Forbidden (27 page)

Night had become his friend.

Roc stayed outside later than usual, until the sun had made its final bow for the day, and the curtain of darkness had closed. A blanket of clouds hung heavily in the sky, making it look like gray flannel, and blocked any stars or moon, which he craved to light his path. Even the usual insect noise seemed quieter this evening. Or maybe Roc's focus was simply diverted.

The truth was: he was avoiding climbing those narrow stairs, shedding his clothes, and climbing into bed next to Rachel.

It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman—his wife—and he hadn't wanted a woman since Emma. Sure, he'd thought about a one-night stand here or there, even going to bars in New Orleans to pick up someone as needy as he. But he'd always found an excuse…her eyes were too close together, her boobs were too small, too big…it didn't matter the reason. The fact was: she, whoever
she
was, was not Emma.

He'd had his share of offers. Before he left the force, a few of the female officers made it clear they were available. But he didn't mix work and pleasure. And there were other excuses. It wasn't the right time. He was on duty. He was off duty. Even a wife of an officer came onto him. But he wasn't biting. So he'd ended up drunk, back alone in his own bed—even though sometimes he didn't know how he got there.

It was in those dark, lonely nights and days bleeding one into another when he began to understand his father. When his mother, Helen, had been alive, Remy hadn't been able to live up to her standards, and the guilt drove him to drink. And when she was gone, killed by a cancer that ate her from the inside out, Remy missed her, craved her scent, hungered for the taste of her, the feel of her soft skin, her warm body. At least that's how Roc imagined it. It was the closest he ever came to forgiving his father.

But tonight, loneliness crept over him. A croaking bullfrog sounded as if it was crying out and waiting for an answer. The night offered no comfort. Not here in Ohio, anyway. There were no distractions of movies or music or bars to detour his thoughts, his needs, his loneliness.

After finding Samuel and his girlfriend the other night, a raw need bore down on him, tightening his insides. He needed release. It was biological, normal. And yet when those feelings roused themselves inside him, and his thoughts focused on Rachel, as they did tonight, he felt anything but natural.

She was Amish. He was not. And never would be. She was fifteen-months pregnant, or so it seemed, and yet…she was beautiful, like a ripe peach ready for picking.

Steeling himself against any impropriety, he finally snuck into the house after everyone, even Samuel, had gone to bed. Every creak sounded as loud as the firing of a weapon and made his skin retract.

In the thick darkness, Roc scaled the stairs without the help of a kerosene lamp. He made his way along the stairwell then hallway and finally secluded himself in the bathroom—stripping, ripping off the shoulder bandage, and dousing himself with ice-cold shower water. He stood in the bathtub, surrounded by the white plastic curtain, for far too long before shutting off the water and toweling off.

The bedroom was dark when he entered, devoid of even moonlight slipping around the edge of the shades covering the window. Without the benefit of air conditioner or ceiling fan, the air felt hot and steamy. Roc edged forward, one step at a time, trying not to stub a toe. He hung his trousers on a peg, then with the towel wrapped around his hips, he took his side of the bed. The Glock went beneath a pillow. He checked his cell phone, but it still couldn't find a server.
Was
there
no
service
out
in
Sleepy
Hollow
or
whatever
this
place
was
called? How would he ever get help if he needed it?

Finally, he stretched out on top of the thin quilt. The chirping of insects outside and Rachel's soft breathing forced his mind to think of details…imperfections that would erect a firm barrier between them.

Of course, Rachel had no imperfections—her eyes were round and blue, her skin soft and supple, her mouth full and tempting. The imperfections were in him. Her deep, abiding faith pointed toward his deepest flaw. He'd seen firsthand what rock-solid faith could do to a woman. He remembered his mother whispering her prayers, clicking her rosary beads, planting concrete saints in the yard in hopes of driving away the demons threatening her family. But her desperation hadn't led to salvation. Her husband, a man without faith or hope, had never made life easier for her. And it felt as if Roc had now become that man too.

