Stealing Mercy (28 page)

When he pounded the door, Mercy didn’t flinch. Fear welled in his chest. He kicked the door with his boot.

“Higgins!” he called for the grounds keeper and then remembered that Higgins would be at the main house with the guests. Trent swore softly and then tried the door. It swung open and a breath of warm air swelled out.

Trent had never given Higgins much thought. The gardener, a gentle man usually accompanied by shovels and a wheelbarrow, had always smelled of dung and peppermint. The dung he’d understood, seeing that the ranch had a large amount of gardens to be mucked, but the peppermint he really hadn’t considered. The cottage reeked of the Christmasy smell.

Trent pushed into the room and slammed the door behind him. Ashes smoldered in the grate. A sofa stood before the fire, and Trent laid Mercy on it, tucking his coat around her shoulders. She buried into its warmth, still shaking.

“Just a minute, sweet,” he said, wondering if she could hear his promise.

After a moment, he had the fire roaring. Through an open door, he spied a large quilt folded at the end a bed. “Forgive me, Higgins” he muttered as he retrieved the quilt.

For a second he stood, considering. He wondered what his gram or Chloe would say. He wondered if they’d come looking for them when they didn’t return with the promised fish or huckleberries.

He knew what he had to do, and yet he hesitated. In the many times he’d imagined stripping off Mercy’s clothes, he’d never seen it going quite this way.

CHAPTER 27

Bear meat is very hearty and gaseous. Don't serve with baked beans or onions.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Mercy woke to find a cup pressing against her lips. The cup’s rim scalded. She tried to turn her head, but a hand held her fast. “No,” she said. The liquid had a pungent odor, like Christmas. Peppermint.

She’d spent the last Christmas with her parents and now she’d never spend another with them. Unless.

“Mercy, stay with me.” The hand bobbled her head and the tea splashed on her throat. Trent. Mercy smiled.

“Did I hurt you?” A piece of cloth mopped at her throat. She wanted to tell him that she couldn’t feel. She knew she was cold and that the tea had been hot, but somehow none of that mattered. She faded into a dream.

The sheep bleated and the bear growled low at a peacock wandering too close to his cage.

“
It seems unkind to allow these flocks to congregate around the bear,” Steele said.

“
I think it unkind to keep the poor thing in cage,” Mercy said, sizing up the animal that rather resembled a furry tree stump. “Although, he looks remarkably well fed. I’m sure he’s not tempted by a few smelly sheep.”

“
Temptation. I understand temptation.”

“
Are you fond of mutton?” she asked. “Should I warn the sheep?”

He ran a finger down her arm, sending a cold shiver across her back. “I’m fond of buttons, particularly undone buttons.” He took her wrist and pulled her to him. He smelled of soap, heavy with lye. His mustache poked her lips when he kissed her. She felt nothing, but a panicky need to escape.

“
I will make you a lucky girl,” he said in her ear.

Lucky girl. I will not be your lucky girl, she screamed, raising the poker over her head and crashing it onto his skull. The blue sky faded into dark; the shadows flickered with the fire’s changing light. The moon sent its rays into the tiny apartment and ice filmed the windows.

She was cold. Despite the fires, despite the sun, she couldn’t be warm.

When Trent heard Mercy scream, he abandoned the tea pot. Repeated she called Steele’s name, and then she said, very distinctly, “I will not be your lucky girl!”

And suddenly, Trent understood. He heard everything she said and everything the words implied. Combined with his conversation with Steele, it all, suddenly, made sense.

He had to marry her. He didn’t stop to question anything. He only knew that he had to marry her. Immediately. She was in serious danger. She’d somehow thwarted Steele in New York and staged her own suicide. She’d sailed around the western hemisphere on her own. Imagine her terror at encountering Steele again. No wonder she’d been plotting and conniving to shut down Steele’s brothel. She probably thought that if she could take out Lucky Island she’d be rid of him.

Steele wouldn’t be foiled so easily. Trent could only guarantee her safety if he kept her with him, always. He wouldn’t consider how ridiculous it was for him to believe he could keep a constant vigil over her. He didn’t care that she might have an opinion on her marital state. None of that mattered. If she woke, when she woke, they’d be married.

For a moment he abandoned the cool rag he pressed against Mercy’s forehead and went to Higgin’s bedroom where he found a soft pair of breeches and a large white shirt. Thankfully, the ground’s keeper was about his size. He’d have to repay him. Trent stepped out of his own sodden clothes and into Higgins’. He let himself imagine sharing the cottage with Mercy, returning at days end to her, stripping out of his clothes before her without thought or embarrassment, without lust.

His imagination faltered. Who could step out of his clothes beside her and casually talk of the weather, the horses, or the garden? Who could think of anything other than being with her?

