Chapter One
A brilliant blue sky stretched above the crowd. Oliver turned his face up to the sun’s warm caress. A beautiful day to die. De Wolfe’s men would not let him escape once it was done. Purpose coursed hot and strong through his veins. Finally, he stood ready. Strong enough to challenge the mighty de Wolfe and win.
“Wolfe! Wolfe! Wolfe!” More voices joined the swelling chorus welcoming their hero home. Folk hung over the ramparts of Questing Castle, straining to catch a glimpse of the man they adored.
“See how he rides ahead of the men?” Mother stood on her toes, clawing his forearm as she whispered in his ear. “He believes no one can conquer him. Such is his overweening arrogance. Do you see?”
He put precious inches between him and Mother’s needy clinging. It stifled him, made the breath tighten in his throat. Like too-tight swaddling her need wrapped around him. Knowing what she required of him, he stood ready and resolved. “You should not be here.”
“Where else would I be?” She frowned. Year after year she had waited for the day he would exact their revenge. Waited and poured her hatred of De Wolfe into his ear.
Hissing, Mother pointed. “It is him.”
William looked for the first time at the man he had come to kill.
Leading his small column of men through the throng of villagers, William de Wolfe, the people’s savior, their precious soldier-god and hero sat astride his destrier like he and the beast were of one mind. People reached out to brush de Wolfe, believing that a mere touch would afford them protection.
Would they still chant their worship if they knew de Wolfe had tried to kill his own child?
“He is so tall.” Giggling, a girl grabbed her friend’s arm. “They say he is so handsome a maid would swoon at the sight of him.”
If they hung about de Wolfe they would not remain maids for long. Murderer of babes, defiler of maids, cruel, vicious brute. So mired in the lure of de Wolfe’s foul magic, would they believe if he told them?
Above the crowd noise rode a woman’s shrill scream. “I love you, de Wolfe.”
Fever bright, Mother’s gaze darted this way and that. Her cheeks bore a high flush as she drew the sword from where it nestled between his shoulder blades in its scabbard. “It is time.”
The pommel, so familiar in his hands, warmed to his touch. Driving him forward, the sword sang in his blood, Oliver pushed through a knot of de Wolfe’s blind worshippers.
“Watch yourself.” A man turned and snarled. He noted the sword and wide-eyed, stepped out of Oliver’s way, tugging another with him.
The chanting died down. Carrying Oliver with them, the crowd surged closer to de Wolfe.
Graceful in his full armor, de Wolfe dismounted, and removed his helmet. Sunlight struck his dark hair as he glanced about. He looked younger than Oliver had expected.
“Cut him down quickly.” Sticking to his side, no taller than his shoulder, Mother wrapped her fist in his tunic. “Do not give him the chance to reach for his sword.”
“It makes no matter.” Oliver shoved past a couple of burly kitchen drudges. “I am better than him.”
Hard enough to stop him, Mother pinched him. “Stupid boy!” Spittle hit his nape. “That man would cut us both done as fast as a blink. Do not assume you can best him. The devil himself rides his blade and guides it true to the heart of his enemies.” Like a festering wound in her breast, the poison of her hatred had spread to her mind over the years. In the matter of William de Wolfe Mother was quite mad.
“Let go of me.” He yanked her claws from his arm. “People are beginning to take note.”
With a vacant expression, a young laundress studied the two of them.
Raising her fore and middle fingers like talons, Mother hissed at the girl.
The girl paled and slid into the crowd. At times Mother’s reputation as a witch came in very handy.
A sudden, sickening sensation gripped him. His vision went hazy, and his gut roiled. The sword hilt burned so hot in his hand it scalded. As if drawn that way, his gaze fell on a tall, dark man pushing through the crowds toward him. Mouth wide open, the stranger shouted something the noisy crowd bore away.
The stranger, still trying to fight his way through the throng, raised a taunting tendril of buried memory within Oliver. Oliver knew that face. It meant something to him, something important, but he could not—
“Kill him for me, Oliver. Kill him for all the others who died before as well. So that they may have rest.”
