The Rogue (9 page)

Hurt by his sudden gruffness, Susannah sat there, still taking in Killian's surprising words.
A nightmare?
How could it have been? It had been so
real!
Touching her forehead, which was now beginning to ache in earnest, Susannah closed her eyes and tried to get a grip on her rampant emotions. Killian's warm, unexpected touch had momentarily soothed her apprehension and settled her pounding heart—but just as quickly he'd withdrawn.

Opening her eyes, she wrote:

I'll draw a picture of him later, when I feel up to it.

Killian nodded, still edgy. One part of him was keyed to Susannah, the other to the door, the windows, and any errant sound. He knew his shoulder holster disturbed her. She kept glancing at him, then at the holster, a question in her eyes. How much could he tell her? How much
should
he tell her? He sensed her curiosity about him and his reasons for being here.

Feeling utterly trapped, Killian tried to think clearly. Being around Susannah seemed to scramble his emotions. He'd been too long without softness in his life.
And,
Killian lectured
himself,
it would have to remain that way.
Still, he couldn't let go of the memory of the wonderful sensation of her pressed against him. He should have thrown her to the floor instead of using himself as a human shield to protect her, he thought in disgust. That way he wouldn't have had to touch her, to be reminded of
all that
he ached to have and never could. But he hadn't been thinking clearly; he'd reacted instinctively.

Grimly he held her gaze. "From now on, Susannah, you need to stay here, in your folks' home, where it's safer."

I will not stay here! I can't! If it was just a dream, then I'll be okay out there. I don't want to stay here.

He studied her in the silence, noting the set of her delicate jaw and the flash of stubbornness in her eyes. With a sigh, he set the cup down on the saucer. "No. You'll stay here.
In
this
house."
Susannah shook her head.

You don't understand! I tried to stay here when I got home from the hospital. I had awful dreams! If I stay in my room, I can't sleep. At the other house I feel safer. I don't have as many nightmares. I don't know why. I can't explain it, but I will not come and stay here.

Killian studied the scribbled note, utterly thwarted. No one knew better than he did about the night and the terrible dreams that could stalk it. He understood Susannah's pleading request, probably better than
anyone else could. His heart squeezed at the pain in her admission, because he'd too long lived a similar life. With a sigh, he muttered, "All right, but then I'm staying at your place with you until we can get this settled. I need to know for sure whether this guy is real or just a dream."

Shocked, Susannah stared at him, her mouth dropping open. She felt the brutal hardness around him again and saw anger, touched with anxiety in his eyes. Her mind reeled with questions as the adrenaline left her bloodstream and left her shaky in its aftermath. With a trembling hand, she wrote:

Who are you? You carry a gun. I don't think you are who you say you are. Morgan suspects something, doesn't he? Please, tell me the truth, even if you don't tell my parents.
I
deserve to know.

Killian fingered the note, refusing to meet her challenging gaze. Stunned by Susannah's intuitive grasp of the situation, he realized he had to tell her. Otherwise, she'd never allow him to stay at her house.

"All right," he growled, "here's the truth. Morgan suspects that the man who tried to kill you will come and hunt you down once he knows you survived. You can ID him, and he's going to try to kill you before you can do it." He saw Susannah's eyes grow dark with shock. Angry that he had to hurt her with the truth, Killian snapped, "I'm here on assignment. I'm to protect you. Please don't tell your parents my real reason for being here. Morgan feels they've been through enough. I wasn't going to tell you,
dammit
, but you're so stubborn, you didn't leave me any re
course. I can't have you staying alone at the other house."

Susannah felt Killian's anger buffet her. Despite her fear and shock, she felt anger toward him even more.

How dare you! How dare Morgan! You should have told me this in the first place!

Killian didn't like being put in the middle, and he glared at her. "Look, I do as I'm ordered. I'm breaking my word in telling you this, and I'll probably catch hell from my boss for doing it. I don't like this any more than you do. If you want all of the truth, I don't even want to be here—I don't take assignments that involve women. But Morgan threatened to fire me if I didn't take this mission, so you and I are in the same boat. You don't want me here, and I damn well don't want to be here!"

Stunned, Susannah blinked at the powerful wave of feeling behind his harsh words. She sensed
a desperation
in Killian's anger, and it was that desperation that defused her own righteous anger.

I'm sorry, Killian. I shouldn't be angry with you.

He shook his head and refused to meet her eyes. The frightening truth was, every time he did, he wanted simply to find his way into her arms and be held. "Don't apologize," he muttered. "It isn't your fault, either. We're both caught between a rock and a hard place."

Without thinking, Susannah slowly raised her hand and placed it across Killian's clenched one on the
ta
ble
.
His head snapped up as her fingers wrapped around his. The anger dissolved in his eyes, and for just a moment Susannah could have sworn she saw longing in his stormy gaze. But, just as quickly, it was gone, leaving only an icy coldness. She removed her hand from his, all too aware that he was rejecting her touch.

