by Nora Roberts
"She's going to be all right. Both of you are."
"She wouldn't have been down there if I hadn't told her it was done. If I hadn't hurt her." He drew back, rubbed his hands over his face, smearing blood. "She's being taken care of, so that's fine. I've got no place here."
"You're wrong. No one's shutting you out but you. Christ, Mick, you're a mess." He took a good look at the battered hands, the torn and bloody clothes. He didn't want to think, quite yet, of how close his sister and his friend had come to dying. "Come back inside, let Mrs. Williamson fuss over you. You look like you could use a drink, too."
"I'll get one when I'm done."
"Done with what?"
"I told her I'd get the damn chest, didn't I? I'm going to get it."
Josh opened his mouth as Michael started away again. Arguments, he decided, were fruitless. "Hold up. I'll get Byron. We'll do it together."
Chapter Twenty-one
Contents - Prev
An hour later, dirty and a little sore, Josh and Byron brought the small chest into the parlor. There'd been a couple of dicey moments during an aftershock when the three of them had been caught crouching on the ledge, wondering if they'd lost their minds. Fortunately it had passed, and now the chest, still unopened, sat on the coffee table. Waiting.
"I can't believe it," Margo murmured. She brushed the wood with her fingertips. "It's real. After all this time." She smiled over at Laura. "You found it."
"We found it," she corrected. "We were always meant to." Her head throbbed dully as she reached for Kate's hand. "Where's Michael?"
"He didn't—" Josh bit back an oath. "He needed to check on his horses."
"I'll get him for you," Byron offered.
"No." It was his choice, Laura reminded herself. And her life had to continue. "It's so small, isn't it?" she mused. "So simply made. I suppose all of us had imagined something huge and ornate and extraordinary, but it's just a plain, serviceable chest. The kind that lasts." She took a deep breath. "Ready?"
With Margo and Kate beside her, she put a hand on the latch. It opened easily, soundlessly, the interior releasing a scent of lavender and cedar.
Inside were a young girl's treasures, and dreams. A rosary fashioned from lapis with a heavy silver crucifix. A brooch of garnets, rose petals drying to dust. Gold, yes, there was gold, glinting as it was poured out of a leather pouch.
But there were linens, meticulously embroidered and carefully folded. Handkerchiefs with lacy edges turning yellow. An amber necklace, a ring crafted to fit a small finger and studded with little ruby stones that glistened like new blood. Pretty pieces of jewelry that suited a young woman not yet married and a locket that held a curl of dark hair bound by gold thread.
Tucked in with them was a small book with a red leather cover. Inside was the careful convent-school writing of a well-bred woman: "We met on the cliffs today, early, when there was still dew on the grass and the sun was rising slowly from the sea. Felipe told me he loved me, and my heart was brighter than the dawn."
Laura rested her head against Margo's shoulder. "Her diary," she murmured. "She put her diary in with her treasures, locked away. Poor girl."
"I always thought I'd feel thrilled when we found it." Kate reached into the box, stroked a finger over the amber beads. "I just feel sad. She hid away everything that was important to her in this little box and left it behind."
"You shouldn't feel sad." Laura laid the open diary on her lap. "She wanted us to find it and to open it again. I like to think it had to wait until all three of us faced something we thought we couldn't face. But we did. We have."
She reached out, took each of their hands in hers. "And we should put these in the shop, in a special case."
"We couldn't sell any of it," Margo murmured. "We couldn't sell Seraphina's treasures."
"No, not to sell." Laura smiled at the simple box. "To let other people dream."
Michael left the rubble of his living room just as it was. He was going to stand in the shower and drown out the aches and pains. After he'd had a drink. In fact, now that he thought of it, getting piss-faced drunk was probably a much happier way to drown out the pain.
He bypassed beer and took out a bottle of Jameson's. As he poured a tumbler half full, he ignored the insistent knocking on his door.
"Go the fuck away," he muttered and took one long swallow. It did little to improve his mood when Ann Sullivan pushed open his door.
