Secrets in the Stone

by Radclyffe

  “Here, take mine,” Adrian said.

  Rooke turned on the narrow width of the dresser, keeping her shoulders bent so she didn’t whack her head on the rafters, and took the flashlight from Adrian. “Thanks.”

  “Can you do anything from in here to plug the hole?”

  “Nope.” Rooke panned the light from one end of the attic to the other, marking her position so she could find the damaged section from outside. “I’ll have to get up on the roof and nail a tarp down over the whole area. Otherwise, you’ll have water in the walls before long.”

  “You can’t get up on the roof in this storm.”

  “As soon as it’s daylight, I shouldn’t have a problem.” Rooke ignored Adrian’s look of protest and returned to assessing the damage. She propped her flashlight on a horizontal beam, illuminating the section she’d exposed under the insulation, and pulled her pocketknife from her jeans. She used the blade to pry up a section of plywood. Pulling the edge down with her left hand, she cautiously worked her right over the surface of the plywood. “Damp, but not soaked. You probably haven’t lost a lot of shingles outsi—” She sucked in a breath as pain cut across the top of her hand. Fighting the instinct to yank her hand free, knowing she’d likely cause more damage, she held her arm still. “Could you pass me the light?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just need to get a better look in here and I can’t reach the flashlight.”

  “I’ll have to climb up there to get it.”

  “Never mi—” Rooke braced her legs as the dresser shuddered beneath her. When an arm came around her waist, the muscles in her abdomen contracted sharply and she gasped.

  “Sorry,” Adrian muttered. “Not much room up here.” She leaned a little closer and reached over Rooke’s shoulder for the flashlight. As she stretched for it, her breasts pressed into Rooke’s back and her pelvis snugged against Rooke’s ass. She couldn’t have blocked out the feel of those hard muscles even if she’d wanted to, and at least part of her didn’t. The low-level current in her body instantly kicked up a notch, and all her sexual alarms started blaring. She feared she might be vibrating and Rooke would know why. Embarrassed, she clutched the flashlight with a sigh of relief and delivered it into Rooke’s free hand. Then she eased away as much as she could, even though she still needed to hold on to Rooke for balance on the narrow surface. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Rooke shined the light into the tight space between the undersurface of the eaves and the sheet of plywood, trying to ignore the unfamiliar ache where Adrian’s palm pressed low on her belly. The throbbing in her stomach totally eclipsed the pain in her hand. “Can you reach the free lip of this plywood?”

  “I think so. I’ll have to edge around you a little bit more. What’s wrong?”

  “I just need you to make some room so I can slide my hand out,” Rooke said. A jagged edge of bent flashing canted inward, trapping her hand between the metal and the wood. Blood pooled on the wood under her palm.

  Rooke sounded completely calm, but Adrian feared she was in trouble. She fought down a surge of anxiety and inched her way around until her legs straddled Rooke’s hip. Gripping the back of Rooke’s jeans with one hand, she hooked her fingers over the rim of the plywood. “Okay. What next?”

  “When I say, pull down slowly until I tell you to stop.”

  “All right.” Adrian bit her lip to keep from urging Rooke to hurry.

  “Go.” Rooke kept the beam of light on the spot where the metal dug into her hand. Blood now covered her wrist and trickled along her forearm. Ignoring the burning in her hand, she focused on the unexpected comfort of Adrian pressed against her. The pressure forcing Rooke’s hand into the sharp metal edge abruptly eased. “Can you hold it right there?”

  “I won’t let go, Rooke,” Adrian replied.

  Slowly, Rooke drew her arm out. “Thanks.”

  “Put the light on your arm,” Adrian said. “Let me see it.”

  “It’s okay. I think we’re done up—”

  “Rooke. Let me see your arm.”

  “Climb down first before we both fall off of here.”

  Reluctantly, Adrian eased to a sitting position and jumped down from the dresser. Then she turned and held out her hand. “Give me the flashlight.”

  Rooke didn’t have a choice because she needed to brace her good hand on top of the dresser to get down. The instant she relinquished the light, Adrian shined it on her injured hand.

  “Okay,” Adrian said briskly, squelching her initial panic upon seeing the amount of blood running down Rooke’s arm and dripping from her fingers. “That’s going to need some attention.”

