"Oh, Ian .. ."

"Marry me because I am weak and selfish and unen

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lightened," he said in a harsh whisper. "Marry me because I need you so much."

She touched his cheek. "You need me to be your wife?" "Yes." "When?"

He grinned. "How about next Tuesday?" She smiled back at him. "Tuesday would be perfect. Outside, the crowd went wild.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Ian felt like a d.a.m.ned fool.

Standing on the porch, he stared out across the bright green lawn at the young girl crouched amidst the ferns at the forest's dark edge. She was all alone, sitting with a rag doll clutched to her breast.

What now, Selena? he thought. What in the world was he supposed to do-just walk up to the kid and say Hi, Lara. Selena wants me to play daddy for you?

He wished he'd never promised this. Never even pretended to promise it.

He glanced back at the closed door behind him. But it wouldn't do any good to go inside. Selena would just be there, waiting for him, a disappointed look in her dark eyes.

He took a tentative step forward. The old wood creaked beneath his feet. Crossing his arms, he forced himself to keep moving, down the steps, across the crunching gravel, to the end of the lawn.

There he paused again, just for a second, and forced his hands to his sides. "h.e.l.lo, Lara."

A quiet breeze rustled through the trees and caught his words.

Lara made a sharp, squealing sound and spun to face him, moving so quickly that she toppled onto her side. The doll rolled out of her grasp and lay c.o.c.ked on a 267.

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granite stone, staring up at him through one black b.u.t.ton eye.

"D-Dr. Carrick," she whispered, scampering backward into a wary crouch.

He gave her the gentlest smile he could. "Don't be afraid." The words came with a surprising ease. He moved toward her. When he was a few feet away, he lowered himself to the ground and sat down.

She lurched to a wobbly stand and glanced back at the house. "D-Did I do somethin' wrong?"

He felt a rush of shame at her obvious fear. "No, Lara. I just wanted to ... spend some time with you."

Her eyes widened. "You did?" A whisper of sound.

"I thought you might be lonely out here."

Her lower lip quivered a little and she bit down on it. "I ... I'm lonely lots of times."

The admission, so quiet and soft, pulled at his heart, and suddenly he was glad he was here. He tried to think of how to begin, how to reach out to a child. But he had no idea what would work, all he had was understanding, and perhaps a sc.r.a.p of truth. "I used to be lonely a lot when I was your age, too."

"You did?"

"Life is hard sometimes, don't you think? A little scary?"

She moved slowly toward him. Picking up her doll, she cradled it to her chest and sat down beside him.

He waited for her to speak, but she didn't, just sat there, staring up at him through wide eyes.

He pulled a small book from the pocket of his coat. "Perhaps I could read you a story?"

A lightning-quick smile pulled at her lips.

He opened the book and began to read to her, his voice strong and sure as he told her the story of Cinderella.

Somewhere about the time Cinderella was going to the ball, Lara wiggled a little closer to him. He thought for a second that she was going to rest her head on his 269.

shoulder, but she didn't, and surprisingly, he wished that she had.

When the story was over, she looked up at him, her eyes shining. "That was really a pretty story."

He wanted to reach out to her, push the tangled hair from her face, but he didn't move. It felt awkward, wanting to comfort her and yet not knowing how. He started to say something-he wasn't sure what-when a trembling squawk sounded.

A tiny bird fell from a nest above them, landed in a small, broken heap in the needle-strewn ground. It lay there writhing, its yellow beak snapping open and shut, its broken wing bent at an awkward angle. He scooped the frail little thing in his hand. "Poor baby," he murmured.

She stared at the bird as if it were a miracle. "C'n I touch it?"

Ian rested his hand on her bent knee. "Go ahead."

She stared at him for a long minute, then slowly reached out. Her pink, pudgy fingers whispered across the bird's head. She looked up at him, grinning. "Oh, it's so soft... ."

She bent closer to the bird and stroked its head, just as she'd done to her rag doll. "You'd better fly on home, little bird," she murmured.

"I think its wing is broken," Ian said.

Lara gasped and looked up at him. "Is the birdie gonna die?" she asked in a shaky voice.

His first reaction was to answer clinically: Yes. This bird would probably die. But when he looked in Lara's big, hope-filled eyes, he felt something inside him soften, give way. He realized for the first time that his honesty had always been a shield-he'd wielded it like a sharp instrument, using it to cut off discussions he didn't want to have, and avoid emotions he didn't want to feel. He'd cloaked himself with blunt honesty; now, sitting here at the edge of the woods with a r.e.t.a.r.ded girl

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and her broken-winged bird, he saw that he'd been wrong.

