CULLEN'S BRIDE

by Fiona Brand

  Cullen flinched, and she felt a moment of remorse for flinging her own particular losses, her own needs, at him when he was already burdened with the weight of more hurt, more desolation, than she could imagine. But it was hard to be civilised when she could see her future slipping away. She watched as he picked his shirt up off the floor. "I'd rather bring this baby up solo than live with a man I don't love," she said shakily. He went still, and she knew she was going to hurt him even more. "It beats me why you won't have a crack at the biggest thing your old man failed at."

  He looked at her across his shoulder. "And what would that be?"

  She saw grim knowledge in his eyes. He knew what she was going to say, but she said in anyway. "Fatherhood."

  His hand tightened around the already crumpled fabric of his shirt, and when he spoke, his voice was low, gravely. "I know about fatherhood. I know how to kick and hit. I know how to swear and yell and break a child down until there isn't anything left but betrayal. I know how to put a child on the school bus for the first time, sending him off to an unknown destination with an apple and some stale bread in a brown paper bag. That kid hadn't known where he was going, or why." Cullen stared down at the bunched-up shirt, seemingly unaware that he'd shifted his words into the context of memories. "And when older kids beat up on him because he was dirty and impossibly dumb, he felt right at home with the bloody nose and smashed lip. So at home that pretty soon he was dishing it right back. And he was a big kid, with big strong hands. Just like his old man."

  Abruptly Cullen pulled on the shirt, leaving it hanging open. "Maybe I could be a good husband and father. And maybe I couldn't. But I can't take the risk with you or our child."

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  The early summer heat had given way to the slow, grey buildup of a northeasterly blow. The Hansons' annual barbecue would no doubt be held inside this year.

  Rachel slipped on a dress she'd sewn herself. It was made of layers of delicate lilac-sprigged cotton voile and left her arms bare.

  She smoothed the soft fabric over her stomach, grimacing wryly. With her shape, she definitely missed out on elegance, but at least she felt cool and, after months in leggings and shirts, feminine.

  Not that that would make any difference to Cullen.

  Ever since they'd made love, he had been both more distant and more attentive. He stayed around the house and made sure she kept her feet up, and wouldn't allow her to cook. But he didn't touch her if he could help it. The few times Rachel had been reduced to requesting his help, the resulting strain between them had made her regret asking.

  She coiled her hair into a loose knot at her nape, slipped into flat comfortable shoes and picked up a straw clutch purse. A hollow, shivery sensation tightened her stomach as she descended the stairs and headed slowly, cumbersomely, for the lounge. She was becoming used to the unsettling shiver. It wasn't caused by the baby but grew out of the panicked feeling that time was running out, that he would be happier without her. If it wasn't for the baby and her inner conviction that Cullen needed both of them as much as they needed him, she would do as he wanted. She would take herself as far away as she could, leave the house she'd come to love, the community that, despite its faults, was hers, and give him back his lonely, disciplined life.

  Cullen had his back to her when she entered the lounge. His head swung around, his gaze landing on her with familiar intensity, then running the length of her body in what she knew was an instinctive check on her health and well-being, not a sexual inventory. He was dressed in a lightweight black jacket and matching trousers that fit him like an expensively tailored glove. A white T-shirt clung to his broad chest, making him look both lazily dangerous and sophisticated.

  He didn't look in the least like the outlaw Riverbend had branded him. He looked successful, self-assured. He looked like he didn't need anyone or anything.

  "You look beautiful," he said quietly. "Why don't you wait here while I get the truck? I don't think we should take your car. If the rain sets in, the road'll turn to slush."

  Rachel glanced out at the light rain. "I'll get something to sit on and a couple of towels, just in case."

  "Grab a jacket, as well. It's warm now, but it's going to get colder."

  The rain became heavier, and the wind increased in velocity, as they turned onto the winding county road that led to the Hansons' drive. The windscreen wipers raked back and forth, and the headlights stabbed into the slanting rain as Cullen deftly negotiated the muddy road. A set of bridge abutments loomed, ghostly bright, just as a gust of wind hit the truck side-on. Rachel gasped, but Cullen swung the wheel, correcting in time, and they swept across the bridge, water spraying from the tyres.

