The Protectors: Defending His Own / Guarding Jeannie

She had written silly, girlish poems about love and life and Ashe McLaughlin. She had long ago burned those poems. Even now she could feel the tears on her face, the tears she had shed the night she’d tossed those hopeless professions of love into the fireplace and watched her youthful dreams go up in smoke.

She shouldn’t be dwelling on the past, not with so many problems facing her in the present. Between the constant harassing threats and Ashe’s presence, her nerves were raw. She wanted to scream, to cry, to break something—anything—into a thousand pieces.

She wanted Ashe to go away; she wanted Ashe to never leave her. She fantasized about telling Ashe that Allen was his son; she lived in fear Ashe would discover the truth.

Deborah set her teacup on the mahogany tea table beside the window bench, pulled the cream crocheted afghan over her legs and rested her head against the window frame. She should have been in bed an hour ago, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The simple, orderly life she had worked out for herself had suddenly and irrevocably fallen apart. She had turned off on the wrong road, witnessed a murder and her life would never be the same again. Not only was her life being threatened by the most notorious hoodlums in the state, but the very man determined to protect her posed the greatest threat of all. How ironic, she thought, that she should fear Ashe McLaughlin even more than she feared Buck Stansell.

She heard a soft rap on her door. Her mother? Had she taken ill? Or Allen, who usually slept soundly the whole night through? No. Not her mother. Not Allen.

Ashe.

Dropping the afghan to the floor, she walked across the room, her heart hammering away in her chest. Just before opening the door, she readjusted her silk robe, tightening the belt around her waist.

Ashe McLaughlin stood in the hallway, one big hand braced against the doorpost. He still wore his charcoal gray slacks and his dove gray linen shirt, but the shirt was completely unbuttoned and the hem hung loose below his hips.

“May I come in? We need to talk.”

“It’s late, Ashe. After midnight. I’m tired.” She didn’t want him in her room, didn’t want to be alone with him. “Can’t this wait until morning?”

“It could, but since we’re both awake, I see no reason to postpone our conversation.” He dropped his hand from the doorpost, leaned toward her and looked her over from head to toe. “Are you going to let me in?”

If she said no, he would think she was afraid of him, that he still held some kind of power over her. She couldn’t let him think she cared, that he…Oh, who was she kidding? Any fool could see that Ashe McLaughlin made her act like a silly, lovesick schoolgirl.

“Come on in.” She stepped back, allowing him entrance.

He followed her into the sitting room, glancing around, taking note of the lush femininity of the room. All muted cobalt blues and faded rose colors with splashes of rich cream. Ruffles and lace and dainty crocheted items whispered “Lady.”

“Won’t you sit down?” She indicated the antique rocker covered in a vibrant floral pattern.

Ashe eyed the delicate chair, wondering if it would hold his weight. Deborah sat on the wide, plush window seat. Without asking permission, he walked over and sat down beside her. She jumped, then glared at him.

“I was afraid I’d break that little rocker,” he said, smiling.

“You could have sat in the arm chair, there by the fireplace.” She indicated the wing chair, a wide-brimmed, lace hat hanging from one wing.

“I’d rather sit beside you.” He knew he made her nervous, and he thought he knew why. No matter what had happened between them eleven years ago, no matter how betrayed either of them felt, the spark that had ignited a blazing fire between them that one night down by the river still burned inside both of them.

“Fine, sit beside me.” She glanced over at the tea service. “Would you care for some cinnamon tea?”

“No, thanks.”

“What was so urgent that you couldn’t wait until tomorrow to discuss it with me?” Feeling her robe slipping open across her thigh, she grabbed the blue silk and held it in place.

“Are you all right, Deborah?” he asked. “I mean really all right. You’ve had a rough day, and you barely said ten words at dinner. Miss Carol is worried. So is Allen.”

“I’m fine, and I’ll make sure Mother and Allen both know it. Now, if that’s all you came to say—” she started to rise.

“Sit down.”

She eased back down onto the bench.

“As you know, I paid a visit to Lee Roy and Johnny Joe, a couple of my cousins who work for Buck Stansell.”

