The Rogue (7 page)

My mother didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. If you can find some way to say something to her to defuse the situation, I'd be grateful. She meant well. She didn't mean to chase you from the dinner table.

Killian stared at her printed note for a long time. The silence thickened. Susannah was right; he'd been wrong in his reaction to the situation. He wished he had the words, a way to explain himself. Frustration overwhelmed him. Looking up, he thought for a moment that he might drown in her compassionate gray gaze. Quirking his mouth, he muttered, "When I go back down tonight, I'll tell her I'm sorry." Susannah smiled slightly and nodded her head.

Thank you. I know so little of Morgan's men. None of us know anything about mercenaries. I hope you can forgive us, too?

Steeling himself against Susannah's attempt to smooth things over, Killian nodded.
"Don't worry about it. There's nothing to forgive." He started to get up, but she made an inarticulate sound and reached out, her hand closing around his arm. Killian froze.

Susannah's lips parted when she saw anguish replace the coldness in Killian's eyes as she touched him.

She hadn't meant to reach out like that; it had been instinctive. Somewhere in her heart, she knew that Killian needed touching—a lot of it. She knew all too well through her work the value of touching, the healing quality of a hand upon a shoulder to give necessary support and courage. Hard as he appeared to be, was Killian really any different? Gazing up through the dim light in the kitchen, she saw the tortured look in his eyes.

Thinking that he was repulsed by her touch, she quickly released him.

Killian slowly sat back, his heart hammering in his chest. It was hell trying to keep his feelings at bay. Whether he liked it or not, he could almost read what Susannah was thinking in her expressive eyes. Their soft gray reminded him of a mourning dove—and she was as gentle and delicate as one.

My folks are simple people, Killian. Pa said you were here for a rest. Is that true?
If
so,
for how long?

Killian felt utterly trapped, and he longed to escape. Morgan was expecting the impossible of him. He didn't have the damnable ability to walk with one foot as a protector and the other foot emotionally far enough away from Susannah to do his job. The patient look on her face only aggravated him.

"I'm between missions," he bit out savagely. "And I want to rest somewhere quiet. I'll try to be a better house guest, okay?"

I know you're uncomfortable around me. I don't expect anything from you. I'll be staying up here most of the time, so you'll have the space to rest.

Absolute frustration thrummed through Killian. This was exactly what he
didn't
want! "Look," he growled, "you don't make me uncomfortable, okay? I know what happened to you, and I'm sorry it happened. I have a sister who—"

Susannah tilted her head as he snapped his mouth shut and glared at her. He wanted to run. It was in every line of his body, and it was in his eyes. The tension in the kitchen had become a tangible thing.

Who? What?

Agitated, Killian shot to his feet. He roamed around the kitchen in the semidarkness, seesawing back and forth about what—if anything—he should tell her. She sat quietly, watching him, without any outward sign of impatience. Running his fingers through his hair, he turned suddenly and pinned her with an angry look.

"My sister, Meg, was nearly killed in a situation not unlike yours," he ground out finally. "She's disfigured for life, and she's scared. She lives alone, like a recluse. I've seen what violence has done to her, so I can imagine what it's done to you." He'd said enough. More than enough, judging from the tears
that suddenly were
shimmering in Susannah's eyes.

Breathing hard, Killian continued to glare at her, hoping she would give up. He didn't want her asking him any more personal questions. Hell, he hadn't intended to bring up Meg! But something about this woman kept tugging at him, pulling him out of his isolation.

I'm sorry for Meg.
For you.
I've seen what
theviolence
to me has done to my folks. It's awful.

It's forever.

As Killian read the note, standing near the table, his shoulders sagged, and all the anger went out of him. "Yes," he whispered wearily, "violence is wrong. All it does is
tear
people's lives apart." How well he knew that—in more ways than he ever wanted to admit.

If you're a mercenary, then you're always fighting a war, aren't you?

The truth was like a knife in Killian's clenched gut. He stood, arms at his sides, and hung his head as he pondered her simple question. "Mercenaries work in many capacities," he said slowly. "Some of them are very safe and low-risk. But they do deal with violent situations, too." He lifted his head and threw her a warning look. "The more you do it, the more you become it."

Are you always in dangerous situations?

He picked up the note,
then
slowly crushed it in his hand. Susannah was getting too close. That just couldn't happen. For her sake, it couldn't. Killian arranged his face into the deadliest look he could muster. "More than anything," he told her in a soft rasp, "you should understand that I'm dangerous to you."

It was all the warning Killian could give her short of telling what had happened when one woman
had
gotten to him, touched his heart,
made
him feel love. He'd sworn he'd never tell anyone that—not even Meg. And he'd vowed never to let it happen again. Susannah was too special, too vulnerable, for him to allow her to get close to him. But she had a kind of courage that frightened Killian; she had the guts to approach someone like him—someone so wounded that he could never be healed.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning," he said abruptly. He scanned the room closely with one sweeping gaze,
then
glanced down at her. "Because I'm a mercenary, I'm going to check out your house and the surrounding area. I'll be outside after I make a sweep of the house, and then I'll be staying at your folks' place, in the guest bedroom." He rubbed his jaw as he took in the poor condition of the window, which had no screen and no lock. "If you hear anything, come and get me."

I've been living here the last month and nothing has happened. I'll be okay.

