A Husband's Regret (The Unwanted Series)(22)

She stood up and crossed one arm over her naked breasts and used the  other hand to cup the wispy triangle of curls at the juncture of her  thighs in a classic pose of feminine shame.

When Bryce looked up and saw her he was struck as still as a statue. Her  tear-filled eyes were darting frantically around the room, searching  for her scattered clothing. He had dragged on his boxers by now and  urgently started hunting for her things, hating the trapped and  desperate look in her eyes. He eventually found her blouse and handed it  to her, but she didn't move. She looked almost catatonic and Bryce  swallowed down an irrational surge of panic. He helped her into the  blouse and buttoned it clumsily, but she looked even more vulnerable  with only her lower half exposed. She ducked her head and hid her face  behind her heavy fall of hair. He hunted around but couldn't seem to  find her panties. Instead he turned up a dainty bra and her creased  trousers. Deciding that the latter would do, he helped her into them,  hunkering down to physically lift her feet, one at a time, into the  trouser legs. The position brought his face level with the fine curls at  her center, but her very nakedness made her seem even more defenceless  and in need of his protection.

He eventually managed to get her all zipped and buttoned up, and when he  looked into her face he saw that her lips were moving and the tears  that had been threatening had spilled over. He gripped her arms  urgently, hating the sight of her tears. He focused on her lips and was  able to discern that she was saying the same thing over and over again.

You keep punishing me . . .

Bryce acknowledged that fact to himself. He did keep punishing her, but  what she didn't know was that he was punishing himself as well. He hated  seeing her like this, and he hated the guilt that burned away at his  insides like acid with every reluctant tear that she shed. He kept  telling himself that she deserved it but it was getting so damned hard  to keep convincing himself of that fact. He lifted a hand to her face  but she flinched away from him and he glowered, hating the reaction. He  had never physically hurt her, he had always taken great care not to  hurt her, and seeing her flinch away from him like he was the monster he  so dreaded becoming, had the same visceral effect on him as a punch to  the gut. He gingerly wrapped his arms around her and tugged her against  his chest. She was as stiff as a board and refused to relax in his  embrace. Eventually realizing that she was probably emotionally drained,  he lifted her into his arms and rather awkwardly managed to open the  door and carry her upstairs to her bedroom. Thankfully, Celeste and  Kayla were nowhere in sight. He placed her onto the soft bed and knelt  in front of her, trying to catch her eyes.





  

"If you'd just admit it," he said. She lifted her dull eyes to his,  seeming to register his presence at last and frowned in confusion.

"Admit what?" She looked confused, and he gritted his teeth as he tried to maintain his temper.

"Admit that you were at the scene of my accident and that you lied about  trying to reach me. I could try to forgive you and we could start  rebuilding our relationship. Just be honest, Bronwyn." She sighed  tiredly, defeat weighing heavily on her shoulders. She shifted her eyes  again and shrugged, looking like someone who just wanted to be left  alone and would do anything to achieve that end.

"If that's what you want, Bryce, then I confess to being guilty of  everything that you accused me of. I stood beside that road and watched  you suffer before walking away. I never tried to contact you; I  preferred to struggle along with no money, no home, and rapidly  deteriorating health.

"I didn't try, and fail, to reach you just after Kayla was born either,  when I was so ill I could barely hold the phone, when I was terrified I  would die and she would be left alone. I clung to my stubborn pride and  quite selfishly never once thought about what was best for you or our  daughter." She shaped the words so clearly, he had absolutely no  difficulty understanding her. It was what he had wanted, what he  believed to be true, a wholesale admission of guilt, but it did not sit  well with him and it certainly didn't feel right. He wasn't quite sure  how to proceed from here and gently pushed her down until she was lying  back on the bed.

"You need to rest," he said as gently as he could, but he was an  inaccurate judge of his own tone of voice at the best of times, and from  the way she flinched, he suspected that his words had emerged a lot  harsher than he had intended. Still she obeyed him and lay unresisting,  looking utterly drained of any desire to fight him anymore. He tugged  the covers up over her unmoving body and kissed her forehead tenderly  before standing up. He hovered uncertainly, feeling faintly ridiculous  in nothing but his black cotton boxers.

