The Rogue (5 page)

"I hope I didn't stop you from planting."

No, you didn't.
Susannah glanced sharply down at the chives. She knelt and began to cover the roots before they dried out. As she worked, she keyed her hearing to where the man stood, outside the gate.
Every once in a while, she glanced up.
Each time she did, he was still standing there, motionless, hands in the pockets of his jeans, an old, beat-up leather jacket hanging loosely on his lean frame. His serious features were set, and she sensed an unhappiness radiating from him.
About what?
Being here? Meeting her? So many things didn't make sense to her. If he was one of Morgan's friends, why would he be unhappy about being here? If he was here for a vacation, he should be relaxed.

Killian caught Susannah's inquiring gaze. Then, dusting off her hands, she continued down the row, pulling weeds. The breeze gently blew strands of her thick hair across her shoulders, framing her face.

Although he hadn't moved, Killian's eyes were active, sizing up the immediate vicinity—the possible entrances to the shanty and the layout of the
sur-
rounding meadow. His gaze moved back to Susannah, who continued acting guarded, nearly ignoring him. She was probably hoping he'd go away and leave her alone, he thought wryly. God knew
,
he'd like to do exactly that. His anger toward Morgan grew in volume.

"I haven't seen a woman in bare feet since I left Ireland," he finally offered in a low, clipped tone. No, conversation wasn't his forte.

Susannah stopped weeding and jerked a look in his direction. Killian crossed to sit on the grassy bank, his arms around his knees, his gaze still on her.

As if women can't go with their shoes off!

Killian saw the disgust in her eyes. Desperately he cast about for some way to lessen the tension between them. As long as she distrusted him, he wouldn't be able to get close enough to protect her. Inwardly Killian cursed Morgan.

Forcing
himself
to try again, he muttered, "That wasn't an insult.
Just an observation.
My sister, Meg, who's about your age, always goes barefoot in the garden, too." He gestured toward the well-kept plants. "Looks like you give them a lot of attention. Meg always said plants grew best when you gave them love." Just talking about Meg, even to this wary, silent audience of
one,
eased some of his pain for his sister.

You know how I feel!
Weeds in her hands, Susannah straightened, surprised by the discovery. Killian had seen her facial expression and read it accurately. Hope rushed through her. Her mother and father, as dearly as they loved her, couldn't seem to read her feelings at all since she'd come out of the coma. But suddenly this lanky, tightly coiled stranger with the sky-blue eyes, black hair and soft, hesitant smile could.

Are you a psychiatrist? I hope not.
Susannah figured she'd been through enough testing to last her a lifetime. Older men with glasses and beards had pronounced her hysterical due to her trauma and said it was the reason she couldn't speak. Her fingers tightened around the weeds as she stood beneath Killian's cool, expressionless inspection.

Killian saw the tension in Susannah's features dissolve for just an instant. He'd touched her, and he knew it. Frustrated and unsure of her reaction to him, he tried again, but his voice came out cold. "Weeds make good compost. Do you have a compost pile around here?"

Susannah looked intensely at this unusual man, feeling him instead of listening to his words, which he seemed to have mouthed in desperation. Ordinarily, if she'd met Killian on a busy street, he would have frightened her. His face was lean, like the rest of him, and his nose was large and straight, with a good space between his slightly arched eyebrows. There was an intense alertness in those eyes that reminded her of a cougar. And although he had offered that scant smile initially, his eyes contained a hardness that Susannah had never seen in her life. Since the incident that had changed her life, she had come to rely heavily on her intuitive abilities to ferret out people's possible ulterior motives toward her. The hospital therapist had called it paranoia. But in this case, Susannah sensed that a great sadness had settled around Killian like a cloak.
And danger.

Why danger? And is it danger to me?
He did
look
dangerous, there was no doubt. Susannah couldn't find one telltale sign in his features of humanity or emotion. But her fear warred with an image she couldn't shake, the image of the sad but crooked smile that had made him appear vulnerable for one split second out of time.

Killian watched Susannah walk slowly and cautiously through the garden gate. She was about three feet away from him now, and he probed her for signs of wariness. He had no wish to minimize her guardedness toward him—if he could keep her at arm's length and do his job, this assignment might actually work out. If he couldn't. . .

Just the way Susannah moved snagged a sharp stab of longing deep within him. She had the grace of a ballet dancer, her hips swaying slightly as she stepped delicately across the rows of healthy plants. He decided not to follow her, wanting to allow her more time to adjust to his presence. Just then a robin, sitting on the fence near Killian, took off and landed in the top of an old, gnarled apple tree standing alone just outside the garden. Instantly there was a fierce cheeping, and Killian cocked his head to one side. A half-grown baby robin was perched precariously on the limb near the nest, fluttering his wings demandingly as the parent hovered nearby with food in his beak.

Killian sensed Susannah's presence and slowly turned his head. She was standing six feet away, watching him pointedly. There was such beauty in her shadowed gray eyes. Killian recognized that shadow- Meg's eyes were marred by the same look.

"That baby robin is going to fall off that limb if he isn't careful."

Yes, he is. Yesterday he did, and I had to pick him up and put him back in the tree.
Frustrated by her inability to speak the words, Susannah nodded and wiped her hands against her thighs. Once again she found herself wanting her notepad and pen. He was a stranger and couldn't be trusted, a voice told her. Still, he was watching the awkward progress of the baby robin with concern.

Unexpectedly the baby robin shrieked. Susannah opened her mouth to cry out, but only a harsh, strangulated sound came forth as the small bird fluttered helplessly down through the branches of the apple tree and hit the ground roughly, tumbling end over end. When the baby regained his composure, he began to scream for help, and both parents flew around and around him.

Without thinking, Susannah rushed past Killian to rescue the bird, as she had yesterday.

