Relief came as they headed into Lafayette proper. Marc remained on the outskirts of the city, near a large park, but the streets were busy enough to allow her a chance to relax from the constant fear of being spotted. It helped that not a single road in this place seemed to go in a straight line.
The last five minutes of the journey were the most difficult. Because the streets were quiet and.contained many turnoffs, she had to stick closer than she liked or lose her line of sight. But at last he turned into the drive of a large house.
She parked her car a few doors down, behind a black van, her eyes drawn to the house. Children's toys lay here and there in the yard, and a swing set was just visible on the other side. Her hands squeezed the steering wheel and she almost forgot to breathe as it hit her that he might have children. In her pain over the flowers, she'd forgotten the receipt for clothing from a boys store.
When she finally dared to walk down the street to look at the faded sign near the gate, she was startled to see the words Our Lady of Hope Orphanage for Boys.
An orphanage ?
Mind in turmoil, she returned to the car. It appeared that her aloof husband wasn't meeting another woman, but what was his connection with an orphanage? And why had he kept it secret from her? Turning the key, she went to start the car. A big male hand reached inside and jerked it out.
Crying out, she whirled around and looked into the furious face of her husband. "Marc!"
"Get out!" He pulled open the door.
She obeyed, shaken by the visible rage on his face. Once she was standing in front of him, she didn't speak, waiting for his words. And his punishment. From what she knew of men she didn't believe he'd let her go this time without trying to humiliate her pride.
"You think I didn't see you following me?" he demanded, eyes glittering. "What kind of game are you playing?"
"I thought you were meeting another woman," she admitted, her throat dry. She'd never seen him mis openly furious, this out of control.
He seemed to get even angrier. "You want to see what I'm doing? Then come with me. Let's see what happens when you're faced with something that's not so pretty and pampered like the rest of your life, princess."
She didn't point out that she was only pampered because he wanted it that way. He'd been the one to set up accounts for her at the most exclusive boutiques, the most expensive stylists, as if she were an accessory that needed to be polished, she thought with a stabbing pain inside her stomach. Well, she'd always known where her worth lay. And she'd walked into this relationship with her eyes wide open. It did no good to rail at fate.
Now instead of arguing she went with him, the full skirt of her sunny-yellow dress whispering around her ankles. He tugged her up the stairs of the orphanage and pulled her inside the run-down building. An old man looked up from a desk in a room just off the entrance... A room that held a huge vase of wildflowers.
"Father Thomas." Marc's tone conveyed the deepest respect. "This is my wife, Hira."
The man smiled and stood. "My dear, it's lovely to finally meet you." Father Thomas walked over to the doorway and held out his hands.
Though Zulheil's ways were ancient and unlike those of her new home, there was such wisdom and peace in this man's faded-blue eyes, Hira knew he was close to divine grace. Awed, she went to him and bent down so he could kiss her cheeks. The hands that held her own were wrapped in papery-thin skin, but as strong as a young man's.
"I am honored, elder." She gave him the honorific of her land, wishing she wasn't wearing a sundress. In Zulheil, respect would demand formal clothing for such a meeting. Some of the old ways were worth following.
He chuckled. "You are a lovely young woman. A gentle soul."
The compliment brought tears to her eyes, for despite his ability to pinpoint their location, she could see that he was almost blind. This man saw Hira, not just the face and the body that were her trappings.
"You've done well, my son. I suppose you want to show her off to the boys. Off you go, daughter. I expect to see a lot more of you."
Hira smiled, feeling more warmth from this frail old man than she ever had from her own father. "You will." She turned and let Marc lead her away, leaving the elder to his ruminations.
The second they were out of earshot, he said in a cutting whisper, "Good performance, babe, but the boys won't be fooled so easily." Suddenly he paused. "Damn it, what the hell was I thinking? I shouldn't have brought you here—they've suffered enough." The bitterness in his tone startled her. "It's too late now. Don't hurt them."
Before she could ask him to explain the deep and uncompromising care she heard in his tone, they walked into a large kitchen. Ten boys of different ages, from a skinny five-year-old to a gangly youth of about fourteen, appeared to be trying to cook. Flour had turned the floor white but it was the childish laughter and the joy on their faces that held her attention. Then they saw her.
And the laughter died.
Six
"Boys, this is my wife, Hira." Marc's tone held no hint of anger but she could almost feel his tension.
Immediately Hira was aware of the wariness in the boys' eyes. "I'm pleased to meet you." She smiled, but there was no response, not even from the youngest of them all.
She didn't panic, conscious that they had no reason to trust her, but even so, she was at peace. She adored children and they'd always been her friends when older women had rejected her. Children didn't judge a person on anything but their heart.
Ignoring the flour that dusted the floor, she knelt down in front of the youngest. "What is your name, laeha?"
His eyes widened at being singled out, but he didn't look away. "Brian." It was a whisper.
"And what are you cooking, Brian?" He was so thin, she wanted to put him in her lap and feed him.
"Apple pie...for dessert."
"I have never eaten apple pie," she admitted.
Someone gasped. "Never?"
She rose to her full height. "I'm not from America. Your apple pie is not made in my homeland."
"Where are you from, then?" another boy asked.
She looked across at the dark-haired child. "Zulheil. It is a desert land. I find your, uh, Cajun Country too green. There are growing things everywhere." It still disconcerted her that flowers bloomed in the grass. She kept trying to avoid stepping on them, for flowers were precious in the desert.
A bespectacled boy gave her a tiny smile. "I read about Zulheil on the Internet. You look like the pictures of the people, but you're dressed different."
"I am trying to... Husband, what is the word?" She glanced over her shoulder, wondering who'd hurt her Marc so very much that he couldn't find it in his heart to trust her with his secrets. Secrets like why these orphans meant so much to him.
"What?" He looked like an immovable wall, arms crossed over his chest and eyes narrowed watchfully.
She smiled at him, treating him with the same gentleness as the children—she was beginning to see that he carried scars on the inside just like these wary babes. "For trying to fit in here?"
His eyes narrowed farther. "Blend."
"Yes." A smile broke out in her heart at his warning glare. Teasing her arrogant husband could be fun. "I've been trying to blend in. Do you think I will succeed?" she asked the children, once more turning her back on Marc.
Yet she could feel his presence like a physical touch, the tiny hairs on her nape standing to attention at his nearness. Her husband had branded her with his mark and her body knew it. She just had to keep him from finding out. The minute he discovered just how vulnerable she was to him, he'd stalk in and take full advantage. She wasn't ready to allow that, not while he refused to share the most important pieces of his self with her.