Tell (10 page)

“We should go home.” She licked her lips. “Didn't you want another shirt?”

Tell gritted his teeth. “Rhia will kill me if I make you miss that dinner.”

“Rhia will understand. Or at least she'll figure out why we didn't make it.” Sylvie pressed her lips to his. Her body crushed against his. The scent of jasmine swelled around him.

He wanted her naked,
now.

“Let's go.” Tell wrapped his arms around her waist.

Home. Our home.

The church floor fell out from under them, replaced a second later by the rough wooden boards of the lodging above the sewing shop.

“You shouldn't do that,” she said. Her jacket was half off, dislodged by their sudden arrival. “Someone will see or if you're with me, it could fail and we'd end up who knows where.”

“Then I won't do it again.” He forced the buttons of his shirt through the holes, breathing a sigh of relief when the restraints loosened. “I can get you to bed easily enough without magic.”

She stripped off the jacket and dropped it on the floor. “We don't have a bed yet.”

“Unimportant detail. Why crimson for a wedding gown?”

The gold lace and dark garnet beads glittered in the sunlight filtering through the curtainless window.

“It's a little something I had hanging in a closet. All it really needed was something to cover the top and it was ready to wear. I had the blue velvet made up for someone else, but it suits this well enough. Better than starting from scratch, don't you think?” She put her hand on her cocked hip. “You like it?”

“Very much. I can't picture anyone but you in it.”

“Maybe you'd like to picture me in what's under it?” She grinned. “Because it's something special I worked on last night.”

For a woman who'd protested marrying him in the beginning, she made no bones about teasing him over sex now that they'd pledged themselves together. Sweat beaded on his forehead and his hands trembled. “I could take a peek.”

She turned her back to him. “Undo my buttons.”

Her soft curls tickled the backs of his hands as he struggled with the row of tiny buttons running from between her shoulders to the top of her waist. As the bodice parted, hints of white and pink showed through. When he reached the last button, she gave a little shimmy and the dress crumpled around her feet.

Sylvie faced him, bare-chested with only a waist cinch and a pair of short, ruffled, sheer pink, lace-trimmed drawers.

Rational thought fled. She looked like a piece of candy begging for a lick. Glossy hair spilled over her shoulders, the ringlets disturbed by his fingers, untamed compared to moments ago. The ends curled near her tight pink nipples. His shaft throbbed as she leaned toward him. Her hands met his stomach.

“Well?” Her tongue crossed her red lips. “What do you think?”

“You're… It's nice.”

“I hoped you'd say so.” Her hand pushed beneath the waistband of his trousers. “I shouldn't say this, because you'll get a big head, but I've never wanted anyone but you, Tell.”

“Then what was all the fuss about yesterday?”

“I don't like to be rushed.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip. “Now I'm ready.”

“I thought chaste young ladies would wear modest chemises and blush when it came to consummating their marriage.” His voice sounded squeaky in his ears. “I didn't think you'd be half naked and quite so eager.”

“I read.” She curled her hand around his shaft. “What's the point of an education if you're going to deny yourself the good parts?”

He sucked a breath through his teeth. “Must be quite a book.”

“It's interesting. Not the kinds of things Rhia would approve of, I'm sure.” Her grin was pure devilry. “But I thought it might come in handy.”

Tell backed up against the wall and Sylvie followed him the entire way, hand in his pants, her slender body grazing his bare chest. “You read this book last night or were you tucking the information away for another time?”

Her fingers traced the length of his erection. She stood on her tiptoes and positioned her mouth below his ear. “I've had it for a few weeks. To tell you the truth, I was either going to have to marry you to get here or seduce you and get caught. It worked out better this way.”

He settled his hands on her waist, just above the lacy ruff. “You always were the adventurous type. Never afraid to try anything. For what it's worth, you'd have been one hell of a seductress.”

“Thank you.” Her teeth found the edge of his earlobe and she gave it a tug.

He lifted her off her feet and spun them, pushing her against the wall. “Unbutton my pants.”

It took a moment of fumbling, but she got him free of the stiff material and he wiggled his feet out of his boots. He kicked away his pants. Sylvie pulled the shirt from his shoulders, leaving him without a stitch.

