Put it away, put it away.
If she didn’t, he’d be stuck kneeling here, scouring until he scrubbed straight through
the basin. He fidgeted, the hard ground punishing his sore knees. And that rope in
her hands, spooling.
A word broke through. “Rob?”
He stared at her face, avoiding her hands, willing her features and words into focus.
“Sorry. What?”
“Does this have a home?” She swung the neat collection of loops.
“On the hook. By the door.”
She found the spot. As she hung up the rope and dusted her palms on her trousers,
the spell broke.
Jesus fucking Christ.
He gulped a breath.
Merry waggled the handle of the ax wedged into the wood-chopping stump until the blade
came loose, then set it aside, taking a seat. Rob watched her as though seeing this
creature for the first time.
She’d been pretty before, beautiful even, but the way flowers appealed—arranged in
a vase, inviting no contact, only civil appreciation. Now, though. That smile looked
wicked, those eyes dark and knowing. Those hands . . . His cock throbbed painfully,
bound by his jeans.
“Thank you,” his mouth said, the words issued by some synapse utterly divorced from
his consciousness.
Yes, good. That’s what you were meant to say.
“For your help.”
“Oh, sure. I like keeping busy.” She looked around, and everything that might’ve struck
Rob as innocent before was charged—that shiny dark hair somehow sinister now, in the
most alluring way. Those lips suddenly seemed capable of uttering the sorts of words
Rob’s twisted imagination might script.
Stay. On your knees. Give me your wrists. Shut your mouth.
Fucking hell. He’d escaped the drink, but that was only one vice, wasn’t it? He was
as sick as he’d ever been, back in England, to be projecting such cravings onto this
kind woman.
The guilt cooled his arousal, and thank goodness. He tossed his brush on the pile
of tools and stood.
“I need to steal your seat, I’m afraid.” He nodded to the stump and Merry got up.
He fetched an armload of firewood from the shed. They had plenty of this chunky, slow-burning
fodder, but could stand some smaller bits. He balanced a fat log and brought the axe
down, splitting it in two. The halves fell to either side of the stump and he placed
the next one.
Merry laughed, watching, and crossed her slender arms over her chest. “Goddamn, you’re
manly.”
And you’re the devil,
he thought, immediately ashamed of the thought. Of course she wasn’t. He was projecting
again, wishing she were capable of the things he’d imagined for those few minutes
she’d been handling that rope.
He could sense her, waiting. For him to say something. He’d had topics ready for this
occasion, but what they were . . . His hateful urges had driven them from his head.
After too long a silence, Merry said, “Guess I’ll head in and read until dinner.”
She sounded deflated.
Fix this. Fix it.
All he had to do was open his mouth and let some words fall out, like any human being
could. But all at once Rob was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, with an unaltered head
full of heinous predilections and no clue what to say to a girl to pass for normal.
The opportunity was gone. He looked up at the sound of the back door clacking shut,
and with a weary sigh, he brought the ax down.
Another log fell in tidy halves at his feet.
What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?
If he’d known, maybe he could have cured it half a lifetime ago. Avoided all the
self-destruction with the bottle.
He eyed the door. If he couldn’t be truly charming, he should at least
try
to appear receptive, if only because Merry seemed so eager to talk. And because in
truth, the sound of a sweet female voice in his home . . . It crackled like a hearth,
bright and warm and wholesome. As wholesome as his basest thoughts were ugly. And
with the flash of lust now thoroughly wilted to familiar remorse . . . He wanted to
get close enough to feel that heat again.
Then, for just a breath, he pictured those hands, that rope. And for just a breath,
her smile in his mind’s eye turned wicked, dark eyes making dark promises.
Leave it.
That was all in his imagination. But her kindness, her company—those gifts were real,
and untainted by Rob’s hateful appetites. His head spun, his skull a jar rattling
with rusty old screws.
Don’t lose this,
he warned himself as the blade came down again.
Don’t waste it.
But if it felt as good as he suspected, just talking with her, being near her . . .
How awful might it feel tomorrow or the day after, whenever she was well enough to
leave?
She’s going, whether you let yourself connect with her or not.
How awful might it feel if she left, took away her smile and voice and energy, along
with this missed opportunity?