  “I just need to wash it up.”

  “It needs a thorough cleansing, and then we’ll decide what else.” Adrian swept her flashlight toward the stairs. “Come on. You’re dripping on the floor.”

  “Sorry,” Rooke muttered. She tugged her T-shirt from her pants and wrapped the bottom edge around her injured hand, hoping to catch most of the blood.

  “I was kidding,” Adrian said softly, wondering if Rooke really thought she was that uncaring. She led the way, navigating through the haphazard piles of boxes, furniture, and racks of clothes as quickly as she could. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not really.”

  “Are you just being tough?”

  “Not really.” Rooke stopped at the top of the stairs. “I’ll wait here until you bring a towel. I don’t want to get blood on your grandmother’s carpet.”

  “You’re not serious, are you?” Adrian lifted the light enough to illuminate Rooke’s face. She looked paler than usual, but otherwise her expression was unreadable. If she hurt, she didn’t show it. Adrian gripped Rooke’s free hand. “Be careful on the stairs.”

  Rooke tried to concentrate on maneuvering down the narrow stairs, but most of her attention was fixed on Adrian’s hand clasping hers. Adrian’s skin was very soft even though her grip was strong. She wondered how her callused, rough hands felt to Adrian, and she wished she had something finer to offer her.

  “Here,” Adrian said, drawing Rooke into the hall bathroom. “Hold your hand over the sink, but let me run the water for a few minutes before you get it wet. I’m afraid the water has been standing in the pipes and I don’t want any rust to get into that laceration.”

  “Okay. I can take it from here.” Rooke peeled the bottom of her T-shirt away from her hand, and as soon as she did, blood welled up and dripped into the porcelain bowl.

  “No, you can’t.” Adrian turned on both faucets, and after some coughing and sputtering, copper-tinged water erupted. She opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. The shelves were empty. “I’m going to check my grandmother’s bathroom. I’m sure she’s got first aid supplies in there. Will you be okay?”

  “Yes. Sure.” Rooke was almost as embarrassed by the fuss as by the accident. She hated giving Adrian a reason to question her competence. “Look, it’s really not a big dea—”

  Adrian pressed her fingers against Rooke’s mouth. “Let’s see if we can go five minutes without you aggravating me. Which means, hush.”

  Rooke would have been offended at being called aggravating except she was too stunned by the sensation of Adrian’s skin against her lips to care. She felt heat, a teasing pressure, silky softness. Fighting the urge to slip her tongue out to taste her, she clamped her lips more tightly together. When Adrian’s eyes crinkled at the corners and she laughed, Rooke’s confusion suddenly turned to unexpected pleasure. She grinned.

  “Not used to taking orders, are you?” Adrian whispered, lifting her fingers away from Rooke’s mouth. The smile had taken her by surprise. Rooke’s eyes had shifted from cool obsidian to gleaming onyx in the space of a heartbeat, and Adrian had not only seen the transformation, she’d felt it. A burst of heat and power enveloped her, still dark, but no longer dangerous. Sensual. Erotic. Hypnotic. She backed up a step. “Remember, don’t get it wet yet. I’ll be right back.”

  Oddly light-h
eaded, Rooke braced her good arm on the sink and closed her eyes. She’d had plenty of work-related injuries in her life, and on a scale of one to ten, this was about a three. Blood didn’t bother her, even her own. Even though her hand throbbed, it wasn’t enough to make her dizzy or sick to her stomach. Just the same, her insides were jittery and her head buzzed. She didn’t feel right at all.

  “Hey,” Adrian said gently, rubbing Rooke’s back. “Do you need to sit down?”

  Rooke shook her head. Adrian’s hand circling between her shoulder blades sent warm waves of pleasure through her. She sucked in air, which seemed in short supply, and gripped the sink harder. “I’m okay.”

  “Right, then.” Adrian lined some bottles up along the edge of the sink, then cradled Rooke’s injured hand in both of hers. “Let’s get this clean. Tell me if the water’s too warm. Or if it hurts.”

  Mutely, Rooke watched as Adrian held her hand under the faucet. Adrian ran her thumbs over the top of Rooke’s hand, dislodging the clotted blood while carefully avoiding the edges of the four-inch laceration that ran across the entire width of her hand just above her knuckles. Soon, their joined hands were covered in crimson.