Oliver had never heard of others before. “What others?”
“It matters not.” Mother patted between his shoulder blades. “Kill William de Wolfe before he kills us.”
Ten paces away, now clearly visible through the crowd, de Wolfe spoke with the tall blond knight by his side. De Wolfe stood taller than all the men about him, his height the only gift he had given his son.
De Wolfe’s queer gold eyes passed over Oliver. Cold as a hunting wolf, and Oliver shivered. His hand sweat on the searing pommel and he gripped it tighter.
With a small frown de Wolfe studied him.
Did de Wolfe know his bastard son now? Did he see the hate in that bastard’s eyes, read his deadly purpose?
Murderer, defiler, legend of so many battles and whispered to be undefeatable. De Wolfe must die.
Oliver shoved his fear deep, and let his hatred seep over the weakness and harden the steel of his intent.
Turning his head, de Wolfe spoke to the blond man by his side. Still, alert, warriors expecting trouble, both men watched Oliver now.
Only three people stood between de Wolfe and Oliver.
De Wolfe shifted, cleared his sword arm, and balanced his weight.
Keeping the sword low enough for the crowd to conceal it, Oliver stalked them.
“Stop!” A voice carried over the crowd. “Ciaran, Teithiwr must not be raised in anger.”
Oliver shook off the tingling foreboding and took the final step closer to de Wolfe.
De Wolfe’s sword cleared his scabbard with a hiss.
The thrill of the hunt pounded through Oliver. Today he would have his revenge or die trying. The sword branded his palms and whispered through his senses. He took a breath. He raised the sword. “Give me what my heart desires most.”
Chapter Two
Laura gripped her box of donuts tightly as the wire mesh door marked “Ward 4” emitted a raucous buzz and clicked open.
Seth looked up from the orderly’s station and leered at the donuts. “Good morning, Doctor Rose.”
Not quite Doctor Rose, but niceties were always observed here at Deer Fallows Mental Hospital. What a pity patient care took a low third maybe even fourth place to medical etiquette.
“Donuts.” She dropped the box onto the counter. A bribe to win the orderlies over to her side for the day. Happy orderlies equaled happier patients, and today Laura was going for the win. She refused to let negativity bog her down.
Seth grabbed a jam donut and took a huge bite. Powdered sugar made a ring around his lips as he chewed openmouthed. Dropping globs of donut onto his pale green scrubs, he said, “We had a good night.”
Donut in one hand, keys jangling in the other he led her to the second door, which opened onto the gauntlet. The hundred or so feet of institutional linoleum gave her the freaking creeps, and it didn’t matter how long she worked at Deer Fallows. Not that she had anything against linoleum per se, other than it being linoleum and saturated with bad memories along every cracked inch.
The door clanged open and Laura preceded Seth.
“Doctor Rose.” Lenny leaned out of the first door on the right.
Keeping her tone upbeat and polite, she smiled. “Good morning, Lenny.”
Lenny stuck out his pink, wet tongue and licked the doorframe. So far he cost them his weight in antibacterial surface wipes.
“Get on with you.” Seth lunged at Lenny.
Putting her arm out, Laura stopped Seth before he manhandled the much scrawnier
Lenny to the ground. Lenny had no control over the licking. “Did you have a good night, Lenny?”
“Uh-uh!” Tongue out and going like a lizard, a sure sign anxiety gripped him, Lenny shook his head. “Can’t sleep, Doctor Rose. Can’t sleep.”
“Take a deep breath, Lenny, and tell me why you can’t sleep.”
Seth growled, and muttered beneath this breath. The orderlies had names for all the patients. Lenny they dubbed The Licker, for obvious reasons, but not in front of her. Not since she’d put a firm stop to that within her first week. She had no control over what they said amongst themselves, but she knew it got a whole lot worse than the nicknames. Today, though, she was being positive. Eight more months and she could hand in her postgrad study on delusional disorder.
“They took Captain America.” Lenny had licked his lips raw. “I need him.”
“Bloody comics.” Seth snorted. “Wants his stupid bloody comics.”
