Books by Maggie Shayne (25 page)

Her screams, he told himself, were all that was making him shiver like this. Her bloodcurdling shrieks, splitting through the storm’s fury and stabbing straight into his heart. Or the way she’d fallen. The danger to the child he’d been sent here to protect.

But no. No, it was more than that and he knew it. There was something gnawing at him. The same something that had been niggling in his brain every once in a while for so long he couldn’t even remember its cause. It was an odd feeling, like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, and it came to life at seemingly random moments. He’d felt it often, as if he were craving something, something he needed as much as he needed air to breathe and water to drink. Something he couldn’t identify. And it always left him feeling empty and incredibly alone.

The feeling seemed to occur with a new and surprising frequency since he’d arrived in this small town. Like when he crossed the little bridge and looked down into the shallow, fast-running waters passing beneath it. Or when he caught a whiff of the corn being cut in a nearby field. Most of all, when he stood outside that old house on the corner.

The feeling had taken on a new, powerful intensity just now, when he’d looked on that woman’s delicate face, and even more when he’d held her in his arms. And try as he might, he couldn’t identify it. Maybe it was the impact of those eyes of hers, staring out into the rain at him. So big and filled with so much emotion, it was nearly spilling from them. So green that when lightning flashed, they seemed to glow.

Or maybe it was the sensation of that tiny hand closing around his and holding on so tight. As if she was dinging to him with everything in her. As if she didn’t want him to leave.

Ren shook himself. He had things to see to. He needed to get warm and dry. He could take sick as easily as any other man, and though it wouldn’t kill him, carrying out this mission while weak and battling illness would be foolish.

He took shelter in a barn a few hundred yards down the road. The smell of hay and cattle permeated the place, instigating a return of that itchy sensation in his mind. He stripped down to his shorts and hung his wet coat and his dampened black jeans and shirt on a nail in the wall, hoping they’d dry a bit by morning. The hay scratched at his thighs, but it was warm and dry, and that outweighed any discomfort. His sword lay, as always, close to his side, within quick and easy reach.

Ren was worried. He hadn’t failed in a mission yet. Not in all this time. But he had a feeling his abilities were going to be more severely tested than ever before. And a mission that had at first seemed simple was becoming more complicated with every passing moment.

Especially since he’d seen her, looked into her eyes. Hell, a Hero—especially one as well trained as Ren—felt very few emotions, and even fewer baser urges. A Hero possessed an innate sense of goodness and fair play. Loyalty to the point of death. Courage, even fearlessness.

He was not, however, supposed to feel the urge to gather a frightened woman into his arms, and to hold her there until her fears melted away. He’d
never
felt anything like that before.

And yet he suspected that maybe he had.

“Annie? Come, now, Annie, do wake up.” The deep voice with its almost charming but unidentifiable accent reached into the depths of her mind to bring her back to consciousness. Then she remembered what she’d seen, and her eyes flew wide open.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary here now, no ghostly image of her husband staring back at her. The lights had come back on. She scanned the room, half expecting—for just an instant—to see Richard standing in a corner, dripping wet, with that achingly sad look in his eyes.

Instead she saw the enigmatic dark-haired man who’d recently moved into Octagon House, a short walk from her own. He had a whipcord build, not overly muscular but far from skinny, and his impeccably groomed hair, with a few silver streaks, framed his face, clashing with the jet-black mustache. He was striking. Even more arresting when you heard him speak in that dulcet, almost hypnotic voice with its mysterious accent. And when you factored in the intense black eyes, well, the man seemed more likely a sorcerer than a retired psychiatrist.

She’d noticed all of that about him when he’d first stopped by to introduce himself, and she noticed it all over again now. Dr. Bartholomew Cassius was a charmer.

“Ah, that’s better,” he said, offering a relieved smile. “How are you feeling, Annie?”

She tried to smile back at him. She was lying on the sofa, head resting on its arm. An afghan kept her snug and warm, and Bartholomew sat beside her like a worried lover. His hand touched her forehead in search of a fever.

“I’m fine. Really, I…” Richard’s face reappeared in her mind. She closed her eyes, but still it lingered there. She could not have possibly seen him outside last night.