  A large pothole where the bridge joined the road jolted haul enough for Rachel to reach up and grab the hand support above the door, and then they were weaving through the final treacherous series of switchback bends.

  Cullen swore beneath his breath as the wheel went sloppy in his hands. He'd felt the difference as soon as they'd cleared the pothole. He braked gently, then drove into the skid as the truck slewed sideways. Another controlled pump on the brake and they cleared the corner safely.

  The wheel went dead in his hands.

  "Hang on," he said curtly.

  They were going slowly, but the road was slippery. If he braked too hard, he could send them into a spin. Their momentum slowed, slowed. The bank grew out of greyness, spreading until it filled the windscreen. Cullen jerked on the hand brake and the back end of the truck slithered around. They lurched to a halt, rear wheels lodged in the ditch, headlights probing up into rain and thick, swirling clouds.

  Cullen hit the hazard lights, killed the engine, then snapped on the interior light. It wasn't dark, but the heavy cloud had created a preternatural gloom. Rachel was still clinging to the hand support, one arm draped protectively across her stomach. The angle of the truck had thrown her against her door. Cullen would have fallen onto her if his seat belt hadn't held him in place. Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he reached out and touched her face, felt the coolness of her skin, the fine tremors running beneath it. He dragged in a breath, sealing away the raw, possessive need to haul her onto his lap and run his hands over every part of her body—to check for himself that she was all right. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

  "I'm still in one piece," she said with a trace of dry humour that, perversely, made him want to shake her.

  He was still scared as hell.

  "What happened?" Rachel asked.

  "The steering went." Grimly, Cullen opened the glove box and retrieved the flashlight he always kept there. "I'm going to have a look underneath the truck."

  Seconds later he was directing the torch beam at the truck's chassis. It didn't take long to find the problem. Even with muddy water dripping, he could see the hanging tie rods and the bright gleam of metal that had been partially sawn through.

  The sound of a vehicle had Cullen straightening. It was Cole.

  "What the hell happened?" Cole demanded as he slammed his car door and pulled on an oilskin.

  "Cut tie rods," Cullen said succinctly. "Two of them."

  Cole's eyes narrowed at that information. "Is Rachel all right?"

  "She's fine. A little shocked." Cullen opened the truck door so Cole could see for himself that his sister was okay, and as he listened to Rachel reassuring Cole, his heart contracted with hot rage that anyone should try to hurt her. Although whoever had tampered with his steering hadn't seen Rachel as the target. They had been after him. Tossing his slaked jacket behind the seat, Cullen retrieved his mobile phone from the glove box. He glanced at Cole. "If you want to help, take Rachel on to the Hansons' and keep a close eye on her to make sure she really is all right. I'll deal with this."

  Cole swept an impatient hand over his wet hair. "I'll give you both a lift. Pass me the phone and I'll get a couple of my men to come out and tow your truck in."

  "I'd ap
preciate the tow," Cullen said flatly, handing the phone over. "But I'll wait with the truck until your guys arrive. I want Dan Holt to take a look at it first."

  There was a small silence filled by the steady beat of the rain, then Cole stabbed out some numbers. He spoke tersely into the phone before handing it back. "If you get Rachel out, I'll fetch an umbrella."

  Cole came back with a large golfing umbrella just as Cullen lifted Rachel free. After he'd settled her in the comfort of Cole's mud-spattered BMW and watched them drive away, he phoned Dan Holt and settled back to wait.

  It was possible that each attack or incident that had been perpetrated against him was done by someone different, but Cullen didn't think so. Tipping his head back, he let the rain hammer his face—let the relentless cascade douse some of the rage coursing through him. A memory slotted neatly into place, like a damn cue card. A partial view of a head bobbing up beside the truck while it was parked outside the supermarket. Cullen had been distracted. First by the boys who'd insulted Rachel, then by Cole, and finally by the news of Rachel's pregnancy complications. And then they'd made love.

