CULLEN'S BRIDE Page 18

  His hands clamped her waist as he swung her down. "Are you all right?" he demanded.

  "Just fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "What else have you been doing today?"

  The last trace of remorse at climbing what could hardly be called a ladder evaporated at the raw demand in his voice. "The usual. I went to work."

  "Then you come home and started this." His gaze jerked to the half-hung curtain, the piles of magazines and samples.

  "This is hardly strenuous," she argued.

  The look in his eyes said he didn't believe her. "Sit down," he commanded in the kind of soft warning voice that she just bet made whole ranks of soldiers jump to attention.

  "I've been sitting down half the day. Helen seems to think I should spend more time answering the phone and doing paperwork than cutting hair. If I lift anything heavier than a cup of herbal tea, someone snatches it off me. The new apprentice I've taken on treats me like an elderly, slightly stupid grandmother who could inconveniently give birth at any moment. What I want to do now is hang curtains!"

  Rachel was half prepared for the way he swung her up into his arms and carried her to the sofa. He dumped her down gently, but firmly.

  "Stay there," he commanded. "I'll get you a drink."

  "I don't want—"

  His quicksilver glance silenced her as effectively as if he'd clapped his hand over her mouth, which Rachel decided he was quite capable of doing if she pushed him any further. He'd walked into his carefully controlled environment and found it turned upside down. Worse, she'd disobeyed one of his instructions and then had the temerity to argue with him.

  Charley stuck his head around the corner to let her know he was off home. She heard Cullen's low distinctive tones as he passed Charley in the hallway; then Cullen entered the room, a glass of milk in his hand.

  Rachel cleared a space on the cluttered coffee table. "If I drink much more milk, I'll not only look as round as a cow, I'll start mooing like one," she complained.

  "You need to put on weight. The baby may be growing, but you aren't."

  "And being a soldier, you would know a lot about pregnant women and babies."

  His gaze measured hers. "I've had medical training," he drawled, confirming her own suspicions. He strode to the door, then paused. "I'll tell Dane to come and help you hang those curtains. I meant it when I said I didn't want you climbing ladders or doing any lifting."

  Cullen's footsteps echoed down the hallway. The front door slammed behind him, sending a shudder through the solid old house.

  "Well, you knew he wasn't going to purr like a pussycat right off," Rachel muttered to herself as she dutifully sipped her milk. "And you also knew he wasn't going to help you turn his life upside down when he fully expects to shunt you out of it in just a few months."

  An infinitesimal flutter began deep in her stomach. Startled, Rachel replaced her drink on the table, her hand going to her abdomen. She'd felt flutterings before now, but nothing this definite. She held her breath as she waited for the next movement, then the next. The baby was kicking. Suddenly she was grinning, crying, and the need to share their child's movement with Cullen was so strong that she was on her feet and heading for the door before she reminded herself that he wouldn't welcome this. Just as he wasn't welcoming the changes she was making to his house.

  Swallowing her elation and the sadness that went with it, she sat back down on the sofa, waiting for another kick. The tiny flutterings started again, and her eyes filled with tears. She wasn't alone. She would never be alone again; she had that certainty, at least.

  When the kicking finally stopped, Rachel made her way to the kitchen to start dinner. Cullen's tension was a heartening sign, she reminded herself. He was as moody as a restive stallion. The Cullen she'd thought she knew didn't slam doors or behave irritably. But then, he kept so much of himself hidden. Getting to know him was like lifting the lid on Pandora's box. She was playing a dangerous game in recklessly pushing him for a response. When that iron control finally snapped…

  Rachel closed her eyes, seeing another room barely lit by lamplight. She swallowed against the memory of hot, wild lovemaking, of Cullen plunging so deep inside her that she shivered and burned in his grasp.

  Deliberately, she opened her eyes, blanking out the raw, disturbing images, the automatic response of her body. She was banking on Cullen breaking. Because if he didn't, she would have lost this gamble of a marriage.

