Quiet Walks the Tiger (23 page)

“It should be very easy to try,” Wes said softly in sincere promise, “because I want to.”

It was a qualifying statement, but a start. Sloan buried her face into his shoulder. They had been ripping one another apart when they were really after the same things. “Wes?” She could let matters lie, maybe should let matters lie...

But then she couldn’t...she had to ask...

“I spent two rotten weeks in Paris by myself,” he said, anticipating her question, “and since then, I was in Kentucky. Alone.” His touch was gentle as he smoothed her wild hair. “I haven’t been near another woman since the night I first walked into your house. Does that answer your question?”

She nodded mutely against his chest.

“And do you believe me?”

“I—I think,” she faltered, thrown by the question. “I want to believe you—”

“Don’t you see?” Wes queried lightly. “That’s the point.” His voice became passionate and intense as he groaned, “I want to believe you. I want to trust you more than anything in the world...”

“But I do love you, Wes,” Sloan choked, burying deeper into his side. “I did need money, everything was going so badly, but I never meant to be...mercenary. Your love was like a dream come true, and then I knew that I loved you, too. Then, and, I do love you now, Wes!”

“That is what I want most to believe,” Wes said, his voice a soft whisper again. “And I am trying to. It just takes time for wounds to heal. We need that time.”

They both fell silent, but it was a comfortable, restful silence. For the first time, they were totally at peace in one another’s company.

It was Sloan, who, growing drowsy, finally broke the bond of quiet. Resting her chin on his chest, she looked into his eyes, determined to take a further step on the new road to open honesty.

“I do want your baby, Wes,” she told him wistfully.

His arms tightened around her, and his reply was one of the most tender she had ever heard. “Thank you.”

T
HINGS SHOULD HAVE WORKED
out simply from that point, Sloan thought; they were capable of talking, capable of breaking across the barriers of mistrust.

But talking didn’t necessarily mean that the past could be erased, and although their relationship had become pleasant and cordial in the week of Wesley’s return, she knew that they both still held back, both clung to a measure of reserve.

They had hurt each other, and she supposed it only natural that they both still wear armor when treading upon the soft ground of one another’s feelings.

It was therefore with a little unease the following Friday night after the children had long been asleep and Florence too had retired that Sloan sought Wes out in the den that he had turned into a pseudo-office.

She had had visions of the scene, played it a million ways. And in all her visions, it had been beautiful. She had teased and tormented him, smiling while promising him a secret. She had played the feminine role to the hilt, insisting upon an elegant dinner out before allowing her secret to leave her lips. And Wes...well, of course, he had responded with all the joyous enthusiasm and tender care she could have desired...

But when it came down to it, she was frightened. She could give him news that should surprise and elate him—news he wanted to hear. News that had thrilled her. But despite all of her happiness she was also filled with a heavy feeling of anxiety, almost a sadness.
We should have had more time,
she kept thinking. They should have had the time to keep talking, to break down the guards and barriers, to learn how to live and love together...

But they didn’t have the time. She had verified a slow dawning suspicion this morning, and although she could have waited to tell him, she didn’t deem it fair. She had begun all that was wrong between them with a lie—withholding this information would seem to be as great a lie as the one she had used to play with his emotions in a time that now seemed interminably long ago.

Besides, she couldn’t have held back any longer. Despite the shaky foundation of their marriage, she was hesitantly glowing. Deep inside she was thrilled and smug with herself—already madly in love with and protective of his child. She had to share the baby’s existence...

And yet it didn’t go a bit as she had envisioned in her daydreams—hindsight would tell her it was her own fault, but as she approached Wes that night, she wasn’t privy to hindsight. She was nervous, and afraid. From this point on, she would never really know if Wes had forgiven her completely, or if he was merely satisfied with his end of the bargain.

Her voice was consequently sharp when she stood in the doorway, her throat constricting as she watched his dark head bent over his papers, his attention fully on his work. “Wes.”

He glanced up at her, his eyes registering both surprise and annoyance at her tone. “Yes?” He didn’t snap at her; he was polite but aloof. That was about all that could be said for the week, Sloan thought dryly—polite and aloof. He was determined not to argue with her, determined not to bring up the past. They communicated just fine in the bedroom at night with the lights off, but in the morning the wary remoteness was back. Sloan began to wish he would yell or scream or argue—anything to dislodge that invisible shield that still kept them apart.