Captain America played a pivotal role in Lenny’s wellbeing. Or rather his preciously hoarded collection of Marvel comics. When Lenny couldn’t get his licking under control the orderlies took them away. No matter how many times she insisted he only got more anxious without them, the orderlies routinely grabbed Lenny’s comics. “Get them for him.”
“Doctor Montgomery said to take ’em.” Leering, Seth crossed his arms and gave her a toe to top examination.
Ugh! One antiseptic bath coming right up. “Give them back to him. I will clear it with Doctor Montgomery.”
Seth stared down at her. The donut bribe kicked in and he shrugged. “Okay.”
“You’ll get Captain America back.” Making the human connection that was sometimes all he needed to calm down, Laura patted Lenny’s arm.
Lenny slunk back into his cell.
“Good morning, Henry.” Laura stopped at the next cell. “How are you today?”
“You’ll be late,” Seth said. “He don’t talk none anyhows. Don’t know why you bother.”
Because somebody had to bother. Somebody had to care about these tossed aside members of humanity and at Deer Fallows, tag she was it.
Staring at the wall opposite, Henry hunched on his bed. They’d failed Henry. Until they could unlock the code to his world, he stayed trapped in there, at the mercy of whatever torments he’d populated his inner world with.
“I will see you later for our session, Henry.”
“Hey, Doctor Rose.” Juan gripped the top of the doorframe, his wiry, cut abdomen on display. Cocky, crooked grin on his handsome face, he ogled her. “We also got a session today, baby?”
“Not today, Juan.” She made a note to tell his orderly to make sure Juan kept his shirt on. It wouldn’t deter him. Juan remained convinced that continuous exposure to his charms would wear her down eventually.
Last resident of hell. Oliver. The hairs on Laura’s nape prickled, and her pulse kicked up. He stood in his doorway too, one shoulder propped, arms folded across his broad chest. Dark, dark eyes in a chiseled face, too harsh for beauty but achingly compelling. He nodded. “Doctor Rose.”
Oliver defied her efforts to diagnose him. She had the debts to prove her years of expensive education and none of it came close to helping her put a label on Oliver. Delusional, certainly, and on occasion violent enough to bring all the orderlies running. They’d nicknamed him Highlander because of the huge sword the police had found him waving about when they took him into custody.
Laura had watched the YouTube video so many times it was etched on her brain. Oliver had appeared out of nowhere. After a brief moment of disorientation, the video showed a terrified man, brandishing the biggest, most dangerous sword Laura had ever seen.
Steeling herself, she stopped when she drew level with him. “Good morning, Oliver. I apologize for being late.”
“Good morning.” He had the sort of deep, rich voice that would do great bedtime stories. Shoulder length dark hair framed his face. Good behavior had won him the privilege of wearing his hair long. “Everything all right?”
There it was, the look that concerned her the most. Far too intelligent, Oliver missed nothing. He watched, he waited, he absorbed and he regurgitated exactly what they needed to hear. Doctor Montgomery had him on the antipsychotic meds, which he reinforced with psychotherapy. Classic treatment to which Oliver responded, at a lightning fast pace that triggered all Laura’s alarm bells.
“Yes, thank you, Oliver. Give me a couple of minutes to get settled and we can get started.” Mentally braced for the snap and zing along her synapses, she forced herself to make eye contact.
“Certainly.” He smiled, and tougher girls than Laura must have melted at that one. “I look forward to it.”
Two hours alone with Oliver made her want to run screaming. He unnerved her. Along with those glimpses of keen intelligence came the violent episodes. Oliver hadn’t had one for over three months now, but she sensed the violence in him, bubbling beneath the surface. But she had no proof. Oliver gave her nothing to support her gut instinct. All she had was reams and reams of case studies indicating that the success rate with patients like Oliver stood at less than fifty percent and that would not be enough to keep him here. She didn’t believe him ready to be released. Montgomery pushed hard for release but without any support structure, without any family or friends at all, Oliver would be prey to the disease that riddled his mind. Professional, neutral smile in place, she nodded. “I will see you then, Oliver.”
