Bella's Touch

by Suzanne Ferrell

  “This…is all…I can…give you. Is this…what you want? To be…used?” he asked as he pounded into her from behind, slowly leaning down over her.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Gripping her hair, he pulled her face up from the table. “Tell me, Bella.”

  She groaned, because she shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t be lifting her hips to meet his. Her mind and body at war. “No, it’s not what I want.”

  Stilling inside her, his cock throbbing in time to her own pulse, he released her hair. He brought his hand down to caress her face, stopping as his fingers rubbed the tears streaming down.

  He froze.

  She inhaled on a sob.

  “Oh, God, Bella,” he moaned and dropped his head onto her neck. After a moment he slowly pulled out of her. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Before she could tell him that he didn’t understand what she was saying, he’d shoved himself off her, stumbled away and grabbed his coat where he’d hung it on a peg. His foot kicked the crate near the door. He snatched an unopened bottle from it on his way out.

  Stunned by his desertion, all she could do was lie on the table filled with humiliation and frustrated desire.

  “Why?”

  It wasn’t a question about why he’d done what he’d done. She knew the answer to that. He wanted to frighten her away, to destroy in her mind what they had. He’d almost said as much.

  But why had she let him? Why had her body responded so carnally to that dark, violent passion he’d let loose on her?

  What was wrong with her?

  *****

  Rape.

  The word propelled him off the porch through the cold rain and sleet, toward the woods beyond the barn. Clutching the whiskey bottle in one hand, with the other he batted away low-hanging limbs that smacked at him like invisible combatants in a gauntlet of pain, his body ricocheting off tree trunks as he stumbled along. Finally falling to his knees in a bed of pine needles, he pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long swig. The liquid burned a path down his throat and landed like a hot brick in his gut.

  Rape. That’s what it had been, pure and simple.

  He’d meant to scare her. That was all, to convince her that there was no storybook ending for them.

  But then she’d responded to his forced kiss, his manhandling her, his subduing her like a wolf claiming his mate. Like lightning on dry kindling.

  Yes.

  She’d said yes when he asked if she wanted to be mounted. Her pussy was even dripping wet when he entered her, but he’d given into the animal inside him, taking his own needs out on her.

  Nausea washed over him like a white-water rapid.

  More than once during the war he’d witnessed soldiers succumb to their blood lust after a battle. Men taking the aggression still pumping through their bodies out on the innocent women caught in the middle of the warring armies. Their behavior disgusting him, he’d court-martialed more than one in the months before his injury.

  Fighting back the images of the women suffering at the hands of soldiers and the same soldiers facing death because of it, he took another swig of the whiskey. He’d punished men for acting like lustful mongrels.

  He closed his eyes, the memory of the last soldier he condemned to death and the atrocity he’d committed filling his mind.

  Silas Trout. A lean, slimy, repulsive man. He’d been good at getting behind enemy lines, allowing his troops to out-flank the Rebs, on more than one occasion. It was the only reason he’d overlooked Trout’s vile temper and barely restrained disrespect for his commanders—especially him.

  They’d caught a Confederate patrol hiding in the barn of a small farm in the hills on the border of western Kentucky and eastern Virginia. The small band of men had fought valiantly, some of them even making it into the farmhouse. An act that cost the family inside greatly.

  After the few remaining men had been captured, Michael had been busy interrogating them out in the yard about troop movements in the area when he heard the first scream.

  He ran inside to find a soldier holding the mother prisoner while Silas pounded his cock into a girl that looked to be about sixteen—battered and bruised from Trout’s fists. The girl screamed with every thrust.

  Michael drew his pistol and pointed the end of the barrel right at Silas’ temple. “I suggest you stop or I’ll blow your brains out all over her.”

  Silas’ body froze, but his mouth didn’t. It split in that snake-oil-salesman smile he used to show contempt for his officers and tobacco spittle dribbled out of one corner. “She’s a rebel bitch, Captain. Ain’t no reason to get upset. I’ll leave a little for you to enjoy.”

  The girl cried louder.

  Trout backhanded her.

  It was the last straw.

  He pulled the trigger, blowing the cretin’s brains all over the girl and the wall. Ignoring the screaming girl, he turned the gun on the accomplice holding her mother against the wall.

  “Do you want to join your friend?”

  The wide-eyed soldier shook his head.

  “Then I suggest you let her go and clean up this pile of refuse. Make sure the body isn’t left anywhere near this farm.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Sgt. O’Malley said from just inside the doorway.

  “And why is that?” he asked as he slid his pistol back in the holster and stalked through the throng of men who’d gathered at the cabin door to watch.

  “Trout has a couple of brothers, both meaner than him.” The sergeant walked with him back to where the prisoners were being held. “Word gets back to them, they’ll come looking for you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Trout’s death had been worth the effort. During the remainder of his command, none of his men attempted a rape. For a few days afterwards he’d been unable to shake both the images of that day and the threat of retribution by the Trouts. But then his company had been occupied with Petersburg and with it came the cannon fire that cost him his sight, all thoughts of the incident and Silas Trout out of his mind, until now.

