His Christmas Captive (5 page)

"You
didn't need to
say
it." Lucy gathered the blanket around her and
rose to her feet, looking down at him as if she were some kind of goddess.
"Everything you did made your position perfectly, painfully obvious."
She waved her hand at the room around them, encompassing the gleaming lights in
the ancient sconces on the walls, the historic tapestries.

"You hid
me away in your family's country house where I could gaze out at the capital
city from afar but never embarrass you by setting foot near your exalted social
circles. But I didn't care, because I was in love with you and I was having
your baby."

There was
something in her voice that was making the fine hairs on the back of his neck
stand at attention. He was all too afraid that it was the ring of truth.

"Lucy,"
he said again. "Please…"

But she
ignored him.

"You left
me here," she continued in that same way, as if it cost her, as if
speaking to him like this required her to be brave. The thought made something
in him ache. "And I saw it as a perfect opportunity to get to know your
world. To transform myself into the kind of wife you wouldn't have to hide away
or be ashamed of."

He
remembered, suddenly, what she'd been wearing when he'd arrived—how elegant
he'd thought her. How much of a change it had been from the louder, trendier
clothes she'd worn before.

"But
then I lost the baby," she said, her voice shaking. "And I had to
live through that, Rafi. Alone. And still you left me here, as if I was
something undeserving of even the barest compassion."

Her face
crumpled for a moment, as if she might break down into sobs, but she controlled
herself.

"Lucy,"
he began again, but she shook her head, warding him off.

"I don't
care if the Qaderis don't
do divorce,
" she said then, with a quiet
dignity that shook him almost more than her earlier show of emotion. "I'm
leaving you. Not because I don't love you—because I do, for my sins. But it
doesn't matter. You may be descended from a hundred centuries of greatness,
Rafi, but I deserve better than this. I deserve better than you."

Rafi sat in
silence, unmoving, for a long time after Lucy had left the room, more regal
than any queen. He stared into the fire but he did not see the flames. He only
saw the past, his tangled history with Lucy and all the conclusions he'd jumped
to far too easily. That she'd been using him. That he had been enchanted by a
beautiful woman, as any man could be. That she had set out to avail herself of
his name and fortune. That the passion between them was not—could not be—real.
That what he felt could not be real.

All along,
the people around him had whispered poison in his ears—and he had listened.
Safir. The country elders. He had
wanted
to believe them, he realized
now. When she had told him there was no baby he had jumped on it, had clung to
the evidence that she was as false as all in his circle wanted him to believe
she was.

Because then
he wouldn't have had to admit that he was weak. That he was afraid of the power
she held over him. Of what she made him feel.

What a
despicable piece of work he was, he thought then, an acid taste in his mouth.

He remembered
all the snide and nasty things he'd let Safir say about her, all the times he'd
never stood up for her. What kind of man allowed such things? And then,
unbidden, something else occurred to him. The repeated calls from the family
doctor, which Safir had waved away, saying it could wait until Rafi returned
home, all the while never encouraging him to do so. But what if it had been
something else? Would Safir have told Rafi about something that would show Lucy
in a better light?

He knew the
answer. But he had to confirm the suspicion that bloomed to life inside of him.
He had to know the full extent of his own betrayal of Lucy, who had never done
anything save love him. Far more than he deserved.

Rafi moved
across the room and picked up the sleek phone on the desk. Gruffly, not even
apologizing to his housekeeper, he asked to be connected to the doctor,
regardless of the late hour.

The kindly
old man had attended his own birth and had kept any number of Qaderi family
secrets in his time. And he had never lied about anything.

It was a
brief, appalling conversation.

"I'm so
glad you called," the old man said, as if he had not noticed the time.
"I've been trying to speak with you for months about that night. I wanted
to assure you that I made every attempt to convince your wife to go to the
hospital but she refused. She was too concerned about your reputation." He
sighed. "So I made her as comfortable as I could and made sure there were
no complications. Please, I do not want you to think that her care was substandard,
or that I did not do my level best to convince her to go to the hospital. She
simply would not go. I thought perhaps you could convince her, but then I could
not reach you…."

"I don't
blame you for anything," Rafi said through a mouth that felt made of
broken glass. And it was no more than the truth. He blamed only himself.

"Sometimes
these things happen," the doctor said, the wisdom and calm of years in his
voice. "She has been healthy since, and I'm sure you will have another
child, in time. This is but a hiccup. I have every faith, both medically and
personally."

He had never
hated himself more, Rafi thought as he hung up the phone in a daze. He could
only stand there, alone with the shame of what he'd done to her.

Lucy was not
lying. She never had been.

Had he known
that all along, on some level? Had he
wanted
to believe that he'd never
had a child at all so that he would not have to deal with the crushing sense of
loss? Was he that small, that cowardly, that he would sacrifice Lucy to prevent
himself from feeling his own pain?

But he knew
that he was. That he had.

Rafi sank
down on the side of the great bed, buried his head in his hands and gave in,
finally, to the grief that he'd staved off for three long months.

Chapter
Eight

This time
when Lucy woke it was to find herself in Rafi's arms.

For a moment,
she forgot. She simply breathed in the scent of him, winter and pine, and
exulted in the heat of his strong arms around her. But then she exhaled and it
all came rushing back.

"Don't
do this!" she hissed at him, tilting her head away to look at him. His
dark brows were drawn over his gray eyes, and his mouth was in a flat line.
"Just let me go, Rafi."

