“Due to the fact you were the intended from my birth?”
“For the most part, yes.”
“Yet he is unable to control you, and I begin to believe that was your primary role.” He furrowed his brow, the reaction inviting Rachel’s regard. “Or were you to control me?”
“It matters little to me one way or the other,” he objected. “I decided long ago to allow each of us to follow the path God designed.”
“Indeed, interfering with his control of you and, thereby, his control of me.”
The muscle at his jaw twitched as he continued to glower down at her. “Your future with me is not yet decided, Rachel, and I refuse to be—”
“What future is not decided? I have chosen you as my fiancé, accepted you as my betrothed, and now seek to finalize you as my husband. What else is needed to solidify the future of our relationship?”
I want you to love me. The statement begged to be voiced. Yes, she respected his business mind and admired his character. She even seemed to desire his physical attention. All pointed toward a growing fondness beyond friendship. But was such enough for a lasting marriage? No. Their friendship was a foundation, to be sure, but not the end all and be all. He still remembered, with painful clarity, her reaction to his voicing of love.
He looked away, shifting in the seat to face forward as he gripped his knees. “Your future is open, Rachel,” he insisted, his voice suspiciously well controlled. “Do not bind yourself to me with such reckless abandon in order to spite your father.”
“Do not think my only motivation for a union is to spite my father. My future is open, as you say, thanks to your tenacity in protecting that status. Now I seek to entrench us against his powerful arm of law and wealth. A protection for you that is well earned.”
“I want you to love me, Rachel, not protect me.” Silence fell much like a sheet of iron around them, the clack-a-clack of the train bursting within his head. He risked a glance and found himself caught fast by the jade depths of her eyes.
“I understand this is the end you desire,” she admitted, and her tone was uncharacteristically soft. “Does what I offer fall so short of your desire for ‘love’ as to be… an insult to your character?”
Internal conflict roared to life as he held her gaze. He knew that an offering of protection must be difficult for her. Such an extreme showing of trust and connection! Yet the temptation to push back was intense, if only because he wanted her heart not her protection. He desired a connection with her soul, not only her mind. He wanted Rachel.
“Is it impossible to accept?” she queried again, still in that velvet tone. “Must you have all or nothing?”
Robert lifted a hand to cradle her face, his thumb trailing a caress across her cheek. “It is no insult, Angel, only short of what I desire.”
“This angel cannot soar so high with such broken wings, sir.”
“They are not so broken as you believe, Rachel.” He leaned forward to place a kiss upon her forehead. “They are bound with a delicate string.”
“They fray, Robert,” she whispered. She drew him close, and her frenzied gaze sought his. “The strings fray at your gentle touch, but… I am afraid!”
He smiled at the confession, cupping her face in his hands. “Of what are you afraid, Angel.” Rachel’s eyes glittered and glimmered, unfaltering in their regard of him. The intensity of her examination thudded his heart in his chest at what it could mean. Lord, could she…? He drew close, caressing her lips with his. “Tell me, Rachel,” he pressed, gruff and tender. “Of what are you afraid.”
Her arms entwined themselves around his neck and the depth of her response sabotaged any logic or reason. Then she drew a whispered breath away, her lips still teasing his with their closeness as she whispered, “I am afraid the depth of my regard for you has well-surpassed the love you desire.”
Robert’s eyes snapped open, drinking in the heated passion within her gaze with eagerness and relief. “Say it, Rachel. Say those words.”
Her lips blossomed into a heady smile. “My heart and love is yours, Robert Trent.”
~~~
Hank opened his eyes at the muted sound of the front door being opened and then closed. Moments later muffled steps traveled down the hall toward his office. He pushed himself up, cringing at the pain in his chest. It was almost constant of late.
The door opened to reveal Rachel, and his breath caught again at the striking resemblance to her mother. She knocked before stepping further within, her posture and expression exuding assurance and confidence.
“May I have a word with you, Father?”
He beckoned her forward, motioning to one of the wingback chairs across from his desk. “I did not expect your return so soon.”
“Explanations came sooner than expected.” Rachel lowered herself into the chair with an air of reluctance. “Confrontations became unnecessary.”
Yet the fact she did not enter the room spouting curses and denouncements of the rogue Robert Trent did nothing to assure him of the proper explanations. The jackanapes is determined to best me!
“Mr. Trent sends his regard.”
Hank met her blank gaze in silent consideration for a long moment before risking a question. “You spoke with Barnard Trent?”
“I did.”
The pain in Hank’s chest returned, and he only just restrained a clutch. Instead, he gripped the arm of his chair with white-knuckled intensity. “Then you know the plot and plan of the jackass that courts you?”
“I know he is the son of your friend. I know that he was my refused intended. I know that he has caused you and his own father frustration with his desire to act outside your plot….” Rachel lowered her gaze to the action of removing her traveling gloves. “Yes, I know.”
Hank shifted his focus beyond her to the still open door. There was no figure standing in the doorway, and no shadow to hint of anyone waiting in the hall.