  And now he’d been no better.

  Worse.

  He’d hurt the woman he’d loved with all his heart. For the first time since his injury he gave thanks to God that because of it he hadn’t seen the pain in Bella’s face.

  No, he’d felt her pain in the tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d heard her anguish in the words, “No, it’s not what I want.”

  Raw pain hit his gut anew. He finally doubled over and emptied its contents on the damp leaves at his feet.

  Finished, he sat back against the thick trunk of an oak, wiping his mouth with a coat sleeve and hanging his head. Ice-cold rain poured over him, dripping down the long strands of his hair and over his beard.

  He should be shot.

  Put down like the rabid dog he was.

  Chapter Four

  The door slammed behind Michael’s exodus. Sleet hitting the windows outside, the wood crackling in the fireplace and her own quiet sobbing inside filled Arrabella’s ears as she lay bent over and motionless on the table.

  “Oh, God.” Embarrassed heat rushed into her face and neck, down to her naked breasts, over every inch of her exposed flesh. Flesh left still throbbing for his touch.

  She gulped in air—breath after breath—fighting her rising panic.

  How could she have wanted to be taken like that? Like a wanton craving a man’s cock buried in her in such a fashion? Used like an animal in heat?

  And she’d begged for it, even enjoyed it. Why?

  Because it was Michael. Because she’d known that despite his words and the force of his passion, he wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t take without giving back.

  Slowly, she managed to wiggle the straps of her camisole and the sleeves of her bodice off her arm, freeing them to help her rise from the table. Holding the tattered material to her front, she pushed her skirts back down to cover her once more and stumbled to the chair he’d shoved out of the way. />
  Why had he stopped?

  He’d wanted her. The hardness of his manhood buried deep inside her and the power with which he'd taken her proved how much he’d needed her. She’d been willing, even panting with her own needs. What had stopped him?

  With the back of her hand she swiped at the tears still on her cheeks. The memory of his fingers brushing the same spot flooded her. He’d done that, just before he’d stopped—just before he’d apologized and abandoned her so close to her climax.

  “No, it’s not what I want.”

  He’d thought she was begging him to stop, denying wanting him to take her so roughly, when she’d actually been trying to convince herself she wasn’t really enjoying it. That she couldn’t be craving it as much as she had.

  But she had. Still did.

  She bounced one foot on the floor as she stared out the window into the dreary gray day.

  Michael thought himself less of a man without his eyesight and was intent on proving it to them both. She knew better. Deep inside, the man she loved still existed, even if he didn’t believe it. Even if he denied it with his entire soul.

  He also thought the loss of his eyesight had killed his artistic ability and his artist’s soul.

  What to do?

  To convince him he was still the man she’d fallen in love with, albeit with a few rough spots, she’d have to prove to him that despite his blindness he was still an artist. How did she show a painter that he could still create even if he couldn’t see his canvas or his muse?

  Art was more than just looking at pretty paintings. It went much deeper than that. Maybe that’s what drew her to sculpture more than painting? The three-dimensional aspect of each statue invited you to touch and feel the stone or clay or bronze, as well as visually take it in.

  Maybe by teaching Michael that his other senses were just as important to his art as his eyes, she could reach that part he’d locked deep inside?

  She looked around the cabin, slowly coming to rest on the headboard where she’d hung her stockings yesterday to dry.

  Her heart did a little flutter and a smile spread over her.

  Perhaps the thing to do was convince him he would be a better artist without his sight.

  Still clutching her bodice to her breasts, she wandered to the box of supplies Higgins had dropped off and dragged it over to stand near the pantry. Digging around with one hand, she found some beef wrapped in brown paper. First she’d start with smell and taste.

  She set the meat on the dry sink then headed to the bedroom. Next thing she needed to do was get cleaned up. Then she planned to teach Michael a lesson.

  A man should never leave a woman wanting, no matter how noble his intentions.

  *****

  Fat snowflakes fell quickly on his head, face and body as Michael stepped carefully across the frozen ice coating the path from the barn to the house. The dim light, the only part of his sight that still remained, had faded to darkness. It had to be night. The temperature had dropped since he’d taken refuge in the barn hours earlier.

  He’d tried getting drunk to block his body’s awareness that Bella was in his cabin. But weeks of drinking heavily prevented him from truly getting drunk on only one bottle of whiskey.

  After making love to her last night and the terrible thing he did to her today, it would take a great deal more than one bottle to blot out her orange-blossom scent on his skin or the memories of her pleading.

  No, he’d hidden in the barn like the coward he was. Even tending the animals hadn’t relieved him of the feel of her beneath him as he took her over the table.

  Suddenly his foot slipped.

  “Shit.”

  He waved his arms to try to gain his balance and thankfully came in contact with a porch post. Wrapping his arms around it, he caught his breath and inched his way to the steps.

  Leaning against another post, he heaved a deep breath and wiped the sudden sweat from his brow with one coat sleeve.

  Okay, so drinking on an icy day wasn’t his smartest move.