There was two truths-ones that held hope and ones that did not.

"Maybe if he got fed every day, he could grow strong."

"We could put it back in the nest. He would get better there."

"Its mother wouldn't care for it anymore."

"Because its wing is broke?"

He nodded.

She looked away for a second, and when she turned back to him, her eyes were filled with tears.

"Mommies don't like broken babies, do they?"

"Ah, Lara," he whispered, wishing suddenly that he could make things all right for this child with the big eyes and the quiet voice and the pain that lived so deep in her soul. He knew she wasn't talking about birds right now, she was talking about her own mother. Ian remembered the woman who'd dropped Lara off here- years ago. Back when Lara was a little girl with a ready smile and a giggly laugh.

Jesus, how could he dredge that memory up from his scotch-soaked past? But it was there, shivering in the darkness, waiting to leap out at him.

And he'd said nothing to her back then, hadn't taken her hand or dried her tears or anything. He'd just taken the woman's money and her daughter and said nothing. Not a d.a.m.ned thing.

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, Lara."

She blinked at him. "Sorry about what?"

So much. This time he did touch her, a breezing caress that wiped the moisture from her full check. At the touch, he felt her raw, misunderstood pain, seen in his mind as a red swirling mist of anguish and confusion and loss.

It shamed him to the core. What could he say? How could he atone for the pain he'd so blindly ignored, even fostered?

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There was nothing, no words.

"I'll be different," he said quietly.

She frowned. "Dr. Carrick?"

He knew she didn't understand, and it didn't matter. Selena was right; the past wasn't the important thing in life. The future was what counted, the choices that were made. He gave Lara a smile. "How about if we try to find a worm for that little guy? Maybe we could even make him a nest out of batting or something."

"Truly?"

"Truly." Smiling, he stood up. "Come on."

She grabbed her doll to her chest and got to her feet. She started to take a step toward the house, then stopped. Without looking up, she reached for his hand. He saw the contact coming, and for once in his life, accepted it, even welcomed it.

The vision, when it hit, was completely unexpected. The anguish, the pain, the confusion, were gone. Her mind was filled with childish excitement-I hope I find the first worm.. . . Hold on, birdie, I'll take care of you. . ..

He had done that, he realized suddenly. With nothing more than a fairy tale and a few moments of kindness, he had made this child smile, had given her a moment of hope.

He looked down at her small hand tucked into his larger one, and for a second his heart was achingly full.

d.a.m.ned if he didn't feel like a father for the first time in his life.

Together, they went in search of worms.

Selena knocked on Maeve's door. Behind the barrier, she heard the rustling of feet, then a hurried "Come in."

She twisted the bra.s.s handle and pushed the door open, stepping into an unexpectedly sunny room. A huge tester bed dominated the chamber, its surface draped in yellow and white checked silk and piled with Battenberg lace pillows. Around it, the walls were a

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clean b.u.t.ter yellow, papered here and there with bright pink rosebuds. Painted wooden bookcases covered one whole wall, the shelves filled with books and knick-knacks and dead animals, stuffed and sewn to look real.

A yellow and orange sofa, overflowing with flowered pillows, sat huddled alongside the marble fireplace, warm and inviting. Above the fireplace hung a gilt-framed painting of a naked blond woman draped in the sheerest curtain of gold. The artist's name, Jonas, was a gigantic black scrawl along the lower edge of the painting.

Selena stared around her in awe. "Your bedroom is beautiful, Maeve," she said.

Maeve gave her a broad smile. "Thank you. And thank you for coming." She turned and rifled through her walnut armoire, finally pulling out a lovely aquamarine silk gown and a bunch of dried flowers. "Here,"

she said, smoothing the gown along the end of the bed. 'This was my wedding gown. I want you to wear it."

Selena moved slowly toward the gown. It was the most exquisitely beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She picked up the hem, fingering the silken softness of the fabric, the heavy ecru lace that lined the daring neckline and fell in soft folds across the shoulders, the billowy half sleeves that ended in layer upon layer of more exquisite lace. "Oh, Maeve ..."

"Try it on. The wedding is five days away. We may need to make alterations." Maeve hurried to the chiffonier, wrenching open one drawer after another, piling her arms with lacy undergarments.

Selena saw the torture device called a corset and winced. "I shall not wear that."

Maeve laughed. "Corsets and weddings go together. It's a rule."

"I do not follow rules. And I do not want to pa.s.s unconscious at the first curtsy."

"All women do. At my wedding, ladies dropped like flies on the dance floor."

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"It makes no sense."