Lost In His Arms

She wasn’t about to tell him that her nervousness and tension around him was a result of an acute awareness of him, not as a brother-in-law, but as a virile handsome man whose eyes constantly held the chill of dislike.

“You,” she finally replied. At his puzzled look, she said, “Oh, come on Talbot, I knew how much you hated me. I knew you thought I’d gotten pregnant on purpose in order to trap Richard.”

“Why did you marry him?” His eyes held a genuine bewilderment.

“It wasn’t just because I was pregnant,” she said defensively. “And I certainly wasn’t looking to cash in on the McCarthy fortune, even though I knew that’s what you believed.” She raised her chin, like a prizefighter anticipating a blow. “I was seventeen years old and I thought I loved Richard.”

“You and Richard were both far too young to know about love.”

“Try telling that to two hormone-driven teenagers,” she said dryly. In all the years of her marriage and in the years since her divorce, she and Talbot had never spent any time together alone and had certainly never discussed her marriage to his brother and subsequent divorce.

She frowned thoughtfully, her mind flitting back in time. “I was desperate to belong somewhere. Richard was handsome and fun and seemed to want all the same things I wanted. I desperately wanted to believe that we could build something together. A family.”

She wanted, needed Talbot to understand. She reached out and touched his arm. “Haven’t you ever felt passionate about something, about someone?”

“At the moment I’m feeling pretty passionate about getting out of here.” He rose to his feet. “We’d better keep moving in what little daylight is left.”

He limped off under his own steam, and Elizabeth hurried to catch up. She’d wanted him to understand what forces had initially pulled her toward Richard and ultimately what forces had driven them apart. But it was obvious he didn’t care to know.

As she stared at his broad back, she realized he hadn’t answered her question. He’d probably never felt passion for anyone, she thought. He’d always struck her as a man who would never understand passion, or love or need.

He’d always appeared strong in his isolation, content with his aloneness. What she didn’t understand was why this knowledge of him created a strange ache inside her.

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