“No, he is not here, Father.”
The statement retrieved his attention back from the wary suspicion of a pending scheme. Rachel set aside her gloves with a slow and deliberate action, straightening each finger of each glove before lifting her gaze to meet his. The shadow around her eyes grew more prominent as the silence extended.
“Now that I know he was my intended and have not refused him a second time,” she began, “will you cease your attacks against me?”
“Attacks?” Hank scoffed, a hand rising to rub at his chest before he could stop the action. “I attempted to protect you from your own quest for separation.”
“I see.” Rachel once more addressed the issue of straightening the gloves as they lay across her lap. “So you will continue to ‘protect’ me in such a way? Though each action presses me forward at a faster pace?” She did not look up.
Hank pressed his lips into a thin line, his attention drawn by the incessant rubbing of his hand against his chest. He fisted his hand and lowered it to his side. “I do not know.”
Rachel lifted her gaze. “Then you do not deny that you have attacked each decision I have made?”
“They-were-not-attacks!” he insisted, his fist reverberating against his desk with each rise in volume. “Blast, Rachel, why do you believe each contrary view is a personal assault? It’s the way of life!”
“It is,” she agreed.
Hank glowered at her, the calm of her voice and her unwavering gaze tweaking his temper. Such an extreme transformation to a gentle soul continued to plague him with doubt. Yes, she would be a success, but at what cost? “My intention was not for you to believe I assaulted your independence.”
“Regardless, Fath
er, your continued disagreeable nature has invited distrust of each view you take. If you had but communicated with me openly, as a partner, perhaps I would have taken a different stance.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “Do you not trust me enough for even that?”
His chest tightened, spots of yellow and green and purple dancing at the corner of his vision. “Rachel, it is not you that I distrust.”
“Then why do you continue to question my decisions regarding Robert Trent?” she pressed. “He claims to love me, and I do not find his actions to be contrary to that declaration. Nor does his character cause me suspicion. He is an upstanding gentleman who will do right by me, our family, and the future of my legacy.”
Hank pressed his lips into a thin white line, his heart pounding with such agitation that he found it difficult to breathe. “He is rebellious to a fault, Rachel,” he reminded, his face reddening, “and that doesn’t elicit my trust—Gah!” A sharp pain triggered a wince as he grabbed at his chest.
Rachel stood. “Is something amiss, Father? Do you require Oliver?”
A haze began to encroach at the corners of his vision as he nodded. The last thing he saw was Rachel glancing over her shoulder as she hurried from the room, and then all faded to black.
Eighteen
Daddy’s Girl
Rachel’s eyes did not focus on the stationary at the writing desk in her mother’s room. The pen toppled from her clasp, the clatter upon the hardwood desk causing a twitch. She pushed away from the desk, her mind lacking any subject for contemplation, leaving her numb and distant.
Dr. Sherrill McEwen remained upstairs with her father, his arrival some four hours ago being rushed and filled with intense and fearful silence. No communication passed through the door of her father’s room since. Even Maggie hadn’t stepped forth to offer any type of half-hearted reassurance.
She raised a trembling hand to her forehead, the other fisted at her side. At a sudden warm and welcome pressure upon her shoulders, her skin tingled.
“Any word?” Robert asked.
Rachel shook her head.
He knelt beside her. “It is not your fault.”
She nodded an outward acknowledgment, yet her heart and mind would not accept the statement. The emotional and mental trauma she brought with her rebellion—
“Rachel.” Robert enfolded her fist in his hands and began a gentle succession of strokes, urging her fist to release and relax. “Rachel, come with me,” he said as he stood.
He led her through the still silence of the house to the private garden behind, his thumb continuing its rhythmic stroke of the back of her hand. Rachel walked along beside him with a sense of heightened reluctance, certain that he would, again, offer an insight to the situation that would accept her accountability while not passing judgment.
An unnerving talent.
“You and your father have an interesting relationship,” he said after several quiet minutes. The caress of her hand did not alter in its pattern. “You fight his wishes with such vehemence… and then suffer guilt for that.”
Rachel cast Robert a sidelong glance. “Do you goad me now with your observations?”
“Goad? No.” His focus didn’t shift from the path ahead of them. “I seek to understand a complex aspect of your life: that of your relationship with your father.”
“Even I do not understand that aspect, Robert. It seems I have conflicting motivations for my actions and—” She pressed her rose lips into a thin line.
“As does he. Your father pushes his expectations hard upon you. He has done so since your childhood, I imagine, though your mother served as a buffer then.” This time Robert sent a glance. She didn’t meet it. “But I have seen a conflict in his expressions when he regards you and believes no one watches.”
Had she seen the same when talking with him just before his episode? Had it not been simply her imagination?
“Rachel, did you talk with him as I suggested on the train?”
“No.”
“No?”
His press elicited a frown, but it did not draw her gaze. “I was not able to complete the conversation before he….” To her surprise, her voice trailed and the threat of tears cut off any future attempt to speak.
“Ah.”
