CULLEN'S BRIDE Page 22

  Cullen gambled on a woman's hurt eyes and the inner lacerations they revealed. Lacerations that were more damaging than the outward, physical ones his father had enjoyed inflicting, but had the dubious advantage of not showing on her sleek, expensive hide. "Tell them, Caroline."

  Caroline had just sidled into the room, a bandage around her finger. A flush ran along her cheekbones. She looked guilty and scared, and Cullen regretted having to use her. But there was no one else, no other choice. He had to put a stop to these "accidents" before someone got killed. And maybe, if she faced up to what was being done to her, she would make some changes in her life that were long overdue.

  When she didn't answer, Cullen ran another slow glance around the room. "Someone tampered with the steering on my truck. When Rachel and I were driving here tonight, both tie rods sheared through. We could have been killed. Tell them, Caroline."

  Hayward shifted uneasily. "I didn't have anything to do with that!"

  "No," Cullen agreed evenly. "The hands-on stuff isn't your style. Dan Holt should be talking to the prime suspect right about now, and knowing how ticked off Dan is with all the paperwork this particular person has caused him lately, I'd be willing to bet he'll lean on him. Hard. I don't imagine it'll take Trask long to figure his odds. With the assault charges his wife's brought against him, the firearms and arson charges he's facing, he doesn't have a lot of leeway—he'll pull time anyway. But then, you should know. Trask is one of your clients."

  "Cullen didn't kill his father."

  The words were quietly spoken. They dropped into the tense silence like stones hitting the surface of a deep pool, then sinking all the way to the bottom. Caroline wrapped her arms around her middle and stared at the floor. "Someone hit Ian Logan, but it wasn't Cullen."

  "Who was it, Caroline?" Cullen asked gently.

  "Caroline—" Hayward said on a low, warning note.

  "No." She cut him off, face twisting. "Richard hired his thug, Frank Trask, to do that particular job!"

  There was an angry murmur from several people. Cole muttered a curt promise that, if he ever managed to carry it out, would keep him in prison through this life and the next, and would put paid to any future generations of Haywards.

  Hayward took a step forward, jaw tight, mouth a thin line.

  "I wouldn't," Cullen said casually.

  Hayward did as he was told.

  But then he did something that made Cullen's skin crawl. Hayward stared flatly, intently, at Caroline, his eyes brimming with cold promise.

  A flicker of pure rage started deep inside Cullen, and suddenly he was eighteen again and facing his father. The series of harsh, frozen images from fifteen years ago jolted through his mind. The farmhouse kitchen. His father standing casually with a bottle in his hand. The bottle coming at Cullen's face. A moment of spinning, cascading colour when the blow connected. Then the explosion of years of anger and fear, culminating in a moment of surging triumph as he hit his father. Became his father.

  Cullen shook his head, trying to clear the old ugliness, the tight, building rage coiling in his gut. He hadn't realised what he would be walking into when he'd gone after Hayward; he'd only considered the safety of Rachel and the baby. He'd never stopped to think about how close this situation could come to duplicating his worst nightmare.

  A familiar scent filled his nostrils, flowers and freshness, and the subtle earthy warmth of woman. Rachel. She touched him, sliding her hand over one bunched fist, stroking his fingers. Cullen's breath sifted between clenched teeth. Some of the tension drained from him. He heard her shaky sigh, felt her warmth all down his side, then she laced her fingers with his.

  As quickly as that, Hayward ceased to be important—although Cullen couldn't dismiss his fury entirely, because Rachel's safety was at stake. Now Cullen needed to touch her, to pull her close and reassure himself that she was all right. He'd let Cole care for her after the accident only because Cullen had needed to brief Dan and ensure that no one tampered with the sabotaged tie rods before Dan had a chance to examine them. Cullen didn't give a damn that the room was crowded with interested spectators; he centered on Rachel, drinking in her dark, level gaze, her vulnerability. The fear.