  Damn. The last thing he needed was to fall and break something. It was difficult enough to care for the farm and Bella blind without a broken arm or leg getting in the way.

  That’s what scared him most. He couldn’t protect Bella. A man should be strong and capable of safeguarding his woman. Instead, he was as helpless as a child. God forbid anyone tried to attack them out here in the woods.

  Bella had to go.

  For her own safety. From him and anyone else. She may not like it, but as soon as the weather cleared and Higgins made another run out here, he was putting her on that wagon to head back east.

  His mind made up, he stomped across the porch to the door, counting the steps as he went.

  Eight. Eight steps from the door to the edge of the porch. Now he’d know when to worry about the ice and snow beneath his feet.

  At the door, he took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders, shaking off the snow and stomping his boots. Habit. His mama had yelled at him more than once for tracking snow or mud into her house.

  The aroma hit him the minute he stepped inside.

  Beef. Roasted beef. Onions. Potatoes.

  His gut rumbled and his mouth watered.

  He hadn’t expected this. Tears, yes. Anger, yes. But a meal? How could she forgive him enough to spend the day preparing a delicious-smelling meal for him after what he’d done?

  “Done hiding?” Bella’s sharp sarcasm brought him up short.

  Now that’s more like what he expected. Bella never suffered foolish people lightly. Oh, she’d always been compassionate with those less fortunate, but idiots and fools, she had little patience for them and today he’d been both.

  “Chores are done for the night.” Ignoring her comment, he took off his coat and hung it on the peg just right of the door. “Bella, I’m sorry about…”

  “Dinner’s going to be cold if we wait,” she said, cutting him off.

  So, she intended to act like nothing had happened?

  As much as she’d like to pretend that was the case, they had to deal with it sooner or later. Apparently she chose later. Fine. He’d rather deal with her anger or pain on a full stomach than one griping because of the liquor he’d poured in it earlier.

  Giving a nod in the direction her voice had come from he carefully made his way to the table, his hands coming in contact with a chair after a few steps. He could hear the heels of her shoes on the floorboards and the swish of her skirts as she moved around the small space. Every time she moved in to set something on the table, the soft scent of orange blossoms wafted past the air around him.

  Orange blossoms. The conservatory in her home. Bella naked. Alabaster flesh rivaling fine china. Pink nipples, long blonde curls teasing the tips. Curved hips that led to long, shapely legs.

  Damn. His cock strained against the placard opening of his britches again.

  He sensed her heat when she stopped next to his seat. This time he picked up the undercurrents of pepper, probably from seasoning the food, and a distinct musk he’d only ever noticed when she was aroused. Then she leaned across him, her breasts grazing his arm.

  Something thudded next to his left hand.

  “Your fork,” she said, her low husky voice almost a whisper, the air from her words caressing his cheeks.

  Another thud by his right hand.

  “Your knife.”

  As she straightened, she ran one hand along his arm to his shoulder, pausing as if she were steadying herself, her fingers gripping and releasing his shoulder muscles. Then she trailed that hand across his shoulders, stopping at the spot where his hair covered his shirt collar. Briefly, she combed her fingers through his hair. Finally, sliding her hand down the other shoulder as she moved to his left.

  A light sensual touch.

  Sweet torture.

  He clenched his hands into fists on the table to fight the lust surging through his blood, the need to pull her into his lap and ravish her once more.


  Something landed lightly on the plate in front of him.

  “Potatoes are at three o’clock.”

  Another soft plop on the plate.

  “Green beans at twelve.”

  Something scraped against the plate. A fork.

  “Roast beef at nine.”

  The loss of her heat by his side and the rustling of her skirts told him she’d moved away. Then a scrape of the chair to his left and more rustling of her skirts as she sat.

  After a moment of silence, when all he could hear was the drumming of his pulse in his ear and the soft sound of air being inhaled and exhaled as she breathed, a clinking occurred beside him. She was cutting her meat.

  “I think the beef is tender enough to just pull with your fork.” She left the obvious unsaid. If not, she could cut it for him.

  He’d be damned if he’d have her treat him like a child.

  With great control on his temper, he slowly moved his hands until the utensils lay beneath his palms. He curled his hands around them and tried to remember what it was like to eat like a civilized man.

  The first few efforts garnered him little more than a scoop of potatoes and one bean. Frustration grew inside him, but the rumbling of his stomach far outweighed the urge to hurl the plate of food against the wall.

  He would master this.

  It took a few more attempts, but eventually he found a rhythm. Touch carefully at the clock positions Bella had told him. Use knife and fork to scoop or pull food onto the fork. Carefully balance the food to his mouth.

  Every so often he felt Bella’s eyes on him. Odd that he sensed when she was watching him, something he’d never really noticed before, but even when the fork came to his mouth with little on it she didn’t offer to help him.

  Finally, he scraped his utensils across the plate and didn’t encounter any more food. Satisfied, he set the fork and knife aside and sat back in his chair. He stared to his left, quietly listening to Bella finish her meal, imagining her lips parting to take in every morsel, wrapping around the fork to pull the food slowly into her mouth.