  * * *

  Cullen prowled the piles of dirt that used to be his lawn. Fury and desire twisted in him. He hadn't wanted to leave the house. He'd wanted to stay and make sure that Rachel didn't climb that dangerous excuse for a ladder again—three whole rickety steps, damn it, if you counted that she'd been perched on the apex of the thing. He'd felt the thickening at her waist when he'd lifted her from the ladder, and the knowledge that she was growing his baby inside her had made him weak at the knees. He'd wanted to carry her up to his bed, strip the clothes from her and see the evidence for himself.

  He still felt strange—dazed, disoriented. Cullen stopped and stared in irritable disbelief at the upheaval around him. A vision of a toddler crawling over soft, smooth lawn had his hands clenching into fists.

  This would be someone else's house, he reminded himself. Someone else's garden. And children that didn't belong to either him or Rachel would play in the shrubbery.

  Forcing the images from his mind, he strode over to the barn and began helping Dane load the truck with the fencing materials they needed for the morning. There was a substantial length of fence down in the high country, which meant they would have to scour the hills, mustering renegade cows out of the bush before they could close up the gap. It was going to be hard, dangerous work. He would be taking a rifle in case they had problems.

  His gaze wandered back to the piles of dirt and the thought of children playing, and when he realised where his mind was drifting, he jerked his attention back to the repetitive physical work of lifting and stacking. But damn, he still couldn't shake the unsettling shifting sensation inside him, as if his centre of gravity had altered and he was still trying to find his balance.

  Right at the start, he should have guessed Rachel would want to change the house. One look at what she'd done with her flat had told him that she was a natural homemaker, that of all the women who'd spent time in the barren empty house he called home, she would be the one to give it life and warmth.

  But Cullen couldn't allow himself to be seduced by cosy domesticity. Not with the trouble he was having resisting Rachel anyway. And not with bastards like Trask and Hayward giving him a cold itch down his spine.

  He couldn't be certain, but he thought that Trask was watching the property. A couple of times he'd heard a vehicle that sounded like Trask's. But each time he'd reconnoitred, he'd come up with nothing more than flattened grass where a vehicle had pulled off the side of the county road, parked, then driven off. He'd kept Dan informed, but without an actual sighting or physical evidence that Trask had trespassed, Dan couldn't do anything more than warn the man off.

  Night closed in, leaching the last warmth from the air, bringing the winter brightness of stars and a cold stillness that intensified his feeling of aloneness, the aloneness that he'd always been comfortable with but which now didn't seem to fit him quite so well.

  Tipping his head back, Cullen stared up at the blinking path of a satellite tracking across the sky and caught the faintest whiff of something savoury cooking, followed by the unmistakeable acrid scent of that same savoury stuff burning.

  His mouth curved in an involuntary smile. Then he grinned. Once he'd grinned, he couldn't stop the laugh; it forced its way out of him, rough and unfamiliar. Cole had said his sister couldn't cook, and he was half right. She did the most hellacious things to red meat, although she didn't seem to have a problem with white meat or spicy dishes. And she made the best roast chicken Cullen had ever tasted.

  If he hadn't had to leave so early that morning, he would have p
ut on a slow-cooking casserole. It was never anything fancy, but it filled their stomachs at the end of the day, and he knew Rachel was relieved not to have to deal with the home-killed meat he deposited in the fridge and freezer.

  The back door of the kitchen burst open. He heard a clunk as Rachel jettisoned whatever pot she'd been picking on tonight. The burning smell got stronger.

  Dane drew up beside him, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and grinning. With all the hard, physical work, Dane had filled out and now barely resembled the thin, desperate boy he'd been just months ago. Maturity had settled easily on his broadening shoulders. "Yum," he said appreciatively. "Smells like it's done."

  "Oh, yeah," Cullen murmured. "It's done."

