Chapter Three

 

Arrabella edged back toward the barn door, trying to not make any noise despite the tears running down her cheeks that nearly blurred her vision. She stopped when she heard Michael stumble out into the main aisle between the stalls. The urge to help him almost made her hurry to his side, but he managed to get to the post near the horse’s stall without tripping on anything.

“Hey, Chance, you hungry, fella?” he said as he reached over to stroke the large black stallion’s head and neck, then gave a bitter laugh. “Should probably let you go. A blind man can’t take care of you, let alone ride.”

The pain of seeing him so sad and in such a state of helplessness tore at Arrabella’s heart.

“Useless, that’s what I am. Useless to you,” he said, even as he felt around for the pitchfork leaning up against the barn wall. “Useless to the art world. Useless to Bella. Hell, boy, I’m pretty much useless to myself.”

Is that how he saw himself now? With such pity? Was that why no one came out here to see him, because they pitied the poor blind soldier returned home? And of course, he was busy drowning his sorrows in whiskey.

“It would’ve been better if the shrapnel had just killed me, not left me a useless invalid.”

Anger surged through her with his words of self-pity. Anger at the war. Anger at the townspeople. Anger at Michael.

Just as quickly it was replaced with her New England practicality. You couldn’t wish for things to be different. No, sir. If you wanted things to change you had to start with the situation life dealt you.

Well, the last thing he needed now was more pity from her. She wanted the man she fell in love with, the cocky, smart, capable man who made her laugh and who still had the soul of an artist. By God, she planned on finding him in the shell of a man currently stumbling around in the dark. Even if she had to drag him kicking and screaming out of the pool of despair he was wallowing in.

Straightening her spine, she opened and closed the barn door as if she’d just entered.

“Who’s there?” Michael asked, whirling toward the sound, holding the pitchfork like a weapon.

“Just me. I’m hungry and thought I’d make some eggs.” She didn’t look at him, just headed straight toward the cubbyholes where the chickens roosted. Ignoring him, she reached under the hens, happy to find nearly a dozen eggs, which she gathered in the front of her skirt.

“Bella, look at me.”

She turned and stared at the love of her life, standing in the barn clutching the pitchfork as if ready to ward off an attack. She forced her voice to sound as if addressing him in the front parlor of her father’s home. “Yes, Michael?”

“Bella, I’m blind.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat at his flat pronouncement. “I noticed. I also noticed the animals are hungry and the cows need milking. Since only one of us knows how to do that, I suggest you get started. That is, if you think you can do more than drink and wallow in self-pity.”

Then she turned and walked to the door, calling out over her shoulder, “If you’ll bring the milk up to the house, I’d appreciate it.”

Outside the barn she leaned against the door, listening to his cursing and the sounds of him moving about tears running down her face. It broke her heart to see him standing there helpless and only the pitchfork as his protection from whoever might have stumbled into the barn.

Acting as if nothing were wrong with him was the cruelest thing she’d ever done. She’d wanted so badly to put her arms around him and comfort him, but this was about helping him heal that part of his soul that was wounded more deeply than losing his eyesight, not making him feel better.

She could do this. For both of them and their future, she had to find the courage to fight for what they once had.

If he was ever going to truly come back from the war in body, soul and spirit, he was going to have to learn to function despite his injuries.

Cradling the eggs carefully in her skirt and ignoring the tears streaming down her face to mix with the cold, rainy drizzle, she hurried to the cottage. Safely under the porch eaves, she looked back at the barn once more, her heart heavy.

She just prayed she wouldn't lose Michael’s love in the effort to save him.

 

The sound of the barn door closing reverberated inside Michael’s head as he stood in the middle of the barn still holding the pitchfork as a weapon.

Had that really just happened?

He’d faced his greatest nightmare, telling Bella he was blind, and she accepted it like he’d said the barn roof needed repair? No tears? No words of pity? Just, I noticed?

Stunned, he lowered the pitchfork, tines first to the barn floor, knowing exactly how far to miss his boots, and leaned against the handle.

“Sonofabitch! That’s all you have to say? ‘I noticed?’” He ground the words out in the direction she’d left. “That’s it, Bella? You noticed?”

He’d been sure she’d be devastated, had expected tears and unguarded pity. Instead, she’d ordered him to feed the animals and milk the cow. Had she grown heartless during the war? Did she care so little for his ability to paint that the loss of it was inconsequential to her? Had her love for him been a sham?

Or was it a challenge? Did she think he was so helpless that he couldn’t feed the animals or milk the cows? Did she expect him to fail? To come running to her begging for help with simple farm chores? Did she want to show him how much he needed her so he’d keep her around?