“I got worried when the lights went out,” Bartholomew explained.
“I
had flashlights and candles within easy reach, but I was concerned for you. Could just picture you tripping over something in the darkness and lying injured all night. I tried to call. There was no answer, so of course I had to check in.”

She frowned, studying his narrow face and those winged brows that couldn’t seem to decide whether to be black or silver. They had strips of both. “You came out in that storm just to check on me?”

He seemed a bit sheepish as he looked away. “Of course I did, Annie. Any
good
neighbor would have done the same.” His eyes said what he thought of those who lived in the houses on either side of hers, much closer than he was, none of whom had braved the storm to check on her safety.

She wasn’t so sure about his point of view. Probably the closer neighbors just stayed away because they knew her better than he did. Knew she guarded her independence with vigor. In fact, she detested anyone giving her special treatment just because she was:
(a)
a woman,
(b)
a pregnant woman,
(c)
a pregnant woman on her own, or, worst of all,
(d)
a pregnant woman on her own who needed constant looking after because of the recent death of her husband. But she let it slide. Bartholomew seemed to her like a decent man with good intentions.

“Is that what happened, then? You tripped in the darkness?”

She frowned and shook her head. “I’m not sure exactly what happened. Where was I when you—”

“Lying here on the sofa,” he said. “But I couldn’t wake you up. I’d have called an ambulance if the phone lines hadn’t been knocked out.”

She felt a prickle of unease and searched his fathomless eyes. “Bartholomew, how did you get in?”

As always, there wasn’t a flicker in the black depths.

“The door was open, Annie. That’s what worried me.”

“But I thought I checked the lock, just before…” She bit her lip. She’d also thought she’d seen Richard standing on her front porch, dripping wet. Just went to show what kinds of games the subconscious mind was capable of playing. She’d probably tripped, as Bartholomew suggested. Maybe hit her head. She’d come to the sofa to lie down, and she had probably dreamed all the rest.

Funny, though. She didn’t feel any bumps on her head now.

She glanced toward the front door, shuddering at the memory of seeing her husband there last night. The storm seemed to have passed, leaving only darkness and a light rain in its wake.

“Bartholomew, when you arrived here…”

“Yes?”

She drew a deep breath. “Did you see anyone else? Outside, I mean?”

Bartholomew’s black eyes glittered and narrowed. “No, Annie. Why? Did you?”

His voice had altered just a little, taken on the tone of a psychiatrist speaking to a troubled patient. He could just as well have been saying, “No, Annie, I didn’t see any pinstriped elephants dancing in your driveway. Did you?”

She knew that tone. She’d talked to a handful of therapists in the days and weeks following Richard’s funeral, mostly at her mother’s insistence. They were concerned about her mental state. About depression. About a hundred other things. Of course they’d pronounced her perfectly sane, though that hadn’t stopped the local tongues from wagging. Simply
seeing
a therapist was enough to generate gossip in a small town like Otselic. Even the school board had voiced concern over her “emotional state.” As if grieving were somehow abnormal. As if fragile Annie Nelson couldn’t possibly withstand such a blow without sustaining mortal damage.

She bit her lip and sighed. She’d resented those therapists back then for their concern, and it hadn’t been warranted. Now she was projecting that feeling onto Bartholomew, just because he was a psychiatrist like them.

She thought about simply telling him what she’d thought she’d seen last night. Just for an instant she thought maybe she needed to tell someone. But then she shook herself and reasoned the whole incident away. She
had
been thinking about Richard all evening. And the damned storm had been stirring up memories. It was no wonder she’d conjured his image in her imagination. That’s all it was. All it could possibly have been.

“No,” she answered at last. “No, I guess I didn’t see anyone either.”

Bartholomew smiled at her. Perfect white teeth. “Would you like me to stay, Annie? I’d be glad to sit up with you until morning.”

His concern was touching. But her natural aversion to appearing weak or dependent came to life just enough to make it a bit irritating as well. “No, Bartholomew. But it’s kind of you to offer.” At least she thought it was kindness. It was hard to be sure. She saw no hint of lascivious intent in his jet eyes. Then again, it was tough to detect anything in those eyes. They were as emotionless as marbles. So if he was coining on to her, she was blind to it.