"Try to get some sleep. Don't worry about Kayla. I'll see to her dinner  and get her to bed . . ." He seemed to be rambling now and Bronwyn was  confused by his uncertainty. "I'll bring her up to say good night later.  Things will get better now, Bron," he vowed in an awkward rush, but  Bronwyn refused to acknowledge his impulsive promise. "You'll see.  They'll get better."



Well, things certainly felt better when she woke up the following  morning. She felt warm and cherished and soon realized that it was  because she was being cradled in Bryce's arms with her back pressed to  his warm chest. It was only the second time she found herself waking up  beside him since her return, and after the events of the last  twenty-four hours, she felt more than a little ambivalent about his  presence in her bed. He had one arm wrapped around her waist with his  hand cradled between her breasts, and the other arm was tucked beneath  her head. One of his muscled thighs was squeezed between her own slender  thighs. Against her better judgment, Bronwyn felt safe, secure, and  almost cherished. She felt his warm and steady breath feathering against  the vulnerable nape of her neck, and she fought back a little shiver of  pleasure. She slowly became aware of the fact that they were both  naked-and vaguely recalled Bryce brusquely helping her out of her  clothes sometime during the night. The scorching hot length of his  erection was pressing up against the small of her back. She immediately  tensed.

"Relax." His voice sounded like the contented purr of a cat and had the  exact opposite effect of relaxing her. "I'm not going to jump you this  morning. We need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you," she responded mutinously, safe in the knowledge that he could not hear her or see her lips.

"What did you say?" he surprised her by demanding, and she tensed even  further. He turned her resisting body to face him as if she weighed no  more than a feather, but she kept her gaze glued to his jaw. "I know you  said something . . . I could feel the vibration in your chest!"

"I asked what you wanted to talk about," she lied, meeting his eyes. He  looked unconvinced, and his eyes seethed with frustration, but he tamped  it down determinedly.

"Us . . ."

"I thought we'd said all that needed saying last night," she responded.  "I'm a liar and you're the victim of my vindictive and cruel nature." He  chose to ignore her sarcasm.

"I want to know what you meant last night when you said that you were  terrified that you would die," he probed softly, watching her face  carefully. They were lying so close together that it was difficult to  conceal the smallest emotion from him.





  

"There were complications." She shrugged casually. "It was a difficult  pregnancy, worsened by the fact that I was . . . malnourished." How  humiliating it was to admit that. She lowered her eyes again,  embarrassed by her inability to take care of herself. "I was underweight  and weak by the time I went into labor. It was a long, intense labor,  and because my body had been deprived of the vitamins it needed during  the pregnancy, it was ill-equipped to deal with the . . . trauma . . .  of an extended labor. There was some tearing, I lost a lot of blood and  went into shock. I remember them asking for the name and number of my  next of kin right after Kayla was born." She felt moisture on her cheeks  and was appalled to discover that she was crying silently. God, she was  so sick of crying all the time, but it was so difficult to recall the  fear and absolute loneliness of that moment without succumbing to  emotion. "I was so scared. I just wanted to hold my baby. I wanted to be  sure that she was okay. The doctors all looked so grim behind their  masks; they told me that she was fine but nobody would show me." She  felt a rough thumb wiping away the tears on her cheeks and shut her eyes  at the gruff gentleness. She swallowed bravely before continuing. "One  of the last things I remember before everything went dark was begging to  see my baby, and then a doctor calling my name and swearing. I remember  him swearing because he sounded so angry and so concerned that he  reminded me of you. For a split second I thought it was you! And I was  so happy . . ." She could feel him trembling now, as if chilled to the  bone, but for some reason she couldn't seem to stop the flow of words.  He had asked, he had wanted to know, and she was not going to sugar coat  it for him. She cleared her throat hoarsely before continuing.