  Adrian concentrated on not hurting Rooke, hoping to stave off the effect of the warm red blood streaming over her skin, but she couldn’t block the images that seeped into her consciousness despite how hard she tried to barricade herself. She caught flashes of foreboding stone castles, fire-scorched parapets, and fierce warriors with their faces covered by beaten-metal helmets. She smelled burning oil and heard the agonized cries of the mortally wounded. Among the melee a single figure dominated the battle, dark eyes blazing, great sword cutting a swath through those who stormed the gates. Guardian. The word hummed in her mind as Adrian struggled to focus. She doubted more than a second had passed, and she’d had a lot of practice covering up her brief lapses. When she was a child her siblings and parents had laughed at her “overactive imagination,” until she’d learned not to share the strange and vivid pictures that sometimes jumped into her consciousness.

  “Can you straighten your fingers?” Adrian asked.

  “Yes.” Rooke carefully demonstrated. “A little sore but everything works.”

  “Good. Are your fingertips numb?”

  Rooke shook her head. “Are you a doctor?”

  Adrian laughed, then out of nowhere, thought of Melinda holding her hand and unerringly divining her occupation. Melinda. Why did she keep stealing into her thoughts? “No. I’m a writer.”

  “Oh.” Rooke couldn’t imagine a single thing more foreign to her experience. Common sense told her to let the subject drop, but she wanted to know about this part of Adrian. “Books, you mean?”

  “No. Well, parts of books sometimes—I just finished scripting a photo journal about the war. To go along with still photos of friend of mine took. Sometimes I write articles about”—Adrian laughed—“just about anything that interests me. And then hope that someone else finds it interesting too and buys the piece.”

  “For magazines and things like that?”

  “That’s right. So I end up traveling to a lot to places that don’t have hospitals nearby. Most of us in my line of work get to be pretty good at first aid.” Adrian peered at the laceration, gently drawing the edges back with her thumbs. “It’s not too deep. Hand me the peroxide, could you?”

  “Do you really think I need that?” Rooke stalled, eyeing the bottles lined up along the sink. Everything in her medicine cabinet at home was arranged precisely so she knew what they were. She didn’t recognize some of the bottles Adrian brought in.

  “Rusty metal. Dirty attic. God knows what living up here? Yes, I think you need it.” Adrian released Rooke’s hand and plucked up the peroxide. “Keep it under the water while I pour this on. It won’t hurt.”

  “I’m not worried about it hurting,” Rooke said.

  “Then stop fussing.”

  Rooke set her teeth to squelch a retort. She hadn’t intended to fuss, mostly because being taken care of was a completely new experience. She liked it, and she wasn’t certain that was such a good thing.

  Adrian turned off the water and opened a nonstick gauze pad. After smearing some antibiotic ointment on the pad, she laid it gently over the laceration on Rooke’s hand and then expertly wrapped it with a roll of gauze. “There. That’s better.”

  “Thanks.”

  Aware that she was still holding Rooke’s hand, Adrian realized they’d gone from being strangers to being strangely intimate in a matter of a few hours. The air in the bathroom became close and too warm. The muscles in Rooke’s bare arm resting along the length of hers tightened and a thrill coursed through her. Too sensitive. She was just too sensitive right now to have this much physical contact with anyone. That’s all it was.

  “You should probably have that looked at in the morning,” Adrian said briskly, moving away to break their contact. Avoiding Rooke’s gaze, she gathered up the first aid supplies and stored them in the cabinet. “I don’t think it needs stitches, but I’m not a professional.”

  “It’ll be fine. You did a great job with it. I’m sorry to trouble you.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Adrian said softly. “Well. Will you send someone from your crew tomorrow to check the roof, then?”

  Rooke followed Adrian out into the hall. “It’ll be light in a couple of hours. I’ll look at it then.”

  Adrian halted abruptly. She just knew if she pointed out to Rooke that climbing up on the roof with an injured hand wasn’t wise, Rooke would argue, and she didn’t have the energy for a confrontation. The entire night had been one adrenaline rush after another—the erotic dream, Rooke’s sudden appearance, Rooke’s injury. Not to mention her heightened sensitivity to the smallest touch, her uncharacteristically intense physical reaction to Rooke, and the strange vision she’d just had. She felt drained and vulnerable, and she didn’t like the sensation one bit. Rooke Tyler was a disruption she didn’t need.

