His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  No, dammit! I won't let her die!

  "Here now." She joined him by the window and awkwardly patted his shoulder. "Ye're takin' this too hard, boy. A body can't live forever."

  He shook his head. "You aren't going to die."

  "Sure I am. But I ain't scared. Folks who fear dyin' are folks who ain't really lived."

  Then Gabriel must have been terrified.

  Staving off a fresh attack of guilt, he forced his attention back to the present by systematically packing his valise and shrugging into his frockcoat. He was just about to blow out the lamps when he spied the miniature rocking horse he'd painted and left to dry on the windowsill. He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

  Ordinarily, when he wanted to apologize to Sera, he stopped along the side of the road and gathered wildflowers. But he suspected the recent weeks of rain had pummeled even the hardiest daisies into the mud.

  The toy rocking horse, on the other hand, would make a perfect peace offering. He'd been carving it for the Queen Ann-style dollhouse she was forever redecorating.

  His throat constricted and he reached for the horse. How the hell was he supposed to tell Sera he was dying?

  By the time Michael arrived at his front yard, the clouds had unleashed a smattering of plump, splashy drops to slick down his hair and roll past his collar. He hurried Brutus through a currying and a sack of oats, then took the shortest route to the house through the kitchen. He found a pot of corn chowder on the stove and the lemony aroma of shortbread wafting from the oven. For once, the first wasn't curdled, and the second didn't smell charred.

  Sera wasn't exactly a blue-ribbon cook.

  Chagrined to think that his tardiness had caused his sister to waste yet another afternoon in her apron, when she loathed the kitchen so much, he called her name as he crossed into the hall. He prepared to lie about his impromptu snooze.

  Fortunately, the deception wasn't necessary. Sera bounced out of the parlor, her flushed cheeks and shining eyes making her look more like a smitten belle than an angry cook.

  "At last!" she greeted gaily, rising on tiptoe to buss his cheek. "I thought you'd never come home."

  Michael arched a brow as she grabbed the valise from his hands and tugged at a sleeve of his coat.

  "A person could starve on a work schedule like yours, Michael."

  "I'm sorry, I was—"

  "Delayed," she finished for him. "Yes, I know. Gout and chilblains are especially plaguey when it rains. Honestly, Michael, you might remind your patients you have a private life. Even if you don't mind a bowl of rewarmed stew, very few dinner guests do."

  "Dinner guests?" he repeated warily. As exhausting as his practice was, he'd come to welcome the work as an excuse. The last thing he wanted was to field dinner invitations from the half dozen or more women who'd set their caps for him. But wedding-bell chasers, he'd learned, were relentless. They didn't comprehend tact. They certainly didn't understand a man's need for privacy. And Sera, who'd joined their ranks only last year, had a tendency to side with them.

  Had his sister let some besotted chit weasel her way to his table?

  "Now don't get all grumbly," Sera said, her grin as impish as a leprechaun's. "You'll like this one. It's not Bonnie. Or Kit."

  "Hmm." This gave him hope. Maybe Sera had finally allowed Henry Prescott to break bread with her. "You shouldn't be entertaining alone, Sera."

  "My sentiments exactly. But if I waited for you to come home every night, I'd sprout cobwebs." She giggled. "Maybe even moss."

  She has a point. He smiled reluctantly. It was good to see her in such high spirits. If the person waiting in the parlor had the power to spark that girlish blush in her cheeks, Michael had to admit he approved. Besides, any beau, at this point, would be an improvement over McCoy.

  "Sera... " He hesitated, remembering the rocking horse. "I really don't mean to neglect you."

  She laughed, but surprise registered in those sky-blue eyes. "I should hope not. But just in case you do, be forewarned: I've been collecting recipes for turnips."

  He chuckled. They'd shared the joke ever since last spring. Why God had placed such a curse on the vegetable kingdom, Michael would never know. But when Aunt Claudia's order of six onion bins had somehow turned into sixteen turnip crates, the only way she could rid herself of them was to give a dozen to each homeowner. For weeks, turnips were served on every dinner table in Blue Thunder. Now Michael couldn't walk into a patient's house and smell a steaming bowl of turnips without wanting to retch.

