His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Of course, adopting some of Michael's methods to complement her hunches and herbs hadn't hurt any. He'd taught her a thing or two about ointment rubbing that would go down in medical infamy. She was almost sorry his burns were healing—hers, too. Her husband could make the application of salve almost as erotic as... well, a certain memory she cherished about whipping cream.

  A wistful sigh escaped her lips.

  Vandy scrambled out of Michael's footlocker. Apparently the coon had spied a human playmate, one who was handling food in neutral territory. Vandy had learned to suffer Stazzie's company, and vice versa, as long as they avoided each other's space. The coon had claimed the pantry. The cat had claimed the bed.

  Now Vandy, reeking of pennyroyal, galloped across the carpet in a ripple of silvery brown. Eden didn't have long to slam down the lid of the taffy box and stuff a piece of candy into her mouth before the coon heaved himself onto the windowseat.

  "Why don't you see who our visitor is?" she mumbled between chews.

  Vandy whickered indignantly as she shoved him back to the carpet.

  "Maybe it's Collie," she added as much for his benefit as her own. It still galled her that the boy had spent a week in jail.

  With the county judge riding the court circuit, no authority in town could keep Truitt from doing his inquiry the way he liked to do it: leisurely. He'd thrown his three suspects in three separate holding cells rather than risk releasing a murderer on the streets. Luke Frothingale, along with the McCoys' attorney, had all screamed until they were blue in the face about their clients' Constitutional rights. Truitt had only threatened to lock up the lawyers, too.

  Eden had to admit, Truitt the Tyrant, as Kit McCoy had publically lambasted him in the Blue Thunder Trumpeter, had impressed her with his concern for his constituents' safety. Silverton's sheriff hadn't been half as interested in justice. Even so, Truitt had no right to act above the law. And he certainly had no right to act out his prejudices at Collie's expense.

  Eden and Michael both suspected that the sheriff had locked up Collie not because Truitt believed he'd committed murder, but because Truitt believed Collie would follow in his father's footsteps if some tinstar didn't put the fear of God in the boy. Rustling, Truitt had pointed out grimly, was a hanging offense in some states.

  So Collie had been punished with a week in prison, even though Gunther wasn't alive and had no heirs to press charges. Luke had protested vociferously, pointing to Collie's sworn statement that he'd overheard Kit McCoy threatening to "rough him up" because McCoy thought Collie knew something about some "cockamamie payroll loot" that Black Bart had supposedly stolen.

  Collie's affidavit had also revealed that Gunther had cheated Kit at cards. Luke had insisted that this sworn testimony provided a credible alibi for Kit's culpability in Gunther's murder. Truitt had remained skeptical—until Kit and Chance had mysteriously disappeared from jail two nights ago.

  Eden sighed, unwrapping another piece of candy. As disturbing as it was to know that the McCoys had escaped, she wasn't surprised that they'd found some way to flee during the dark of the moon. According to rumor, they had more cousins scattered throughout Kentucky than an anthill had ants. Why, even their lawyer had been related to them! Any number of distant cousins or uncles could have sneaked into town during the wee hours of the night and busted Kit and Chance out of jail. That's why it galled Eden to know that Truitt had started suspecting Collie all over again.

  Eden wondered how many times Collie would have to swear—on a Bible, yet—that he wasn't related to "any dang McCoys." Chance's haste to provide him with an alibi for Gunther's murder had raised the sheriff's doubts, even though Kit, ironically, had been just as quick to throw Collie to the wolves.

  When Eden had suggested, privately, that Sera access her clairvoyant skills to find some truth that might exonerate Collie once and for all, Sera had flown into a panic at the prospect of suffering one of her Episodes. Eden had feared that the younger woman would faint. Hastily, she'd begged Sera's forgiveness and had asked her sister-in-law to forget that she'd ever brought the matter up.

  Apparently, Sera dreaded her Episodes so much that she'd never learned how to control the rocking, chattering, and garbled language that sometimes punctuated her visions. She'd simply spent the last eighteen years, hoping to outgrow them. And who could blame her, considering that her preacher father had convinced her that she was possessed by demons, and her doctor brother had seeded in her the doubt that she might be going insane? Poor Sera had never been trained, as Talking Raven had, to control her visions.

  Unfortunately, Eden was no Seer. She didn't know how to help Sera.

  Uh-oh. The front door slammed. Eden peered over her shoulder through the window pane. She glimpsed a derbyed gentleman descending the porch steps and strolling toward the street. Gulping, she plumped the windowseat's pillows and dashed on silent feet across the room. Unfortunately, she tripped over the hem of her bridal nightdress and dropped one of the taffy wrappers under Vandy's nose.

  "No!" she whispered fiercely, lunging after the coon.

  Undaunted, he snatched up the prize and dashed under the armoire.

  Meanwhile, Michael's footfalls echoed in the stairwell.