"Well, I see you're already drowning your sorrows in the middle of this chaos." She set down a box on the counter and frowned at the destruction. "I wouldn't have thought there'd be this much damage. We lost only a few breakables at the main house."
"Laura did most of it." He lifted his glass again as Ann pursed her lips.
"Did she? It's rare for her to let her temper loose, but a wicked one it can be. Well, sit down, we'll tend to you before we clean up the mess."
"I don't want to clean it up, and I don't want to be tended to. Go away."
She merely reached into the box and took out a covered plate. "Mrs. Williamson sent you food. I asked her to let me come instead. She's worried about you."
"Nothing to worry about." He studied his hands. "I've had worse."
"I've no doubt, but you'll sit down and let me clean those cuts." She set a basin, bottles, bandages on the counter.
"I can take care of myself." He lifted the glass, peered at the level of whiskey. "I've already made a start."
In her no-nonsense style, Ann came around the counter and shoved him into a chair. "Sit when you're told."
"Shit." He rubbed his shoulder where she'd pushed. It burned like fire.
"And keep a civil tongue in your head." She busied herself filling the basin with hot water. "Got infection brewing already, I've no doubt. The sense of a bean is what you've got." She snatched one of his hands and got to work.
"If you're going to play Nurse Nancy, at least—goddamn, that hurts."
"I imagine. Don't you swear at me, Michael Fury." Her eyes stung when she saw just how badly he'd damaged his hands, but her movements remained brisk and not particularly sympathetic. "This'll bite some."
The burn of the antiseptic that she generously poured over open wounds made his eyes cross and filled the air with wild blue curses.
"You've a raw Irish tongue. Reminds me of my Uncle Shamus. What part does your family come from?"
"Galway. Goddamn it, why don't you just use battery acid and be done with it?"
"Big, strong man like you, whining over a little peroxide and alcohol. Take another drink, then, as I haven't a bullet for you to bite on."
It scored his pride, as she'd meant it to. Michael tipped back the glass and scowled at her. He decided to brood while she wrapped gauze over his hands.
"Done?" he demanded.
"With those, for the time being. You'll want to keep the bandages dry and they'll need to be changed regular since I assume you'll be as stubborn as Miss Laura about a doctor."
"Don't need a doctor." He jerked his shoulder but regretted it when it throbbed. "She'll be fine, too. She's got enough people hovering over her."
"She inspires love and loyalty because she's generous with giving both." Rising, Ann emptied the basin, refilled it. "Take off what's left of your shirt."
He cocked a brow. "Well, Annie, I'm a little impaired, but if I'd known you had an urge to—Ow!" He gaped, shocked speechless as she gave his ear a hard twist.
"I'll twist more than your ear if you behave like a baboon. Take that shirt off, boy."
"Christ!" He sat for another moment, rubbing his stinging ear. "What's your problem?"
"Your hands aren't the only things you've cut to blazes. Now get the shirt off so I can see what you've done to yourself."
"What the hell do you care? I could bleed to damn death and you wouldn't bat an eye. You've always hated me."
"No. I've always been afraid of you, and that was foolish. You're just a pitiful man who hasn't a clue of his own worth. And I made
mistakes I'm sorry for, and I hope I'm woman enough to admit it." Because he wasn't cooperating, she tugged off his tattered T-shirt herself. "I thought you had beaten your mother."
"What? My mother—I never—"
"I know that. Be still. Oh, Jesus, boy, you've done a job here. Oh, poor lad." She crooned now as she dabbed gently at the gashes on his back. "You'd have killed yourself for her, wouldn't you?"
Suddenly tired, unbearably tired, he laid his head on the counter, shut his eyes. "Go away. Leave me alone."
"I won't. Nor will anyone else. You'll have to be the one to do it. Hold on now, this is going to hurt."
He hissed between his teeth as the antiseptic bit. "I just wanna get drunk."
"You will if you must," she said easily. "But a man who would brave an earthquake to get to his woman should have enough nerve to face her sober. This bruising could use liniment. Well, we'll see to that after we've seen to the rest. Take off your pants."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, I'm not going to—Christ!" He yelped when she twisted his other ear. "All right, all right, you want me naked, you got it."