  He'd frightened her. Cold washed through him, dousing the last hot flickers of fury. She'd finally seen who, what, he was. And Cullen knew that if Rachel hadn't touched him at that moment, if she hadn't dissipated the anger welling deep inside him, he would almost certainly have lost control. He would have hit Hayward and enjoyed doing it. And with the knowledge he now had, the physical power he possessed…

  Rachel's hand tightened. Cullen returned the pressure, but gently, gently. A soft touch on his arm had him staring into Caroline Hayward's ravaged eyes.

  "I never did thank you," she said softly, holding up her bandaged finger and almost succeeding with a rueful smile. "That's twice you've had to patch me up." She turned to face her husband, only feet separating them, and when she spoke, she lifted her voice so that while it was still soft and husky, the whole room could hear. "Fifteen years ago Richard was having an affair."

  Hayward uttered a harsh phrase.

  Caroline flinched, but went on. "We'd only been married for a short time, but it wasn't the first affair, and it certainly wasn't the last. I decided to have one, too—with the biggest, baddest wolf I could find. Ian Logan. I wanted to punish Richard and ended up punishing myself instead. Things … went badly wrong. It all got out of control, but Cullen got me out of there."

  She stopped, took a deep breath. "Unfortunately, I couldn't hide the mark on my face. Richard found out everything and arranged for Ian to … run into a door. After conveniently getting him drunk, of course. Ian wasn't supposed to die. When he was found the next morning, Richard panicked—he couldn't afford to be implicated in a murder investigation. The fact that Cullen just happened to be back in town and raising hell was … convenient. Any hint of scandal would have ruined Richard's business, and his old man wouldn't have stood for it. Irvin Hayward would have kicked Richard's butt so hard he'd still be travelling. The old man had already threatened to sell the business if Richard kept up his womanising." She laughed unevenly and sent her husband a bitter look. "Which of course he did."

  "Shut up, damn you," Hayward snarled beneath his breath.

  "No," Caroline snapped. "I've stayed quiet long enough. Ever since Cullen's been back in Riverbend, Richard's been sweating up a storm, worrying that Cullen would find out what really happened. When Cullen got involved with the Trasks, Richard freaked out. He's been trying for months to get rid of Cullen, one way or another."

  "You can't prove anything," Hayward said tightly. He glanced around, searching for support. "She's drunk. She's been drinking since three o'clock this afternoon. I'm surprised she can string a sentence together."

  "Caroline looks just fine to me," a low-pitched feminine voice observed. Janet Hanson appeared beside Caroline. "That was my homemade lemonade on the floor, Hayward. You got some problem with your wife drinking lemonade?"

  The breath hissed between Hayward's teeth. His cold glance sliced around the room, which just happened to be filled with some of the wealthiest, most powerful landowners in the district, along with a large percentage of businesspeople. Most of whom were—or, Cullen reflected with grim satisfaction, had been—his clients. With a last stabbing glance at his wife, Hayward wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him.

  There was a moment of stunned silence while they listened to Hayward's receding footsteps, the eerie howl of the wind, the drumming rain, then the faint sound of a car being gunned too fast down the Hansom' drive.

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say," someone sniffed.

  Isobel Reese rose imperiously from the sofa. "Eleanor, get Caroline another drink," she commanded. "Then bring her over here before she falls down. And you, Cullen Logan. Take that little wife of yours home. She's carrying that babe awfully low."

  Cullen met Isobel's fierce glare, saw the coins of colour burning
high on her cheeks and remembered that Hayward was her nephew. Then Isobel's words sank in, and he fixed his attention on Rachel.

  She did look tired. And the baby was low—whatever that meant. He broke out in a panicked sweat at the most obvious answer. Damn. She kept rubbing her back, too. It was too early—three weeks too early for her to be having the baby. She wasn't ready to have the baby.

  And Cullen wasn't ready to let her go.

  "I'm taking you home," he growled next to her ear. Without giving Rachel time to object, he slipped his arm around her waist and guided her through rapidly recovering groups of people, evading most of the well-wishing, the concern for Rachel's advanced pregnancy, and the increasing numbers of determined women who'd rallied around Caroline.

  Cole interrupted them as they reached the hallway. "Good. You're taking her home."

