The Rogue (6 page)

Killian maintained a discreet distance from Susannah as they wound their way through the orchard on the well-trodden path. He wanted to ask Susannah's forgiveness for having abandoned her earlier—to explain why he had to keep her at arm's length. But then he laughed derisively at himself. Susannah would never understand. No woman would. He noticed that as they walked Susannah's gaze was never still, constantly searching the area, as if she were expecting to be attacked. It hurt him to see her in that mode. The haunted look in her eyes tore at him. Her beautiful mouth was pursed, the corners drawn taut, as if she expected a blow at any moment.

Not while I'm alive will another person
ever
harm you,
he promised grimly. Killian slowed his pace, baffled at the intensity of the feeling that came with the thought. The sun shimmered through the leaves of the fruit trees, scattering light across the green grass in a patchwork-quilt effect, touching Susannah's hair and bringing red highlights to life, intermixed with threads of gold. Killian wondered obliquely if she had some Irish blood in her.

In the Andersons' kitchen, Killian noted the way Susannah gratefully absorbed her mother's obvious care and genuine concern. He watched the sparkle come back to her lovely gray eyes as Pansy doted over her. Susannah had withdrawn into herself on their walk to the farmhouse. Now Killian watched her re-
emerge from that private, silent world, coaxed out by touches and hugs from her parents.

He'd made her retreat, and he felt like hell about it. But there could be no ambiguity about his function here at the farm. Sitting at the table now, his hand around a mug of steaming coffee, Killian tried to protect himself against the emotional warmth that pervaded the kitchen. The odors of home-cooked food, fresh and lovingly prepared, reminded him of a far gentler time in his life, the time when he was growing up in Ireland. There hadn't been many happy times in Killian's life, but that had been one—his mother doting over him and Meg, the lighthearted lilt of her laughter, the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven, her occasional touch upon his shoulder or playful ruffling of his hair. Groaning, he blindly gulped his coffee, and nearly burned his mouth in the process.

Susannah washed her hands at the kitchen sink, slowly dried them, and glanced apprehensively over at Killian. He sat at the table like a dark, unhappy shadow, his hand gripping the coffee mug. She was trying to understand him, but it was impossible. Her mother smiled at him, and tried to cajole a hint of a reaction from Killian, but he seemed impervious to human interaction.

As Pansy served the dinner, Killian tried to ignore the fact that he was seated opposite Susannah. She had an incredible ability to communicate with just a glance from those haunting eyes. Killian held on tightly to his anger at the thought that she had almost died.

"Why, you're
lookin
' so much better," Pansy gushed to her daughter as she placed mashed potatoes, spareribs and a fresh garden salad on the table.

Susannah nodded and smiled for her mother's sake. Just sitting across from Killian was unnerving. But because she loved her mother and father fiercely she was trying to ignore
Killián's
cold, icy presence and act normally.

Sam smiled and passed his daughter the platter of ribs. "Do you think you
'll
get along with Killian hereabouts for a while?"

Susannah felt Killian's eyes on her and refused to look up, knowing that he was probably studying her with the icy gaze of a predator for his intended victim. She glanced over at her father, whose face was open and readable, and found the strength somewhere within herself to lie. A white lie, Susannah told
herself
as she forced a smile and nodded.

Killian ate slowly, allowing his senses to take in the cheerful kitchen and happy family setting. The scents of barbecued meat and thick brown gravy and the tart smell of apples baking in the oven were sweeter than any perfume.

"I don't know what you did," Pansy told Killian, "but whatever it is, Susannah looks so much better! Doesn't she, Sam?"

Spooning gravy onto a heaping portion of mashed potatoes, Sam glanced up. "Ma, you know how uncomfortable Susannah gets when we talk as if she's not here."

Chastened, Pansy smiled. "I'm sorry, dear," she said, giving her daughter a fond look and a pat on the arm in apology.

