Secrets in the Stone (7 page)

“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-headed, 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.”

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 Stillwater. 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.

She wasn’t the kind of person Adrian would have any reason to befriend, but Adrian hadn’t hesitated to treat her injury. Rooke held the pot under the faucet, remembering how Adrian had held her hand under the warm water, gently washing the caked blood from around the cut. Their hips and shoulders had touched while they leaned close together. Adrian’s body had felt firm and strong, just as her hands were soft and sure. Rooke’s stomach was jittery again at the thought of Adrian’s thumbs gliding over her skin.

“You’re gonna spill that water all over the floor, you’re not careful,” a gravelly voice warned from behind her.

Rooke jumped and splashed water on her T-shirt. Cursing, she shut off the faucet and poured the excess out of the pot, which had filled to overflowing while she was daydreaming.

“Hi, Pops.” She turned to greet her grandfather, who stood in the kitchen doorway. He wore his usual khaki work pants and faded blue plaid flannel shirt, but instead of his work boots, he had on the brown slippers she’d gotten him for Christmas. She got him new slippers every year for Christmas, and he got her new leather work gloves. In his early sixties, he looked a decade younger, still solid and sturdy. Even though his hairline was receding, his hair was still the same deep mahogany as hers. His eyes were blue, though, not dark like hers. She had her mother’s eyes, he always said.