  "I have something for you," he said awkwardly. "It was going to be a Christmas present, but... well, I wanted you to have it early."

  "Early?" She clasped her hands, forgetting to be demure and ladylike. "What is it?"

  He couldn't hide his smile. "See for yourself. It's in my coat."

  Her beau apparently forgotten, she raced to the hall tree, and rummaged through the garment until she found the telltale lump. When she pulled out the miniature pony, she gasped, her eyes sparking like twin flames. "It's for my dollhouse!" Then her brows furrowed, and she grew very still, staring down at the tiny gray flanks, the black tail and mane.

  "It... looks like Gabriel's pony."

  "Yes," he said quietly.

  She bit her lip, touching a forefinger to the red saddle and blue runners. "Gabriel's favorite colors," she said softly.

  He nodded.

  Her eyes glistened. Suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck. "I love it, Michael." She sniffled as he clasped her to his heart, and the old, familiar ache constricted his chest. "Thank you."

  He tightened his hold, and she clutched him a moment longer before she broke free to give him a watery smile.

  "Uh-oh." She dashed away tears and wrinkled her nose. "The shortbread!" A look of comical horror crossed her features. "It's burning!"

  With a muttered oath, she dashed toward the kitchen, and Michael's humor struggled to the fore. Sera Jones was going to make some man a belly full of aches someday, unless her husband came to the dinner table with a cast-iron stomach.

  Curious once more about McCoy's replacement, Michael combed a cursory hand through his hair and turned toward the parlor. He had to admit, he was delighted to know Sera's infatuation for the drifter had finally run its course. Still, he did have one misgiving about the newcomer. He wanted to make perfectly clear that in the future, he would not tolerate unchaperoned sparking with his sister.

  The gaslight flames danced in their sconces, casting wild, writhing shadows across the wall as he walked along the hall. The shades reminded him a bit too uncomfortably of a drawing from a college history text, one of naked pagans celebrating the rites of spring. Why he kept such garbage locked in his mind remained a mystery, since he needed every available brain cell to track the lies he'd been telling recently about his fatigue. If nothing else, he needed a clear head to discuss courtship etiquette with Sera's new beau.

  Gathering his wits, he rounded the corner—only to freeze in midstride on the threshold. Sera's visitor stood with her hands clasped behind her back, her attention riveted on the book titles that ordinarily would have held no interest for Sera or her friends. Even though the woman's back was to him, Michael would have recognized that cascade of russet hair anywhere. How many times had he seen it blowing in the wind through his dreams? How many times had he imagined its taste, its scent, its feel as it tumbled across his face while Eden made love to him?

  His response was instantaneous. He grew as hard as any randy youth.

  He wanted to believe his thoughts of writhing pagans had something to do with his lust; unfortunately, he knew better.

  Christ, Jones. She's an innocent. She won't notice the difference. Walk into the room, exchange a few pleasantries, and get out. She'd have to be deaf not to hear you panting out here like a bull.

  But Eden didn't hear him, thanks to the tumult of the heavens. Instead, she rose on tiptoe. Her tongue jutted in determination as she stretched her hand as high as it could reach. Someho
w, she managed to grasp the first volume in his medical set. The one entitled Compendium of Ailments: Abrasions (Aa) to Hemophilia (He). The one whose dog-eared corners clearly marked the sections on cranial pathology.

  His heart slammed into his ribs. Too unnerved to concoct a lie about which patient's complaint he might have been researching, he flew across the room.

  He had to stop her before she learned his most dire secret.

  Chapter 5

  "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

  Eden spun guiltily at that rumble of ire. She hadn't heard Michael come down the hall. In fact, she hadn't heard much of anything but the shrieking of her conscience and the hammering of her heart. Spying Michael's medical books high on the shelves in the family parlor had seemed like the answer to her prayers.