“So many scars, Tell.” She touched the star-shaped one on his abdomen from the bullet he'd taken in the gut. The light caress made him suck in his stomach and duck his head as he laughed.

“Tickles,” he murmured.

But she wasn't smiling. Her hand pressed over the healing wound made by Jeffrey's silver ring on his arm. Hardly more than an angry red mark now, it didn't even hurt.

“You've been at war so long.” Her eyes were wide, mouth turned down. Her hand fell on the round, puckered scar where one of his own bolts had pierced his thigh.

Over a decade and, God, he'd grown tired of it. “Been chasing monsters since I was fifteen and big enough to hold the crossbow without hurting myself.” He tapped a crescent of silver skin on her shoulder. “That's where Beryl—Rosemar—bit you.”

“You saved me.” She tipped her face up. “I called for you and you came to my rescue. A knight in a cowboy hat.”

He remembered that night all too well. Maybe he couldn't read her the way he did other humans and demons, but for some reason he'd always been particularly in tune to Sylvie. She'd been under duress and he went running to find her. “You shouldn't have been out there. You knew better. I would have killed her if she'd done any worse.” He stroked her cheek. “Even then I'd have died to keep you safe.”

“I don't want you to die for me. I want you to live with me.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Make every heartbeat count.”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. “All right, Princess. You asked for it.” He nudged her legs apart with his knee and lowered his hand to the soft mound beneath the thin material of her drawers. His fingertips met a seam in the cloth and he grinned. “Cheers to the person who invited crotchless drawers.”

She flattened against the wall as he ran his finger across her core. Long eyelashes rested on her cheeks and she tilted her head, exposing her neck. Tell kissed the point where her throat met her collarbone as he drew his finger through her moisture. To be so wet, she must have been as anxious about consummating their bond as he was.

The rosy peaks of her nipples taunted him and he lowered his head to take one in his mouth, circling the taut tip with his tongue.

Sylvie gripped his shoulders. Her strong fingers kneaded his tight muscles. His erection strained against the lace on her underwear. He ached to bury himself inside her, prayed that book she'd read prepared her for what he was about to do. He slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her.

Sylvie opened her eyes. “Wha—?”

“Shh. Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She did as he asked, locking him in a tight hold. He pressed her against the wall again. His tip rested at her opening. “You tell me if it's too bad. I'll do anything to make you more comfortable.”

She nodded. “I'm ready for anything with you.”

He pressed into her, letting her sheath cover him a little at a time. There was resistance, a grimace on her face, but she relaxed almost as soon as he buried himself to the root. She kissed him, tongue to tongue, fingers in his hair. The spark of fire that threatened to consume him died, replaced by something stronger.

Love.

It warmed him from top to bottom, drove him deeper into her. He kept his hands beneath her as he moved inside her. Sylvie squeezed her thighs tighter and he gritted his teeth as her channel closed around him.

She panted, her soft, sweet mouth open as her skin flushed. “Tell, don't stop.”

“Not on your life, Princess.”

He moved faster, sliding inside her slick sex as the friction built inside him. Their sweaty bodies melted together and his arms burned with the tension of holding on to her.

“Oh God,” she whispered. Her fingernails scored his back and she squeezed her eyes shut as she clenched around him.

He let go of his control, leaning hard on her as he released. She dropped her legs, but he held her up until he'd finished. When her soles hit the floor, she wobbled a little.

“I can't feel anything…except…” She blew out a deep breath and rolled her eyes back. “You…mmm, that's what the book talks about.”

“You gotta let me see it later.” He ducked his head, resting it on her shoulder. “Damn, Sylvie.”

“We need a bed.” She brushed her hand over his hair. “I have blankets in my cedar chest. We can make do until that becomes a possibility.”

Would they be alive long enough to need a bed?

“Are you all right?” Sylvie pushed her hand beneath his chin. “You seem upset.”

He forced a grin onto his face. “Fine. You took it out of me, that's all. Big day, lots happening.”

“You're sure. It's not because of what we just did?” She looked small and uncertain in his grasp.