Her eyes, wide and overly bright, looked right at him. Damn her, she was working hard at being brave, at pretending she wasn’t slowly falling apart. And he figured having him around wasn’t helping her any. But he couldn’t leave, couldn’t let Sam Dundee send another agent to protect her. Deborah was his responsibility, his to protect, his to defend against whatever harm came her way.

“What happened?” Deborah asked. “I’m sure they didn’t admit that Buck Stansell was harassing me, trying to convince me that he’d have me killed if I testify against Lon Sparks.”

“No, the boys didn’t admit to anything. They didn’t have to. I know my cousins. I know their kind. My father was one of them. They’re what I came from.”

Without hesitating, without thinking, Deborah touched his hand. Comforting. Caring. So much like the Deborah he’d known and liked.

“You were never anything like those people. You didn’t get into any real trouble when you were a teenager. Everything you did, you did to improve your life, to get away from your roots.”

He laid his open palm atop her small hand, trapping it between his big, hard hands. “You never looked down on me, never thought you were better than I was, like so many people did. Even though you were just a kid, you seemed to understand what I wanted, what I needed.”

Deborah shivered, her stomach quivering, warmth spreading through her like the morning sunshine slowly bathing the horizon with its life-giving light. She couldn’t bear feeling this way, longing to put her arms around Ashe, to tell him that she had loved him so dearly, had wanted nothing more than for him to return her love. She’d been a foolish girl; he’d been in love with her cousin.

She pulled her hand out of his gentle clasp. “So, your…you…” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “…your visit to your cousins didn’t accomplish anything.”

Dear God, how he wanted to kiss her. Here in the feminine confines of her sitting room, surrounded by all her frills and lace. The smell of her fresh and lightly scented from her bath. Her skin glowing. Soft. Begging for his touch.

“No, you’re wrong,” he said. “The visit did accomplish a few things. I made contact with the enemy camp. I found out Lee Roy and I still have a connection. And I sent a warning to Buck Stansell.” He reached out; she retreated. He reached out farther and touched her cheek. She trembled, but didn’t pull away from him. “I laid claim to you. I told them that Buck should know you are my woman, and if he harms you, I’ll seek revenge.”

“You…you…claimed me?” She widened her eyes, staring at him in disbelief.

He ran the tips of his fingers down her cheek, caressing her throat, then circled her neck, urging her forward. “I know Buck and his type. They’re wild, they’re ruthless, but they aren’t stupid. The one thing they respect and understand is brute force. Another man’s strength. They know who I am, the life I’ve lived. And they know that if I say I’ll come after them if they harm you, I mean it.”

“But Ashe, I don’t—”

“For as long as I’m your bodyguard, we will pretend to be a couple. We’re old friends who have become lovers. As far as Buck Stansell and the whole state of Alabama is concerned, you’re my woman, and this isn’t a job anymore. This is personal. In taking care of you, I’m simply defending my own against any harm. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Yes, she understood. She understood only too well. Not only would she have to endure constant threats on her life and Ashe’s daily presence in her life, but she would have to put on an act, playing the part of Ashe’s lover.

“I can’t do it,” she said, trying to pull away from him.

He held her in his gentle yet firm grip, raking his thumb up and down the side of her neck. “Why can’t you?”

“I can’t lie about something that important. I can’t pretend with Mother and with Allen.”

“Tell your Mother the truth, and I don’t think Allen will care if you have a boyfriend. He seems to think you need one.” Ashe continued stroking the side of her neck.

“You had no right to tell anyone that I’m your woman! I’m not. I never have been and I never will be.”

He jerked her up against him, his lips a whisper away from hers. “This pretense just might save your life or at least make Buck think twice about harming you. I don’t give a damn about your objections—I’m more concerned about saving your life. From this moment on, for all intents and purposes, you’re mine. Do I make myself clear?”

Deborah swallowed hard, then closed her eyes to block out the sight of Ashe’s face. She couldn’t pretend to be his woman. Dear Lord, didn’t he understand anything about her? Years ago she had lived in a fantasy world where she dreamed Ashe would leave Whitney and come to her, claiming her, making her his. And on that one night, the night she conceived Allen, she had given herself to the man she loved, and afterward he had told her he didn’t want her.

“You can’t order me around. You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do.” She clenched her teeth and stared him straight in the eye.