  Rachel stirred indignantly.

  Cullen forestalled her protest with a gentle squeeze that pulled her more firmly against his side. "We've both had about all the excitement we can handle for one night."

  Cole nodded. "I thought I might put a call through to Dan." His expression turned distinctly wolfish. "It'll take Hayward a good twenty minutes to hit the main highway in that fancy car of his, so we've got time to stop him. If Dan needs back up, I can despatch some of my guys to give him a hand."

  "Dan might not have enough evidence to move on Hayward yet," Cullen warned.

  "But there's no harm in trying," Cole drawled softly. He sketched a quick salute and disappeared back into the lounge.

  Cullen released Rachel. "Wait here. I'll drive as close as I can get to the door, then come and get you."

  "Do we have a vehicle?"

  "Cole lent us one of his four-wheel drives. And if this weather worsens, we're going to need it." Cullen didn't add what scared him most. If Rachel went into labour early, they would need a four-wheel drive to get through the inevitable floods and road damage and to the hospital care she needed.

  "I don't care if this has been the party from hell," she said abruptly. "I'm glad everyone knows what a rat Hayward is. Will he face charges?"

  Cullen lifted his shoulders. "Trask's not likely to take all the heat on his own. He'll talk. If Caroline agrees to testify, Dan won't hesitate to indict Hayward for harassment, at the very least. But even if none of the charges stick, Hayward can still kiss his career goodbye. He'll never work around here again, and it's likely he'll face disbarment."

  "He deserves everything he gets," Rachel said fiercely, touching his arm. "What you did for Caroline…"

  Cullen had to restrain himself from laying his hand over hers. Her fingers were pale and smooth, elegant and impossibly fragile against his scarred, muscled forearm. Beauty and the Beast. The analogy hit him forcibly. He felt like the Beast. Even now, his instincts were primitive. He wanted to haul Rachel close and keep her beside him so that she and everyone else would know that she was his. But he had to deal with her fear first, no matter what it cost him. Gently, he withdrew from her touch. "I frightened you."

  "You didn't frighten me! You've never frightened me. Now Hayward…" she said deliberately, "I'd say that's one very frightened man. If I looked apprehensive it was because I knew what that situation in there cost you."

  "Then maybe you should be frightened, because if you hadn't touched me when you did, I would have hit Hayward, and the way I was feeling, I wouldn't have wanted to stop."

  With a last shuttered look, he turned and strode out into the darkness.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  When they reached home, Rachel made sandwiches and coffee for Cullen while he put the truck away. Every part of her body throbbed and ached in subtle ways, as if she'd been sandpapered from the inside out. She was exhausted, but it was as much a tiredness of the spirit as the physical strain of late pregnancy.

  Three weeks. That was all she had, and it was going too fast. Soon she would have a baby in her arms, a child to love and cherish, but they would be alone. She could feel herself breaking inside, a slow splintering of all her hopes and dreams, and she wondered how she could possibly survive it. Not that she would have any choice. She would have to survive, for the baby's sake.

  The mudroom door opened and closed on a burst of wind as she lowered herself into a chair at the table. She could hear Cullen shedding his oilskin and boots, the sound of water running as he washed his hands; then he padded in.

  Instead of taking his seat, he went down on his haunches beside her. His hand settled gently on the curve of her belly, sending minor shock waves through her at the unexpectedness, the tingling heat, of his touch.

  "Are you sure you're all right?" he demanded. "If you think the baby's on its way, I'll take you to hospital now."

  Rachel met his gaze with calm determination. "I'm not in labour. The baby isn't due for three weeks. All my tests have been fine. Dr. Dalziel said I'd have to expect to feel tired. And that's all I'm feeling. Tired."

  She didn't say what was uppermost in her mind. Once she went to the hospital, she would relinquish what little contact she had with Cullen, and she wouldn't give up on his love until she knew she'd lost.

  In a move that was as unexpected as his hand caressing her stomach, Cullen touched her cheek, then the delicate skin beneath her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said huskily. His eyes locked with hers for a long, drawn-out moment; then he straightened and turned the radio on.