“Woman, I'd better never hear those words come out of your mouth again.” He claimed her lips with a fierce kiss. Tucking his arm beneath her knees, he pulled her off her feet. “We can still make dinner at your sister's.”

“I'd rather stay here with you.”

“Then we better come up with some bedclothes, because by the time I'm finished with you, you won't want to do anything but drop into them.” He spun her in a circle before setting her on her feet. “I didn't tell you before, but I love you, Sylvie.”

She licked her lips. “I already knew.”

Chapter Ten

Five minutes after Tell started snoring, Sylvie slipped from the tangled sheet, grabbed her dressing gown and made her way downstairs. Twilight descended on Berner. The red and gold of evening slipped into plum and navy. She lit two lamps, carried them to the table near her sewing machine, then settled on the stool.

There were yards of dreadnaught yet to cut and stitch. She hadn't put together nearly enough to protect the people she loved. One coat, big enough to cover Wystan from shoulder to shoulder, needed the sleeves attached, tall collar sewn on and buttons she'd found in the crate—black things hard as granite—stitched to the front. So much work for such an ugly coat. No sense in putting it off. Meacham's warnings swam in her head. She grimaced as the scratchy material pricked and scraped her fingers.

The shop could remain closed under the guise of her honeymoon. Not that she wouldn't join Tell—her
husband
—again in a few hours. The afternoon had drifted by in a haze of lovemaking, the kind of afternoon she hoped to repeat soon. But not until she finished this coat and cut the pieces for another. No matter how thoughts of Tell tempted her to return to his side.

She bent a pin as she tried to pull it from the edges of the cloth. “Damnation.” The material almost seemed reluctant to release her pins. “No one will be able to stand this on their skin.”

Pushing it through the feed on her sewing machine proved as difficult this time as last. Meacham's magical cloth would ruin her expensive tools. She forced the dreadnaught under the needle, checking to make sure each stitch held after it was placed.

By daylight, I ought to have this sleeve finished.

Sweat broke out on her brow as she worked. The room seemed unnaturally warm. She tried to ignore it, not about to leave her work area although after fighting with the cloth, her hands pulsed and ached.

“Sylvie.”

The whisper caught her by surprise. “Tell?”

“Sylvie.”

“Why are you whispering?” She pressed the foot pedal again. “I know you wanted Dochi to stay in the Gray Lands as a wedding present from your father, but it would sure be nice if he was here. He could fetch us some food. I'm starving.”

“You have to help him.”

The hair on the nape of her neck rose. Her foot slid off the pedal. “Who's there?”

“It's discouraging work, but necessary. You'll understand. Protect Tell. Help him find the book. It wants his blood, wants his power, and it will destroy everything in its way.”

She gripped the neck of her dressing gown and spun on the stool. “Who are you?”

“Someday you'll know. Please, the coats.”

Something pale and shapeless moved at the corner of her vision. She leaned forward, prepared to run for the stairs and Tell, but the wispy white light blocked her path.

“It's for their safety,” the voice whispered.

“For their safety.” She had to protect the Heckmasters. Without the dreadnaught, they would all perish. The sewing machine clacked and the material sped through.

“It's coming. It won't stop.” The light closed around her. “You'll save them.”

“I will.” Driven, she finished the first coat sleeve.

Warm and shifting, the light hovered close. “Watch over my brother. He needs you. And I will watch over you.”

* * * * *

Through the floorboards, the steady knock of Sylvie's sewing machine penetrated Tell's sleep.
Well, hell, we made it through the night. Hallelujah.
He stretched and took his time crawling from their bed of sheets and quilts. No surprise she was hard at work on the dreadnaught coats, but his stomach growled in reminder they'd missed two meals celebrating their union.

He dressed—kicking the too-small wedding shirt out of the way—then took the stairs two at a time. Aside from the sewing machine chewing through the cloth, the shop was quiet.

“Sylv, you wanna take a break, see about some fresh air?”

The pedal beat on. Tell rounded the corner. Sylvie's hair hung in tangled curls, unbrushed and wild. Her dressing gown drooped off one shoulder. Two oil lamps burned on the table next to her even though the space was well lit from the sunlight. The ugliest full-length coat he'd ever laid eyes on hung on a hook in the wall. She'd finished one.