  But guilt had made her sneak. How could she explain her interest in medical research to Sera without revealing her secret fear: that she had killed her father?

  And so Eden had bided her time, half dreading and half hoping for an opportunity to pore through Michael's books without anyone—least of all Michael—standing over her, asking painful questions.

  Unfortunately, the very last person she'd wanted catching her in the act was now stalking into the room like a smoking volcano.

  "M-Michael." Thunder shook the walls, or did that quaking come from Michael's boots? "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry—"

  "Of course you meant to pry. Prying is what females do best. And I have no patience for it."

  He snatched the volume from her hand, and Eden winced. Looming over her, all muscle and menace, he practically steamed. She felt his heat like a furnace blast, flushing her skin and melting her nerves into a puddle.

  "I'm sorry," she repeated. Good heavens, why was he so angry? True, she'd been handling his personal property, but it wasn't as if she'd been tearing out its pages. "I was just curious. About, um, respiration."

  "This volume is clearly marked A through H. Respiration would be in another volume entirely."

  "Yes, but bronchial inflammation—"

  "Are you ill?"

  Her pulse tripped as his gaze swept to her bodice. How could eyes so ice-blue one moment burn so scintillatingly hot the next?

  She cleared her throat. "No. Nothing like that. I was just—"

  His gaze snapped back to her face. "Then kindly refrain from snooping."

  She managed to gulp a breath. "I wasn't." Honestly, the man might try to be civil. She was his neighbor, after all—not to mention his guest.

  A sudden suspicion, one having to do with Sera and matchmaking, crept through Eden's mind.

  "I, uh, brought you a cherry pie."

  His mood didn't improve in the least.

  "For dessert."

  Again, no reaction.

  "Since Aunt Claudia's out of town," she prompted hopefully, "Sera invited me to dinner. She seemed to think it would help us mend fences."

  He raised a pitch-black eyebrow. "I wasn't aware we had fences to mend."

  "Oh."

  A moment of silence lapsed. Eden wondered if it was too late to slink under the rug.

  But if Michael noticed her embarrassment, he didn't comment. He simply stretched above her, intent on shoving the volume onto an out-of-reach shelf. When his arm brushed her nipple, she jumped. He recoiled. The electrifying jolt made them both gasp. If she hadn't known better, she might have thought him edgy, not angry, his flash of temper little more than show.

  "The kitchen's that way," he said, jerking his head toward the hall.

  "I know where the kitchen is."

  Their eyes locked. Again, that midnight eyebrow rose. A thread of her patience unraveled.

  But as much as her reluctant host deserved a tongue lashing, Eden had to concede that Sera was the real culprit. Sera's scheming had made her and Michael both pawns. Since Sera did nothing but try to marry him off, and Bonnie did nothing but try to trap him for the same purpose, was it any wonder Michael thought females were conniving? By Aunt Claudia's count, there were at least a dozen women in Blue Thunder—some as old as Claudia herself—who would have given their eyeteeth for one of Michael's kisses.

  Eden's chin raised a notch. Well, it's high time Michael learns that Eden Mallory isn't moonstruck—or desperate—like all the other spinsters in this town.

  She mustered the shreds of her decorum. "I completely understand your feelings, Michael. If I'd come home after a long day's work and discovered I was expected to entertain, I'd be put out too. If you prefer, I'll leave."

  "That won't be necessary. You're my sister's guest."

  And clearly unwelcome by you. The proof of her suspicions burrowed deep, a barb to nettle the defenses of her heart.

  She told herself her hurt was ridiculous. She didn't care one whit for Michael. She only tolerated him for Sera's sake. "I don't want to cause tension between you and Sera."

  "Sera causes tension between me and Sera."

  "Yes, well... I'm sure she believes she's acting in your best interests."

  "By scheming to end my bachelorhood?"

  Eden fidgeted. He did have a point.

  "Dinner doesn't have to be difficult," she said, opting for a topic change. "Even though you don't like me—"

  "Who told you that?"

  She bit her lip. Whenever he used that tone of voice, it was hard not to feel like a child. "You did. Or rather, you do. Whenever you snap."

