Guard of Honor by Tracie Delaney
Chapter Twenty-Three
Honor blinked once,and then she stared, her mouth slightly parted. Wife? Mack was married? She’d slept with a married man, and he hadn’t thought to tell her that he wasn’t a free agent. She dropped her gaze to his left hand. No ring, not even an indent where one used to be. Then again, not all men wore rings.
The earlier anger that had swelled within her withered, leaving her with a terrible hollowness in the center of her chest. People who cheated, men or women, were the lowest of the low, and she’d been unwittingly dragged into his marital… troubles. She’d been right earlier. He was shameful, and an asshole. No, strike that. He was a bastard. An utter, cheating scumbag bastard.
“You’re married?”
Was that her voice? All scratchy and hoarse.
“Not anymore.”
She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. “What does that mean?”
He glowered at her as if she’d lost her marbles. “It means that when you wake up from a PTSD episode and find your hands around the throat of the woman you promised you’d cherish for your entire life, her face purple, her legs thrashing as she tries to get you off her, tries to breathe, for fuck’s sake, that oddly enough, she doesn’t much like the idea of staying married to you any longer.”
He launched upright and paced across the living room, disappearing into the kitchen. Honor remained seated, her mind battling to process Mack’s confession. God, his poor wife. She must have been terrified, her body craving air, Mack’s bulk holding her down. A PTSD episode? She wasn’t even sure what that meant. During her therapy sessions, PTSD had been mentioned, but more in an abstract manner, a way of corralling together under a single heading all the feelings of helplessness, of panic, of the nightmares and the fear that she’d close her eyes and find herself back in that underground prison. But the thought of hurting someone she loved and not even being aware of it… that was a monumental nightmare she wasn’t sure a person ever could recover from.
Evidently, Mack hadn’t recovered. And nor had he told a single soul. Until now, until her.
She scrambled to her feet and hurried into the kitchen. Faced with Mack’s rigid spine, his large hands planted on the kitchen counter, head hanging low, shoulders arched, a heavy ache settled on her chest, flattening her lungs. For such a strong, dominant man who always appeared to be in control, he seemed… crushed. Or, at the very least, in despair. How long had he carried this terrible event inside his head and heart, with no one to share the burden?
Crossing over to him, she laid her hand on his back. He flinched but didn’t say a word or turn around. She rubbed in a circular motion, hoping to comfort him in some small way.
“Shall I make some coffee?”
Mack emitted a sound somewhere between a snort and a bitter laugh. “Coffee, yeah, the fixer of all problems.”
“Don’t snap at me,” she berated. “I’m only trying to help. A simple ‘No, thanks’ works just fine.”
He sighed heavily. “Shit, Red.” He swiped a hand across his face. “Coffee would be good.”
He sat at the table and raked two hands through his hair. Honor let the silence fill the room as she busied herself with the coffee machine while Mack remained locked in the same position. She set a coffee in front of him and sat, cradling her own cup between her hands. It helped some with the chill that had settled in her bones.
“I’m sorry,” he ground out, dropping his arms to his sides and leaning against the back of the chair, eyes on the ceiling.
“Wow, an actual apology. That must’ve hurt.”
A faint smile touched his lips, falling almost as fast as it had appeared. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”
“No, Mack. You don’t owe me anything. But I’m here if you want to talk.”
“Jesus.” He rubbed at his beard. “Not sure I know where to start.”
“What’s her name?”
“Clara.”
“Do you have a picture?”
“Not with me, no.”
“How long ago did it happen?”
“A little over three years ago.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then used his thumb and forefinger to rub his eyelids. “After Loris and his team rescued me from ISIS, I was a fucking mess, Honor. You’re so fucking together compared to the hole I was in. I suffered violent nightmares where I’d strike out with my arms and legs as if I were in a fight for my life. I’d get flashbacks that would send me crashing to my knees. Panic attacks, phantom pain from what they’d done. I drank, heavily. Refused to talk to anyone. Blew up at the merest hint of getting help. I used Clara as a virtual punching bag, although I never consciously laid a finger on her. Never. She begged me to see someone, pleaded with me, but her suggestions always resulted in a blazing row and me drowning my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle.
“The night… it happened, I’d come off the back of a three-day bender. Clara had already turned in by the time I stumbled through the house, knocking shit over. She helped me into bed, and I passed out. That’s the last thing I remember until I awoke to find my hands around her throat.”
He covered his face, hiding from view. Honor stood and moved her chair closer to his. She put her arms around him and held on tight.
“What happened then?”
“It’s all a blur. I remember releasing her. She coughed and coughed, and then scrambled off the bed and ran into the bathroom. I-I just sat there, horrified at what I’d almost done. The one person I was supposed to cherish, and I’d come within seconds of ending her life.”
“You didn’t know, though. You’re as much a victim as she is.”
“Don’t.” Mack’s hand came up. “Don’t justify what I did, or make excuses. What ISIS did to me wasn’t my fault, but what happened after I returned to England was. I didn’t have to drink myself stupid or stubbornly refuse to get the help I knew I needed yet refused to accept. Clara is the real victim here. And until the day I die, I’ll never, never forgive myself.”
He stood and strode over to the window overlooking the deck with the lake beyond. She followed. Slipping an arm around his waist, she caressed his bicep and rested her head on his shoulder.
“She left that very night,” Mack continued, unprompted. “Packed her things and told me our marriage was over. I didn’t try to stop her. I couldn’t say anything that would excuse what I did, and she’d never be able to trust me again, feel safe around me again.”