  She muttered an oath and dived into bed. She barely had time to smooth the coverlets and flip open the Godey's Lady's Book that Rafe had so thoughtfully purchased for her. The door swung open, and she was greeted by her husband.

  He folded his muscular arms and propped his shoulder against the jamb. He was a breathtaking sight, the man she'd married. Her heart still did a dizzy little dance whenever she gazed on his ruggedly handsome face, on his powerful chest and corded thighs, and the perfectly flat abdomen that stretched between the two. He wore no coat or vest today, just a linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat so that the coal-black hairs peeked through. His sleeves were rolled to display his bunching biceps. She had to admit, she liked looking at her husband almost as much as she liked undressing him. But nothing, nothing, could compare to Michael's touch.

  I suppose convalescing does have that advantage.

  She tried to appear innocent. Nonchalant. He'd have none of it.

  "I believe I heard tiptoeing up here," he drawled. "Those footsteps wouldn't have been coming from this room, would they?"

  "Absolutely not."

  "And the taffy wrapper Vandy's chewing?"

  Her face warmed. "Good heavens. Wherever did he get that?"

  Michael's dimples peeked, even though he tried to look stern as he closed the door and crossed to their bed. "You're supposed to ingest your medicine on an empty stomach."

  "Have I told you you're a tyrant?"

  "Frequently."

  "Has it sunk in yet?"

  His lips twitched. "You're a terrible patient."

  "Now there's the pot calling the kettle black. Perhaps you should find some other poor, unsuspecting patient to bully."

  "Oh no. You're all the torment I can handle."

  "Michael Jones"—she rolled her magazine and smacked him on the knee—"that's a horrible thing to say to your wife!"

  "Hmm." He sat beside her on the bed, displacing a disgruntled Stazzie. "Does that mean you plan to stay for a while?"

  Her laughter died in her throat. He was serious. Beneath the playful manner, he was still deathly afraid that she would walk out of his door and never return. She'd tried to reassure him, of course, but he'd sensed she was hiding something and, unfortunately, he'd been right. Professional ethics and personal honor had kept her from confessing that on the day that she'd walked out of his door, her deepest fear had been that Michael had fathered Bonnie's child.

  Luckily, Jamie had leaked the news yesterday that Bonnie had finally agreed to marry Luke Frothingale. Eden hoped that meant Bonnie had decided to bear her baby.

  "Oh, Michael." She stroked his jaw, and evening stubble pricked her fingertips. "I told you I was home to stay."

  He kissed her palm, pressing it fervently to his chest. "I hope so
, Eden. We've been given a second chance. And this time, I want to do it right."

  The sincerity in his voice tugged at her in a way no apology ever could. She knew he spoke from the heart. They'd taken the last two weeks to rediscover one another, to understand each other's needs and feelings.

  Now that he was rested, without the burden of secrets and illness to weigh him down, she'd learned that he was a bit of a chess sharper. That Ancient Greece and modern-day steam engines fascinated him. And that he was enormously gifted as a craftsman. He'd carved, from memory, a miniature wooden bust of her father, complete with stethoscope, spectacles, and thinning hair. When she'd unwrapped his gift, she'd cried, recognizing Papa's likeness instantly.

  "My dearest love," she whispered. "I just want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. To see you well and joyful."

  "Then you know what's in my heart, Eden. Because that's all I want for you."

  A tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm sorry I hurt you, Michael."

  He caught the droplet on his thumb. For a moment, those sapphire-blue depths misted over. She couldn't bear to know her letter had caused him so much pain.

  "I love you," he said huskily. "The rest is behind us."

  He swam before her in a rainbow of tears. In the last two weeks, their marriage had been reborn. He'd become more than her hero, more than her husband; he'd become her friend. He'd encouraged her to tell him what she envisioned for their future. She'd spoken shyly of her newfound hope that they might travel beyond Blue Thunder, healing the sick and restoring their faith in medicine-show doctors.

  He'd conceded that with Claudia to watch over Sera—and Collie to watch over Claudia—such a lifestyle might be possible. But only, he'd added, until their first child was born. She'd been delighted to know that he wanted babies as much as she did; in truth, the way she pined for even his most innocent caress, she suspected their traveling days would be short-lived.

  "Aren't you going to ask me who was at the door?" he murmured, that sensual, off-center smile she so loved flirting with his mouth.

  "Well..." She couldn't quite hide her own smile. His manner suggested mischief. "Do I want to know?"

  "Most definitely."

  "Who, then?"

  "Lydia Witherspoon's brother," he drawled, tugging gently on the ribbons that tied her bodice. "William is an alternate judge for the county court circuit. Lydia pulled a few sisterly strings, I'll wager, but William agreed to hear Collie's case. Once he read the evidence—or perhaps I should say, the lack of evidence—" Michael's smile turned Cheshire cat-like, "William threw the case out of court and scolded Truitt for wasting his valuable time."

  "Thank God," Eden whispered.

  "There's more."