  "You shouldn't take everything so personally."

  Did he actually mean to say he liked her?

  She had trouble hinging her jaw closed. "Well, that may be. But you have to admit, you've been short with me since the first day we met. It makes me wonder if... well, if I've done something to offend you."

  "Are you asking me to apologize?"

  "Well, no, I..." She caught herself. Why was she trying so hard to appease him? Clearly, even a neighborly relationship was out of the question. "May I speak frankly?"

  "When do you not?"

  Ooh. Insufferable man.

  "Honestly, Michael, you would try the patience of a saint. Contrary to what you might think, I don't wake up each morning plotting some new way to aggravate you. And I certainly don't spend my nights dreaming up schemes to make you court me."

  "Indeed?"

  "Heaven forbid. Why on earth would I waste a perfectly pleasant evening with a man who's so unpleasant?"

  "The question does give one pause."

  Her irritation climbed another notch. "You see? That's just the sort of attitude I've been talking about. Rather than own up to your failings like a proper gentleman, you resort to sarcasm. Or arrogance. You're as highhanded as a tyrant. And you're more prickly than a porcupine."

  "I see." He folded his arms across his chest. "Anything else you'd like to share before dinner?"

  Her hands flew to her hips. "Well, if you must know, I find you completely lacking in humor!"

  His laughter startled her. It was a warm, rich, rumble of mirth, so utterly masculine and thoroughly frustrating, she wanted to smack him.

  "That wasn't supposed to be funny!"

  "My dear Eden, are you certain you aren't the one lacking in humor?"

  "Don't you dare try to turn the tables on me, Michael Jones. My sense of humor is expansive! It's the only thing that helped me survive the mob, and the ridicule, and the ransacking..."

  To her horror, she realized she was on the verge of tears.

  "Eden..."

  He reached for her sleeve, but she spun away, battling the grief that washed over her. She hadn't meant to speak of Silverton. Certainly, she hadn't meant to give Michael Jones any more reason to disdain her.

  "Are you crying?"

  "No!" Her voice broke, humiliating her further. "I won't have you mock me, Michael. I won't!"

  "I'm sorry."

  Her chest heaved, and she halted before the window, squeezing her eyes closed. The rain had ceased again. The resulting silence clapped louder than thunder, leaving her at the mercy of her senses
. She could hear his breathing, smell his cologne, feel his remorse. But she couldn't bring herself to confide in him. She couldn't bear his condemnation, his criticism, or worse, his platitudes.

  "Tell me about this mob," he said more gently.

  She gripped the bombazine with a shaking hand.

  "Is that why you left Colorado?" He stepped behind her, his heat rippling over her in waves.

  She shivered.

  "Did they hurt you?" he prompted.

  "It's not important."

  "Do you expect me to believe that?"

  "I don't want to tell you!"

  "Ah." This time, his mockery was self-directed. "That I can believe."

  She dashed away tears and wiped them on her skirts. "You can be very cruel."

  "That's true."

  She rounded on him. "Why? Why do you pretend to be cruel when you're not?"

  She'd startled him. Chagrin flickered in the ocean-blue depths of his eyes.

  "It's hardly pretense. I am what I am."

  "No." She shook her head emphatically. "I've met cruel men before. They have no conscience. But you, you'd blame yourself for every sickness you can't avert."

  His shoulders grew taut.

  "You'd lay down your life for a child," she added more gently.

  "You can't possibly know that."

  "I was there, Michael. I saw you. You would have torn that wagon apart, splinter by splinter, to dig Jamie out."

  A familiar agony pierced Michael's chest. It was true—everything she'd said. But on the day of the accident, he hadn't seen Jamie under that wagon, he'd seen Gabriel. Ten years had eased none of the pain. In every cough, every sprain, every broken bone and wound, he saw the ghost of his kid brother. Gabriel's death had left a scorched abyss where his soul once had been.

  And if he ever fell into that pit, Michael knew, he'd never crawl out again.