Well, if that was her plan, she had another think coming. Hell, he’d been doing those chores practically since the day he could walk. His world might be darker now, his ability to paint lost forever, but he wasn’t completely useless, no matter what he’d said to Chance earlier. He might not have managed much since coming home from the war, but he’d taken care of his animals.

Lifting the pitchfork, he carefully scooted back to the pile of loose hay he’d knocked down days before and snagged a hefty pile of the dry grass. The first week home he’d dismissed the neighbor keeping his father’s farm in order, taking over the chores to ensure his privacy. It had taken a few days, but he’d finally figured out how each good fork-full felt on his hands and arms to limit the number of trips from the hay to the stalls. He’d also determined exactly how many of those were needed to fill the feed boxes. Even drunk he’d managed twice a day to stumble to the barn and check on them.

If Bella thought he’d come inside begging for her help for this task, she was wrong.

Once the animals had been fed, he grabbed a rope off the stall nearest the cows and looped one over the head of a heifer. He led her into the milking stall, counting the steps and moving at the last second to keep from getting trapped between her and the stall rail where he secured her. Feeling along the wall, he found one of the pails he’d kept there and the milking stool.

Seated next to the first cow, he patted her down her side and under until his hand connected with her udders and swollen teats. Grasping one teat in each hand, he pulled and squeezed, listening for the sound of the milk hitting the metal pail held securely between his feet.

The rhythm of milking let his mind wander once more.

He’d been storing the milk in large pails near the barn door for Higgins or his son to pick up in payment for his monthly supplies. Until the weather broke in the spring and he figured out a way to till the land to plant a crop, milk and eggs were his only source of income.

Eggs. Bella had collected them for breakfast this morning. Was she planning to cook enough for both of them or just herself? His stomach growled. Suddenly he was hungry for something more than whiskey.

After breakfast he’d have to talk with her, explain why she couldn’t stay, no matter how much his heart and body wanted her to.

*****

First thing to hit him as he entered the cabin nearly an hour later, was the aroma followed by the sense of warmth. Surprised at how welcoming both sensations were, he stood in the doorway holding the nearly full pail of milk.

Eggs and fried ham.

Oak burning in the fireplace.

Something baking?

Biscuits?

“Michael?” Her soft question from his left startled him and the milk sloshed slightly over the pail onto his hand.

“Where do you want this?” he asked, his voice sounding gruff in his own ears.

“By the dry sink,” she said.

He heard her shuffle to one side as he made his way over, one hand outstretched to be sure he didn’t walk into anything on his way. After he set it down, he wiped his hands on the towel she handed him, heat sizzling up his arm when his fingers slid over hers.

“Is that all the milk there is from three cows?”

“The rest is for Higgins. He’ll pick it up when he brings supplies. Why? Didn’t you think I could milk three cows?” He stopped, facing her as if he could still see her, only his gaze didn’t connect with hers, didn’t see the crystal blue of her eyes. It never would again.

“I have faith in you to do whatever you set your mind to. I just didn’t know how much milk three cows made.”

“No, I’m sure you don’t. Not something routinely discussed in faculty drawing rooms at the university, is it?”

Agitated at his own sarcasm, he turned and carefully made his way to the table.

Thank God she hadn’t taken his hand and helped him with either the milk or getting to the table. He would not be unmanned by being led around. Finally seated, he sat forward, elbow on the table and ran his other hand over his face.

He listened to Bella moving around the kitchen. The sizzle of the eggs in the grease from the ham as she lifted them out and onto the ceramic plates. Milk splashing into a glass. The rest pouring into the crock his mother always kept in the pantry to store the milk cool and covered. The swish of Bella’s skirts as she neared, her scent of faint orange blossoms mixing with the food on the plates she carried closer.

Leaning back to give her room, he kept one hand on the table. She set the plate so just the edge touched his hand. She leaned closer, her breast sliding over his arm as she set a fork near the plate, her fingers once more caressing his skin. Stiffening, he endured the sweet torture. Again heat surged through him and a desire to pull her down onto his lap and just hold her close. He couldn’t give into the desires.

“Don’t,” he hissed.

“Don’t what? Don’t put your utensil by your food? That’s how I set the table,” she said with just enough feigned innocence in her voice.

“Don’t tease me. You’re not staying.”

Her chair scraped against the wood floor, the seat on the left side of the table. Right beside him.

“You would make me walk back to town in the rain?”

As if on cue, thunder rumbled outside, the heavens opened and rain clattered against the roof and windows with a vengeance.