“Fuck it,” he said aloud, and whacked the ax into the stump. He collected the wood
strewn at his feet, steeling himself.
He’d make tea.
He’d make conversation.
And though he’d likely make an arse of himself, he’d bloody well make a fucking effort.
Chapter Six
The lingering caffeine—and antsy lust—precluded a nap. The eReader wasn’t backlit,
and Merry read until she was squinting, the sun having retreated to the west. She
set the device aside and stared out the window, listening to the steady, muted thumps
of Rob’s endless wood-chopping. The mountains loomed.
The Highlands are a sharp, cold, unfriendly place,
her mother had told her, more than once.
Merry couldn’t disagree more. Never had she been somewhere that felt so wide and welcoming.
Not welcoming like a sunny beach, but those peaks were positively seductive—great,
hungry stone jaws streaked with white blood, inviting a person to be swallowed alive
by this wild, glorious beast of a land.
Seductive. Hungry and wild.
Rob flashed across her mind, as he had a hundred times in the past half hour. His
pale, strong, bare body, wet hair dripping.
Goddamn. All this isolation really was turning her into a sex fiend. She’d ogled him
like a rack of ribs, those hips and biceps and that cut abdomen, that body that spoke
of primeval labor and efficiency. Survival.
Had he spotted it, her perving? Possibly. He’d gone all quiet and weird, eyed her
with what looked so exactly like suspicion . . . Except he’d been looking at her like
that on and off since she’d arrived. She just hoped she hadn’t scared that accessible
Rob away, the one she’d met taking aim at the old dead tree, or sipping coffee right
here, only a couple of hours earlier.
Maybe he’s bipolar.
She wasn’t a hundred percent sure what that entailed, but there certainly was an
emotional duality at play in the man.
The clouds grew thick, the sky dark and the cottage cool. Merry abandoned the rocker
to feed the fire.
Against the wall leaned a large upholstered cushion, a cast-off from some long-departed
sofa. She set it on the floor a few feet from the stove and stretched out her legs
so the fire would warm her achy toes. She watched the flames through the oven’s slats.
Their dance hypnotized her, and she jumped when the rear door creaked. A cold breeze
came first, followed by Rob, a fresh stack of wood balanced on one arm.
Merry waved. “Hey.”
“All right?” He let the kindling tumble into a pile beside the stove and checked its
belly. “Are you cold?”
She was now—that voice always made her shiver.
Keep talking. Keep saying stuff in that accent, all deep and dark and hard. Grocery
list, blender manual, Wikipedia entry for gingivitis. Anything.
She flexed her feet in their wool socks. “A little. But mainly it just feels so nice—a
fire.”
He looked around the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Sure.”
Rob disappeared to fill the kettle.
What had he called her, earlier?
Impressive.
And without an ounce of the patronizing sugar she used to taste when a man deigned
to compliment her. Like a pat on the head—
Good job, fat girl! Who’d have guessed you had it in you?
But not Rob. He’d meant what he’d said, and it had taken some effort to say.
He returned on the heels of a final chilly gust. With the kettle left to its devices,
he paused to watch the fire, arms crossed over his chest. Strong body, with that intriguing,
hard-to-read face. His expression had changed. He looked . . . determined. His unease
from their time outside was gone, thank goodness. He was steeled, eyes set. She admired
him as a whole, and attraction wound a few more mischievous vines around her heart.
She thought she’d seen a similar glimmer in his eyes when she’d been coiling that
old rope. His attention had stayed glued to her hands. She’d taken it for alarm, but
now that she thought about it . . . It was like the way a man’s eyes went glassy when
they spied a ripe slice of cleavage. Merry smiled to herself, wondering if maybe she’d
misdiagnosed the entire moment. How long since he’d been with a woman? The way she’d
toyed with that rope might’ve looked like a strip tease to Rob.
Maybe he wasn’t eager to get rid of her, after all.
Maybe he was disturbed by how desperately he wanted to ravage her, conflicted by his
lust in light of her vulnerable condition!
Hey, it’s slightly possible.
He set two mugs on the table behind her, along with the jar of tea. “That’ll be a
while. Water’s frigid.”