  "Th-there is?" Her pulse quickened as the lace of her gown parted like petals beneath his fingers.

  "Apparently William suffers from palpitations. He's eager to sample your heart tonic. So is my colleague, Dr. H. C. F. Meyer. No doubt you've heard of Lloyd Brothers of Cincinnati?"

  Eden nodded, mystified. The Lloyds owned a well-respected pharmaceutical company.

  "Well, I wrote Doc Meyer two months ago, because I respect his opinion. I asked for his advice about your father's remedies. Meyer frequented numerous Indian reservations in his early years, and he is rumored to use their recipes in his medical practice. While you were entertaining Sera earlier tonight, his response arrived. You know what he wrote?"

  She shook her head, anticipation shortening her breaths as he peeled a panel of lace off her breast.

  "He wrote that the Lloyd Brothers paid him a small fortune to distribute an Echinacea recipe, one which he got from the Sioux. Apparently, it's not like typical nostrums. This patent medicine really works."

  "You mean like Talking Raven's?" she teased him gently.

  "Er... yes." His ears pinkened in the most endearing way. "I think we should mix a fresh batch of your father's heart tonic and visit the Lloyd Brothers in Cincinnati—by way of a certain Louisville hotel we know."

  His smoky innuendo wasn't lost on her.

  "A splendid idea," she said breathlessly. "When do we leave?"

  "When you're feeling up to it."

  She groaned inwardly, hard-pressed not to make a face. "Michael, I've told you. I'm perfectly well enough to leave this bed."

  "Are you sure?" he purred.

  "Quite sure."

  His eyes slitted, gleaming twilight-blue as her gown at last fell away. "Perhaps I'm not being persuasive enough."

  When his head lowered, a delicious shiver tiptoed down her spine. It was hard to think of protests, much less to speak them, when the moist heat of his mouth fastened on her breast. Sighing, she let her head drift back; she let his calloused hands stoke the hunger that only seemed to smolder, never bank, when he was near.

  She loved the way he kissed her, loved the way he touched, and when he pressed her down, she sank eagerly, reveling in the hardness of belted ribs and corded sinews against her softest places. His throaty growl of pleasure made her female parts yearn. Stripping off his clothes, she mapped his beloved ridges and contours with reverent hands, as if she were beholding him for the first time. She would never forget—could never forget—how casually death had knocked at their door.

  "Promise me, Michael," she whispered against his lips. "Promise me no matter what we may face, you'll make each moment worth living."

  He raised his head, and the love that poured from his eyes was like sunshine to her soul. "I can promise," he said huskily, "because you've taught me how."

  He loved her until they knew the sweetest rapture, the tenderest bliss. She marveled that each joining could be better than the last. To know him so deeply, so intimately, had been her most cherished hope and yet, she had never dared to dream their romance could be as wonderful as this.

  She snuggled against his chest as he tucked the quilt around her.

  "Will you marry me?" he whispered against her hair.

  She blinked, tilting her head back, surprised by his question in the most heart-stirring way. "I thought we already were."

  "I never got to ask you. Not the way I always wanted to."

  His confession almost made her cry.

  "Yes," she murmured, her chest swelling beyond the bounds of every feeling that she'd ever known. "I will marry you. For better or worse, for richer or poorer—"

  "'Til death parts us not."

  "Oh, Michael. Can heaven really be better than this?"

  Starlight feathered over his beloved features. Half man, half angel, and completely hers, he smiled.

  "Now that I have Eden in my arms, that's a tough question to answer. Why don't you ask me again after a couple billion years?"

  The End

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  SEDUCED BY AN ANGEL

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  "Can I have my pants back?" A wicked dimple flirted with his lips.

  "Maybe." She narrowed her eyes at his bawdy show of humor. "Are you going to pack them in your bedroll and ride?"

  "Now that's an interesting question, coming from a maid."

  "That is not what I meant!"

  "Isn't it?" Those strong white teeth flashed in a feline smile. "It seems to me a young, unmarried woman shouldn't be visiting her hired hand's digs in the middle of the night. Unless, of course, she has a certain kind of pleasure-riding on her mind."

  S
era's jaw dropped. She couldn't believe he would think such a thing about her!

  Well, okay. Maybe she had imagined kissing him with a reckless abandon. And maybe she'd imagined stripping off his shirt to feast her eyes on his rock-ribbed planes. But was that such a crime? Imagining?

  "Why are you being so contrary?" she demanded. "I thought we were friends."

  "So did I. Until I came in here tonight and caught you spying on me."

  She caught her breath. "Jesse, I swear. That is not what I—"

  With a speed reminiscent of his quick-draw, he ripped the denim from her hands and caught her wrists. She shivered a little when she recognized the hunger in his jungle-cat stare.

  "Jesse, please don't be angry with me—"

  "I'm not angry with you, Sera. I want to do forbidden things to you. I want to do scandalous, bawdy things that will make you pant and gasp and shake with the sheer, wild pleasure of my kiss..."

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