He clutched the fork in his hand, shoulders slumped. She was right, he couldn’t throw her out in the elements, no matter that she’d come uninvited. “No, but when Higgins brings supplies you’ll leave with him.”

Not wanting her pity, he tested the plate with his fork until he came in contact with the eggs then felt the other side until his fingers slid over the slices of cooked ham. She could’ve told him where the food was, but once again left him to do for himself.

Was it anger that kept her from doing so? Or did she realize he barely had any pride left and to be treated like a child would kill what remained?

He pondered this as he ate.

Hunched close to the plate, he scooped the food up with his bacon and fork. Eating like he had during the war, fast and sloppily. Not knowing when his next meal would come. Like an animal.

Bella didn’t talk during the meal. If it weren’t for the sound of her own cutlery pinging on the plates and the lingering scent of orange blossoms beside him, he would’ve thought she’d left him alone at the table.

Finishing the last crumb on his plate, he sat back in his chair, more sated than he could remember since arriving home. He supposed he should thank her, but manners were for sophisticated men. Not only had he left his sight on the battlefield, but he was damned sure he’d left any civilized part of his soul there, too.

He listened to her move about the kitchen cleaning up their morning meal. Washing dishes in water she’d heated in a stove where she’d built the fire herself. The softness of her voice as she hummed through her chore.

Anger surged through him once more.

Bella didn’t start fires. She didn’t wash dishes. She didn’t cook meals. Her father’s servants did those things.

She deserved better than living with half a man out in the wilds in a shack on a run-down farm. Hell, she’d been raised to be the elite of New England society. If she didn’t understand that, then it was up to him to make her face the facts.

*****

As she washed the breakfast dishes, Bella let the hot water she’d heated on the pot-bellied stove warm her hands and melt some of the tension inside her.

The meal had been a strained effort on her part to remain quiet. There were so many things she wanted to ask him. How had his injury occurred? Had anyone been there to help him? Did it happen early in the war? Late? Why hadn’t he contacted her and let her come help him?

Sigh.

The answer to that last question was obvious. He hadn’t wanted her help. Because he was ashamed of his injury? Or because he thought her a useless piece of fluff that wouldn’t still love him if he weren’t perfect? Had he thought so little of her?

Sometime she’d ask him all these things, but the most important thing now was to make him see his worth and the rightness of their love. All other doubts and questions would wait.

Michael’s chair scraped the floor behind her.

She resisted the urge to hurry over and help him. Instinct told her to let him try and fail on his own as much as possible. Of course, she’d made the effort to clear the path from the door to the table and the dry sink of obstacles--in particular whiskey bottles--before he’d returned from the barn.

He shuffle-walked along the floor in her direction.

She continued scrubbing the cast-iron skillet even after his hand found her shoulder.

“Bella.”

Her efforts stilled at the gruff sound of her name in his deep voice.

“Yes, Michael?”

“You can’t stay. Surely you see that?” He pressed closer, sliding his hand up her shoulder. It caught in the few hairs that had escaped her braid and smoothed them to the side. The tender touch of his fingers on her neck sent shivers of need humming through her.

It had always been this way between them. The simplest touch had her craving all of him deep inside her, igniting her from head to toe.

“Why?” she asked, even though she already knew his answer. “Last night you made love to me. Even though you couldn’t see me, you knew who it was. You called my name.”

“I was dreaming, Bella. I wasn’t making love to you. I was fucking the warm body in my bed, plain and simple. It could’ve been anyone.”

“You don’t mean that. It wasn’t just anyone you called for. It was me,” she said, trying to turn and look at him.

He wrapped both arms around her and hauled her hard up against his body, imprisoning her there. “War taught me I’m not a refined, civilized man who can stand in the drawing rooms of Boston’s finest homes to discuss new movements in the art world. I killed men, Bella.”

“It was war. Everyone killed someone.”

“Yes, but I was especially good at it,” he ground out, his breath rolling over the sensitive skin of her ear and neck. “It’s how I became a captain, by taking out men without batting an eye at how many lay dying at my feet. Not a shred of remorse.”

She turned her head to speak, only to have him capture her lips with his in an angry kiss, hot and passionate. When he slipped his tongue in to mate with hers it was as if he was trying to master her from the inside out. Releasing his hold on her arms, he slid both hands up to cup her breasts.

As he kneaded her breasts and thrust his tongue deep in her mouth, heat spread straight to her groin. The need to succumb to his desire ignited her own. She wanted to give him what he wanted, what he needed, knowing it would help her find her own release.