She glanced down at her belly and almost laughed out loud that the notion he might be interested had even occurred to her.

He nodded. “Well, then, can I get you anything before I go? Tea? Warm milk, perhaps?”

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”

His eyes seemed to probe hers, and for a moment she was certain he’d question her further about what had happened tonight. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached for his jacket, which was slung over the back of the sofa, and as he pulled it on, he dipped a hand into a pocket. He withdrew a small velvet box and pressed it into her hand.

“What—”

“I’d like you to have it. It’s just a token, really.”

Frowning, and growing more uneasy with the situation by the second, she opened the box. It held a necklace, a silver chain with an odd-looking stone suspended from it. About two inches long and tubular, as thin as a piece of straw, and translucent if you looked at it right.

She turned the stone in her hand, studying it.

“It’s pink tourmaline,” Bartholomew explained. “And it’s said to bring friendship. Since I’d like nothing more than to be your friend, Annie, I’d like you to wear it.”

She gave her head a little shake. “Bartholomew, I barely know you. I’m not sure—”

“You’ve made me feel welcome here. That means a lot to an old man alone in a strange place.”

“You’re not an old man,” she blurted.

He smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that.” And there was something in his eyes. Interest? In her?

“For now, Annie, let this gift be my way of saying thanks.”

“There’s no need to thank me.”

“Let me put it on you,” he urged. “Just to see how it looks.”

Reluctantly she nodded. She sat up enough so Bartholomew could fasten the chain at her nape. The cool stone rested on her chest, just below the collarbone. It felt good there, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“It looks lovely on you, Annie. Won’t you keep it? Just to humor a lonely man? A man who…” He lowered his eyes. “A man who has grown quite fond of you in a remarkably short time.”

She caught her breath, searched his face. He was an attractive man. Dignified and easy to talk to. So easy, in fact, that she suddenly felt she could tell him anything, trust him implicitly. But she wouldn’t lead him on. “It’s far too soon for me to think about—”

“I only want us to be friends, Annie,” he said softly. “For now.”

“Friends is all we can be,” she told him. “I loved Richard more than…” Her voice trailed off.

“I know,” he said. “But everyone needs a friend, don’t they, Annie? Someone to talk to? To confide in?”

Sniffling, she nodded. “It would be nice,” she said, “to have a friend.” She fingered the tourmaline. “Thank you, Bartholomew.”

“You’re more than welcome, sweet Annie.”

He rose to leave, pulling his coat more tightly around his shoulders. “Sleep well, Annie. And remember that if you need anything, I’m only a phone call away.”

“That’s kind of you.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

She sat still for a long time after he’d left, but sleep was not a possibility. She wasn’t disturbed about Bartholomew’s interest. She’d been honest with him from the start, and she thought he’d got the message. It was Richard who kept her awake. That face, so sad and confused, rainwater dripping from his brow as he stared at her.

She most certainly had
not
seen Richard on her porch. And she most certainly was
not
suffering from any kind of mental crisis. If losing him hadn’t driven her to the loony bin, nothing could. So this hadn’t been a delusion, but simply an
illusion. A
dream. She’d been through the loss of the only man she’d ever love. She’d dealt with it. And just because she was living under the constant, unending strain of pretending to be getting over it, when deep down inside the pain was just as fresh and raw as ever, was no reason she should start hallucinating. She
had to
pretend. Her concerned friends and neighbors, not to mention her parents, would have hounded her constantly if they knew the pain she still felt with every breath she drew, the gnawing ache inside her that never seemed to die.

God, it had been months before everyone in this little town had stopped staring at her with curious, concerned eyes. As if they’d all been expecting her to suddenly turn into a babbling lunatic before their eyes, without advance warning. She’d had to fight to get her job back. And she couldn’t even blame the school board for their hesitance, since it was based largely on their fear. Who wanted a crazy woman teaching tenth-grade English? She’d seen a
therapist,
for heaven’s sake.