ever abuse her.
If she seriously thought he could ever hurt her like that, then he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of regaining her trust.
Like a rabbit frozen by headlights, she watched him come around the table at her. He damned near ground his teeth to dust, but he moved slowly and didn’t say a word as he pulled her chair away from the table.
He wanted to yank her into his arms and hold her to his heart and swear with his last dying breath that he’d never ever hurt her again. And then he’d kiss her until she knew it, until she believed it in her heart and could trust him without a single doubt.
He despised that fear in her eyes. Fear he’d put there himself. He deserved whatever punishment she meted out and if he had to crawl on his belly over broken glass for years before she ever let him touch her, then by God, that’s what he’d do.
For now, he simply held the door to the back porch open for her and silently indicated the dirt path leading down to the gazebo.
Early autumn scents of fresh mown hay and leaves filled his nose. The evening air was crisp but not so chilly that she’d need a coat. He could always give her his suit jacket. Bitterly, he jammed his hand through his hair and paced the circular floorboards. Gallant gestures would never be enough to bridge her fear.
It was too late. Perhaps it’d always been too late.
Sitting on the bench and staring down at her small hands clenched in her lap, she looked achingly young, as innocent and fresh as the first day he’d seen her in his classroom. That prim, frilly white blouse should have made her look like an old maid, but instead enhanced her delectable body. They’d lost so many years because of one lousy mistake.
He must have made some small sound, a breath of remorse, for her gaze slowly rose to his. His heart lurched. Colonel Healy’s ghost could have materialized right beside her in full dress uniform jingling with all his service medals, and Conn wouldn’t have noticed. He was too busy losing himself in her eyes.
Deep and soulful, her eyes had been the first thing he’d noticed when the shy, unknown student raised her hand during roll call in his class five years ago. His Romantic Period class was senior-level English, so he’d expected to know every single one of his students. Gleefully, he’d prepared to strike terror into the heart of this new student with his rigid classroom structure and demanding syllabus.
Instead, she’d struck him deaf and mute, then, too, drowning him with her eyes and the clear, sweet, pure glimpse of her heart. Nobody had eyes like hers. All the clichéd phrases of verse over the centuries dedicated to a woman’s eyes were proven in her gaze. Starry climes were just the beginning of what he’d sensed that day.
Here was a woman who’d never be able to lie to him, to anyone, because her eyes would betray her. He saw her shyness, the undeniable attraction she felt toward him, and the subtle siren call of a natural, thoroughly untrained submissive. From that first moment, he’d wanted to make her his. He’d wanted to be the one to show her how he’d treasure and love her with his control.
And then he’d stupidly ruined it all by losing that control he’d been so proud of.
What he saw in her eyes now shook him to the core. Fear and even longing he expected, but not guilt. Not from her. She was innocent in this whole mess. Anger dissolving, he quoted softly, “‘ Oh! Let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,/ Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,/
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells.’ ”
“Sounds like Byron,” she whispered hesitantly.
“Very good, Miss Jackson.” He sighed heavily. He had no idea what her married name was. Married. The thought still made him sick at heart. Mine, she could have been mine. Should have been mine. “I’m sorry. What’s your new name?”
She twitched with surprise, which almost made him smile. She hadn’t expected him to
If she seriously thought he could ever hurt her like that, then he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of regaining her trust.
Like a rabbit frozen by headlights, she watched him come around the table at her. He damned near ground his teeth to dust, but he moved slowly and didn’t say a word as he pulled her chair away from the table.
He wanted to yank her into his arms and hold her to his heart and swear with his last dying breath that he’d never ever hurt her again. And then he’d kiss her until she knew it, until she believed it in her heart and could trust him without a single doubt.
He despised that fear in her eyes. Fear he’d put there himself. He deserved whatever punishment she meted out and if he had to crawl on his belly over broken glass for years before she ever let him touch her, then by God, that’s what he’d do.
For now, he simply held the door to the back porch open for her and silently indicated the dirt path leading down to the gazebo.
Early autumn scents of fresh mown hay and leaves filled his nose. The evening air was crisp but not so chilly that she’d need a coat. He could always give her his suit jacket. Bitterly, he jammed his hand through his hair and paced the circular floorboards. Gallant gestures would never be enough to bridge her fear.
It was too late. Perhaps it’d always been too late.
Sitting on the bench and staring down at her small hands clenched in her lap, she looked achingly young, as innocent and fresh as the first day he’d seen her in his classroom. That prim, frilly white blouse should have made her look like an old maid, but instead enhanced her delectable body. They’d lost so many years because of one lousy mistake.
He must have made some small sound, a breath of remorse, for her gaze slowly rose to his. His heart lurched. Colonel Healy’s ghost could have materialized right beside her in full dress uniform jingling with all his service medals, and Conn wouldn’t have noticed. He was too busy losing himself in her eyes.
Deep and soulful, her eyes had been the first thing he’d noticed when the shy, unknown student raised her hand during roll call in his class five years ago. His Romantic Period class was senior-level English, so he’d expected to know every single one of his students. Gleefully, he’d prepared to strike terror into the heart of this new student with his rigid classroom structure and demanding syllabus.
Instead, she’d struck him deaf and mute, then, too, drowning him with her eyes and the clear, sweet, pure glimpse of her heart. Nobody had eyes like hers. All the clichéd phrases of verse over the centuries dedicated to a woman’s eyes were proven in her gaze. Starry climes were just the beginning of what he’d sensed that day.
Here was a woman who’d never be able to lie to him, to anyone, because her eyes would betray her. He saw her shyness, the undeniable attraction she felt toward him, and the subtle siren call of a natural, thoroughly untrained submissive. From that first moment, he’d wanted to make her his. He’d wanted to be the one to show her how he’d treasure and love her with his control.
And then he’d stupidly ruined it all by losing that control he’d been so proud of.
What he saw in her eyes now shook him to the core. Fear and even longing he expected, but not guilt. Not from her. She was innocent in this whole mess. Anger dissolving, he quoted softly, “‘ Oh! Let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,/ Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,/
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells.’ ”
“Sounds like Byron,” she whispered hesitantly.
“Very good, Miss Jackson.” He sighed heavily. He had no idea what her married name was. Married. The thought still made him sick at heart. Mine, she could have been mine. Should have been mine. “I’m sorry. What’s your new name?”
She twitched with surprise, which almost made him smile. She hadn’t expected him to
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