Naiveté
at best, Killian thought as he read her note. But he couldn't tell her she was in danger—good old Morgan's orders again. His mouth flattening, he stared across the table into her weary eyes. "If you need help, come and get me. Understand?" As much as he wanted to stay nearby to protect Susannah, Killian knew he couldn't possibly move in with her without a darn good explanation for her and her parents. He was hamstrung. And he didn't want to have to live
under Susannah's roof, anyway, for very different reasons. As much as he hated to leave her unprotected at the homestead, for now he had no choice.

At least Susannah would remain safe from him, Killian thought as he studied her darkly. His mind shouted that he'd be absolutely useless sleeping down at the Anderson house if the killer tried to reach her here. But what could he do? Torn, he decided that for tonight, he would sleep at the Andersons' and ponder the problem.

With a bare nod, Susannah took in Killian's vibrating warning. He had told her he was a violent man. She sensed the lethal quality about him, and yet those brief flashes she'd had of him without his defenses in place made her believe that deep down he longed for peace, not war.

As she bathed and prepared to go to bed, Susannah tried to sift through her jumbled feelings. Killian disturbed her, she decided, more than he frightened her. Somehow she was invisibly drawn to him—to the inner man, not the cold exterior he held up like a shield. She pulled her light knee-length cotton gown over her head and tamed her tangled hair with her fingers. The lamplight cast dancing shadows across the opposite wall of the small bathroom. Ordinarily, catching sight of moving silhouettes caused her to start, but tonight it didn't.

Why? Picking up her clothes, Susannah walked thoughtfully through the silent house, the old planks beneath the thin linoleum floor creaking occasionally. Could Killian's unsettling presence somehow have given her a sense of safety?
Even if it was an edgy kind
of safety?
Despite his glowering and his snappish words, Susannah sensed he would help her if she ever found herself in trouble.

With a shake of her head, Susannah dumped her clothes into a hamper in the small side room and made her way toward the central portion of the two-story house. At least four generations of Andersons had lived here, and that in
itself
gave her a sense of safety. There was something about the old and the familiar that had always meant tranquility to Susannah, and right now she needed that sense as never before.

She went into the kitchen, where the hurricane lamp still threw its meager light. Pictures drawn in crayon wreathed the walls of the area—fond reminders of her most recent class of children.
Last year's class.
The pictures suggested hope, and Susannah could vividly recall each child's face as she surveyed the individual drawings. They gave her a sense that maybe her life hadn't been completely shattered after all.

Leaning down, Susannah blew out the flame in the lamp, and darkness cloaked the room, making her suddenly edgy. It had been shadowy the night she'd walked from her bus toward the brightly lit central station—she could remember that clearly. She could recall, too, flashbacks of the man who had been killed in front of her. He'd been sharply dressed, with an engaging smile, and he'd approached her as if she were a longtime friend.
She'd trusted him—found him attractive, to be honest.
She'd smiled and allowed him to take the large carry-on bag that hung from her shoulder. With a shudder, Susannah tried to block the horrifying end to his brief contact with her. Pressing her fingers against her closed eyes, she felt the first
signs of one of the massive migraines that seemed to come and go without much warning
begin
to stalk her.

As she made her way to her bedroom, at the rear of the house—moving around familiar shapes in the dark—Susannah vaguely wondered why Killian's unexpected presence hadn't triggered one of her crippling headaches. He was dangerous, her mind warned her sharply. He'd told her so
himself
, in the sort of warning growl a cougar might give an approaching hunter. As she pulled back the crisp white sheet and the worn quilt that served as her bedspread, Susannah's heart argued with her practical mind. Killian must have lived through some terrible, traumatic events to project that kind of iciness. As Susannah slid into bed, fluffed her pillow and closed her eyes, she released a long, ragged sigh. Luckily, sleep always cured her headaches, and she was more tired than usual tonight.

Despite her physical weariness, Susannah saw Killian's hard, emotionless face waver before her closed eyes. There wasn't an iota of gentleness anywhere in his features. Yet, as she searched his stormy dark blue eyes, eyes that shouted to everyone to leave him alone, Susannah felt such sadness around him that tears stung her own eyes. Sniffing, she laughed to herself. How easily touched she was!
And how much she missed her children.
School had started without her, and she was missing a new class of frightened, unsure charges she knew would slowly come out of their protective shells and
begin
to reach out and touch life.

Unhappily Susannah thought of the doctors' warnings that it would be at least two months before she could possibly go back to teaching. Her world, as she had known it, no longer existed.
Where once she'd been trusting of people, now she was not.
Darkness had always been her friend—but now it disturbed her. Forcing herself to shut off her rambling thoughts, Susannah concentrated on sleep. Her last images were of Killian, and the sadness that permeated him.

A distinct click awakened Susannah. She froze beneath the sheet and blanket, listening. Her heart rate tripled, and her mouth grew dry. The light of a first- quarter moon spilled in the open window at the head of her old brass bed. The window's screen had been torn loose years ago and never repaired, Susannah knew. Terror coursed through her as she
lay
still, her muscles aching with fear.

Another click.
Carefully, trying not to make a sound, Susannah lifted her head and looked toward the window opposite her bed. A scream jammed in her throat. The profile of a man was silhouetted against the screen. A cry, rooted deep in her lungs, started up through her. Vignettes of the murderer who had nearly taken her life, a man with a narrow face, small eyes and a crooked mouth, smashed into her. If she hadn't been so frightened, Susannah would have rejoiced at finally recalling his face. But now sweat bathed her, and her nightgown grew damp and clung to her as she gripped the sheet, her knuckles whitening.