Season of The Shadow. Bobbi Ph.D. GrooverЧитать онлайн книгу.
Wherever you were seemed a frightful place."
With his finger, Fletcher drew a desultory pattern on the cover, hesitant to divulge any information. "It's something from my youth—of no consequence really. It comes on me mostly when I'm overtired and apparently when I indulge myself with wine as I did tonight." He looked up at her and was immediately warmed by her presence. "However, the evening with you was well worth the loss of a good night's sleep."
She mulled over his statement, her eyes serious and searching his as if for some hidden truth. "I'll take the compliment, Mr. Brown, but not the excuse. Your face belies your words. You seem to forget I was here. I saw and heard you." She ran the back of her cool fingers along his forehead, touched the jagged scar under his eye and her face softened. "Whatever it was you struggled with, it was no child's dragon in the dark. But I'll not press you further as you seem to be still shaken."
"I most humbly thank you for your kindness." He shuddered and tried to stop the trembling with a deep breath. "And as long as you're in my bedroom, sitting on my bed in the middle of the night, with me in a state of total undress—" He eased his face into a lop-sided grin. "—perhaps it would be best if we were on a first name basis?"
She giggled and put her hand over her eyes as if chagrined at the truth of his statement. "I do see your point, sir. Well, mister.—" She rose quickly from the side of the bed.
"First names, remember? Call me Zachary."
"As you wish...Zachary. Is there anything I can get for you? Perhaps some frothy milk? Or might I entice you to take an infusion of special plants that might relieve your anxiety and help you sleep?" She clasped her hands in front of her.
"Are you an herbalist?"
"My father taught me much of it when he was alive."
Fletcher pulled himself to a sitting position at the head of the bed and propped against the pillows, careful to draw the covers with him. He was glad he was hidden in the shadows, the moonlight falling on Miss Jurrell—Sage—instead. He was afraid his numerous scars would offend the vision who had rescued him.
She was lovely, standing there waiting for his answer. Her hair was braided demurely, distinctly different from the array of curls it had been at supper. The rose of her dressing gown complemented the color in her cheeks, and the way she stood there expectantly, created a picture of a young girl waiting for direction.
"If you must know the truth, I'd prefer a swig of whiskey."
"But you just finished explaining how your nightmare returns when you indulge," she chided him. "How about a simple glass of water? It would seem safe enough under the circumstances."
"If that is the strongest brew you'll consider, I gratefully accept."
Sage brought it for him. "Anything else before I go?"
Please don't go, Sage, he wanted to shout out loud. "No...thanks."
"Well then, if you're sure you're going to be all right."
I'm not all right. Stay with me. "Yes...thanks. Sleep well."
His chest tightened as he saw her hand on the doorknob. He drew a sharp breath. "Sage?"
She turned back to him. "Yes?"
"I...I know it's improper to ask. I've no right to even think you'd consider it, but could you...would you stay?"
Sage approached his bed without smiling. Fletcher couldn't read her expression.
"Mr. Brown...Zachary...I'm not in the habit of spending the night in the rooms with my guests."
Fletcher reached for her, oddly fearful that he had insulted her without measure, and without meaning to. "Sage, wait—"
She sat on the edge of the bed and put her finger to his lips. "Shhh. Let me finish. To wander these rooms would be highly improper. But if someone I know on a first name basis is sick or hurting, could I be so cruel as to ignore their cry for comfort? Yes, Zachary. I'll stay."
* * *
Sage Jurrell comforted him that night and every night afterward because Fletcher didn't leave as he had planned. A part of him was desperate to stay with her, delight in her, and for now, he gave in to it. For a brief time he would allow himself this small luxury.
When he slept cradled in her arms, the nightmares eased, and he awoke without a throbbing head and swollen eyes. Any anxiety in the night was quickly dispelled by her tender touch and reassuring voice. He found himself smiling, teasing and laughing more.
* * *
He came down one morning and looked for her. She had left his bed early, as usual, escaping before the other guests were awake. It was her custom to oversee the preparations for the morning meal. Fletcher awoke when he reached out for her and missed her warmth beside him. He found her in the kitchen enveloped in a huge apron with traces of flour smeared on her face. He shook his head and chuckled.
"I love your new face powder," he said, grinning.
Her hands full of dough, Sage wiped her face with her arm. "There were a few disasters this morning so I had to lend a hand. Don't tease me or you'll not have the surprise I've planned."
"Surprise? For me? How wonderful; I love surprises." He shot her a rakishly wicked glance and saw a pink blush rise from her neck.
"Shoo—out of my kitchen. I've work to do. I'll find you when the time comes for your special surprise—" Fletcher received Sage’s wicked glance in return. "—and then I'll decide if you should have it."
* * *
Fletcher was outside, inspecting the building when she found him. She was carrying a basket, and he hurried to take it from her.
"It's heavy," he said as she handed it to him. "What's in here?"
"Kiss me first and maybe I'll tell you."
"Here? Outside? At high noon?" he countered, raising an eyebrow.
"I'm quite aware of where we are and the time of day," she said, setting her hands on her hips. "I'm also aware that there is not a soul in sight. If you wish to eat, sir, I suggest you do as you are told."
Fletcher bowed his head to look properly chastised. "Be it far from me to disobey the house rules. I hasten to do thy bidding." He leaned over the basket and kissed her with unabashed craving.
"Mmmm," she cooed. "I fear what's in the basket will not be half as delicious."
"It's to be a picnic then?" he asked, delighting in the idea of spending the afternoon with her.
She peeked at him and winked. A beguiling smile curved the corners of her mouth. "We'll ride out to a wonderful lake I know."
"Now it's my turn to say, 'Mmmm.’ Sounds promising. I can scarcely contain myself."
Whiz was not cooperative about the basket thumping on his back. He flicked his tail, pranced sideways and jigged, attempting to rid himself of the cumbersome burden. However, at Fletcher's insistent firm and steady urging he calmed, and they reached the lake. The afternoon stretched before them with splendid anticipation.
Settled under a large shade tree, Fletcher lay with his fingers locked across his chest as Sage fed him their meal of chicken, fruit and sweetmeats piece by piece. He opened his mouth to take each morsel and caressed the skin of her fingers with his tongue. He tasted each digit as he tried to lick the delicious icing from them. He chased her, caught her, rolled and laughed with her. He scooped her slender body into his arms and swung her around until they both cried out with dizziness—small rituals he had not done with a woman since before his abduction.
He goaded her into swimming with him in the frigid water, then abashedly remembered the scars which latticed his chest and back. While her back was turned, he dived into the water as God had made him; Sage insisted on wearing her chemise. Fletcher smiled wickedly, relishing the pulsing of his blood and the tightening in his thighs as he watched the flimsy material cling to her wet figure with tantalizing translucence.
The