Susannah wondered glumly how she could possibly look better with Killian around. Without a doubt, the man made her uncomfortable. She decided it was just that her mother wanted to see her looking better. Aching inwardly, Susannah thought how terribly the past three months had worn down her folks. They had both aged noticeably, and it hurt her to realize that her stupid, failed foray into the "big" world outside Kentucky had cost them, too. If only she hadn't been so naive about the world, it might not have happened, and her parents might not have had to suffer this way. Luckily, her school insurance had covered the massive medical bills; Susannah knew her folks would have sold the farm, if necessary, to help her cover expenses.

"Let's talk about you, Killian," Pansy said brightly, turning the conversation to him.

Killian saw Susannah's eyes suddenly narrow upon him, filled with curiosity—and some indefinable emotion that set his pulse to racing. He hesitated, not wanting to sound rude. "Ordinarily, Pansy, I don't open up to anyone."

"Whatever for?"

Sam groaned. "Honey, the man's got a right to some privacy,
don't
he?"

Pansy laughed. "Now, Pa. . ."

Clearing his throat, Killian moved the mashed potatoes around on his blue-and-white plate. He realized he wasn't going to be able to get around Pansy's good-natured probing. "I work in the area of high security." The explanation came out gruffly—a warning, he hoped, for her to stop asking questions.

"Surely," Pansy said, with a gentle laugh, "you can tell me if you're married or not.
Or about your family?"

Tension hung in the air. Killian put down his fork, keeping a tight rein on his reaction to what he knew was a well-intentioned question. Sam shot him an apologetic look that spoke volumes, but Killian also saw Susannah's open interest. She'd stopped eating, and was waiting to hear his answer.

Killian felt heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Pain at the memory of his family sheared through him. He dropped his gaze to the uneaten food on his plate and felt an avalanche of unexpected grief that seemed to suck the life out of him momentarily. Unwillingly he looked up—and met Susannah's compassionate gaze.

Killian shoved his chair back, and the scraping sound shattered the tension. "Excuse me," he rasped, "I'm done eating."

Susannah saw pain in Killian's eyes and heard the roughness of emotion in his voice as he moved abruptly to his feet. The chair nearly tipped over backward, but he caught it in time. Without a sound, Killian stalked from the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," Pansy whispered, her fingers against her lips. "I didn't mean to upset him. . . ."

Susannah reached out and gripped her mother's hand. She might not be able to talk, but she could at least offer the reassurance of touch.

Sam cleared his throat. "Ma, he's a closed kind of man. Didn't you see that?"

Pansy shrugged weakly and patted her daughter's hand. "Oh, I guess I did, Sam, but you know me— I'm such a busybody. Maybe I should go after him and apologize."

"Just let him
be
, Ma, and he'll come around," Sam counseled gently.

"I don't know," Pansy whispered, upset. "When I asked him about his family, did you see his face?"

Susannah nodded and released her mother's hand. As she continued to finish her meal, she ruminated on that very point. Killian had reacted violently to the question, anguished pain momentarily shadowing his eyes. Susannah had found herself wanting to reach out and reassure him that all would be well. But would it?

Morosely Susannah forced herself to finish eating her dinner. Somehow she wanted to let her mother know that there had been nothing wrong with her questions to Killian. As she had so many times these past months, she wished she could talk. Pansy was just a warm, chatty person by nature, but Susannah understood Killian's discomfort over such questions. Still, she wanted to try to communicate with Killian. She would use the excuse that he could walk her home, since it would be nearly dark. Her father never allowed her to walk home alone at night. At the same time, Susannah felt fear at being alone with him.

What was there about him that made her want to know him? He was a stranger who'd walked into her life only a few hours ago. The fact that he was Morgan's friend meant something, of course. From what her cousin Laura had told her, she knew that Morgan
Trayhern
drew only loyal, responsible people to him. Still, they were hard men, mercenaries. Susannah had no experience with mercenaries. In fact, she had very little experience with men in
general,
and especially with men her own age. She felt she wasn't equal to the task of healing the rift between her mother and
Kil
lian
,
but she knew she had to try. Otherwise, her mother would be a nervous wreck every time Killian sat down to eat. No, something had to be done to calm the troubled waters.