Truth? She avoided Oliver, and after one session had passed his care over to Singen Montgomery. Singen? Only in England did you come across a name like Singen. Singen and Oliver seemed to hit it off. According to Singen, their sessions had been “going swimmingly” and hence her looming two hours with Oliver Fitzwilliam. Montgomery wanted her to rubber stamp his release recommendation. Even knowing it was a courtesy at best, Laura would fight Oliver’s release.
She had only herself to blame. It still bugged her to admit it, but she was attracted to Oliver on a physical, visceral level that defied all her attempts to reason it away. Knowing that, she’d had no choice as a professional but to pass his case onto Montgomery. The reason she’d given Singen was that Oliver would respond better to a male therapist. She’d read about therapists falling for their patients. Stupidly, she’d never considered one of them being her.
Juggling her briefcase and Starbucks, she unlocked her office door. A blast of stale, hot air hit her. What was it about England that they couldn’t get air conditioners? Every time she asked, she got that unbearably superior look as they explained to her that putting air conditioners in a listed building was simply “not done.” They didn’t have any problem with sweating through the summer and freezing their butts off in the winter.
“Can anybody say denial?” After unlocking the window grill, she got her shoulder behind it and shoved up the sash window. She locked the grill back in place. Oliver didn’t present as suicidal, but you could never be too careful. Exhaust fumes, rain-soaked bricks, urine saturated sidewalks and the stale curry from the Indian restaurant below her office wafted through the window. She’d never have guessed she would miss Wyoming.
Beady eyes tracking everything she did, Seth lurked in her doorway.
“Give me five minutes and then bring Oliver to see me,” she said.
“Right you are, Doctor Rose.” Seth disappeared. Probably to go and make sure he got his share of the donuts.
Her positive slipped and she grabbed onto it and held tight. Thirteen months in the north of England at an institution hanging on by its fingernails, and where the crazies walked around wearing the badges. Nobody gave a crap about their patients, and it showed. Keep them here for long enough to meet the minimum requirements by law and then shove them out onto the street again. Any attempt on her part to actually do her job had been met with icy hostility and pages and pages of regulations.
She flipped through Singen’s thirty-page report on Oliver as she sipped her coffee. Thank God Starbucks had made it to Northumberland.
>
“Patient Fitzwilliam, Oliver, no longer exhibits signs of aggression or tendency to violent outbursts. Patient reports no recurrence of persistent delusions.”
That itched beneath her skin more than anything. The turnaround was too damn fast for comfort. Six months ago, Oliver went down fighting like an animal and screaming he was the bastard son of William de Wolfe. For two months, he’d fought for his version of reality. Seth had the bruises to prove it. In his neatly typed report, Singen had documented every incident and still, she was the only person who saw this.
The name de Wolfe Oliver must have pulled from the hulking Questing Castle, now sitting perfectly preserved in the center of the city. The de Wolfe family still owned the castle, but allowed tourists to crawl all over it for a healthy fee. Any given Sunday you could pay your entrance to Questing and get swept back in time courtesy of a fiendishly devoted group of local reenactors. No prizes for guessing where William picked up the accurate details to fuel his powerful fantasy life. God alone knew where he’d found that sword. The governing committee had offered it to the de Wolfe family, but they said it didn’t belong to them. Now the artifact moldered in Deer Fallow’s basement and everybody conveniently forgot to mention to the insurance company that they had what looked to be a priceless, medieval artifact. That sword could pay her way back to America and set her up very nicely in private practice, where hopefully, she would rediscover her genuine desire to help people.
Laura sensed Oliver moments before he strode into the room with Seth skulking in his wake.
Almost a head taller than Seth and several inches wider Oliver’s sheer physicality intimidated the crap out of her. He moved like a fighter, alert, tense and balanced. If it weren’t for the very new millennium traffic crawling past the building, she might even believe he could swing that mammoth sword of his in some ancient battle.
With no priors coming up under the standard DNA test, and Singen’s release recommendation, Oliver could walk today. Except for her, and she only had one iffy shot at this.
Romance the De Wolfe Page 17