“I’m in no rush.” The second the words escaped, a pang of misgiving struck, all her
hopes for Rob’s lascivious intentions gone in an instant.
Should
she be in a rush? For her, this stay had started as a necessity, but now it was creeping
toward luxury. She might be well enough to leave the next day, and for all she knew
Rob was looking forward to that moment. Perhaps she shouldn’t be lounging here, reveling
in his fire, grateful for another night in a bed. Not when that bed’s rightful occupant
would be stuck out here again, crashing on the floor.
“I hope I feel strong enough to head out tomorrow,” she said, angling.
His gaze snapped to hers, unreadable. “If you think you concussed yourself, don’t
be reckless.”
Merry’s heart soared. “You’ve been really kind to me.”
He shrugged. “Couldn’t very well tell you to piss off. Not in the state you turned
up in.”
“Sit down,” she said.
With a split second’s wary glance, he did.
He sat on the bare floor; unlaced and pulled off his boots. He wrapped his arms around
his knees, and the gesture made him seem younger. Younger than the forty she’d guessed
him to be, younger than the thirty-six he actually was. His hair was nearly dried,
and the glow of the flames burnished his grays to blond and softened the lines beside
his lips and between his brows. She tried to imagine him as a twentysomething, living
in the city. His jeans, now worn, had been nice in their day, stylish and surely expensive,
and purchased by a man who knew his own measurements—she could tell from the fit and
the quality of the stitching, the weave of the thick denim. The belt that held them
up was equally well made. Yes, this man had been young and urbane, once upon a time.
The burgeoning beard tried to hide this fact, but she could see it now. She could
almost see this fellow in his English pub. Short hair, clean jaw, nursing a drink . . .
and herself in the corner, trying to find the courage to sidle up to him.
Rob swallowed and his nostrils flared, the gestures of man about to say something
profound. But all that came out was, “Did you, um . . . Did you get much reading done?”
“Yeah. I’m over halfway through
Heart of Darkness
.”
“I haven’t read that since secondary school.”
“The writing’s quite . . . dense. He could stand to learn what periods are for.” She
paused, realizing Rob likely thought she could stand the occasional halt of verbal
punctuation herself. Though not at the moment. She felt quite shy this afternoon.
Perhaps his social prudence was contagious.
“What was the last book you read?” she asked.
He squinted. “It’s been a few months.
Walden
, I think.”
“How very appropriate.”
Rob smiled. “I’d never heard of it before I found it on some list of classics. But
I liked that one. Very much.”
Read it aloud to me. In that accent. In bed.
He watched the flames, face nearly placid for a change.
She wished he were her lover, so she could reach over and rub his back, feel the muscles
there and discover how cold or hot his body ran. She wondered who the last woman had
been to touch him in such a familiar, possessive way.
She eyed him. “May I ask you a prying question?”
He smirked, and that tight little lopsided gesture put her nerves on a pleasurable
edge.
“You can try,” he said.
“Who did you leave behind, when you decided to move up here? Do you still stay in
touch with family?”
He shook his head. “I lost my father about a year before I left Leeds, and my mother
and I don’t speak.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What about friends?”
He pursed his lips, looking grim. “I wasn’t the nicest man before I came here.”
You aren’t the nicest man now.
Not chummy, anyhow. But there was someone else underneath that protective shell.
She’d glimpsed him, again and again. She was impatient, now. She wanted to crowbar
him open at the hinges and stare that man dead in the eyes, whoever he was. No matter
the heft of his baggage.
“How so?”
The orange stripes of the fire danced in his eyes as he chose his words. “I burned
a lot of bridges on my way out of England.” There was a humbleness in the way he said
it, a softening of his stiff tone.
“What do you mean, about not being a nice man?”
“I was a lost, miserable person.”
She wanted to pry further, to ask if he had depression, or had simply been trapped
in some life that hadn’t suited him, troubled by the disconnect. But that seemed too
nosy even for her. “So there’s no one you miss, back in England?”
No woman who broke your heart, sent you running off to live like a refugee?
He gave it a long moment’s consideration, his expression turning sad. “I miss some
people, and the way things used to be. Before I made such a royal cock-up of everything.
