The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
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ignored the pain. Struck again. And again. The snake hissed like a boiling kettle as it tried to escape the killing blows.
There was a blurred sense of time shifting, of an element being acutely out of place. A ferocious howling filled Rafe’s ears until it became too painful to hear. Desperately he shouted to his men. There was a sense then of reality breaking up into tiny fragments, overlapping one upon the other until clarity was lost and only a dizzying impression was left, like shadows milling.
A swirl of movement from just behind him heralded another danger. He took a deep breath, straining for control, and swung to meet the new threat.
Poised in the doorway, Charity stifled a gasp. Heart pounding, she stood there, her lips blue white, every limb trembling. She put her hands over her heart as if the gesture could stop the painful pounding. She could feel the blood rushing in and out of her heart, the thump-thump of its beat.
Rafe’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Rivulets ran down his neck, over his bare chest. Raw emotion was clearly etched across his face.
“What happened?” she asked, her voice a feathery whisper.
“It could have bitten me, Mama,” Isaac said, then launched himself against her, wrapping both arms about her narrow waist, his bright head pressed hard against her breast. Her own arms enclosed him, holding him tight, as she had when he was an infant.
“Hush, child. You are safe now.” Her voice fractured and failed her.
The bondman flung the scythe from him, and the serpent slid to the floor, still quivering in death. There was a peculiar tautness in Rafe’s face.
He turned his hands over, staring at the backs—at the clenched fingers, the white knuckles, the white dressings, like bracelets at the wrist. He slammed his hands together.
Charity was panting, from the emotion running through her as much as from her breathless race from the top of the ridge. So many questions chased through her mind. She wished Rafe would look up at her. She knew that what she couldn’t say must be plain in her face.
But he did not.
“I am trained to kill and to stay alive.” He said the words slowly and softly. “Now there are times when instinct takes over—pure and lethal—because there is no time to think. Hesitate and you are dead.”
Rafe took a deep breath, let it go slowly. He paused and spread his hands, then continued in a stolid manner. “I am sorry if I upset you with my violence, ma’am, but I had an obligation to fulfil.”
Sudden intuition flooded her. He thought she was repelled because he had lost control of himself and she had witnessed his descent into mindless savagery and blood lust.
Instead, she had this almost overwhelming need to throw herself against his sweaty, blood-splattered body. Hug him to her as she did her son. It disturbed her how vulnerable she suddenly felt.
Charity closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her lips were dry, and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. She was silent a moment, and then blurted out, “I am obliged to you for your quick thinking, sir.”
“The snake was in the bin Isaac was emptying…”
Benjie lost his voice. His pale, little face, on which the freckles stood out like dark stains, looked stricken and wretched.
Charity put a trembling hand on his shoulder, drew him close, as she had Isaac. Her hair was in disarray, falling in thick locks about her pale face, but she ignored it. “Thank you for saving…”
The preoccupied expression left Rafe’s face. “You don’t have to trouble to say it again, ma’am. I always keep my promises. You may rest assured that you and your family are safe while I bide here.”
She wanted to say something else, but no words came to her. In spite of the relief of finding the boys unharmed, she was still disorientated. It had all happened so quickly. A menacing figure, a demon, had become rescuer and friend between one moment and the next. She needed time to catch up.
Even though it lay dead in front of her, the serpent still inspired fear in her. The glittering, sinuous body was both dangerous and beautiful. There was something strangely fascinating about the creature.
Never had Charity so surely and manifestly experienced God’s protecting hand. Perhaps the tempter, the devil himself, had assumed this serpent’s shape and sneaked into their barn with foul intent—only to be ousted by this good man who, to all outward appearances, seemed wicked.
Things were not always as they seemed.
At last she heard herself say, “Perhaps the child was saved because we gave shelter to a man in need of redemption.” The thought stayed with her long after they had left the place.
The sun had begun to make its descent, but still hung high in the clear sky, spilling its heat over the clearing, when Charity unpacked a jar of lemonade and some spiceand-ginger biscuits from her basket.
“It is time for some refreshment. You must be thirsty after such heavy labor. I have some fresh-made lemonade. Would you like that?” She was talking to fill in the gap, feeling as timid as a young maid.
Rafe had a short length of an oak log set up on a sawhorse of crossed stakes and was squaring it with the blade of his ax. The ax was so sharp that when he took the bit in his hands and pushed it against the wood, long, even shavings curled up as though he were using a drawknife.
He looked around at her, and his golden eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her freshly ironed coif to the shoes on her feet.
“Lemonade?” The question was gentle, as if he understood what she really wanted to say.
Looking into his gleaming eyes was a task now, and after one glance, she wrenched her gaze away. She couldn’t meet those all-knowing eyes. She wasn’t ready. She’d never been ready for this…this invasion, this presence, this devil on the hunt for her inner self.
Only her body resisted her mind. Charity knew her figure hardly showed to advantage in the high-necked, longsleeved, drab gown, but the movement of her breathing made the fabric emphasize the shape of her full breasts. It was as if he had touched her there.
To make matters worse, her disturbed senses were responding, her breasts straining against their covering. She stole a glance to see if he’d noticed. He hadn’t. He’d resumed shaping the oak log.
“Do you want some?” she asked, nettled by his silence.
“Leave it. I’ll have some by and by.” He kept on thrusting the edge of his ax against the oak, producing the long, curling, pleasant-smelling shavings.
“If I do that, Betsy Ann is like to tip over the jug and spill it all,” Charity told him with considerable relish. “Raccoons are mischievous animals at the best of times, and we have pampered and spoiled Betsy Ann. Now the naughty creature thinks she can do what she likes. And not do what she doesn’t fancy,” she added tartly, thinking of how the pet raccoon had chewed through her tether this morning, brandished her striped tail in defiance and disappeared into the shrubbery.
Rafe straightened and eyed her coldly. Lines cut deeply into a face carved from chalk, the lips a chiseled slash. Just standing there, he gave the impression of controlled strength and energy. This was belied by his face, which was drawn and pale, the ragged scar adding a further dimension to the lines already etched into his features. He lifted his ax and tried the edge with his thumb.
“A ‘coon doesn’t like to be tied, any more than does a man.” He turned over the oak block and began squaring the other side.
Charity paled slightly at the implication inherent in the bondman’s words. She drew a breath, caught her lower lip in her teeth.
“I’m sorry.” She filled a horn beaker with the cool liquid. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your circumstances.”
For a long