  He cursed as heat and longing rolled through him at the memory. He could have prevented this accident if he'd followed up on his unease and checked the truck over. One glance would have revealed the amateurish hack job Trask had done. Cullen's jaw tightened with disgust. Only trouble was, these days his instincts were all located in the same place his brains were, somewhere not too far south of his belt buckle.

  * * *

  The Hansons' house was packed. Isobel Reese was holding court from the most central sofa. Dane was there, his handsome face alight with laughter and male satisfaction, his arm slung territorially around the waist of Rachel's apprentice, Sara. People flowed cheerfully through the rooms, talking, arguing, but mostly laughing.

  Cole found Rachel a seat and a glass of lemonade, then sat asking questions about her health until she glared him into silence.

  "You must be okay," he muttered irritably.

  He glanced around the room, and Rachel sighed at the fury tightening his jaw.

  "It wasn't Cullen's fault," she said, certain that Cole was seething about the accident.

  "No," he replied, surprising her. "It wasn't Cullen's fault." He glanced around, then got to his feet. "I'll be back in a few minutes. I need to make sure that Cullen got through to Dan Holt."

  Dan Holt? Rachel watched Cole stride through the shifting groups of people, an entirely new sense of alarm filling her. She kept remembering the sudden loss of control before Cullen threw them into a controlled skid. And Cullen had immediately wanted to examine the underside of the truck.

  Rachel held the frosted glass against her temple. Anger sent heat flooding across her skin. The only reason Cullen would need Dan Holt to look at the truck was if it had been tampered with. Someone had wanted to hurt Cullen. It was sheer chance that she'd been in the truck; normally she used her car. If the weather had been better, they both would have used her car tonight and the next time Cullen used his truck would probably have been around the farm. He could have lost control on a hairpin bend. He could have been killed.

  A cultured drawl rose above the general hum of conversation. "I don't think there's any real doubt that Cullen Logan killed his old man." A soft laugh followed. "In my opinion he deserves a medal for doing the town a favour. Of course…" There was a pause while the conversation around the expensively suited man fell away. "One wouldn't want to encourage someone like that to stay."

  "Someone like what?" Rachel demanded as she levered herself to her feet and looked for a place to plonk her glass down before she gave in to the impulse to heave it at Richard Hayward's handsome, smirking face.

  There was a small shocked silence, then a rustle of approving noises that sent a dull flush running up Hayward's neck. The lawyer clearly hadn't expected Cullen to have supporters. And then Rachel remembered what Cullen had told her about thew events surrounding his father's death. She knew that the only reason Cullen had speculated aloud had been to make her careful about where she put her feet—in case she stepped on a rat. But when all was said and done, she was a country girl at heart, and she wasn't the least afraid of rats, just wary of the kind of damage the vermin could inflict. "What brand of whiskey do you drink, Mr. Hayward?"

  The question flabbergasted him. He answered without thinking. "Chivas, of course."

  "Of course," she murmured with a tight smile. "How much does that cost a bottle?"

  "I wouldn't know," he retorted. "My wife takes care of those details. A lot, I imagine."

  "More than most drunks would be prepared to pay. And from what I've heard, Ian Logan wouldn't have been able to afford Chivas even if he'd wanted to."

  A rustle went through the gathering. Wariness entered Hayward's expression.

  Rachel swept her gaze around the room. "Ian Logan would have drunk something a lot cheaper and more available."

  Several people made assenting noises.

  "Then one would have to wonder why he was drinking Chivas the night he died. The same night someone left him unconscious on the side of the road."

  The sharp sound of breaking glass shattered the moment.

  Caroline Hayward was standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen, staring at her husband. Her face was pale, the pink lipstick she was wearing suddenly too garish for her pretty, elegant face. Her gaze flickered around the room, and with a mumbled apology she crouched beside the mess and began clumsily gathering up the shards. One of the pieces sliced into her finger. She dropped the glass bits to the floor and stared at her shaking hand, watching the blood drip and splatter onto her pristine white trousers with a silent, rigid fascination.

