Two Roped and Ready [Bewitching Desires 6] (Siren Publishing Menage Amour) (9 page)

Fear of disturbing her rest froze him in place. He’d gladly stay with her, but even as big as the bed was, he wouldn’t be able to lie down beside her without jiggling the mattress. Eyeing a chair by the fireplace, he waffled about where to spend the night. Was the reassurance of hearing her breath more important than the risk of waking her?

He eased under the covers, careful not to bounce. Lying on his side, he studied her silhouette. “What it is about her?”

PC slipped in on the other side. “I wish I knew. I also would’ve appreciated being told what’s wrong with her. She’s so pale.”

Needing no reminders of how sick she must be, he ignored the comment on her color. “Her family isn’t getting out of here in the morning without telling us what’s going on. If she can’t be left alone, why isn’t she in the hospital?”

“Don’t know. They didn’t seem concerned about leaving her with us. Let’s try to get some sleep.”

Right. Like he could sleep—even if the comfortable bed pulled him toward unconsciousness. “Go ahead. I’m not tired.”

A breathy yawn carried to his ears, and then PC spoke. “Yeah, me neither.”

They were clearly both exhausted but unwilling to admit it.

Quayde blinked his watering eyes. “G’night, Pax.”
G’night, Ilona. Sweet dreams, darlin’.

PC’s low half grunt said he was already succumbing to fatigue, but Quayde fought it for another minute before his body won out.

* * * *

Nudging his horse into a canter, PC searched the horizon for the town he’d called home for the last month.
No, not really home.
He had no idea where home was.

As he and his best friend topped the rise a half-mile east of Encanto, movement caught his eye. Five men on horseback approached a girl on foot at the side of the wagon path. The first man dismounted a roan with splashes of white over its coat. Then a second and third climbed off their mounts as PC and Quayde neared the group. Something flashed in the bright sun. The barrel of a gun?

PC’s senses went on high alert as he slowed to a walk. “Isn’t that the horse that was stolen from the livery last week?”

Quayde slid his rifle from the strap on the saddle. “Yeah. The girl might have a gun, but she’ll have a hell of time fighting off five men. Come on.”

Urging his bay into a gallop, PC yanked his firearm free and aimed for the sky. Quayde mirrored the actions, and they each fired off a shot. Another blast rang out, sending the roan into a full-out run in the direction of town. The first man and the girl fell to the ground. The other two riders remounted and scattered with the remainder of the band.

Gesturing toward the four on horseback, Quayde took off after the one headed north. PC rode southeast, pushing the bay to make up the distance. His horse stretched out his long legs with every stride, but after three days on the trail, the gelding couldn’t keep up. Circling around, PC aimed for the lone live oak near the knoll. He spied Quayde doing the same and met him halfway up the hill.

The horses snorted, seeming to protest the abuse of chasing wild geese. Dropping the reins, PC swung his right leg over his ride’s rump to dismount while scanning the area. The man still lay on the ground, groaning and writhing. The girl was nowhere in plain sight.

He took half a dozen steps toward the wounded. An involuntary flinch shuddered through him when the guy rolled over to reveal a powder-burned hole outlined in blood on the front of his pants.

“Look who we have here, PC. Chester Jenkins. Wanted for stealing horses, attempted murder, and manhandling one of the ladies at Miss Wyndham’s place.”

PC couldn’t hold back a hoot of laughter. “Damn, that’s gotta hurt. Dontcha think, Quayde?”

“Pretty fair payback for assaulting a woman, if you ask me. You suppose she shot him in the balls on purpose?”

“She’s got a helluvan aim if she did. I reckon the gun went off in a struggle.”

Quayde nodded and pointed at the tree. “Hey, PC, how about you tie up Jenkins while I find our sharpshooter? She can’t have gone far.”

Returning to his horse, PC grabbed a coil of rope from the saddlebag. Not that the wanted man could get up and walk away without incredible pain, but PC wasn’t foolish enough to risk an escape. The sheriff would appreciate the capture.

