The next day Hira went in search of her husband, feeling confident enough to ask him for something that was important to her. Unless she'd imagined his tenderness of the night before, Marc had changed his mind about her. Her heart bloomed with joy. Perhaps, after seeing her with the children, he no longer thought of her as a spoiled "princess" but a woman with a heart.
Once more she found him the backyard, chopping wood. But this time a slow, seductive smile eased her passage to him. "Good morning." His eyes ran down her demure mint-green top and skirt, made in the way of her homeland. There was definite male approval in his gaze.
"Good morning." She felt herself blush with sudden shyness. "Why do you chop wood when a fire does not appear to be required in this area?" she asked, trying to ground herself with mundane matters.
His eyes seemed to brighten. "I prefer it to lifting weights. I give the wood away to the people who need it." His eyes flicked toward the bayou.
"Oh. I understand." Her husband was a man with a big heart, she thought, trying to stop twisting her hands in front of her. "I wish to ask you for something."
He slammed the ax into the tree stump and faced her, hands t>n hips. The ridged musculature of his abdomen held her spellbound for an instant. She knew exactly what those muscles felt like under her hands. "Shoot."
Alarm rocketed through her. Did he think she was a violent woman? "Why would I want to?"
She could tell he was biting back a smile. "I didn't mean literally, princess. It's a figure of speech. It means, go ahead, speak what's on your mind."
"You Americans are very strange." She looked down at the ground rather than the magnificent expanse of her husband's chest. "I wish to pursue some studies."
"You want to take some classes? Pottery or something to occupy your time? That's fine with me."
She told herself she'd imagined the patronizing tone of his voice. Surely, after everything, he didn't still see her as a pretty toy? "I wish to study management theory and economics. There are classes in those subjects taught at the University of Louisiana in Lafayette.
"And since this is my new home, I thought I would also take advantage of the Center for Louisiana Studies and learn about Acadian culture."
Her husband's bark of laughter had her jerking her head up. "Sure, princess."
"Why are you laughing?" She couldn't bear to be laughed at, especially by this man who was so smart and loyal to the people whom he'd taken under his wing.
His smile faded. "You expect me to take that request seriously?" He shoved a hand through his hair. "Honey, I know you're intelligent. I said I'd never stop you learning and I won't, but to be honest, I don't think you're up to the rigors of intensive study. You were raised to be a pampered wife, not an academic."
She should have been glad that he wouldn't stand in the way of her dreams. Instead she found she wanted not only his permission but also his support. "I'm more than just smart. I'm determined," she insisted. "These things come to me naturally. I helped my older brother many times when he was stuck, but we didn't tell our father for he would've punished Fariz for asking my help."
"Look, I said it's fine. Send the bills to me."
He was already turning away from her, dismissing her. Rage choked her throat, blinded her vision, as years and years of being ground under a male's boot took its toll.
A small hand pushed at Marc's chest, forcing his attention back to the woman in front of him. He expected to find her in a feminine sulk because he hadn't immediately supported her sudden desire to study seriously. If she'd wanted it that much, she could've pursued it in Zulheil, which had a world-class university and no restrictions on the entry of female students. There were also any number of scholarships she could've applied for if her family hadn't wanted to finance her.
He didn't see what he'd expected. Hira was standing there, her hands clenched at her sides. Fury vibrated through her entire body. She was like a high-tension wire strung as taut as it could possibly be and not snap.
"You are a.. .horrible man! You hurt me and do not even care to say sorry!" Pure anger sparked in those stunning eyes. "You don't care to get to know me. I'm just some toy to you, like o-one of those windup things that children play with.
"Look," she said, imitating the voice of an infomercial presenter, her face strained white, "push this button and pretty little Hira will shatter from the pleasure of your touch, then touch this lever and she'll return to her place as a stupid, polished toy with no more brains than a vegetable!"
He was frozen. This wasn't the calm, composed princess he was used to seeing. This woman looked as if her heart had broken, and she spoke to him with bluntness that sent him reeling.
Seven
His wife turned on her heel and stumbled. Reaching out, he grabbed the backs of her arms, stunned to find fine tremors shaking her entire body.
"Let me go. Let me go," she repeated softly. "Just... let me go." Her voice hitched as she lost the battle with her tears.
Deep inside, where nothing was supposed to reach, a lost part of him found its way to the light. "Don't cry, Hira. Please, don't cry." He pulled her trembling body back against his chest, his chin on her hair, his arms around her waist. "I'm sorry. Hush, cher, Hush." Emotion brought the boy who'd roamed the bayou back to the surface.
She sniffed, keeping her back to his chest. "What do you always call me? Is it a bad word?"
He found himself smiling. "No. It's an endearment."
One that he found himself saying more and more, when he'd never been a man who threw the word around, charming women and breaking hearts.
"Why are you being nice?"
The question rocked him. "Am I not nice to you?"
"No." Bluntness again. "You treat me like... What is the word that Damian used yesterday to Larry?" She raised her hands and he could tell she was furiously wiping her eyes. "Yes, you treat me as if I am a nitwit." She sounded very proud at remembering that derogatory term.
"You send me shopping so I'll be out of your way while you do real work, and you get your secretary to make me appointments at these beauty salons where I'm so bored I complete all the crossword puzzles in every one of their silly magazines."
He winced because she was right. He'd asked his secretary to arrange outings, for her so that he could work in peace and quiet at home. The strange thing was, he'd found himself missing her. When she was home, he tended to go searching for her. That realization made him take a hard look at his actions. Was that why he'd sent her out? So he could pretend he wasn't falling for her?
"You have my most humble apologies if you think I treated you like a nitwit." He turned her in his arms and she came, though the face that looked up at him was defiant. "I don't think that of you."
She narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps."
There would be no easy acceptance of his apology from this woman. Marc found he didn't mind. He didn't want a wife who hid her emotions the way Hira's mother did to placate her husband. "What can I do to make it up to you?"
He knew that if he didn't fix things now, his wife would sublimate her pain and anger just like Amira, and he'd lose a piece of her. Tomorrow she'd be gracious and forgiving, and all the while she'd be living her own life in her thoughts and dreams, a life that he'd never again be invited to share. He didn't want that. He wanted all of her-spirit and soul, passion and heart.
"Nothing." She squared her shoulders. "I need nothing from you, husband."
His temper ignited, overwhelming the remorse. He was suddenly furiously angry at the way she refused to give him any rights over her, as if he weren't good enough. As if he should beg for her attention. She was treating him like another beautiful woman had a lifetime ago, and he'd had enough, more than enough.
"Except my money, you mean," he taunted. "If I wasn't keeping you in the style to which you're accustomed, you'd be out on the street."