  He was still chuckling as they picked their way around the side of the house, watchful of where they stepped in case they landed in the red-hot remains of whatever had been on the menu for tonight's dinner. They located the heavy cast iron frying pan with what looked like three steaks, shrunken and blackened and welded to the bottom of it by excess heat. Pulling on one of the heavy leather gloves he'd tucked into his pocket, Cullen carried the pan to the corner of the house where there was a tap, filled it with water and left it to soak. He would clean it in the morning, using a drill and grinding bit from the workshop if he had to. The way he'd done with the last pot Rachel had thrown out.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

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  Rachel eased herself carefully out of bed. She was in her seventh month of pregnancy, and her tummy had grown at an alarming rate. She didn't walk anymore. She waddled. And getting in and out of chairs was becoming a major feat.

  She also tired easily, although that wasn't too much of a problem. Cullen and Dane had taken over most of the cooking in the evening, so when she got in from work she could usually slip up to her room and take a catnap. Happily, most of the interior of the house was painted. The house felt good to live in.

  At least, it did to her. If Cullen's irritability level was anything to go by, he hated every change she'd made.

  Rachel showered and dressed. It was raining. The unpredictable, squally rain of spring. Not that she minded. All that moisture was good for the newly planted gardens and the thick emerald fuzz of lawn that now surrounded the house.

  She made her careful way downstairs, drank a cup of tea and cautiously nibbled her way through her usual piece of dry toast, and was just slipping her plate into the dishwasher when the expected wave of morning sickness hit her. Apparently not many women fell sick this late in pregnancy. She was one of the unlucky ones. Slamming the dishwasher closed, she clutched at the counter, taking deep, steadying breaths.

  Just when she knew she would have to dash for the bathroom or disgrace herself in the kitchen sink, she heard the thud of Cullen's boots on the verandah, and the door to the mudroom burst open on a gust of cool air. Rachel groaned and wondered if she was going to make it to the bathroom without Cullen realising what was happening to her. Sweat beaded her brow and upper lip, and suddenly she doubted she could even take the one sorry step she needed to carry her to the sink.

  Cullen's voice broke through the waves of nausea. "Rachel? What's wrong?"

  She shook her head. She couldn't speak. God help her if she so much as opened her mouth… Instead she let go of the counter and began stumbling toward the door on the far side of the kitchen. Strong hands caught her around what used to be her waist, steadied her, and then she was swept off her feet.

  Cullen carried her to the downstairs bathroom, then held her as the meagre breakfast she'd just forced down made its ignominious exit.

  "All that work for nothing," she mumbled, mourning the loss of the dry toast. "My stomach hates me. It hates being pregnant."

  Cullen smoothed her damp hair back from her face; then he lifted her up and away from the toilet bowl, pressed the flush, then settled her on his lap as he perched on the edge of the bath. The delicious sound of running water soothed her as she let her head rest against his shoulder. She noticed he was wet; she could feel the dampness penetrating her own clothing where she nestled against him, and it dimly registered on her that that was why he'd returned so unexpectedly…

  He wet a cloth and gently wiped her mouth and face. When he was finished, he tossed the cloth into the laundry basket, then ran some water into a glass before holding it for her while she drank. When she'd had enough, he replaced the glass on the vanity and stood, cradling her with an easy strength. "Just how long have you been throwing up?" he demanded.

  Rachel eyed him warily." Ever since about the sixth week."

  His chest expanded on a sharp intake of air. "I'm taking you to the doctor," he said flatly, heading out of the bathroom and up the stairs.

  "I'm okay," she protested, looking wistfully back at the kitchen. Now that she'd been sick, she could eat again. "Lots of women get sick with pregnancy. I've already seen the doctor about it."

  Cullen shouldered his way through the door and into her room, then laid her down on the bed. "There must be something he can give you."

  Rachel struggled off the bed despite his impatient glare. "Once I throw up, I feel fine. And anyway, I can't rest. I have to get ready for work."

  "Screw work," he said bluntly.

  Her chin shot up. "I have to go. It's my business."

  "Then work less. You look tired."

  Unexpectedly, he reached out and touched the shadows she knew were beneath her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping well because she was spending her nights traipsing back and forth to the bathroom. Half the time when she was up, he was, too. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he was actually sleeping on that miserable chair in his study. He certainly didn't seem to spend much time in his bed.

  * * *

  The next day, her regular day off, Rachel had a doctor's appointment. Cullen had interrogated her until she'd told him about it, then he'd insisted on driving her in.

