His Wicked Dream (Velvet Lies, Book 2) (6 page)

Bonnie's glassy eyes flickered open. "M-Michael?"

In the accompanying flash of light, his features looked chiseled, dissected by leafy shadows that slanted across the hard, square plane of his jaw. In that moment, he resembled a brooding thunder god more than the shining knight of some schoolgirl's fantasy.

"You fainted, Mrs. Harragan." Immune to the straining bodice at his knee, he probed Bonnie's head with deft, professional movements. "There's nothing to fear. Jamie's not hurt. Do you think you can sit?"

Bonnie frowned, raising a shaking hand to the hair he had mussed. "J-Jamie?"

The boy ran to her side.

"Jamie," she gasped, propping herself on an elbow, "that was a stupid,
stupid
thing for you to do. You could have been killed. Not to mention how you almost killed me!"

The boy hung his head. Claudia shook hers.

"Bonnie Harragan, are you hurt or aren't you?" she snapped.

"Well, I..." She hesitated, glanced at Michael, then groaned, oozing back to earth. "I'm not sure. I feel so... dizzy."

Claudia rolled her eyes. "Give her another whiff of smelling salts, Michael. Or better yet, let me do it. You see to Jamie. He's the one with the real hurt."

Bonnie scowled. "Michael said Jamie was all right."

"Jamie's grieving," Eden interceded.

"Well, that's silly. As my son can see, Michael has matters well in hand. In a couple of days, with proper medical care, I'm sure I'm going to be—"

"Not
you,"
Claudia snapped. "His hoppy toad. And a fine hoppy toad it was, too. The kind any boy would be proud to own." She draped her arm over Jamie's quivering shoulders. "I reckon any toad as fine as Charlie must have a strapping brood somewhere. How 'bout you and me taking another look-see under my porch?"

Bonnie grew distinctly paler. "Auntie, don't you dare! You know I don't allow pets."

"Bonnie Harragan, you ain't allergic to any dang toads."

"I am too! Besides, they breed warts."

Michael chuckled. A resonant rumble to rival the deepest strains of a cello, it caught Eden's attention as nothing else about the man had. She was rewarded to glimpse straight white teeth and the heart-stealing flash of dimples.

He climbed to his feet. "Mrs. Harragan," he said, offering her a hand, "if that were true about toads, then we'd have an epidemic among the boys in this town."

Bonnie blushed, wobbling as Michael gripped her elbow. When Jamie ran forward, burying his face in her stomach, she sighed, hugging him closer. Michael stepped discreetly to the side.

Claudia harrumphed in approval. "Well, Michael," she said briskly, "I reckon I needn't fuss with introductions now. Still, this here's my niece, Eden. Andy Mallory's girl."

Michael, who'd been rolling down his cuffs, paused a moment to gaze fully into her face. "Eden," he repeated, as if tasting the word for nuances of flavor.

The warmth rekindled in his eyes, and she drew a shaky breath. Suddenly she was aware of how close and sweltering the air had become. She liked to think the storm was to blame, until he released her from his gaze.

"Miss Mallory." He nodded. "Whatever possessed you to charge a rearing horse? You could have been seriously injured."

"Uh... I suppose I didn't stop to think," she stammered. "About myself, I mean."

"Hmm." He seemed to concentrate on buttoning his cuffs, but she sensed he was still watching her behind that veil of inky lashes. "A bit foolhardy, wouldn't you say?"

Eden's cheeks heated.

"I was the closest," she answered simply.

A single eyebrow shot up, held.

"You would put the Good Samaritan to shame, Miss Mallory."

His smile, as fleeting as it was, struck her strangely. Perhaps it was a trick of the lightning, but she could have sworn she'd seen something cloud the indigo depths of his eyes.

"Any splinters? Cuts? Sprains?" he quizzed her crisply.

She swallowed, shaking her head.

"Pain of any kind?"

"Nothing I can't treat myself, thank you."

"Indeed?"

She wanted to kick herself for that slip of the tongue. Before she could stammer some explanation, however, Berthold Gunther started cursing at the top of his lungs. Eden spied a scrawny youth with matted blond hair running in a near crouch away from the wagon. His arms were laden with canned goods; an apple spilled out of his trouser pockets. Gunther, who'd been scouring the gutters to salvage his precious groceries, went apoplectic.

"Hey!
Hey,
you plaguey white trash bastard! That ain't your'n! Bring it back!"

Claudia pressed her lips together, watching Gunther drop his sack of grain and give chase.

"Collie's back," she grunted.

Michael's expression darkened as the young thief dashed on bared feet down an alley. "Looks that way."

Bonnie sniffed. "That awful,
awful
boy."

She tightened her arms around Jamie, who stood now with his spine pressed to her waist. When Jamie tilted his head back to observe his mother's disapproval, Eden's heart twisted. She could almost see Jamie filing the experience away, learning contempt rather than compassion.

Michael broke the mood. Brusque and businesslike once more, he turned to Bonnie. "Mrs. Harragan, I suggest you bring Jamie to my office for a more thorough examination."

"Of course, Michael. Right away. And... well, I hope you won't mind taking a look at me, too," she cooed, probing her crown for emphasis. "My head does hurt."

Michael's jaw twitched at this none too subtle ploy. Nodding his farewell to Claudia, he swept his arm forward, motioning Bonnie and Jamie before him on the sidewalk. Then he passed Eden. For an instant, his stride faltered. Even without the elemental fireworks in the sky behind him, he crackled with intensity, a primal magnetism that was as alluring as it was disconcerting. She'd always considered herself immune to dark temptations, and yet when his gaze collided with hers, a tiny frisson of sensation danced along her spine.