He rose, wrenched the button of his torn jeans, tugged them off. "I'd have gone to the hospital if I'd known what the alternative was going to be."
"That cut on your thigh could use stitches, but we'll do what we can."
He sat bad-temperedly but shoved the tumbler aside. He didn't feel like drinking any longer. "Is she all right?"
A smile ghosted around Ann's mouth, but she kept her head lowered. "She's hurting, in more ways than one. She needs you."
"No, she doesn't. The last thing. You know what I am."
Now she lifted her head, looked him dead in the eye. "Yes, I know what you are. But do you, Michael Fury? Do you know what you are?"
He worried over it like a man worrying over an aching tooth. How could he concentrate on what he needed to do when he kept seeing her the way she had been, white and still on that ledge? Or the way she had looked, eyes filled with hurt and temper, as she'd turned at the door and told him she loved him.
Distractions didn't help. He'd dealt with the mess of the apartment—because Ann had ordered him to get up off his butt and take out the trash. He'd calmed his horses, rehung his tack, then taken the tack down again and packed it.
He wasn't staying anyway.
In the end he'd given up and started across the lawn to Templeton House. It was reasonable, wasn't it? he argued with himself, to want to check on her. She probably should be in the hospital. Her family wouldn't push her. It was obvious to him that when Laura Templeton dug her heels in, no one could push her.
He would just check, then he'd make arrangements to stable his horses elsewhere until he could get the hell out of Dodge.
As he walked through the garden, Kayla and Ali popped up from their perch on the terrace where they'd been playing jacks. His first thought was that he hadn't known kids still played jacks. Then they launched themselves at him.
"You saved Mama from the earthquake." Kayla, all but climbing up into his arms, made his fresh bruises throb.
"Not exactly," he began. "I just—"
"You did." Solemn-eyed, Ali looked up into his face. "Everyone said so." He started to shrug, uncomfortable in the role of hero, but she took his hand and her eyes were clouded with worry. "They said she was going to be all right. Everyone said she was going to be all right. Is she?"
Why ask him? Damn it, how did he get to be the authority? But he crouched down, unable to resist that trembling lip. "Sure she is. She just got some bumps, that's all."
Ali's lips curved a little. "Okay."
"She fell off the cliff," Kayla continued. "And found Seraphina, and she got hurt, but you and Max came to pull her back up. Mrs. Williamson said Max should have a whole bushel of carrots."
He grinned, tousled her hair. "What do I get?"
"She said you already got your reward. What is it?"
"Search me."
"You got hurt too." Soberly, Kayla lifted his bandaged hands one at a time and kissed them. "Do they hurt? Does that make it better?"
Emotion swarmed through him, a stinging hive of bees that left behind a sweet ache. No one, in all his life, had ever kissed his hurts. "Yeah, much." He pressed his face into her hair for a moment. Wishing. Wanting.
"Is it all right if we go down and see Max?" Instinctively Ali stroked Michael's hair to soothe him. "To thank him."
"Yeah, he'd like that. Ah, your mom…"
"She's in the parlor. Everyone's supposed to be quiet so she can rest. But you can go in." Ali beamed at him. "She'd want to see you. And Kayla and I are going to get up every morning early before school and clean the stalls until your hands are better. You don't have to worry."
"I—" Coward, he thought. Tell them you won't be here. Tell them you're leaving. Couldn't. Just couldn't. "Thanks."
As they dashed off, he watched them, two pretty young girls racing away through fanciful gardens. He stepped over the scattered jacks, and after three tries managed to lift his hand and open the terrace door.
She wasn't lying on the couch as he'd expected, but standing at the window, her back to the room, looking out toward the cliffs.
She was so… small, he thought. Everything about her telegraphed fragility, and yet she was the strongest woman he'd ever known.