All she had wanted to do was comfort Killian. From her work, Susannah knew the healing nature of human touch firsthand. Killian had looked positively torn by the fact that he had to be here with her. Susannah had wanted to let him know somehow that she understood his dilemma. He didn't want anything to do with her because she was a woman. Her curiosity was piqued, but she knew better than to ask. Right now, Killian was edgy, turning the cup around and around in his long,
spare
hands.

You don't have to stay out there with me.

Killian made a muffled sound and stood up suddenly. He moved away from the table, automatically checking the window with his gaze. "Yes," he said irritably, "I do. I don't like it any more than you do, but it has to be done."

But it was a nightmare! You said so yourself. You can stay here with my folks.

Killian savagely spun on his heel, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. "There's nothing you can say that will change my mind. You need protection, Susannah."

With a trembling hand, Susannah touched her brow. It was nerve-racking enough to stay by
herself
at the abandoned farmhouse. She was desperately afraid of the dark, of the terrors that came nightly when she lay down as her overactive imagination fueled the fires of her many fears.
But Killian staying with her?
He was so blatantly male—so quiet, yet so capable. Fighting her own feelings toward him, she sat for a good minute before writing on the notepad again.

Please tell my folks the truth about this. I don't want to lie to them about the reason you're staying out at the house with me. It would seem funny to them if you suddenly started living out there with me.

Killian couldn't disagree with her. He paced the room quietly, trying to come up with a better plan. He stopped and looked down at her exhausted features. "I'll talk to them this morning." Relief flowed through Susannah, and she nodded.

Morgan was trying to protect us, but this is one time when we should know the whole truth.

"I tried to tell him that," Killian said bitterly. He stood by the table, thinking. "That's all water under the bridge now," he said. "You saw the killer's face in your nightmare. I need you to draw a picture of him this morning so that I can take it to the police station. They'll fax it to Lexington and to Morgan."

Trying to combat the automatic reactions of fear, rage and humiliation that came with remembering, Susannah nodded. Her hand still pressed against her brow, she tried to control the cold-bladed anxiety triggered by the discussion.

It was impossible for Killian to steel himself against the clarity of the emotions he read in Susannah's pale face. "Easy," he said soothingly. "Take some deep breaths, Susannah, and the panic will start to go away." He watched her breasts rise and fall sharply beneath her wrinkled cotton gown, and he couldn't help thinking how pretty she looked in the thin garment with lace sewn around its oval neckline. She was like that lace, fragile and easily crushed, he realized as he stood watching her wrestle with her fear.

Miraculously, Susannah felt much of her panic dissolve beneath his husky-voiced instructions. She wasn't sure if it was because of the deep breaths or merely Killian's quiet presence. How did he know what she was experiencing? He must have experienced the very same
thing,
otherwise he wouldn't know how to help her. And he was helping her—even if he'd made it clear that he didn't want to be here.

"Good," Killian said gruffly as she became calm. He poured them more tea and took his chair again. "I'll sleep in the bedroom down the hall from yours. I'm a restless sleeper," he warned her sharply. "I have nightmares myself. . . ." His voice trailed off.

Susannah stared at him, swayed by the sincerity in his dark blue eyes. There was such torment in them.
Toward her?
Toward the assignment?
She just wasn't sure. Morning light was stealing through the ruffled curtains at the window now, softening his harsh features.

Nervously fingering the rectangular notepad, Susannah frowned, uncertain of her own feelings as she was every time he was with her.

"I won't bother you, if that's what you're worried about," he added when he saw the confusion on her face. He prayed he could keep his word—hoped against hope that he wouldn't have one of the terrible, wrenching nightmares that haunted him.

Agitated, Susannah got to her feet and moved to the window. The pale lavender of dawn reminded her of the color of her favorite flowers—the lilacs. Pressing and releasing her fingers against the porcelain sink, she thought about Killian's statement.

Killian studied Susannah in the quiet of the kitchen. Her dark hair lay mussed against her tense shoulders, a sable cloak against the pristine white of her nightgown. Killian ached to touch her hair, to tunnel his fingers through it and find out what it felt like. Would it be as soft as her body had been against his?
Or more coarse, in keeping with the ramrod-straight spine that showed her courage despite the circumstances?

"Look," he said, breaking the tense silence, "maybe this will end sooner than I expect. I'll work on the house over there to stay close in case something happens. I'll paint and fix up the windows, the doors."
Anything to keep my mind off you.

Turning, Susannah looked at him. He sat at the table, his long fingers wrapped around the dainty china cup on the yellow oilcloth. His body was hunched forward, and he had an unhappy expression on his face. She would never forget the look in his eyes, his
alertness, or the sense of safety she'd felt when she'd fallen sobbing into his arms at the back door. Why was she hedging now about allowing him to be near her?

Licking her lips, she nodded. Suddenly more tired than she could remember ever being, she left the counter. It was time to go home. When she got to the screen door, Killian moved quickly out of his chair.

"I'll walk you back," Killian said, his tone brooking no argument. Opening the screen door, she walked out.