But they’d all turned their backs on me by the time I moved away. And with good reason.”
“People can be pretty forgiving.”
Rob linked his fingers atop his knees, seeming to study his knuckles. “It’s too late.
Though thank you for your optimism.”
“Did you leave a woman behind?”
“Not before she left me.”
Aha! The catalyst.
“Can I ask how long you were with her?”
“Not quite five years.”
“And which came first—her leaving, or the royal cock-up?”
He smiled faintly and met her eyes, seeming relieved by her candidness. “The cock-up.”
“And kids?”
“No kids.”
Merry sighed, studying him with open curiosity. “I have to say, this mysterious mess
you made of your life has me intrigued.”
His smile fled. “It’s nothing thrilling. I just spent a long time going through the
motions of living this life I thought would make me happy, but it never did.” His
gaze dropped to her mouth or chin and his brow creased. “You know how you see someone
around, with a job title you wish you had, a nice salary, nice car? Lovely partner,
lovely home?”
She nodded.
He met her eyes once more. “That was me. That was what my life looked like, from the
outside. On paper. I worked hard and I got all the things I thought would make me
happy, and when the happiness never arrived . . .”
“You felt empty?”
“I felt . . .” He trailed off, watching the fire as though deciding whether or not
to continue down this path.
Merry let the silence reign, rewarded when he finally spoke.
“I felt broken. I had everything I thought a person needed to feel satisfied or fulfilled
or secure or whatever, but I didn’t feel any of those things. I felt . . . Well, yes.
I felt empty. Like some part was missing, some mechanism that converts success into
contentment.”
“And how do you feel out here?” Merry asked, hoping to steer him into more cheerful
territory.
“Here I feel . . .”
Safe?
she guessed.
Calm? In perfect step with nature and the meaning of life?
“I feel very little,” he concluded.
She frowned, and Rob turned in time to see it. He smiled, sheepish or guilty.
“It feels nice,” he assured her.
“Does it?”
“You know how when you’re worried about everything you have to get done, it’s like
your thoughts are these great loud lists, running through your head?”
She nodded, thinking of all those numbers waiting for her back home.
“Here, when I’m alone, there’s nothing in there. Just silence, and a sense of what
my next task is, based on the simplest human needs. It’s very peaceful. Very Zen.”
“But it must be lonely.”
“It can be. It
should
be, I suppose. Except my last few years in the city . . . There was nothing joyous
left in any of my relationships. Only stress and resentment. To be honest, I mostly
feel relieved to have left everyone behind. Callous as that likely sounds.”
She shrugged.
Callous
wasn’t the word.
Sad
, perhaps.
“I miss all kinds of people,” she said, “just being away for three weeks.”
Rob frowned. “I don’t want to make you think . . .” He blinked at the fingers linked
atop his knees. “I’m not relieved because I think the people in my life were nothing
but bastards. It’s just that in the end, all I seemed to do was disappoint everyone.
If I’m relieved, it’s because I know that out here, I can’t do any more damage, or
hurt anyone who cares about me.”
“Hurt them how?” she asked, more curious than fearful. Nothing about Rob got her serial
killer alarm wailing, but she did want to understand.
“Not physically,” he said. “Like I said, I was a miserable arsehole. I hated myself,
and I think I drove people away, annoyed that they even cared.”
“Were you depressed, do you think?”
He nodded. “I’m sure I was.”
Ding ding ding.
“That’s hard.” Merry felt that way, from time to time. She knew she couldn’t have
overindulged herself to 240-plus pounds if she weren’t seeking to quiet something—sadness
or anxiety, some cold, echoing depth she hadn’t known how to muffle except with food.
And more recently, with the all-consuming project of losing the weight. The hole was
still there, demanding satiation. And she still didn’t know how to fill it, not permanently.
Maybe she’d hoped this trip might give her a clue, but part of her also suspected
everyone had that well. It came standard, same as lungs, heart, skin. It drove some
people to great ambition and success, and others to despair. Fill it with food or
work or shopping or babies or sex or video games or God—whatever made you feel full
for a time.
It sounded as though Rob’s well might simply be deeper than most. So deep he wound
up exiling himself to escape its echoes.