Suddenly he slowed his kiss and eased the pressure of his lips on hers, pulling back until only a breath of air separated their parted lips. “Do you remember the lectures your father used to give to the students that gathered in your conservatory?”

Confused at this sudden change in him, she started to nod then stopped, inhaling instead, the effort dragging his scent deep inside her lungs, filling her senses with his passion. “Yes.”

He slid his hands down her breasts to tweak the nipples pointing hard into her bodice with his fingertips. “Do you remember what he said separated us from the animals?”

“I don’t remember…”

“Don’t lie, Bella.” He pinched both nipples hard. “I do remember. Your father said, ‘The thing that separates man from the animals is his enlightenment. And the thing that keeps us civilized is our ability to see and appreciate art’.”

“That’s not what my father meant…”

“That’s exactly what he meant and he was right.” Michael bit down on her earlobe, pulling it and sending shocking pain and heat throughout her once more before letting go. “The war did that for me. It showed me I was as savage as a beast. Then it took my sight, reducing me to the animal I am, unable to create or appreciate beauty.”

“Michael, you’re not…”

“Yes, I am.”

His hands gripped the folds of her bodice and pulled, ripping the pearl buttons from their moorings to scatter all over the wood floor. Startled, she tried to pull back, but he held her captive against him by pulling the sleeves down her arms, trapping them at her sides then quickly releasing her breasts from the thin silk chemise and cupping them tightly in his hands.  “You see, there is nothing I want more than to take you, here, now, bent over the table like a stallion claiming his mare.”

Again he captured her mouth with his, grinding his lips on hers while he kneaded her flesh, making both breasts swell and the nipples grow more taut in the cool air. Shocked by the force of his grip she tried to wriggle away, but he kept her trapped between the dry sink and his body. She fought back the panic threatening to bubble out like boiling water.

Despite his claims of an animal nature and the violence he’d shown her dress, this was Michael, the man who’d always treated her with care even in passion. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not deliberately.

He pushed his hips into hers, the long thick length of his swollen manhood pressing against her cheeks through the folds of her skirts. As always his passion and need ignited hers. A low moan escaped her, parting her lips to let his tongue invade as he pumped his hips against her bottom.

He dragged his lips away and left a punishing trail over her neck to her shoulder. “Is that what you want, Bella?”

She should refuse him, fight him, but her body craved him inside, deep inside. “Please, Michael.”

“Please, what?” he asked as he latched onto the junction of her neck and shoulder, biting softly then sucked on the spot. “Please bend you over the table?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Still gripping her tightly against him, he shoved a chair out of his way and maneuvered them back to the table, turning her until her torso stretched overtop of it, his weight pressing down on hers, the cold wood of the table chilling her breasts where he’d tortured them.

“Now what, Bella? Do you want to see what it’s like to be mounted by the beast?” He gripped her by the hips, grinding his erection against her then she felt him grip her skirts and pull them up. One booted foot pushing her legs apart. “If you stay that’s what this is going to be like. No making love. Two animals mating. Just fucking when the urge hits.”

Tears filled her eyes and spilled out over her cheeks at his coarse description. She felt him fumble with the buttons of his trousers and knew he was going to take her hard. Her mind wanted to scream at him to stop, beg him to be the tender lover he’d always been, but something dark inside her body craved just what he was promising.

With one thrust, he buried himself deep inside her.

A growl ripped from his throat.

“Yes! Mine!”

He thrust his hips against her, pumping his cock deep inside her moist channel. She wished her hands were free so she could grip the table. Instead she bore the pain of him grinding her thighs against the table edge, rubbing the nub of her pleasure each time, her pain and pleasure mixing.

“This…is all…I can…give you. Is this…what you want? To be…used?” he asked as he pounded into her from behind, slowly leaning down over her.

“No,” she whispered.

Gripping her hair, he pulled her face up from the table. “Tell me, Bella.”

She groaned, because she shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t be lifting her hips to meet his. Her mind and body at war. “No, it’s not what I want.”

Stilling inside her, his cock throbbing in time to her own pulse, he released her hair. He brought his hand down to caress her face, stopping as his fingers rubbed the tears streaming down.

He froze.

She inhaled on a sob.

“Oh, God, Bella,” he moaned and dropped his head onto her neck. After a moment he slowly pulled out of her. “I’m sorry. So sorry.”

Before she could tell him that he didn’t understand what she was saying, he’d shoved himself off her, stumbled away and grabbed his coat where he’d hung it on a peg. His foot kicked the crate near the door. He snatched an unopened bottle from it on his way out.

Stunned by his desertion, all she could do was lie on the table filled with humiliation and frustrated desire.

“Why?”