  A lean, tanned hand curled around her wrist, urging her to her feet; then the man who'd walked out of the kitchen behind Caroline gently wrapped a tea towel around her bleeding finger before helping her to a chair just inside the kitchen.

  The man was Cullen.

  Conversation built like a slow breaking wave, and with it came the clearly audible words, "You bitch."

  Rachel lifted her chin and met Hayward's incensed gaze. Had she ever thought he was benign and rather boring? A too smooth ladies man? The cold fury that shone in the lawyer's eyes was calculating and decidedly cruel. He'd been busily slinging mud at Cullen, accusing him of the murder of his own father, but if anyone in this room was capable of doing deliberate harm, it was Hayward.

  Cullen reappeared in the doorway, his eyes locating her immediately. The sound level dropped to nothing. Cullen's gaze narrowed at the silence, grey eyes flaring to hot metal as he prowled the gathering with the smooth shift and glide of a big hunting cat, cutting a path straight to Rachel.

  He'd changed out of his wet clothes, but he was still dressed in black, black pants and a black crew neck sweater that was so thin it clung to his chest, emphasising the muscular power of his build. He suddenly looked like exactly what he was, an ice-cool, highly trained and disciplined special forces soldier. Too many people had been content to judge Cullen on outward appearance alone, and now they were getting a firsthand taste of the real man. And if the outlaw had been wild and untamed, the warrior was infinitely more dangerous. Heat and vitality and danger throbbed from him. He made every other man in the room look pale and lifeless.

  Cullen's single-minded focus as he strode toward Rachel sent bittersweet emotion twisting through her. He was looking at her as if she were the only woman in the world, and she was his. No one here could be in any doubt that she was Cullen's woman. Cullen's bride.

  He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "You all right, babe?" His gaze roved over her, checking for any signs of stress or pain.

  Rachel didn't even try to stop the giddy rush of pleasure that just having him near started. Her fingers twined with his, soaking in his touch. "I am now."

  He smiled a gentle, sinfully sweet smile; then he looked up and over her shoulder, and all the warmth leached from his expression as he took in each and every person
in the room in one slow, sweeping glance. His gaze stopped, locking on Richard Hayward. He smiled again. Unlike the smile he'd shared with her, this was a warrior's smile, radiating disdain and a lethal confidence. The kind of expression that made men shuffle back a step and start looking for the way out.

  Richard Hayward was the first to the door.

  "I wouldn't leave just yet," Cullen warned softly.

  Hayward whipped around. Suddenly he didn't look elegant or handsome at all—he just looked scared.

  "According to my calculations," Cullen continued in his low, rough-silk voice, "right about now you should be apologising to my wife."

  Hayward's adam's apple made a run for his throat, then dropped back down, disappointed. "Sorry," he croaked.

  "Sorry…?" Cullen relinquished Rachel's hand, suppressing his regret at not being able to prolong that small, sweet contact for longer. But right now he had to put everything he wanted aside. The strategies in the campaign waged against him had always been dirty, but now that Rachel had been included on the list of casualties, the rules of engagement had just gone wild. Cullen wasn't planning on taking any prisoners.

  He strode close enough to Hayward that he was invading the man's personal space. His hand went flat against the partially opened door, easing it closed behind Hayward with a gentleness that was subtly threatening.

  Hayward's throat convulsed again, his eyes darting Rachel's way. "I'm sorry if I offended you. I'm sorry I mentioned anything about Ian Logan's death."

  "Ah, yes," Cullen murmured. "My father's untimely death. Not many people in this town turned up for the funeral, and I can't say I blame them. He made a lot of enemies. Some of you might even say I was one of them. Only problem is, I know damn well I wasn't the one who provided him with a bottle of whiskey that was more expensive than the brand he usually drank, then knocked him out and left him on the side of the road. He may have stumbled into that ditch all on his own, and the cause of death may have officially been drowning, but the son of a bitch had help. If you don't tell them, Hayward, I know someone who will."