Jenkins didn’t fight having his wrists and ankles bound, but being dumped facedown across the back of a horse had hurt like hell if his groan was anything to go by. He was lucky the girl with the gun hadn’t shot him somewhere fatal.

Impatient for a meal and a bath, PC tapped his boot on the matted brown grass. “Hey, Quayde! Did you find her?”

His friend appeared from behind the tree carrying the girl. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to drag Jenkins back to Encanto, PC. She claims he didn’t hurt her, but he scared this pretty lady half to death. She was hidin’ behind that live oak with a loaded gun in her lap, tryin’ not to cry. This is PC, darlin’.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Paxton Campbell, but you can call me PC. I’d offer you my horse, but he’s already carryin’ a delivery for the sheriff.” He smiled, hoping to ease her fears.

She lifted her head from Quayde’s shoulder. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Campbell. PC. Your timing was impeccable.”

Ilona?
Gulping in a lungful of air, PC reached for her, only to have her evaporate. “Ilona? Ilona, where are you?”

“Pax. Pax! Wake up!”

A hand closed around his arm, and he sat straight up. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm. Candle flames flickered, and a soft sigh whispered beside him, reminding him where he was. “I was having a weird dream. We rescued Ilona from an outlaw. In the Old West, I think.”

Quayde let go and sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Jenkins. She shot him in the balls.”

A chill slithered up PC’s spine. “We had the same dream?”

With a sigh, Quayde shook his head. “I think it really happened. Before you tell me I’m crazy, listen to this. I found her behind the tree, and she couldn’t walk because she had blisters from her new boots. Her foot was next to my elbow when we were sitting naked on the floor. It had some red spots on it, like you’d have from healing blisters.”

Scraping his fingers through his hair, PC took a calming breath. “I don’t think you’re crazy. Hell, we had the same dream. What if it’s a memory? Not that I know how the hell we got to a place with horse thieves and outlaws.”

Quayde shrugged. “It sure would explain why I feel like I should know her.” He shifted, covering Ilona’s closest hand with his own. “What’s this?” An adjustment of her fingers revealed a thick bandage on her thumb. “I don’t remember her having a cut or anything, do you?”

“No.” Blinking his bleary eyes, PC yawned. “We should ask about that in the morning. Right now, I need some sleep.”

“Yeah, me too.” Quayde rounded the foot of the bed, climbing under the covers on the opposite side of Ilona again. “I have a lot of questions I want to ask tomorrow.”

“Mm-hm.”
Starting with “What’s wrong with Ilona?” and not necessarily ending with “How did we get here?”

Chapter 8

The low hum of voices invaded Quayde’s restless sleep. He’d awakened at least twice after his and PC’s shared weirdness from images that seemed far more like bits and pieces of memories than random stress-induced dreams. His mind and body were too damn tired to get out of bed—even if his brain wouldn’t shut down for a rest.

“Heléna, take the used bandage to Szabina. She’ll need to dispose of it.”

“Yes, Aunt Agnes. Shall I bring fresh cloves and candles when I finish?”

“Have Margita bring them. You’ve not eaten breakfast yet, and you must maintain your health, niece.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The light swish of clothing told Quayde that Heléna must’ve walked toward the exit. He pried open his eyes a fraction to see if Agnes had gone with her.

“Ah, you’re awake, young man. Good. Breakfast is waiting for you on the night table.” A woman of indeterminate age moved into his peripheral vision. “Coffee, juice, and a generous helping of Rebeka’s cinnamon-bread French toast.”

He almost groaned in pleasure. “You had me at coffee, ma’am, but French toast sounds great.”

Levering up on his elbow, he stuffed the pillow against the headboard for a cushion. He’d make a trip to the bathroom after Aunt Agnes left so he wouldn’t give her a scare with his tented pajama pants. Lying next to Ilona all night, with her subtle flowery scent drifting to his nose, had put his cock in a state of perpetual arousal. The image of her naked form burned into his mind didn’t hurt, either.