He approached the machine. “Princess, you awake? Foot stuck on the pedal from sitting there so long?”

She continued to sew.

“You mad at me?” The clack of the machine cut through him. “What'd I do?”

The noise stopped as she tugged at the dreadnaught.

He gritted his teeth. “You're gonna have to talk to me.”

Her scissors scraped across the material and they clicked as she snipped them together.

Enough.
He grabbed the dreadnaught hanging off the side of the sewing machine and yanked it out of her hands. It rasped across his palm like steel wool. A metallic scent hit him, warm and salty—blood. And not his own. Smudges of it marred the cloth she'd cut, the table, her dressing gown.

“Sylvie, what happened?” He knelt next to her and his breath caught at the droplets of dried blood crusting the table.

She stared straight ahead with glassy, bloodshot eyes. Her glasses rested on the end of her nose as though she hadn't even been looking through them. Little smears of blood left rusty stains across her face. Her hands were cut, the skin raw and ragged.

Goddammit, Meacham.

He wrapped his hands around her wrists, holding them away from her gown.

His heart lurched. “Talk to me, sweetheart. Let old Tell in.”

“I'm so tired,” she whispered. “I need some sleep. My hands hurt.” She blinked and shook her head. “Why is the sun shining?”

“Have you been here all night?” His throat burned as he turned her hands over to expose her palms. “Why didn't you stop before this happened?”

Sylvie frowned, then curled her fingers. “I don't know. I finished one and then started cutting a second one and… Everything is fuzzy. My whole body hurts from sitting here.”

“Let's clean your hands.”
And then I'm paying a visit to Meacham. That little asshole had better pray I don't find him.

“You're mad.” Her brow furrowed. “I didn't mean to stay up all night.”

“I ain't mad at you. Worried for certain, but not mad. Rhia's going to kill me for letting this happen. I should've watched you closer after Meacham showed up uninvited yesterday.”

“I'd pummel him if my hands didn't hurt so bad.” She rose from the stool and winced as she stumbled.

“Careful. You need help?” He hated being useless. “Should I carry you?”

“My legs are tingly. It'll go away in a minute or two.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “I only finished one coat. There's more material, more sewing to do.”

“You can't. I won't let you. There's no need to tear up your hands over coats. Wystan and Eban can handle anything demonic. They've done it before and now my father is here to help them. I can't be any worse than Astaroth.” Bitterness crawled through his veins, hardening around his heart. “I'll try to stay still and not cause a fuss while they behead me.”

“
Do not
talk to me about beheadings or your death. I'm going to stop all of this. We're going to live long lives and be very happy with each other.” Tears formed in her eyes.

“Why didn't you use gloves, Princess? Something to keep that material from hurting you?”

“It didn't work. I tried, Tell, really. When I put on a pair, the sewing machine jams or the needle breaks. Every time. The dreadnaught is cursed or something. I don't care if the dreadnaught eats my fingers to the bone, I'm not giving up.”

Her courage battered his bitterness. “It's not about saving me. It's about everyone else. You think of them instead, okay?”

“No. You're included, because if Rhia and Beryl get to be happy with your brothers, I get to be happy with you.” She marched up to him, fierceness written on her face. “I didn't learn all those things about demon hunting so I could stand around and be useless when you need me.”

He ran his hands through his hair. “Why did you learn that stuff? You're a human—you can't face down demons and expect to live.”

“Well, I have, so I guess I'll do it again when the time comes.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but she held her head high. “Are you going to help me or sulk about how unfair life is?”

“I'll help you, but this can't go on. No more sewing until your hands are healed.”

“You can't tell me what to do.” She glowered. “I'm your wife, not your servant.”

Despite his full night's sleep, tiredness descended on him. “You promised to obey.”

“I crossed my fingers when I said that.”

He sighed. “You did not, I watched you.”

“I thought about it, so it counts.” She turned for the back room.

“They're vows, Sylvie. They're binding, meaningful, verbal contracts. It doesn't mean you can throw out the ones you don't like. Words carry power. A name is powerful, which is why I'm in this mess. That's why you should never say anything you don't mean.”