  He parked the truck in the supermarket car park, which was next door to the surgery. "I'll help you out," he said in a voice that didn't brook any argument. Rachel watched him stride around the bonnet of the truck with an easy, muscular grace. The wind sifted through his dark hair and plastered his shirt against his broad chest and flat stomach. The truck door swung open, but when she took his hand, he didn't just assist her, he pulled her forward into his arms and lifted her down, holding her until her feet were steady on the ground.

  "Are you all right?" he asked in a low, soft rumble, his hands still on her waist, his head bent to hers.

  Rachel drew in a breath at his nearness. After months of being carefully avoided, his sudden focussed attention was disconcerting. "Fine," she croaked, firmly squashing the dishonourable idea of pretending to be faint and making him carry her again. "When I'm finished at the doctor's, I'll start on the groceries."

  "I'll meet you here in half an hour."

  His hands dropped from her waist, and she felt an absurd sense of loss as he moved away. It was ridiculous how much she wanted to cling to him, and it wasn't just the unsettling vulnerability she was experiencing as a part of her pregnancy. It was the same need she'd had before she got pregnant. And it wasn't going away; it was getting worse.

  The doctor's waiting room was full when she walked in. Mrs. Reese was there with a bandaged knee and a walking stick at her side. Her daughter Eleanor was vegetating beside her, reading a magazine. Rachel smiled and nodded, but Isobel pretended not to see her. Eleanor gave her a startled look, then jerked the magazine up high enough to hide her face.

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the cramped room. Rachel gave her details to the receptionist then found a seat. The relief of sitting down surprised a long sigh out of her.

  "Gets like that, doesn't it?" a voice said in her ear.

  Rachel's head snapped around in surprise. A young pregnant woman was seated beside her. Rachel had seen her in passing but didn't know who she was.

  "Kylie McLean," the woman said, holding out her h
and and smiling.

  Rachel clasped her hand, automatically smiling back. Something about Kylie McLean invited smiles. She had blunt features liberally sprinkled with freckles, rumpled chestnut hair and steady brown eyes. "Rachel Logan," she replied.

  Kylie nodded as if this was information she already had.

  One of the doctors came out and called Mrs. Reese's name. She hobbled past with the help of her daughter, still completely ignoring Rachel.

  "Need a hand, Aunty Isobel?" Kylie called out.

  Mrs. Reese glazed at Kylie. Eleanor went bright red and refused to look at either Rachel or Kylie.

  "She's your aunt?" Rachel murmured in disbelief.

  A cheerful grin split Kylie's face. "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

  An older man sitting on Kylie's other side, chuckled.

  "By the way," Kylie said. "This is my dad, Andrew Hogarth. He's Aunty Isobel's brother."

  Rachel shook hands with Mr. Hogarth, who looked so thoroughly normal and innocuous that she couldn't imagine anyone less likely to be Isobel Reese's brother. "I'm afraid Mrs. Reese has taken a fairly strong dislike to me."

  "Oh, don't take it personally," Kylie said airily. "Aunty Isobel has barely talked to us since before I was born, ever since Dad married the 'wrong' woman. It's a very peaceful state of affairs."

  Several minutes later, Rachel was in the consultation room, lying on the high examination bed, having her tummy listened to and measured.

  Dr. Dalziel pulled Rachel's shirt back into place. "The baby's healthy but a little on the big side, which isn't so surprising. Your husband's a big man."

  "Will size be a problem?" Rachel asked, accepting the doctor's help as she got down from the bed. Slipping on her shoes, she took a seat beside his desk.

  "As long as the baby doesn't get too big, you should be able to give birth naturally. Your pelvis is small, but lots of small women give birth to big babies. But I'm a little worried about your blood pressure. It's up, and the last blood test indicated that you have a very mild case of preeclamptic toxaemia. Your mother had the same condition, but it's nothing we can't control with diet and plenty of rest." He made an entry in her file. "I'd like you to have weekly blood and urine tests. Just to be on the safe side. I'd also like you to finish work."