Robert stepped off the path, making his way to a level patch of lush greenery near a pond of coi. He spread his jacket upon the grass and offered his hand. Rachel accepted and gracefully lowered herself to sit beside him. The aroma of his musk flared her nostrils—
“Do you know what your intent was?”
Rachel blinked as she drew her focus up with a sharp, internal yank. “My intent?”
“Yes. Did you have a set goal when you began the conversation, or were you allowing the conversation to flow where it may?”
She lowered her gaze to her cream sleeve to brush away an imaginary speck. Robert’s chuckle sent a tingle down her spine to her toes. “Do not snicker at me,” she protested, meeting his gaze.
He pressed a kiss upon her temple, scattering her anger. “I apologize, Angel. It is only that I have so seldom seen you at a loss for words for any fraction of time. It serves as a confession of how deeply you are concerned with this conversation with your father. A good concern to have.”
“Very well.” Rachel shifted her focus once more down the garden path, wrapping her arms around herself to prevent the rising wave of desperation and fear. Robert drew her close, his presence feeling as a shield to her battered and ragged spirit. “I made the decision to lead the conversation to an opportunity.”
“Ah. An opportunity for admittance on his part or… perhaps a confession on your part should his admittance not have been forthcoming?”
A sidelong glance was intercepted. “You have become too adept at reading me, sir,” she said, her tone calmer than she expected.
“Only at times.” His focus shifted ahead. “Has this sudden turn altered your decision at all?”
A heaviness cluttered her throat, tightening her chest and making it almost impossible to breathe. She closed her eyes, seeing again the agony of his expression at the attack. The ashen color of his face, as if she received a preview of his death. “Yes.” She had little to no time to repair a divide that he had widened with or without intent. The prospect… she shook her head.
“What is it, Rachel?”
“I do not know how to proceed.”
“Ah. Yes. I see.” He adjusted his position, drawing her fully into his embrace and releasing a soul-deep sigh. “I am going to pray for you, Rachel.”
Rachel’s fingers clutched at his lapels, her forehead resting against the warmth of his chest as she simply inclined her head. How could she not allow him to entrust the life and soul of her father to the One who had allowed such a wonderful man to… love her?
Perhaps He would give her another month or year with her father? To show that his trust in her was not misplaced? To prove that she could succeed in his plan for her future? To set his mind at ease?
“Our Lord in heaven, we humbly come before You in this, our hour of need. We pray for Your peace and comfort and, if it is Your will, we ask for Your healing hand upon this house. Guide our words to a resolve, Father. Guide our hearts to forgiveness. Release Your blessing upon this house so that Peace may follow, and in abundance. We ask this in Your blessed Name….”
His voice drifted, though Rachel could somehow discern the prayer had not ended. There came upon them an intensity she could not explain; a heavy press in her heart and soul which bubbled fresh tears to the surface. Weary. She felt so weary of displaying constant strength. Now, surrounded by warmth and the gently firm embrace of this man who loved her, she wanted to let go—of everything. She wanted to walk out from under the burden; To offer it to someone else.
The Presence she remembered with such clarity from her childhood.
Her fingers ached, so tightly did they clasp Robert’s lapel, and her throat tightened around the words of surrender she craved…. Just in this on
e thing she did not want to be strong. She did not—she could not face this possible death with cool detachment.
Not without losing the last of her heart.
Please, Lord, her soul cried. Do not take him from me yet.
Robert’s caress of hand upon her back drew her safely from the black maw of desperation, drawing, also, her gaze to his. “He’s awake,” he whispered.
Rachel blinked at him, the words drifting within her tired mind for such a long moment before they clattered into sense. She gasped and turned, grabbing fistfuls of her skirts as she ran from the gardens and into the house toward her father’s room.
Dr. McEwen halted her outside his room, ignoring the sharp glare as he held her arm. “He is weak, so whatever difficulties still lay between you must stay outside his door.”
She pressed her lips into a thin line as she inclined her head, unwilling to speak even a single word for fear that all the tears and fears would not cease flowing.
“Then, with that being said….” Dr. McEwen cast her one last warning glance before opening the door to the darkened room and closing it behind her.
Rachel blinked into the darkness, the stark contrast of her father’s countenance a dagger in her chest. She stumbled forward, her fingers clutching at the bedspread as she choked down the emotions which threatened to drown her. “Papa, can you hear me?”
His eyes opened, still full of the spark that was his life. He struggled to sit up, but she held him back. “I’m fine.”
“You are nothing of the sort.” She sat beside him, her gaze not falling away from his.
“He told you.” Her father shot a glare at the closed door.
“Papa.”
He blinked at her, and she could see how the title brought a glimmer to his eyes. “It has been a long time since you called me that.”
“Yes?” She took up his hand, her eyes retreating to the action. “Shall I call you Mr. Samson instead?”
He examined her face for such a long moment of silence. Then his hand gripped hers and she caught the hint of a smile upon his lips. “It’s good to have you home, Angel.”
Broken Angel Page 36
