Guarding The Soldier's Secret. Kathleen Creighton

      His words stopped her. “But I can tell you about her.” She looked back at him, at his silhouette against the lighter sky. “About Laila. Her mother. How it happened. If you’d care to hear.”

      Was there entreaty in his voice? She so wished she could see his eyes, his features—though she doubted they’d have told her much. She took a deep breath and, with great effort, said carefully, “I would. Of course.”

      Now there was no sound at all in the courtyard; the background noise of the city had faded away and the fountain had ceased its music. The darkness seemed to enfold the two of them in its own embrace. Wrapped in it, she could feel his heat, smell his scent. So close...too close...

      She put out her hand expecting to touch his chest, meaning to hold him at bay, knowing she had no will to resist him if he chose to move closer. Her hand encountered only air. It was her perceptions that made him seem so near. To disguise the gesture she turned it into something else.

      “But first—” She turned quickly, before he could guess how close she’d come to stepping into his arms. “First, just let me check on Laila. It’s a strange place... I don’t want her to wake and be frightened. It’s been such an eventful day—”

      “I’d like to come with you.” She halted without turning and felt the light touch on her shoulder. “If it’s okay. Please.”

      She nodded, shielded her feminine responses, swallowed all her maternal misgivings and protective instincts, and murmured, “Sure. Of course.”

      She led the way into the silent house, into the smaller of the two living rooms that were traditionally used for sleeping, as well as dining and relaxing with close family members. In this one the walls were soft buttery yellow, lit by small lamps in sconces placed high on the walls. There were sleeping mattresses against three of the walls and pillows covered in red and orange and black patterns. On one of the mattresses, Laila slept soundly, curled on her side in her favorite position, with her cheek pillowed on her hand. Her lips were parted, and her lashes made dark shadows on skin turned golden by the lamplight.

      As Yancy knelt beside the sleeping child, she felt her chest tighten and her throat ache and her fingers burn with the need to touch...to reassure herself this small beautiful creature, this miraculous being, was real...and her daughter. Behind her she could feel Hunt balancing himself on one knee, but she didn’t look at him, afraid of what she might see in his face.

      Which would be worse—to see him dispassionate, cold, aloof...the kind of man too occupied with making war to care about a child...the kind of man who could so easily walk away and leave his child in the hands of strangers and vanish without a trace? Or to see in his face the same overwhelming love that fills my heart? The kind of love that won’t let go? That will fight to the last breath for his child.

      She drew a shuddering breath and rose, and he did, too, almost simultaneously, one hand under her elbow to steady her. She slid away from his touch and turned on him a blind smile as she whispered, “Obviously, she’s fine. Where would you like to—”

      His hand on her elbow guided her back into the courtyard and to another door, this one leading into the other living room, the larger one in which Mehri had served them their dinner. Here, too, there were mattresses and brightly patterned pillows against three walls, but with a slightly raised platform of polished wood in the center. The walls here were a darker gold, the lighting, as in the sleeping room, subdued. It occurred to Yancy that the effect of all this was warm...intimate...intensely seductive, and to her extreme distress she felt an electric current race through her body, making her palms sweat and her pulse quicken.

      “Would you like some tea?” Hunt gestured toward the raised platform that earlier had held their dinner.

      She shook her head. “It’s late. I don’t want to impose on Mehri.”

      “She’s retired for the night.” He sounded oddly formal, as if, she thought, he’d slipped back into whatever role he’d been playing. “If you want tea, I’ll make it.”

      She couldn’t help but smile. He caught it and lifted his eyebrows.

      “What, you don’t think I’m capable of making tea?”

      “I’m pretty sure you could do anything you set your mind to,” she said as her smile went wry, “but it’s definitely a side of you I’m having a hard time imagining.”

      “I imagine there are a few sides of me you might not have imagined,” Hunt replied drily.

      She gave a soft laugh and said, “No doubt,” and it seemed the tension between them eased...for a moment. “But really,” she added, “I don’t need anything.”

      Hunt nodded and let a breath escape, in full acknowledgment of the words she hadn’t spoken: I don’t need anything from you except an explanation. Except the truth.

      He gestured at a mattress and said, “Have a seat.” When she had done so, he settled himself on the same mattress, but more than arm’s length away. He didn’t recline or lounge, but sat upright with his knees bent, as if he were squatting before a campfire or on lookout with his rifle at the ready. He looked extremely uncomfortable. After a long silent moment he frowned at his hands as if he didn’t know quite what to do with them, then draped them over the tops of his knees and cleared his throat.