Agnes lifted the cover from his plate, waiting for him get situated, and then offered the dish piled with perfectly browned slices of swirled bread. A whiff of cinnamon made his mouth water. The bed wiggled, and he almost lost hold of his breakfast.

“Damn, that smells good.” PC pushed to a half-sitting position and eyed Quayde’s plate. “You gonna share?”

With an amused-sounding laugh, Agnes walked to the other side of the bed. “You have your own plate, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Excuse me, ma’am. I apologize for my language.”

“No need.” She handed PC his plate. “Eat while it’s warm.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wasted no time tucking into the mound of French toast.

As hungry as Quayde was, he needed information about his bedmate’s condition first. “How’s Ilona? Is she getting well?”

Agnes busied herself at the dresser as if to hide her expression, but the mirror reflected her concern. “She’ll recover, but it may take several days.”

“What happened to her? She seemed fine the last time we saw her.” He pretended to turn his attention to his food, continuing to watch her face for hints of deeper worry.

Her mouth tightened into a grim line above the candle flames. “She has an infection. I’ve given her a sedative to help her rest while she heals.”

That didn’t explain the wad of gauze. “Why is her thumb bandaged? I didn’t notice anything wrong with it before she left the apartment.”

Agnes slowly exhaled. “Flóra found a large splinter in her thumb. She removed it and covered the injury to keep it clean.”

Her stiff shoulders and spine convinced Quayde she wasn’t telling the whole story, or she was trying to make a big deal sound like nothing major. Plus, she’d told Heléna to take the old bandage to Szabina. Why didn’t they just put it in the bathroom trash?

He wasn’t ready to confront Ilona’s family, though. They cared for her—that much was apparent—so they weren’t likely to endanger her.

Turning to face them, Agnes’s gaze shifted from him to PC. “Are you willing to stay with Ilona until she’s well again?”

PC’s fork rattled against his plate. “Stay? Like
here
with her? In bed with her? In her room?”

Agnes nodded. “I believe Szabina explained last night that Ilona must not be alone. If one of you wishes to leave the bedroom, the other must be willing to stay until you return. She needs you both.”

Setting his dish on the night table, PC huffed out a sigh. “Not that I don’t want to, but why? Why do
we
need to be here with her? What makes you so sure someone else can’t stay with her?”

His friend had always played devil’s advocate better than the devil himself, and Quayde had to admit some of the same questions were whirling around in his head. “Yeah, why us?”

Her expression softened. “You have a connection with Ilona. That bond is vital to her recovery. Do you deny that you care for her?”

“No.” He and PC answered in a single voice.

“How and why are unimportant. All that matters is what you feel in your heart and whether or not you’re able to acknowledge those feelings. Share yourselves with her. She’ll do the same when she’s able.” She smiled as she aimed for the door. “Flóra will come by to check on our patient soon.”

* * * *

The earlier end to the conversation with Ilona’s Aunt Agnes still bothered PC. He’d bet his left nut she’d deliberately evaded giving a direct answer. While he didn’t mind spending practically every minute with Ilona, he would’ve preferred the complete truth instead of some vague explanation that was most likely meant to pacify him.

He flipped a page in the book he held, not really reading it. Patience had never been his strong suit, and waiting for Ilona to move a finger or give the softest groan was killing him. She should be under the care of a doctor in a hospital, with half a dozen specialists reporting on her condition.

At a knock at the outer door, PC sat up on the bed and Quayde rose from his chair by the fireplace.

“May I come in?” A woman PC recognized from last night peeked into the bedroom. A younger version of her stood behind her. “I’ve come to check on Ilona.”

Maybe he and Quayde could finally get some straight answers. “Sure. She’s still sleeping.”

“Good. I’m Flóra, and this is my daughter Heléna.”

Both women entered the room, dressed almost identically to all the rest of the house’s inhabitants who’d come to help. Ankle-length skirt, a top the color of fall leaves, a sweater. They all had long braids, dark eyes, and bare feet. If he hadn’t experienced the hot water of a shower and a comfortable mattress, he might’ve thought he’d been thrown into a gypsy settlement.