“I have to talk to you,” she announced, once more wincing at her own tone. She wanted so badly to be natural, to share the enthusiasm she was feeling...

“Come in.” He pushed back from the desk and indicated the wingback chair a few feet across from it. “What is it?”

Settling into the chair, Sloan knew her chance to change the cool tide of the conversation had come. All she had to do was put warmth into her abrupt tone, let her feelings show...

But it was as if she had lost voluntary control of her actions. She didn’t tease, she didn’t torment, she didn’t leave the chair and force herself into his lap, curling her arms around his neck, as she longed to do. She blurted her information almost brusquely.

“You’re getting your part of the bargain, Wes. I’m pregnant.”

A barrage of emotions flashed through his eyes in less than seconds—then they were guarded, opaque. His dark lashes swept over them, and Sloan suddenly felt as if she were facing a stranger.

“Are you sure?” His brows were knitting into a frown. “I didn’t think it was possible to know so quickly—”

“It isn’t quickly,” Sloan interrupted, feeling a flush steal over her face. Absurd that she could still blush in front of him, after all they had shared. But what she had to say went back to Belgium, a time when she would have doubted they could have even come to this strange, touching-but-not-touching existence. Her own lashes fell over her eyes. “I conceived on our...honeymoon.” She didn’t mean it to sound bitter, she really didn’t—but it did.

Wes was silent for a long time. So long that she began to think he didn’t care anymore, that his request of a week ago had merely been another way to taunt her...But no, she didn’t believe that; Wes had been too sincere when they did speak. He was honest with her. He did love her; she knew that and clung to it—even as she knew through his admission that it would take time for him to trust her.

She couldn’t know that he was silent because he was busy berating himself. A child, their child, and she was offering the wonderful information as part of a “bargain.” Because of him. Because he had come back so determined to keep her, and weld her to him, that he had forced her to do so. What a damned idiot he had been—it was almost as if fate laughed at him. If he had said nothing...if he hadn’t come upon her like a bear...she might be coming to him differently now. She might have come into the room full of the joy and enthusiasm...He never needed to force her into a bargain...she had been pregnant with his child at the time...

“Are you sure?” he asked huskily.

“Positive,” she answered, still afraid to risk a meeting with those opaque eyes again. But he was going to force the issue.

“Sloan, look at me.”

She did so finally, hands clasped tightly on her lap, her posture rigid with tension.

“Are you happy?” he asked softly.

Her nod was jerky; she could feel tears hovering behind her eyes and bit down hard on her inner lip to prevent them. “Are you?” she managed to ask.

He stood with an easy movement and made his way around the desk, his eyes never leaving hers. And then the opaqueness was gone; he was kneeling down beside her, taking her quivering hands into his. She glanced at him, suddenly feeling the tears drip down her face as he finally replied, “I’m not happy, my love, I’m ecstatic. That is, if you are.”

Sloan nodded as he touched her cheeks, brushing away the dampness with a gentle finger.

“Why are you crying?” he demanded gently.

Sloan shook her head; she couldn’t explain. “Because I’m pregnant, I guess,” she told him, star sapphires seeming to gleam in eyes that were wide and liquid. She didn’t realize that she now looked to him with ardent appeal—and an aching need. “Women are supposed to be highly emotional at this time, didn’t you know?”

He chuckled. “So I’ve heard.” His voice went very low in answer to her appeal. “I don’t mind ‘emotional’ at all, just as long as you are happy beneath it. I love you, Sloan.”

Suddenly she felt as if the barriers were gone—she hadn’t erased mistrust, but she was comfortable in the belief that Wes was trying, that his love was great enough to eradicate the mistakes they had both made in the past.

“I love you, Wes,” she echoed, eyes beseeching that he believe her. She was always so afraid to say those three little words.

He didn’t dispute her. Very tenderly he kissed her hands, then her forehead, then abruptly and with far less tenderness, he plucked her from the chair and into his arms, laughing at the startled expression that replaced her tears.