"No," Killian whispered, reaching out to stop Susannah. "I'll do it." Her skin was smooth and sun- warmed beneath his fingers, and instantly Killian released her, the shock of the touch startling not only him, but her, too.

Susannah gasped, jerking back, her mouth opened in shock. Her skin seemed to tingle where his fingers had briefly, carefully grasped her wrist.

Taken aback by her reaction, Killian glared at her, then immediately chastised himself. After all, didn't he want her to remain fearful of him? Inside, though, his heart winced at the terror he saw in her gaze, at the contorted shape of her lips as she stared up at him—as if he was her assailant. His action had been rash, he thought angrily. Somehow Susannah's presence had caught him off guard. Infuriated by his own blind reactions, Killian stood there at a loss for words.

Susannah saw disgust in Killian's eyes, and then, on its heels, a gut-wrenching sadness. Still stunned by his swift touch, she backed even farther away from him. Finally the robin's plaintive cheeping impinged on her shocked senses, and she tore her attention from Killian, pointing at the baby robin now hopping around on the ground.

"Yeah.
Okay, I'll get the bird," Killian muttered crossly. He was furious with himself, at the unexpected emotions that brief touch had aroused. For the most fleeting moment, his heart jumped at the thought of what it would feel like to kiss Susannah until she was breathless with need of him. Thoroughly disgusted that the thought had even entered his head, Killian moved rapidly to rescue the baby bird. What woman would be interested in him? He was a dark introvert of a man, given to very little communication. A man haunted by a past that at any moment could avalanche into his present and effectively destroy a woman who thought she might care for him. No, he was dangerous—a bomb ready to explode—and he was damned if he was going to put any woman in the line of fire.

As he leaned down and trapped the robin carefully between his hands, the two parents flew overhead, shrieking, trying to protect their baby. Gently Killian cupped the captured baby, lifting the feathered tyke and staring into his shiny black eyes.

"Next time some cat might find you first and think you're a tasty supper," he warned sternly as he turned toward the apple tree. Placing the bird in his shirt pocket, he grabbed a low branch and began to climb.

Susannah stood below, watching Killian's lithe progress. Everything about the man was methodical. He never stepped on a weak limb; he studied the situation thoroughly before placing each foot to push
himself
upward toward the nest. Yet, far from plodding, he had an easy masculine grace.

Killian settled the robin in its nest and quickly made his way down to avoid the irate parents. Leaping the last few feet, he landed with the grace of a large cat. "Well, our good deed is done for the day," he said gruffly, dusting off his hands.

His voice was as icy as his unrelenting features, and Susannah took another step away from him.

Thank you for rescuing the baby. But how can such
a hard,
man perform such a gentle feat? What's your story, Killian?
His eyes turned impatient under her inspection, and Susannah tore her gaze away from him. The man had something to hide, it seemed.

How much more do you know about me? What did my folks tell you?
Susannah felt an odd sort of shame
at the thought of Killian knowing what had happened to her. Humiliation, too, coupled with anger and fear—the entire gamut of feelings she'd lived with daily since the shooting. Out of nervousness, she raised a hand to her cheek, which felt hot and flushed.

Killian noted the hurt in Susannah's eyes as she
selfconsciously
brushed her cheek with her fingertips. And in that moment he saw the violence's lasting damage: loss of self-esteem. She was afraid of him, and part of him ached at the unfairness of it, but he accepted his fate bitterly. Let Susannah think him untrustworthy—dangerous. Those instincts might save her life, should her assailant show up for another try at killing her.

"I need to wash my hands," he said brusquely, desperate to break the tension between them. He had to snap out of it. He couldn't afford to allow her to affect him—and possibly compromise his ability to protect her from a killer.

Unexpectedly Susannah felt tears jam into her eyes. She stood there in abject surprise as they rolled down her cheeks, unbidden, seemingly tapped from some deep source within her. Why was she crying? She hadn't cried since coming out of the coma! Embarrassed that Killian was watching her, a disgruntled look on his face, Susannah raised trembling hands to her cheeks.

Killian swayed—and caught himself. Every fiber of his being wanted to reach out and comfort Susannah. The tears, small, sun-touched crystals, streamed down her flushed cheeks. The one thing he couldn't bear was to see a woman cry. A weeping child he could handle, but somehow, when a woman cried, it was different.

Different, and gut-wrenchingly disturbing.
Meg's tears had torn him apart, her cries shredding what was left of his feelings.

Looking down at Susannah now, Killian felt frustration and disgust at his inability to comfort her. But that edge, that distrust, had to stay in place if he was to do his job.

Turning away abruptly, he looked around for a garden hose, for anything, really, that would give him an excuse to escape her nearness. Spying a hose leading from the side of the house, he turned on his heel and strode toward the faucet. Relief flowed through him as he put distance between them, the tightened muscles in his shoulders and back loosening. Trying to shake pangs of guilt for abandoning her, Killian leaned down and turned on the faucet. He washed his hands rapidly,
then
wiped them on the thighs of his jeans as he straightened.

He glanced back toward Susannah who still stood near the garden, looking alone and unprotected. As he slowly walked back to where she stood, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "It's almost time for dinner," he said gruffly. "I'm hungry. Are you coming?"

Susannah felt hollow inside. The tears had left her terribly vulnerable, and right now she needed human company more than usual. Killian's harsh company felt abrasive to her in her fragile emotional state, and she knew she'd have to endure walking through the orchard to her folks' house with him. She forced herself to look into his dark, angry features. This mute life of pad and pencil was unbelievably frustrating. Normally she believed mightily in communicating and confronting problems, and without a voice, it was nearly impossible to be
herself
. The old Susannah would have asked Killian what his problem with her was. Instead she merely gestured for him to follow her.