She should have seemed delicate just then, highly breakable, with her hair pulled back, the soft, fluid folds of a white robe wrapped around her. But when she turned, and those last gilded beams of the setting sun danced against the window at her back, she seemed simply indestructible. "I was hoping you'd come." Her voice was calm, as was she. A close brush with death had shown her that she could indeed survive anything. Even Michael Fury. "I wasn't able to thank you coherently before, or to see how badly you were hurt."
"I'm fine. How's the head?"
She smiled. "It feels as though I smashed it on a rock. Would you like a brandy? I'm not allowed, myself. My many medical advisers tell me I can't have any alcohol for twenty-four hours."
"No, I'll pass." The whiskey he'd downed earlier wasn't sitting very well as it was.
"Please, sit down." Leading with manners, she gestured to a chair. "We've had quite a day, haven't we, Michael?"
"I won't forget it anytime soon. Your shoulder—"
"I've had enough fussing. It's sore." She sat, smoothing down her robe as she did. "I'm sore. My head aches, and occasionally I get this quick twist in my stomach when I let myself think about what might have happened. What would have happened if you hadn't found me."
Her brow lifted as she watched him prowl the room. Other than that first long stare when she'd turned to him, he'd barely looked at her. To keep her own hands still, she linked them in her lap.
"Is something else on your mind, Michael, other than my medical report?"
"I just wanted to see—" He stopped, hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and made himself look at her. "Listen, I don't see any point in leaving this business hanging between us."
"What business?"
"You're not in love with me."
Patiently attentive, she angled her head. "I'm not?"
"No, you've just got it all mixed up with sex, and now probably with gratitude, and that's just stupid."
"So now I'm stupid."
"Don't twist things around."
"I'm trying to untwist them." She leaned forward to touch the box, still open on the coffee table. "You haven't seen Seraphina's dowry. Aren't you curious?"
"It's nothing to do with me." But he looked down, saw the glint of gold, of silver, of glossy beads. "Not a hell of a lot, considering."
"You're wrong, it's quite a bit, considering." Her gaze lifted to his again. "Quite a bit. Why did you go back down for it?"
"I told you I would."
"A man of your word," she murmured. "I was fuzzy at the time, but things are clearer now. I remember lying there watching you climb up that rock wall. Clinging like a lizard. Your hands bleeding, slipping when the
wall would give way. You could have been killed."
"I guess I should have just left you there."
"You couldn't have done that. You'd have gone down for anyone. That's who you are. And you went back, for this." She stroked the lid of the box. "Because I asked you."
"You're making it bigger than it was."
"You brought me something I've looked for my entire life." Her eyes, swimming with emotion, stayed on his. "I can't make that bigger than it is. How many times did you climb up, climb down, for me, Michael?" When he said nothing, only turned away to pace again, she sighed. "It makes you uncomfortable—gratitude, admiration, love."
"You're not in love with me."
"Don't tell me what I feel."
Because her voice had sharpened, he glanced back warily. If she started throwing things again, he doubted he had the energy to dodge.
"Don't you dare to tell me what I feel. You're entitled not to feel the same way, entitled not to want me to love you, but you're not entitled to tell me what I feel."
"Then you are stupid," he exploded. "You don't even know who I am. I killed for money."
She waited a beat, then rose and walked over to pour herself a glass of mineral water. "You're referring to when you were a mercenary."
"It doesn't matter what title you put on it. I killed, I got paid for it."
"I don't suppose you believed in the cause you were fighting for."
He opened his mouth, shut it. Wasn't she hearing him? "It doesn't matter what I believed or didn't. I killed for profit, I've spent the night in a cell, I've slept with women I didn't know."
Calmly, she sipped. "Are you apologizing, Michael, or bragging?"
"Christ Almighty, don't pull that snotty lady-of-the-house routine on me. I've done things you can't even imagine in this rarefied world you live in."
She drank. "Rarefied, is it?" she murmured. "As compared to the reality you live in. Michael Fury, you're a snob."
"Jesus Christ."
"You are. As you see it, I'm above desperation or needs or sins because I come from money and maintain a certain social status. I'm not supposed to understand a man like you, much less care for him. Is that right?''