She paused in the doorway, then faced him again. “I promise to do my best by the rest of the things I agreed to, but sometimes rules need to be broken. Someday I may have to ignore your orders to save your life. I will never regret it.”

“You willing to put money on that?”

“As much as I'd love to argue with you all day, I'm exhausted. Shall we compromise and agree that you don't want me to help you, but you can't stop me?” Fatigue strained her features.

“Fair enough. You're going to fight me until you get what you want anyway.” He followed her into the back. “Maybe after some rest, you'll be a little more rational.”

“Only if you promise to find us some food.” She settled on a high-back chair, one her employees used out front. “And some furniture.”

“I have a table and chairs, even a bed in my house.”

“No. Those look like they were constructed when the Spanish invaded Florida. We're getting new things to celebrate our new life together.”

“You married me for my money, didn't you?” The little rusty pump squalled as he worked the lever and waited for the gush of water.

“Your looks,” she said. “That damned half smile and your blue eyes. Combined, they get women everywhere heated up. Until you open your mouth.”

“What's that mean?” Cold water spilled into a little metal bucket and he dropped a clean cloth into it. “Soap?”

Sylvie frowned. “On the shelf. It means you have a bit of a smart attitude, Mr. Heckmaster.”

“Deputy to you.” He collected the jasmine-scented bar of soap, then carried the bucket to her and set it at her feet. “This is going to hurt.”

“Let's get it over with.”

She barely made a sound as he wiped the blood from her fingers. The cuts weren't bad or deep, but it looked like she'd been subject to hundreds of tiny knife blades.

“Am I gentle enough?” He met her gaze. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“You've always been gentle when I needed it.” A smile curved her mouth. “I think that's why I like you so much. Beneath that cool, joking exterior, you have a soft side.”

“Do not. I'm a mean, cold-blooded killer.” He tossed the cloth back into the dirty water. “I scare babies with my knives for fun.”

She snickered. “I heard you scream one time when a spider crawled across your face while you were napping on the jailhouse porch.”

Thank God she was laughing and seemed unaffected by her long night. “It wasn't screaming. More of a warning to the little bastard before I killed him. A battle cry. A manly battle cry.”

She cocked her eyebrow, a terribly Rhia-like reaction. “As I recall, Eban killed it.”

“I'm pretty sure you're wrong.” He lifted her right hand at the wrist. “Got any salve to put on this?”

“At Rhia's. I ran out last time I nicked my finger with the scissors.” She yawned. “I'm too tired to make a trip over there right now. It can wait, I think.”

“Go upstairs, get some rest. I'll go get the salve. If you're so all-fired determined to finish those coats, you're gonna need it.”

“You can't. You have to stay with me, remember?” Worry darkened her fine-boned face. “We can't risk your demon coming out. Not for something so trivial. Too bad Dochi isn't here.”

“I don't need that little rat doing everything for me. I'll pop into Wystan's and right back here, I swear.”

“Seneca said it's too dangerous to keep doing that.”

There wasn't any winning with her. “Then we'll go together later. I can find something to occupy myself while you sleep.”

“Just an hour or two. I'll be fine,” she promised.

“You'd better be or I'll have a few choice words for Meacham.”

She stared at her raw hands. “He's doing his best to help us, even if he is a grouch.”

“And mean.”

“And spiteful.”

“And bossy,” he added.

The ghost of a smile played on her lips. “And dirty.”

“Downright spooky at times.”

“One of Berner's strangest occupants.” Another yawn. “I need some sleep. Be good. Don't do any magic while I'm out.”

“Cross my heart.” Although the temptation to try his fire-lighting skills called to him. He bent, then kissed her. “No more sleep-sewing.”

“I wouldn't dream of it.” She laughed as she rose.

He laughed too, but her acceptance of the strange activity worried him. “Clever.”

“So they tell me. 'Night.”

His bride looked like a refugee from war, but she left the room with grace. And that was why he loved her. For all the bullshit they'd put up with since the day she, Rhia and Beryl rolled into town, they took it in stride. If there were tougher women in the world, he didn't need to meet them. Sylvie was barbed wire wrapped in lace—sweet and pretty outside, strong as steel inside.