"I almost forgot." He retrieved the smelling salts from his trouser pocket. "I daresay you'll never need them, but I hear they're requisite among Good Samaritans."

Eden blinked. She was uncertain what to make of his guarded tone... or the warm, calloused hand that took hers, gently but insistently closing her fingers around the bottle.

"Michael," Bonnie called. Her pout was thinly disguised. "You are coming, aren't you?"

Michael withdrew, and Claudia chuckled, watching Bonnie march her reluctant quarry down the street.

"Well, niece," she said, her cagey eyes bright with mischief, "looks like you and me have a heap of fun ahead."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, nuthin'." Claudia smiled like a certain Cheshire feline. "I was just thinking about the alley cats in this town. And yours is still up in that tree, ain't it?"

Chapter 2

Bonnie Harragan was going to be the final nail in his coffin.

Gritting his teeth as thunder bludgeoned his brain, Michael hurried his horse away from the widow's driveway. Bonnie had insisted that she was too weak to make the trip home by herself. He'd suspected her only real ailment was a twisted imagination, and the minute she'd ordered Jamie away from her bedside, her roaming hands had proven Michael right.

Unfortunately, he hadn't dared to ignore her head complaints for fear she might have suffered a concussion. And Bonnie knew that, damn her. She knew Gabriel's death made him feel personally responsible for every fever, ache, and chill in this town. It wasn't the first time she'd cried wolf to try to lure him back into her arms. He suspected it wouldn't be the last, even though he'd told her in no uncertain terms he would never court her again, not after she'd jilted him for a wealthier beau. Instead, Bonnie chose to believe she was competing with another lover, and she needed to ply her charms harder.

Michael groaned, turning up his coat collar against the first pellets of rain.

Hell, he wished he
did
have a secret lover to make him forget the forbidden fantasies he still suffered over a certain red-haired healer. He wished his mysterious illness would let him muster enough lust to rid his memory of that innocent's touch. But he couldn't allow his thoughts to dwell on a lost moment. He had bigger problems to deal with now, namely: What was he going to do with Sera when he became an invalid?

Because Michael was sure his central nervous system was failing. He knew enough about electrochemical pathways to realize the recurring numbness in his limbs hinted at some grave disorder.

At first, when the tingling began in his feet, he'd thought he'd been standing too much, chopping wood, treating patients, repairing Claudia's store roof. But then, during routine exertions like stair climbing, he'd noticed he'd grow uncommonly fatigued. And lately, he'd been experiencing vertigo.

The worst part, though, was having to lie to Sera. Michael didn't want his kid sister to start worrying she would lose him, like she'd lost everyone else: Mama, Gabriel, Papa—even Rafe.

Of course, Michael's half-brother wasn't really dead—at least, Rafe hadn't been dead six months ago, Michael thought grimly, recalling the letter he'd caught Sera sneaking upstairs to her bedroom. If any member of the Jones clan deserved to be dead, that member was Rafe, but Michael wasn't the kind of man who went looking for vengeance. He figured Rafe would eventually suffer his due punishment for all the heartache he'd caused the family, and that punishment would be far more thorough than anything Michael could dole out.

No, he refused to waste one precious second of his ebbing life on the wastrel who called him "brother." Michael's first concern was Sera. He wanted his kid sister to be safe and happily married before his illness took its toll. It frightened him to think he was losing ground, battling an enemy he had no way of overcoming. And yet for Sera's sake, he had to hold on.

He rode to the stable at the side of his house—or rather, the renovated slave-quarters-turned-cottage that Michael had been renting on Claudia's property. Somehow, Michael managed not to slump to his knees while fumbling with the bridle. He gave Brutus a cursory rub and a pitchfork of hay and then, heedless of the mud and the drizzle, stumbled gratefully toward the bed that awaited him in the modest, two-story house that his kid-sister-turned-ward had been sharing with him, ever since their father's death.

"Michael, is that you?"

His eighteen-year-old sister's voice, pitched above the clatter of rain on the tin roof, made him wince, and he turned reluctantly from the hall stairs. His sodden shirt and trousers were forming rivulets that snaked through the dust on the pinewood floor.

He knew that Sera wouldn't care, though. In fact, he suspected Sera wouldn't notice. She'd renounced mops and brooms shortly after Papa's death two years before, and he doubted whether she even knew what beeswax was used for.

"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked wearily, hearing her approach from the kitchen.

Her eager footsteps missed a beat, and when she appeared around the corner, he noticed her peaches-and-cream complexion had tinged a shade of rose.

"Of course not," she answered quickly, too quickly for his peace of mind. Like a shadow flitting behind the pain, he vaguely recalled a stranger, with a Tennessee accent, and the hillKit's predatory smile. Michael wondered if Sera had planned a meeting with the reprobate, but before he could challenge her, she threw a gauntlet of her own.

"Why are you home so early? What's wrong?"

He stiffened. "Nothing."

"Then how come you look madder than a rooster in an empty henhouse?"

He avoided her eyes. "I'm just tired, that's all."

Sera blew out her breath. Her exasperation suggested she suspected his lie. The idea worried him, so he retreated behind sternness. The Reverend Jedidiah Jones had often preached that discipline was the only way to curb a child's natural tendency toward rebellion, and Sera was more rebellious than most. Thanks to the nearly twelve years that separated them, Michael had never been close to his sister, but he knew his duty by her.

More than that, he loved her. Lying about his illness was putting a strain on their already tense relationship, but he had no choice. The truth of his condition would be too hard for her to bear.