"If that
is what you want," he said in a low, gravelly voice, "I will. But
there's something I want to show you first."

She couldn't
bear to meet his eyes—to let him see the effect his words had on her. It was
one thing to announce she was leaving, to demand a divorce, to
want
those things. It was something else again to have him accept it. She felt something
yawn open inside of her, black and lonely.

Perhaps that
was why it took several long moments for her to recognize the change in her
surroundings after he'd settled her on the overstuffed chaise in the book-lined
library. She schooled her features as best she could and when she looked up…

It was
Christmas.

Lucy could
not help herself—she gasped.

A small,
plump pine tree bristled in the corner, festooned with objects Lucy
recognized—the tiny china figures from the display in the blue salon, the small
ornamental picture frames that were usually scattered on the tables in the
formal sitting room. It was as if someone had gone through the house and picked
up whatever was small enough to be fastened to the branches and decorated the
tree that way.

Lucy's hands
crept over her mouth as she took it in. She turned to stare at the man who had
moved to kneel before her, his gray eyes serious.

"What
did you do?" she breathed, enchanted despite herself.

"It's
Christmas, isn't it?" His voice was gruff.

"You
hate Christmas," she pointed out, feeling lightheaded. Off balance.
"You think it's—"

"Let me
tell you a story," he interrupted gently, running his hands over her legs,
gazing up at her. "Isn't that how this goes? Is this how your mother used
to do it?"

Lucy was
overcome by the swell of an emotion she was afraid might tip her right over.
She could only nod, mutely. She could not seem to tear her eyes away from his.

"I was
up most of the night," he said in a low voice, his eyes intent on hers,
though his were dark, agonized. "It was obvious to me that you were
telling the truth last night. Then I spoke with the family doctor, who
reiterated everything that you had said, what I should have accepted all along.
That you lost our baby, and I abandoned you in your pain. I can never possibly
make that up to you. I will spend my life regretting it, Lucy. I promise
you."

She could not
help the way her eyes glazed over with hot, unshed tears, nor the way her
throat seemed to clutch tight. She was not sure she would ever breathe again.

"But as
heinous as that was," he continued, his own voice uneven, "I had to
look at what was behind it. To the grief that I didn't have the courage to
face. And…and to acknowledge what an insufferable snob I'd become. How quick I
was to use the circumstances of your birth against you—as if they were any more
random than mine. As if either one of us had anything to do with it."

Lucy sucked
in a breath then. "You are a Qaderi, Rafi," she said.

"Yes,"
he said sharply. "I am the head of my family. My cousin will be king one
day, and I have every intention of being the power behind his throne. So why
should I care what Alakkulian society thinks of my choice of bride? When have I
ever allowed outside opinions to dictate my own?"

"Never,"
she said, her voice catching.

But she
hadn't thought she was worthy of him, either. Was that why his dismissal had
hurt so much? Because she'd believed his low opinion of her was accurate?

"I let
others poison me against you," he continued, "like a man far lesser,
far weaker than I would like to believe I am would do." His mouth
tightened. "Safir will never work for me again. The others who dared speak
against you will regret it. This I promise you."

His warm
hands found hers and held them, and he shifted closer, gazing at her in a way
she was afraid to believe. Surely she was dreaming. Because she'd dreamed
this—or something very like this—a million times before. But he did not
disappear when she blinked.

"I never
saw you coming," he whispered. "I looked up from the middle of my
gray, dutiful life and there you were, Lucy. I had no idea how to handle it. I
can't possibly imagine the misery I put you through. I can never make up for
it. If you want to leave me, you have every right and reason. I won't fight
you."

Lucy could
read the sincerity on his hard face, hear it in his voice. His strong hands
clasped hers, but gently. She knew that if she pulled away, he would let her go
immediately.

There was a
part of her that wanted to do just that. A part of her that wanted nothing more
than to hurt him. To make him pay. But that part was growing smaller by the
second.

Because she
loved him. Even after all he'd done, she loved him far more than she wanted his
pain. Far more, even, than her own deep wounds. She had long believed that made
her the worst kind of fool. But maybe, she thought now, just maybe love was
bigger than foolishness, too.

"And
what," she asked, her voice the barest whisper, "if I don't want to
leave you, after all?"

Powerful
emotion moved across his face then, making his beautiful eyes gleam silver. His
hands tightened around hers.

"Then I
will tell you that I love you," he rasped out. "That I always have,
from the first moment I met you. And I will never be ashamed of that
again."

She said his
name and tasted salt, only then realizing that she was crying.

"I have
never had any use for love," he said urgently, hoarsely. "Marriage is
supposed to be for political alliance. For power and greed. Love is for fairy
tales."

"And for
us," she whispered. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his
forehead. "For us, Rafi."

When she
moved to his mouth, he met her. Their kisses were hesitant at first, then
sweeter, hotter, longer. Lucy felt the fire build within her again, shot
through this time with the wild joy that he loved her.

Rafi loves
me.

She knew that
life with this man would never be easy, but as long as he loved her, they could
make it work. Would make it work.

And then
there was no more thought, only sensation.

Much later,
they lay stretched out in front of the fire in the shade of the makeshift
Christmas tree he'd put together just for her. Rafi looked down into her face
and shuddered slightly at how close he'd come to losing her.