It wasn’t a question about why he’d done what he’d done. She knew the answer to that. He wanted to frighten her away, to destroy in her mind what they had. He’d almost said as much.

But why had she let him? Why had her body responded so carnally to that dark, violent passion he’d let loose on her?

What was wrong with her?

*****

Rape.

The word propelled him off the porch through the cold rain and sleet, toward the woods beyond the barn. Clutching the whiskey bottle in one hand, with the other he batted away low-hanging limbs that smacked at him like invisible combatants in a gauntlet of pain, his body ricocheting off tree trunks as he stumbled along. Finally falling to his knees in a bed of pine needles, he pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a long swig. The liquid burned a path down his throat and landed like a hot brick in his gut.

Rape. That’s what it had been, pure and simple.

He’d meant to scare her. That was all, to convince her that there was no storybook ending for them.

But then she’d responded to his forced kiss, his manhandling her, his subduing her like a wolf claiming his mate. Like lightning on dry kindling.

Yes.

She’d said yes when he asked if she wanted to be mounted. Her pussy was even dripping wet when he entered her, but he’d given into the animal inside him, taking his own needs out on her.

Nausea washed over him like a white-water rapid.

More than once during the war he’d witnessed soldiers succumb to their blood lust after a battle. Men taking the aggression still pumping through their bodies out on the innocent women caught in the middle of the warring armies. Their behavior disgusting him, he’d court-martialed more than one in the months before his injury.

Fighting back the images of the women suffering at the hands of soldiers and the same soldiers facing death because of it, he took another swig of the whiskey. He’d punished men for acting like lustful mongrels.

He closed his eyes, the memory of the last soldier he condemned to death and the atrocity he’d committed filling his mind.

Silas Trout. A lean, slimy, repulsive man. He’d been good at getting behind enemy lines, allowing his troops to out-flank the Rebs, on more than one occasion. It was the only reason he’d overlooked Trout’s vile temper and barely restrained disrespect for his commanders—especially him.

They’d caught a Confederate patrol hiding in the barn of a small farm in the hills on the border of western Kentucky and eastern Virginia. The small band of men had fought valiantly, some of them even making it into the farmhouse. An act that cost the family inside greatly.

After the few remaining men had been captured, Michael had been busy interrogating them out in the yard about troop movements in the area when he heard the first scream.

He ran inside to find a soldier holding the mother prisoner while Silas pounded his cock into a girl that looked to be about sixteen—battered and bruised from Trout’s fists. The girl screamed with every thrust.

Michael drew his pistol and pointed the end of the barrel right at Silas’ temple. “I suggest you stop or I’ll blow your brains out all over her.”

Silas’ body froze, but his mouth didn’t. It split in that snake-oil-salesman smile he used to show contempt for his officers and tobacco spittle dribbled out of one corner. “She’s a rebel bitch, Captain. Ain’t no reason to get upset. I’ll leave a little for you to enjoy.”

The girl cried louder.

Trout backhanded her.

It was the last straw.

He pulled the trigger, blowing the cretin’s brains all over the girl and the wall. Ignoring the screaming girl, he turned the gun on the accomplice holding her mother against the wall.

“Do you want to join your friend?”

The wide-eyed soldier shook his head.

“Then I suggest you let her go and clean up this pile of refuse. Make sure the body isn’t left anywhere near this farm.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Sgt. O’Malley said from just inside the doorway.

“And why is that?” he asked as he slid his pistol back in the holster and stalked through the throng of men who’d gathered at the cabin door to watch.

“Trout has a couple of brothers, both meaner than him.” The sergeant walked with him back to where the prisoners were being held. “Word gets back to them, they’ll come looking for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Trout’s death had been worth the effort. During the remainder of his command, none of his men attempted a rape. For a few days afterwards he’d been unable to shake both the images of that day and the threat of retribution by the Trouts. But then his company had been occupied with Petersburg and with it came the cannon fire that cost him his sight, all thoughts of the incident and Silas Trout out of his mind, until now.

And now he’d been no better.

Worse.

He’d hurt the woman he’d loved with all his heart. For the first time since his injury he gave thanks to God that because of it he hadn’t seen the pain in Bella’s face.

No, he’d felt her pain in the tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d heard her anguish in the words, “No, it’s not what I want.”

Raw pain hit his gut anew. He finally doubled over and emptied its contents on the damp leaves at his feet.

Finished, he sat back against the thick trunk of an oak, wiping his mouth with a coat sleeve and hanging his head. Ice-cold rain poured over him, dripping down the long strands of his hair and over his beard.

He should be shot.

Put down like the rabid dog he was.