Tender Savage (Siren Publishing Allure) (17 page)

Thumping a cushion, she scooted further down into the sofa and closed her eyes. If only Abraham had loved her. If only he’d asked her to stay, and if only she’d had the courage to contact him, he might still be alive, and even if he hadn’t wanted her or their child, he’d still be alive somewhere in the world, and knowing that, she would have had hope. What sad words they were, she thought a trifle bitterly, the saddest in the dictionary—
if only
! Tears slowly ran down her cheeks, tears of sorrow and of loss, of a lost love and a lost life. Her breathing slowed, and she slept. Buffy crept slowly onto the sofa and nestled into Eleanor’s bent knees and with a deep, sorrowful sigh, rested her head her on her hip. The cat, Maxwell, not wanting to be left out, climbed onto the arm of the sofa and, purring rhythmically, lulled Eleanor into a deeper dreamless sleep.

* * * *

It was the knocking on the door and the frantic yapping from the pup that finally awoke Eleanor. Eyes snapping open, she quickly gathered her senses and struggled off the couch. Finger-combing her hair into some semblance of order, she wiped the drool from her cheek and quickly walked to the porch. Swinging open the door at the next bout of knocking, she opened her mouth to give the caller a piece of her mind, but instead turned a deathly pale, her mouth now opening and shutting like a goldfish.

“I think I’m going to faint!” she muttered, reaching out an unsteady hand to the doorframe.

A strong arm wrapped itself around her waist.

“No you’re not!” a deep male voice intoned just moments before she was swept off her feet by the same strong arms.

Swiftly striding into the house, Abraham took but seconds to ascertain where the living room was and, placing Eleanor gently on the sofa, stood over her, waiting for her to compose herself.

“Abraham— I can’t believe it. You’re—well, you’re
alive
!”

“Yes, I can most certainly agree with that.” Abraham sat beside her and gently lifted her hand to his lips, his eyes locking with hers.

Tears filled Eleanor’s eyes, and she began to sob, not gentle feminine sniffles but deep, heart-rending sobs, which shook her small frame.

Abraham let her cry for a while before getting to his feet and finding his way to the kitchen. There he boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea, adding cups, saucers, milk, and sugar to the tray. He then found a packet of biscuits and, after filling a glass with water, picked up his burden and went back to a still-crying Eleanor.

Placing the tray on a nearby table, he handed her first the glass of water, waiting whilst she took a few sips, and when satisfied she was more composed, he removed the glass and replaced it with a large tissue.

“Blow,” he ordered.

She blew, loudly and inelegantly.

Then sitting beside her again, Abraham calmly poured the tea and, handing her the drink, waited patiently whilst she drank a few gulps of the milky liquid.

Grimacing in distaste at the too-sweet, too-creamy beverage, she handed him back the cup and reached out to touch his face.

“Abraham, I can hardly believe it. Your team said you were dead.”

“No, just lost, presumed dead. I was deep undercover and wasn’t able to contact base at the predetermined time, so after receiving no contact from me for fourteen days, I was presumed dead. But, happily, as you can see, that wasn’t the case.”

Silence descended on the room as they looked their fill at each other. Eleanor drank in Abraham’s manly beauty, his sculpted jaw, the jagged battle scar, and the deep, glittering emerald of his eyes as they grew tender.

Abraham in turn was taking in Eleanor’s soft beauty, her gentle, kissable mouth, the deep sherry-brown of her eyes, and the added glow that radiated from her clear, delicate completion. His gaze dropped further, taking in the frailness of her neck and collarbone under the fine lawn of her shirt, and then it dropped down to her voluptuous breasts. He frowned. Surely more voluptuous than he remembered, and then down to the slight but definite swelling of her belly. His gaze lifted back to her glowing eyes.

“Eleanor?” His hand reached out and caressed her stomach.

Placing her hand over his, she looked deeper into his eyes, searching for what she wasn’t sure.

“Yes, Abraham, I’m pregnant.” Her gaze grew anxious. What if he should deny her now…

Tenderly, Abraham smiled. “Our baby, yours and mine, Eleanor.”

Joy filled her. He had accepted without hesitation, without question that the child was his, and he didn’t even seem upset.

“Yes,” she breathed softly, her breath caressing his cheek. “Ours!”

Sometime later she stirred against Abraham’s muscular chest. They had talked about everything, clearing the air. She had explained about her brother and why she had became a model and now, how she had found her niche in life, the ambition of being a novelist.

Abraham had explained about his life in the SAS, his first love and her betrayal, and how he’d gotten his scar and why he had tried to keep an emotional distance from her—his fear of betrayal and rejection. He had also explained that whilst away on the last assignment he had come to one of the momentous decisions of his life. He had decided to give up his team and return to his home in the Yorkshire Dales. There he owned a large farm, which he wanted to turn into an animal sanctuary. He was rich, she discovered, his riches far beyond her comprehension, and so to retire and live his dream was something within his capability.

Taking Eleanor back into his arms, he looked deeply into her eyes.

“I love you, Eleanor. I tried to fight it and pretend all I felt for you was lust, but I can’t fight it any longer. I love you honey, so much so that I’d give up my life for you, but there is just one more thing that will make my life perfect and that is if you will agree to be my wife. To say you love me in return and that you will marry me, be the mother of my children, and stay by my side forever?”

Closing her eyes in relief, Eleanor entwined her arms around his neck, and, pressing loving kisses to his eyes, his mouth, and lastly to his scar, she gave him the answer he was waiting for—an affirmation of her love. Agreeing to marry Abraham, she vowed she would spend the rest of her life loving him and their children. Her hand dropped to her stomach, caressing her unborn child.

“Abraham, my tender Savage, I will be yours forever—such is the power of love!”

THE END

Rosemary J Anderson was born in the village of Shipston-upon-Stour Warwickshire England. Being part of a military family, she spent her childhood moving to different parts of the country. After settling in Bristol she spent fifteen years as a legal/financial caseworker with the Legal Aid Board, before moving to the village of Adlington in Lancashire, where she took up writing. Her hobbies include reading, cooking, the cinema, spending time with friends and walking her large dog, a long haired Akita named Sumo. An avid people watcher she finds inspiration for her characters from many unlikely sources.

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