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"Why?" she asked, bewildered by his interest.
"Because I want to know."
"Everything?"
"Yes, Pru. Everything." He moved off her then but didn't release her. He sat next to her, holding her hand, ready to listen.
Prudence wasn't sure where to begin or even if she should. Why should she trust him? Why should he care? She looked at him a moment, all her doubts and insecurities evident in her sorrowful expression.
Zac released her hand quickly, lifted her chin, and kissed her. His lips were tender and persuasive. They slipped over her with an infinite skill that caused her stomach to flutter.
"Tell me," he whispered and kissed her again, this time so lightly that she tingled from the strange sensation.
She didn't understand Zac Stewart. A notorious gunslinger. A man handsome in features. A man women melted over. A man who appeared to care about her. It was unlikely. Impossible. But she wanted to believe it. Oh, how she wanted to believe he actually cared.
Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I was born this way. It was no accident. The doctor told my father these things happen. It could have been worse. You can cover them up, hide them away, he assured my father. He insisted I was lucky."
Zac listened quietly, having once again taken her hand in his. He held on to her, offering his strength and support, feeling her tremble and squeezing her hand gently to still her nervous tremors.
"It didn't trouble me until I was old enough to understand. Until I made friends . . . at least I had thought them friends. They mad fun. Called me deformed. And of course my looks didn't help any. Being plain and larger than the other girls only added to my problems."
Zac stared at her, his eyes intent. She assumed he regarded her affliction as most people did and turned her head away in embarrassment. He grabbed her face with his fingers and turned her head sharply to look at him.
"Finish," he ordered, and none too gently.
"My mother's death didn't help. When I needed her the most, she was gone. My grandmother helped me. My father was too lost in his sorrow. My grandmother had several pairs of gloves made and instructed me to wear them as often as possible. When etiquette dictated otherwise, I learned to hide my hand well, always wearing my skirts a little extra full so I could conceal my hand in the folds of the added material."
"Your mother—"
Prudence didn't allow him to finish, "—isn't dead, which makes all the more sense when you stop to think about it. She gave birth to a daughter who had an affliction, wasn't pretty, wasn't petite, surely a disappointment to a woman who possessed such beauty. So she left, leaving her little girl behind to face the cruel world on her own."
The knock at the door came just in time for Prudence. Zac released her hand, and she had time to turn away and wipe the tears that had hovered so dangerously close to her lashes.
Zac didn't even bother to slip his shirt back on. He opened the door, hurried the man inside with the tray of food, and then hurried him out again.
He was annoyed and angry. How could a mother leave a daughter who needed her so desperately? And why did he find himself believing Pru's story about her mother? Perhaps it was the raw hurt so evident in her offered words.
"Eat," he said with more sternness than he intended. He was surprised when she obeyed without question.
He watched her as she prepared the table with the plates of food and the silverware, making certain all were in their correct places. Always the lady, no matter what the circumstances.
He was furious at the treatment she had suffered as a child. Still suffered. She had been told so often she was plain and large that she actually believed it.
No one had bothered to comment on her natural beauty. She had the kindest green eyes, a narrow nose, and full cheeks that held a smattering of freckles. And her lips were sleek and sensuously inviting. The kind a man ached to kiss.
Then there was her body. Ample was the word that came to mind. And ample was the type he liked. He wanted to feel a woman full in flesh when he touched her, no matter where he touched her. And her hair. He looked at her pinning it neatly back up into place. He liked it free and wild. The way it was when they had struggled on the bed. Its redness seemed to flame with her temper and he smiled. Prudence had many attributes and a few flaws, but he liked them as well. There was much he liked about Prudence Agatha Stewart. Too damn much.
The meal was eaten in silence. After having washed up, Zac joined her at the table. Both were at a loss for words and remained so into the evening.