“My darling,” he explained, heading through the den door, “you came in like a prisoner of war to give me the most marvelous news of my life. Then you start weeping all over me! This, Mrs. Adams, is a time for celebration. We’ve a bottle of Asti Spumanti in the back of the fridge, and we’re going to toast one another to death. Hmmmmm...maybe I’ll do the majority of the toasting...I don’t believe you should be drinking too much...”

Sloan’s tears were changing to giddy laughter. “I can certainly have a glass of champagne!” she protested. “You forget, I’m an old hand at this.”

“Well, I’m not,” Wes protested, “And so you are going to follow all the rules. You don’t smoke, that’s good, and we can hire a teacher to work with Jim—”

“Hey!” Sloan protested, laughing as she was deposited on the kitchen counter while he prodded through the refrigerator. “I’m not going to stop dancing—I don’t have to, Wesley, really. I danced professionally until I was five months along with both Jamie and Laura.”

Wes stopped his prowling for a moment to gaze her way with stern eyes. “I don’t like it, Sloan. You’re ten pounds slimmer than you should be to begin with; you’ve been taking pills—” He halted abruptly; his stare seeming to narrow and bore into her. “Sloan,” he said tensely, “why were you taking those pills so long?”

“Because I didn’t know, Wesley,” she explained quickly. Oh God, she thought mournfully, could he really believe that she would try to lose his child? “I’m afraid I’ve never known for quite some time.” She was blushing again; how ridiculous. “I didn’t even suspect until Monday morning, and probably only then because we had been talking...” How lame she sounded. “But it’s all right, Wes, really it is. Many women take pills accidentally, and, and, nothing happens.”

His gaze softened. “You really do want this baby?”

“Yes.” She kept her eyes level with his. “I told you that I did, and I mean that, Wes.” She didn’t tell him how good it felt, how wonderful to cherish and nourish his child within her.

“All right,” he said gruffly, “you can keep teaching then—for a while—but we won’t stretch it too far. And you can have one glass of Asti Spumanti.” His eyes had taken on a twinkle, and she felt like crying again with relief. Things were going to be all right.

Then she was in his arms again, laughing as he stuffed the cold bottle and two crystal glasses into her hands so that he could carry her.

“What about your work?” she demanded as he booted open the door to their bedroom.

“It won’t go anywhere,” he promised gravely. And then the door was being slammed behind them, and she was laughing while he undressed her. She still attempted to hold the champagne and glasses and feel the inevitable warmth and sensual stimulation steal over her with his commanding touch...

Things
were
going to be all right.

And they were all right. Wes started coming into the studio with her, telling her he was looking at books, but she was sure he was watching over her.

She didn’t mind the feeling.

In fact, the only spur in her existence was an uneasy feeling in the back of her mind which she usually managed to ignore. Wes had been back in Gettysburg for two full weeks, and he hadn’t mentioned a thing about Kentucky. She knew he hadn’t decided to remain in the north indefinitely—his business holdings outside of Louisville were too vast for him to suddenly forget them. She also knew that he loved his home, his work, and the prestigious empire he and his brother had created together. She was aware that he would have to be going back—but he made no reference to her going with him. She should bring it up, she told herself, but she was loath to do so. She didn’t dare do a thing to mar the happiness the announcement of the child had brought them both. As long as things were moving along so very comfortably, she couldn’t dare make a change that might be disastrous. She was also still afraid of answers she might receive if she questioned too closely. She didn’t want to take a chance on hearing that their marriage was still on a trial basis—not complete until she had actually delivered the child Wes craved.

In that respect, she wasn’t frightened. She had three beautiful children—even Terry, born early in the midst of grief and shock, had clung tenaciously to life and health.

They were becoming a rounded family, and Sloan loved becoming that family in all the simple ways. Sharing dinners, watching television, planning their time. The money that Sloan had once longed for now meant so little. Her pleasure was in the man—watching him help Jamie with projects, chastising Laura while still treating her like a little princess, taking Terry with his toddling precociousness beneath his own wing. As it had always been with him, what was hers was his. No blood brother could have been better to Cassie, more companionable to George.