  “I’d feel better if you got someone else to handle the roof,” Adrian said, not bothering to explain since her concern would only be shrugged off.

  “I’ll just get my coat and get out of your way, then.” Rooke eased around Adrian and vaulted down the stairs.

  By the time Adrian caught up to her, Rooke had her jacket in hand and was at the front door. She’d offended her—she could see it in the set of Rooke’s jaw and the dark clouds shadowing her eyes. That hadn’t been her intention, and she had the irrational urge to ask her to stay. Ordinarily, she was perfectly content with just her own company. In fact, she enjoyed being alone to read or write. That’s why she’d jumped at the chance to come here. Nevertheless, she found herself casting about for an excuse to keep Rooke from disappearing. “I appreciate you coming out in this miserable storm to check the roof. It’s almost morning. Why don’t you wait here until it’s light so you don’t have to drive in the dar—”

  “I know these roads. It’s no problem.” Rooke tugged her ball cap out of the pocket of her leather jacket, yanked it low over her forehead, and pulled open the front door. A gust of wind blew snow into her face. “Someone will be out later this morning. Good night.”

  And just that quickly, the door slammed shut and Adrian was alone. She hurried to the window and looked out in time to see Rooke jump from the porch and disappear into the storm.

  “Well, damn.”

  Chapter Six

  Rooke pulled through the ten-foot-high wrought-iron gates of Stillwater Cemetery and parked behind the two-story stone caretaker’s house with a palpable sense of relief. Even though the twelve-mile trip home had taken over an hour in the storm, the treacherous snow-covered roads hadn’t been nearly as difficult to navigate as the time she’d spent with Adrian Oakes. Black ice and snowdrifts were nothing compared to the unfamiliar territory of interacting with a stranger. She rarely had more than a five-minute conversation with anyone other than her grandfather, Emma, or Dominic—a guy her age who supervised the grounds crew at St
illwater. Her role at Stillwater mirrored her life, unfolding in solitude within the confines of her shop and centered in the heart of her art.

  She worked for her grandfather, but he handled all the details of the bereavement process that required a personal touch—helping families to choose plots and coordinating services for interment with the funeral directors—as well as processing the orders for gravestones and mausoleums. He brought the work orders to Rooke, explaining what the family wanted, and together he and Rooke would map out the details for the stonework she would carve. The most Rooke had to interact with other people was when she directed family members to her grandfather’s small office or helped out the grounds crew when they were shorthanded. But even when she pitched in to mow grass, erect tents for services, or dig graves, she just worked. She didn’t socialize.

  When they were teenagers, Dominic had tried to get her to go to parties and other social events with the small local crowd, but he eventually stopped asking after she refused time after time. Everyone in a village the size of Ford’s Crossing knew everyone else, and she knew she wouldn’t fit in.

  Before tonight, she’d never spent time with a woman like Adrian—someone worldly and sophisticated. And beautiful and smart. All the way home on the slow, torturous drive, Rooke thought about the things she should have said or done differently. She should have just followed Adrian’s orders and she probably would have made a better impression. It was Adrian’s house, after all. Except she was used to just doing what she knew how to do without asking for direction or opinions or assistance. The one thing she was good at was her job.

  Of course, Adrian probably didn’t think so—not after she had to go and get her hand stuck in a crevice so she looked like a total incompetent. That bothered her almost as much as having Adrian take care of her.

  Rooke parked the truck and climbed out. Midwinter, it was still dark at six a.m. and she didn’t know what to do with herself. She was too wired to sleep, too distracted to work, and it was still snowing too hard for her to take her morning run along the river. Quietly, she let herself into her grandfather’s kitchen and set about making coffee. As she measured grounds into the metal basket of the percolator, she thought about Adrian making tea. Adrian had moved around the kitchen with quiet authority, doing everything with an economy of motion and brisk efficiency. She was so sure of herself. She said she traveled, and it sounded like the places she went were dangerous. Far from medical care, she said. Rooke wondered what that was like, being in a strange land, facing uncertain, possibly even life-threatening peril. She’d never been farther than the county line.