She gazed at the thin gold ring on her finger. It was small and pretty, with two tiny hearts at the top delicately outlined in diamond-and-ruby chips. He told her he'd gotten it from Miss Dolly.
"I don't have anything to put on," she said.
"You don't need anything."
"I'm cold."
Slowly, without taking his gaze from hers, he unbuttoned his shirt and passed it over.
"I don't want to take your shirt. If you'll move out of the way, I'll go to my room and get my robe."
"I'd rather stay here."
Obstinate, overbearing man! She gritted her teeth and stepped out of the tub. Holding the towel to her body with one hand, she reached for his shirt with the other. Clumsily, she slipped it on over the towel. Then she turned her back to him, dropped the towel, and rapidly fastened the row of buttons.
The long sleeves kept getting in her way, making the job more difficult. As the shirttails clung to her damp thighs, she was conscious of how thin the material was over her nakedness. She turned up the cuffs and edged past him. "I need to go to my room and comb out my hair or it'll tangle."
"Use my comb." He inclined his head toward the bureau.
She walked over and picked it up. Her face stared back at her from the mirror. She looked pale and wary, but she didn't look frightened. She should be, she thought, as she drew the comb through the long strands of wet hair. Cain hated her. He was powerful and unpredictable, stronger than she was, and he had the law on his side. She should be screaming for mercy now. Instead, she felt an odd agitation.
In the mirror's reflection she saw him slouch into the wing chair. He idly crossed one ankle over his knee. His eyes caught hers. She looked away and combed her hair more vigorously, sending droplets spattering.
She heard movement, and her gaze darted back to the mirror. Cain had picked up a glass from the floor and was lifting it to her reflection.
"Here's to wedded bliss, Mrs. Cain."
"Don't call me that."
"It's your name. Have you forgotten already?"
"I haven't forgotten anything." She took a deep breath. "I haven't forgotten that I've wronged you. But I've already paid the price, and I don't need to pay any more."
"I'll be the judge of that. Now put down that comb and turn around so I can look at you."
Slowly she did as he said, a queer excitement building along with her dread. Her eyes settled on the scars that marred his chest. "Where did you get the scar on your shoulder?"
"Missionary Ridge."
"What about the one on your hand?"
"Petersburg. And I got the one on my gut fighting over a crooked poker game in a Laredo whorehouse. Now unbutton that shirt and come over here so I can take a better look at my newest piece of property."
"I'm not your property, Baron Cain."
"That isn't what the law says, Mrs. Cain. Women belong to the men who marry them."
"Keep telling yourself that if it makes you happy. But I don't belong to anybody except myself."
He rose and walked toward her with slow, deliberate steps. "Let's get something straight right from the start. I own you. And from now on, you'll do exactly what I say. If I want you to polish my boots, you'll polish them. If I tell you to muck out my stable, you'll do that, too. And when I want you in my bed, you'd better be flat on your back with your legs spread by the time I have my belt unbuckled."
His words should have made her stomach churn in fear, but there was something too calculated about them. He was deliberately trying to break her, and she wasn't going to let him do it.
"I'm terrified," she drawled.
She hadn't given him the reaction he wanted, so he came after her again. "When you married me, you lost your last bit of freedom. Now I can do anything I want with you, short of killing you. And if I'm not too obvious about it, I can probably do that, too."
"If I don't get you first," she retorted.
"Not a chance."
She tried again to reason with him. "I did a terrible thing. It was wrong, but you have my money. It's triple what it should cost you to rebuild that mill, so let's put an end to this."
"Some things don't have a price." He rested one shoulder against a bedpost. "This should amuse you…"
She regarded him warily. Somehow she didn't think so.
"I'd already made up my mind not to send you back to New York. I was going to tell you in the morning."
She felt sick. She shook her head, hoping it wasn't true.
"Ironic, isn't it?" he said. "I didn't want to hurt you like that. But everything's changed now, and I don't much care about that." He reached out and began unfastening the buttons of her shirt.
She stood perfectly still, her earlier spark of confidence evaporating. "Don't do this."
"It's too late." He parted the shirt and gazed down at her breasts.
She tried not to say it, but she couldn't help it. "I'm afraid."
"I know."
"Will it hurt?"
"Yes."
She closed her eyes tight. He removed her shirt. She stood naked before him.
Tonight would be the worst, she told herself. When it was done, he'd have lost his power over her.
He caught her under the knees and carried her to his bed. She turned her head away as he began to strip off his clothing. Moments later, he lowered himself to the side of the bed. It sagged beneath his weight.
Something twisted inside Cain at the sight of her turned away from him. Her closed eyes… The resignation in that heart-shaped face… What had it cost her to admit her fear? Damn it, he didn't want her like this. He wanted her spitting and fighting. He wanted her cursing him and sparking his anger as only she knew how.
He cupped her knees to prod a reaction from her, but even then she didn't fight him. He pushed her legs apart and shifted his weight to kneel between them. Then he looked down at the secret part of her, bathed in lamplight.
She lay still as he separated the dark, silken threads with his fingers. His wild rose of the deep wood. Petals within petals. Protectively folded around the heart of her. His stomach knotted at the sight. He knew from the afternoon at the pond how small she was, how tight. He was flooded with a damning sense of tenderness.
From the corner of his eye he saw one delicate hand curl into a fist on the counterpane. He waited for her to swing at him, to fight him for what he was doing. Wished for it to happen. But she didn't move, and her very defenselessness undid him.
With a groan, he lay down and pulled her into his arms. She was trembling. Guilt as powerful as his desire ate at him. He'd never treated a woman so callously. This was part of the madness that had claimed him. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
He held her against his bare chest and stroked the damp locks of her hair. As he soothed her, his own desire raged, but he didn't give in to it, not until her trembling finally stopped.
Cain's arm felt solid and ironically comforting around her. She heard his breathing slow, but she knew he wasn't asleep, no more than she was. Moonlight silvered the quiet room, and she felt a strange sense of calm. Something about the quiet, something about the hell they'd been through and the hell that no doubt lay ahead, made questions possible.
"Why do you hate me so much? Even before the cotton mill. From the day I came back to Risen Glory."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he answered her. "I never hated you."
"I was destined to hate whoever inherited Risen Glory," she said.
"It always comes back to Risen Glory, doesn't it? Do you love this plantation so much?"
"More than anything. Risen Glory is all I've ever had. Without it, I'm not anything."
He brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek. "You're a beautiful woman, and you have courage."
"How can you say that after what I did?"
"I guess we all do what we have to."