Page 54 of The Defiant One
"Sorry?"
She gave a pained laugh. "Don't tell me you haven't heard all about the Jinx. How the man I was originally supposed to marry choked to death on a pea. And here I am, serving you peas, and you're probably thinking you're going to choke and die on one as well."
"Madam, I can assure you that since I detest peas as a rule, the only way I could possibly choke on one is if you were to force it bodily down my throat."
"I wouldn't force anything down the throat of a man who was feeling ill. Especially a food he happened to detest." She took the tray away, her mood brusque and businesslike once more, in keeping with his own. "I think I should leave. You need to sleep, and I . . . I need to think."
"Yes — I daresay you should."
Please stay. I don't want to be alone with my thoughts, with the fear, right now. I need you. Please stay.
But he didn't voice such thoughts, of course. Instead he said nothing, merely gazing sulkily at the opposite wall, fighting a battle with himself that seemed to have no victor, his fingers clenching and unclenching a corner of the blanket.
Celsie looked at him in confusion. His was staring broodily past her and toward the window where he'd first taken ill. He looked impossibly virile. Impossibly attractive.
Impossibly alone with whatever was tormenting him.
Once again, she could feel the banked anger radiating from him. She could see that he was fighting with something inside. And she could sense that he needed her, and needed her badly, though she knew that loners were the last people on earth who could ever recognize such a need, let alone give in to it.
She ought to know, of course. She'd spent most of her childhood alone.
As though sensing her thoughts, he looked up, his eyes stormy, his mouth set. He regarded her for a long moment, then turned his head and gazed morosely into the empty hearth.
"I thought you were leaving," he muttered.
She reached out and started to touch his arm, then caught herself. He looked pointedly down at the hand that would have touched him. Feeling a bit sheepish, she drew it back.
"Go," he said again, jerking his head to indicate the door. "Go, take the tray with you, and enjoy your meal elsewhere so you don't have to contend with my insufferable moodiness."
"Andrew, do you want to . . . talk?"
"No, I don't want to talk. I want you to leave. Now."
"What have I done?"
"Nothing. I just have a lot on my mind." He threw back the coverlet. "In fact, why don't you sleep in here, and I'll go somewhere else."
Her hand darted out, stopping him. "No — you stay." She restrained him with a hand on his chest. Beneath his fine lawn shirt, she could feel the mat of crisp hair, the rocky hardness of muscle, and yes, the beat of his heart. His gaze dropped pointedly to her hand, but she did not remove it, though heat crept into her cheeks and made her remember all that they'd already shared. She looked up and unflinchingly met his hard, sullen stare. "You're the one who's not feeling well. You stay here, and I'll go sleep in another room."
His gaze remained locked on hers for a long moment. Then he looked away. "Fine."
She reluctantly drew her hand back, curling her fingers upon themselves. "Shall I leave you with your tea, then?"
"No. Don't leave me with anything — except my bad mood."
"Maybe your bad mood will go away if you talk about it. You might feel better for having shared your troubles."
He gave a bitter laugh. "I might, but you most certainly would not. Therefore, let us not speak of it further. Good night, Celsiana. Sleep well."
The abrupt dismissal stung. Celsie looked at him, quietly suffering, his head turned away and his gaze directed toward the dark window. What was he hiding? Why was he so reluctant to confide in her? She longed to comfort him, but she didn't know how.
Sighing, she picked up the remains of their dinner. He just lay there staring out the window, clenching and unclenching the blanket. The silence was awful. The tension in the room was even worse. Celsie picked up the tray. Fine then. If he wanted to enjoy his bad mood in solitude, she'd leave him to it. She wasn't about to make things worse by reacting to it or, God forbid, insisting on staying when it was obvious that he wanted nothing more than to be left alone.
Men! Were they all this impossible?
"Good night then, Andrew. I hope that morning improves both your appetite and your mood."
Chin high, she turned and headed for the door, hoping he'd call her back, that he'd relent and share his troubles with her, for it was not good to go to sleep angry, and she knew, even if he did not, that he needed her in a way that he might never admit.