“And that’s when you went into rehab?”
“Not immediately, no. It took me another few weeks after she left before I finally admitted to myself that I needed help. I called Loris. Shortly after I made that call, I was in rehab. Three months after that, I received the divorce papers.”
“God, that’s rough.”
“Yeah.” He hitched up the shoulder she leaned on.
“Where is she now?”
“She remarried a year ago,” he said woodenly. “She’s happy, and she deserves to be.”
“As do you.”
He shook his head. “You’re far too forgiving, Red. It’s a good quality in a person, but just be careful who you grant it to. Don’t waste your compassion on a man like me.”
She frowned, straightening. “That’s what you meant, wasn’t it? In Manhattan, when you said I couldn’t handle a man like you. You weren’t talking about rough sex; you were talking about what happened with Clara.”
“Mostly.” He shifted his body, moving away from her. “So now you know why I won’t sleep beside you, or anyone else. Ever.”
“Of course you won’t. Because you’re a masochist.”
His head snapped around, color creeping up his neck. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You wallow in self-flagellation. You’re insistent on punishing yourself for a night of madness and not of your making. You can prattle on to me all you like about where the fault lies, but we both know the truth. Just like the blame for my abduction lies with the man who took me, yours lies with the men who took you. Everything that came after that was caused by our horrific experiences. I lost my independence, my career, a year of my life. You lost your wife. I’m not excusing what happened, Mack. Clara must have been terrified, in real fear for her life. But I am offering a rational explanation for it. You can spend the rest of your days cutting yourself off, or you can recognize that you’re no longer that man. You sought help. You conquered your demons. You haven’t had a PTSD episode in how long?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Since I got out of rehab.”
“Precisely. You told me yourself that you still have nightmares, but have you ever done anything while asleep that you weren’t aware of in the last two and a half years?”
He heaved a sigh. “No.”
Threading her fingers through his, she tugged. “Let’s go to bed, Mack.”
Anguish tightened his face, sending his lips in a downward arc. “I don’t trust myself, Honor.”
“Then you’ll just have to trust me.”
Keeping tight hold of him, she headed upstairs. She sensed his hesitation but pressed onward regardless. The only way he’d ever prove to himself that he wasn’t a danger to others was to go to sleep with someone else beside him.
And she intended to be that woman.
He’d played a big part in helping her take her first faltering steps into recapturing a future cruelly stolen from her, and she planned to return the favor. He wouldn’t hurt her. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she was certain all the same.
She stripped off her T-shirt, left her panties on, and climbed underneath the covers. Mack stood at the end of the bed, his expression downcast. He grimaced and gave a slight shake of his head, then lay down beside her.
“Not sure I’ll get a wink of sleep,” he murmured.
She curled into his side and placed her hand over his heart. “Just close your eyes and see what happens.”
* * *
Honor awoke from a dream that faded the moment she regained consciousness. It took her a few seconds to fully rouse from a deep sleep. The events of last night came back in a rush, and she snapped her eyes open.
Mack had one leg out of the covers, both arms linked above his head, and he was still sleeping. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Honor broke into a smile. It was only one night, and it wouldn’t solve his reticence completely, but maybe now he’d recognize how far he’d come.
She traced her fingertip over a tattoo on his left side, about four inches below his armpit. He had so much ink that she still hadn’t discovered it all. His skin rippled beneath her touch. Moving closer, she read the inscription.
Per Mare, Per Terram.
“It means ‘By Sea, By Land.’ ”
She lifted her chin, meeting Mack’s hooded gaze. “I thought you were asleep.”
“With you tickling me, fat chance.”
“Sorry.” She grinned. “Why do you have it?”
“It’s the official motto of the Royal Marines.”
“Oh.” She ran her finger over the black ink once again. “Would you ever go back?”
“No. That part of my life is over. It ended long before I’d have wanted, given the choice, but you have to be fully present to be a good Royal Marine, and I’d always be looking over my shoulder, watching, waiting. I wouldn’t put my fellow Bootnecks in danger like that.”
She frowned. “Bootnecks?”
“Yeah, that’s what we call ourselves.”
“Why?”
“Royal Marines used to wear a strap of leather along the back of their neck to stop the heavy weights in their packs from rubbing. It’s a historic term that stuck.”
“Bootneck. Sounds violent.”
He chuckled. “Well, being in the service isn’t picking daisies in the park.”
She shoved at him. “Jackass.”
Lightning fast, Mack grabbed her and pulled her on top of him, kissing her. “Are you okay?”
“Do I look okay?”
He circled his hips. “You look and feel pretty damn good to me, Red.”
“I knew you could do it. I believed in you.”
“Even if I didn’t believe in myself?”
“Even then. Just as you did with me.”
He twisted his torso and grabbed a condom from the nightstand drawer. She rose up and started to take off her panties.
“No.” Mack stopped her. “Leave them on. It’s hot.”
Putting the condom on, he eased her panties to one side and slid home. Her body accommodated him easily, stretching and then closing in tight around his erection.
“Damn, Red, I could get used to this.”
Her heart leaped, then crashed. So could she. And that worried her far more than sleeping beside a man who’d admitted to almost killing his wife. She couldn’t let herself fall in love with him. She couldn’t.
She gazed down at him, his black lashes almost touching his cheeks as he stared at where their bodies were joined, his muscles rippling as he controlled the pace and the angle of their lovemaking, and an ache swept through her chest, seeking out every gap, every crevice, until it filled her completely.
Too late, she thought. Too damn late.