  The storm had been upgraded to a depression, and cyclone warnings were being broadcast at regular intervals. Often big weather systems headed their way but dissipated, swallowed by the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean before they ever reached the northern tip of New Zealand. This one was early in the season and had been discounted because of that. But instead of the innocuous drizzle that had been expected, the system was holding, building.

  By twelve o'clock the next afternoon the windspeed was gale force. Rachel paced into the kitchen and stared out the window. A loud crack jerked her gaze around in time to see a branch of the big old puriri tree next to the garage break off and tumble down the corrugated iron roof of the building. The sound of glass shattering punctuated the steady howl of the wind.

  She was alone in the house. Dane had stayed in town for the weekend, and Cullen was shifting stock out of the lower river flat pastures before the whole area flooded. He hadn't wanted to leave her, but Rachel had insisted. She felt perfectly fine, and the mares and foals needed to be moved. The wind wasn't as violent as it could have been, but with the torrent of water that would pour down off the hills, flash flooding was expected. Her final argument, that she could always ring Cole if she couldn't get hold of Cullen on his mobile phone, had finally convinced him.

  Another strong gust battered the house, and abruptly the power went out, plunging her into gloom. A piece of iron that must have been dislodged by the falling branch peeled off the garage roof with a shrieking sound and whipped away, leaving a hole in the roof and other pieces of iron flapping.

  Rachel rubbed her arms. Goose bumps roughened her skin, even though it wasn't cold. It was lunchtime, and Cullen should have been back by now. He'd rung twice earlier to check on her, but she hadn't heard from him for over an hour. He could be in danger, trapped by a flood or unconscious under a fallen tree. She picked up the phone and stabbed in his number—it took her a moment to realise the line was dead.

  Of course. The power was out, so why should she expect the telephone lines to remain intact? Panic settled low in her stomach.

  "Get ahold of yourself," she said sharply. "Just because the phone's dead, it doesn't mean Cullen is. All it means is that he's taking longer to shift stock than he'd planned and he can't get hold of you."

  But even though she'd said the admonitory words aloud, they didn't comfort her in any way. Cullen was strong, but the relentless power of the storm was frightening.

  Rachel paced the house, staring out different windows, straining to see past cascading water, to hear more than rain and moaning wind.
The helplessness of being trapped alone in the house while Cullen was outside in that filled her with frustration. If the wind showed any signs of abating, she decided, she would take her car and check on him. The decision to act instantly made her feel calmer, more in control. The road to the river flats was high, well metalled and clear of trees—the chances of getting stuck were almost nonexistent. She would take a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches. She shivered at the monotonous flapping of the loose iron on the garage roof. She would take the first aid kit, too. If she parked with her lights on, Cullen would see her and come, and then she would know he was safe.

  Quickly she filled a thermos with hot coffee and slapped peanut butter sandwiches together. She stuffed everything into one of the ancient canvas day packs that Cullen kept on a peg in the mudroom, then made herself sit down and wait.

  The wind was supposed to drop through the day, and no matter how restless and downright scared she was for Cullen, she wouldn't risk her baby in dangerous conditions. Half an hour passed, and the wind did seem to lessen. She hadn't heard any more iron rip loose, and the torrential downpour had abated to a steady light rain driven by wind.

  On impulse, Rachel grabbed the phone and punched in Cole's number, then remembered the phone was dead and let the receiver drop back onto its cradle.

  She couldn't wait any longer.

  Dragging one of Cullen's oilskins on over her cotton sweater and leggings, Rachel stamped her feet into gum boots, awkwardly managed to shoulder into the day pack then grabbed her car keys and braced herself to go out the door.

  Even though she expected it, the wind nearly tore the handle out of her grasp. Gritting her teeth, she forced the door shut and walked gingerly down the steps, holding on to the railing with one hand, keeping the hood of the oilskin anchored to the top of her head with the other. When she rounded the corner of the house, the wind hit her full force. She staggered back. Had she thought the wind had lessened? Bowing her head, she did her best to shield her face from the stinging, driving rain.