Rachel shifted, her foot jutting outward as she shifted and rolled onto her side, facing him. His breath caught in his chest. He watched her. In spite of the lack of light, his eyes had adjusted, and he could see her features, the soft contours, the slope of cheek, the squareness of jaw, fullness of lips, which parted slightly. She made a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and her brow furrowed. Again, she shifted, rolling over and facing away from him. Her hair streamed out behind her, and he resisted reaching out to smooth the long strands.

Slowly, he released the breath he'd been holding and focused on the noises outside the window.
Come
on, rooster! Where are you when I need you?
But the rooster was silent.

Suddenly, the bed lurched, and Rachel bolted upright with a gasp on her lips.

“What is it?” His gaze jerked toward the window.
Had
she
heard
whispering? Was it the baby?
“What's wrong?”

Her hand clenched the sheet, and she was panting.

He jumped out of bed and grabbed his cell phone. It was the baby. It had to be the baby. “Okay. Stay calm.” But the cell phone was useless. “Don't worry. I'll get help.”

But
how? Would he have to run to find an ambulance or hospital?

“Roc,” she gasped, breaking into his panicked thoughts. “It's my leg.”

He blinked. “What?”

“My leg!” Her body contorted, pulling inward.

He rushed around the end of the bed to her side. Jerking back the covers, he ran his hands over her legs until he located the hard, knotted muscle in her calf. “Okay, just breathe.” He kneaded the muscles. “Breathe deeply.”

Slowly, after several minutes, the cramp loosened its grip, and Rachel relaxed. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you, Roc.” She pulled away, tucking her leg beneath her. Then she sat very still.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. We should go back to sleep, I reckon.”

Nodding, he stood and backed away. He reached back to rub his hands on his jeans, and suddenly realized he wore no jeans, not even trousers, or his towel. In the midst of the crisis of Rachel's crying out, he'd forgotten he was undressed. At least she couldn't see much in the darkness. He moved around the end of the bed, retreating back to his side, grabbed the towel off the floor, and wrapped it around his waist. Yet he hesitated before climbing into bed again.

“Roc?” Rachel's voice came soft and timid, floating out toward him like a feather wafting, whisking to and fro.

“Yes?”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't it be?”

Silence answered him. Then he heard the bed squeak. He peered closer, leaning forward, and realized her shoulders were shaking.

“Rachel?” he ventured.

She didn't answer, but he heard her sniff.

“Are you crying?”

Still no answer, but her silence was answer enough.

“What's wrong? What did I do?” As he climbed into bed, edging closer to her, he saw her shaking her head, one hand cupped over her mouth. “What is it?” He reached behind her, his arm bending to accommodate the width of her shoulders, but hesitated. Yet when she made a snuffling sound, he pulled her toward him, sheltering her against his chest. Warm, wet tears spilled onto his bare skin. He smelled the soft, flowery scent of her hair, and he waited while she cried herself out. She finally gave muffled shudders as the last of the sobs wrenched free.

“I…I'm sorry.” She pulled away, but he kept her close, his hand cupped around her shoulder.

Smoothing a hand along her silky, thick hair, he whispered, “It's all right.” She remained pressed warmly against him for a couple more minutes before he asked, “Can you tell me about it?”

“It must be the baby.” She sniffed and straightened her spine. “I'm more weepy now than ever before.”

Hormonal surges, Emma had called the episodes she'd had occasionally. But she hadn't been expecting. And she hadn't lost her husband, either. “It's understandable. Don't worry about it.”

Her shoulders shook again; then she held a hand out. “I'm sorry. Again. Really.”

“Rachel,” he said, “it's all right. Trust me—”

“But it's not all right. Is it? I shouldn't be doing this.”

“What?”

“Living here. With you. This way.” Her voice cracked. “In the Fishers' home!”