Killian was sitting in the living room, pretending to watch television, when he saw Susannah come out of the kitchen. He barely met her gaze as she walked determinedly toward him with a piece of paper in her hand. He saw uncertainty in her eyes—and something else that he couldn't have defined. Knowing that his abruptness had already caused bad feelings, he tensed as she drew close enough to hand him the note.

Walk me home. Please?

Killian lifted his head and studied her darkly. There was such vulnerability to Susannah—and that was what had nearly gotten her killed. Killian couldn't help but respond to the silent plea in her eyes as she stood waiting for his answer.

Without a word, he crushed the note in his hand, got to his feet and headed toward the door. He would use this excuse to check out her house and the surrounding area. When he opened the door for her, she brushed by him, and he felt himself tense. The sweet, fragrant scent of her perfume momentarily encircled him, and he unconsciously inhaled the subtle scent.

It was dusk, the inky stains across the early-autumn sky telling Killian it would soon be dark. As he slowly walked Susannah back to her house, his ears were tuned in to the twilight for any out-of-the-ordinary sounds. He needed to adjust his senses to the normal
sounds of this countryside, anyway. Until then, he would have to be even more alert than normal. There were no unusual odors on the fragrant air, and he couldn't ferret out anything unusual visually as he restlessly scanned the orchard.

When they reached her home, Killian realized that it had no electricity. He stood just inside the door and watched as Susannah lit a hurricane lamp filled with kerosene. She placed one lamp on the wooden table, another on the mantel over the fireplace, and a third in the living room. The floorboards, old and gray, creaked beneath her bare feet as she moved about. Uneasy at how little protection the house afforded against a possible intruder, Killian watched her pull open a drawer of an oak hutch.

Susannah located a notebook and pen and gestured for Killian to come and sit down with her at the table. Mystified, Killian sat down tensely at Susannah's elbow while she wrote on the notepad.

When she'd finished writing, she turned the notepad around so that Killian could read her question. The light from the kerosene lamp cast a soft glow around the deeply shadowed kitchen.

Killian eyed the note. "Is Killian my first or last name?" he read aloud. He grimaced and reared back on two legs of the chair. "It's my last name. Everyone calls me by my last name."

Susannah made a frustrated sound and penned another note.

What is your first name?

Killian scowled heavily and considered her request. Morgan's orders sounded demandingly in his brain. He was to try to get Susannah to remember what her assailant looked like. If he remained too cool and unresponsive to her, she wouldn't want to try to cooperate with him. Yet to reveal himself would be as good as opening up his horrifying past once again. That had happened once before, with terrible results, and he'd vowed it would never happen again.
Dammit
, anyway! He rubbed his mouth with his hand, feeling trapped. He had to gain Susannah's cooperation.
Her trust.

"Sean," he snarled.

Susannah winced, but determinedly wrote another note.

Who do you allow to call you Sean?

Killian stared at the note. Despite Susannah's obvious softness and vulnerability, for the first time he noticed a look of stubbornness in her eyes. He frowned.

"My mother and sister called me by my first name. Just them," he muttered.

Susannah digested his admission. Maybe he used his last name to prevent people getting close to him. But evidently there were at least two women in his life who could reach inside those armored walls and get to him. There was hope, Susannah decided, if Killian allowed his family to use his first name. But she'd heard the warning in his voice when he'd spoken to her mother. She might be a hill woman, and not as worldly as he
was, but surely it wasn't unreasonable to expect good manners—even from a mercenary. She held his blunt stare and felt the fear and anger seething around him. That cold armored cloak was firmly in place. Grimly Susannah penned another note.