He turned her, bracketing her shoulders with his hands, and brought their faces close together. “Rachel, we're doing this to protect the Fishers, not to hurt or harm them. That's what you should remember.”

She sniffed again, nodded.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She shook her head.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Okay, then.” He lay down, adjusting the pillow beneath his head so he couldn't feel the Glock beneath it. “Let's go to sleep, Rachel.”

It took her a minute before she finally settled back down beside him.

He focused on each breath, drawing it in, holding it a few seconds longer, then releasing it slowly. When he finally fell mind-first into the black oblivion of sleep, he expected to dream about Emma, about losing himself inside her once again, and hopefully finding himself before it was too late.

He did dream of Emma, but in the dream her body was rounder, fuller, and moved against him. His hands roamed over the soft curves and sifted through long, silky hair. He tasted the sweetness of supple lips.

She called to him—“Roc. Roc!”

Her hand touched his chest, his stomach. Her touch sent him over the edge of reason and understanding and smack into pure instinct. He groped in the dark, palming a full breast, pulling a warm, shapely body against him, and tasting a soft, ripe mouth.

At first she was hesitant or reluctant, but then her lips became pliable, melting beneath him and then burning and devouring with her own desire. He couldn't get enough of her sweet taste. He wallowed in the sensations swirling around him, setting him on fire. He tugged and pulled at the barrier between his flesh and hers.

But then something thumped against his abdomen. Reality blasted away any illusions or distortions. His mind shrieked not to stop, but he became aware of his surroundings: sheets smelling of fresh-mown grass, the squeak of the antique bed's springs, the wooden headboard his hand fisted. And he opened his eyes.

Below him, blue eyes blinked in a soft, languid way. It wasn't Emma. It was Rachel.

Her mouth had a dewy, just-been-kissed look. His arms trembled as he braced his weight against the mattress. A shockwave of revelation rocked through him. One glance downward, and he glimpsed a cloud of white material, the swell of baby, a raised knee. He rolled off her in one swift motion, scooped the still-damp towel off the floor, and wrapped it around his bare hips.

Gray light slipped around the edges of the shade. He raked a hand through his hair and moved straight for his clothes hung on the peg by the door. He looped back for the Glock under his pillow.

Her hand stopped him, clasping his forearm.

“Roc.”

It was then he realized he was breathing hard.

“You were dreaming.” She'd already covered herself and was sitting upright in bed now, her hair tousled about her in a reminder of what they'd been about to do.

“Rachel—”
What
could
he
say? How could he apologize?
He couldn't look at her. He'd promised her she'd be safe with him. “Look, I—”

“You were talking in your sleep.” She patted the bed. “Sit down. Let's talk about this.”

He stepped away. “What's there to talk about? It was wrong. I'm sorry.” He couldn't tell her he'd been dreaming of her. “I thought you…I thought—It doesn't matter.”

He stopped himself from saying anything else. It would only make it worse.

“I have bad dreams too.” She shifted, sitting on her feet, and leaned toward him. “You can tell me about it.”

“Go back to sleep, Rachel.”

She looked away then. “I dream of Josef sometimes.”

Her vulnerability pulled him back to her side. Carefully, he sat back on the edge of the bed. “Look, it's not your fault, Rachel. You're…we're both lonely. And this was my fault. Not yours.”

“Roc—”

“Go back to sleep, Rachel. I won't bother you again.”

“I blame myself.” Her voice cracked.

“For this? Really, it's my fault. I'm f—” He stopped himself again.

“No”—she leaned back against the headboard—“for Josef.”

Even though the light was dim, he read fear, pain, and regret in those blue eyes. “For Josef's death? Your fault? Why would you ever think that?”

“I sent him out that night. Otherwise he would have been home. Safe. And—”

Words sprang forward, but Roc held them back. Those words would only draw them closer together, and so he resisted. But her tears twisted his insides. Maybe if he confessed his regrets, his own sin, then she could release herself from her own guilt. “I blame myself for Emma. I couldn't save her…and I should have.”