He needed to go and get help and yet, he couldn’t leave her. Perhaps a miracle would send Higgins back to the cottage. Trent attempted to change his clothes without taking his eyes off of her. She slept, still and silent and he didn’t know which was worse, the nightmare or the deadly sleep. When he tightened the belt of the trousers, she stirred. He shoved his arms into the shirt and hurried to her side.

He reached for the cloth he’d been soaking in cool water and mopped her forehead. “Mercy, sweet, can you hear me?”

She muttered in her sleep and shifted positions. Trent tucked the quilt around her shoulders and attempted something he’d sworn he would never do.

CHAPTER 28

Broth requires only two things: water and something flavorful to boil, such as an onion, a bouquet of herbs, a piece of meat, or even a bone.

From The Recipes of Mercy Faye

Mercy woke with a spoon her mouth. She blew out the soup before even opening her eyes and showered Trent. “What?” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering open.

Trent smiled, the crease of worry between his eyebrows easing. “Soup.”

In her sleep, she’d imagined him close, but on waking, his nearness surprised her. She felt his body heat as he crouched beside the sofa, his face inches from hers, his shoulders leaning in, his hand bearing a spoonful of the smelly soup. She needed to wake, but she couldn’t rouse herself from the quilts and the strange lethargy that filled her. Before she could wonder how she’d come to be wrapped in blankets in front of a fire in a small cottage, another spoonful of the nastiness slipped in her mouth. She sputtered and then turned away. “Please, no more.”

Trent laughed while dipping the spoon into the broth. “I will have my way.”

Mercy pulled the quilt over her face and found, on closer inspection that she wore only her chemise. Horrified, she popped her head out of the quilt. “Did you take off my clothes?”

Trent had the grace to blush. “Somebody had to do it.”

Glancing around the tiny room, she spied her steaming dress and stockings laid out before the fire. “And you volunteered?”

“Mercy, I was scared. Worried you’d catch your death in those freezing, sopping clothes.”

“And now you’re trying to poison me?”

He laughed, obviously relieved that she was not only reviving, but also forgiving. He dipped the spoon back into the soup. “Just a bit more.”

Mercy shook her head and then stopped, surprised by stab the movement sent rifling through her body. “No,” she said, clenching her teeth against the pain. “That’s the worst soup ever.”

Trent considered the broth. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Mercy sat up and the quilt slipped off her shoulder. She covered herself. “You are? You want me to be miserable?”

“No, actually, I want you to be happy and for a while I just wanted you to be. I was afraid I’d lost you.”

Mercy blinked. “If you want me to be happy, you’ll stop spooning me soup.”

Trent leaned back and looked into the bowl. “This is my gram’s famous beef broth. It’s renowned for its healing ability. People in town come for it whenever they’ve an ill loved. Once when Hoss had torn a-”

“Hoss, your horse?” Mercy sat up, but this time remembered to clutch the quilt around her shoulders. “You’re feeding me horse soup?”

“Nonsense, it’s for people and for horses.”

“And dogs and cats?”

“And the occasional raccoon.” Trent refilled the spoon. “You must admit you’re feeling better. I was so worried. I didn’t think Higgins would have all the ingredients, but then I discovered he had a pot already in his icebox. Fortunately, he must have been under the weather recently.”

“How fortunate.” She settled into the crook of the sofa, as far as possible from the loaded spoon, and pulled the quilt so that it covered her mouth.

“Gram always says that if it tastes good, it won’t work.”

“And to think I’d liked your grandmother.” The quilt muffled her words.

Trent held the spoon on the other side of the quilt. “It’s not as good as your pies, of course.”

Mercy sat straight up and her head swam. “I’m supposed to make pies!”

Trent pushed her back down. His hand felt warm against her skin and for a moment, his hand lingered against her. “Gram will understand.”

Mercy’s heart thundered as recollections raced through her mind. She’d seen Steele, he’d seen her, she’d argued with Trent. He kissed her. Again. And even though the kiss should have been a small consideration, given all that had happened and all that could yet come to pass, the kiss, at this instant, seemed the largest thing of all. Mercy sat back into the quilt and pulled it around her like a shield. She couldn’t let this happen. Steele knew where she was, he’d recognized her, she couldn’t afford to stay another moment. She looked down at the quilt. “No, I don’t think she will.”

Another spoonful popped into her mouth and Mercy gagged. “Augh, it’s really awful.”

“But, it works.”

“Yes. See, I’m much better, so you can stop. With the soup.”

“Hmm. Not yet, I think. I’ve some questions.”

“And unless I answer you’ll torture me with soup?”

Trent didn’t say anything, but sat down beside her on the couch. He trapped the quilt beneath him making it so that if Mercy shifted, the quilt stayed. Moving risked exposure.

“This isn’t very nice,” she told him.

“Remember, I’m only the Prince of Polite, not the King.”

“You might not be the king, but you’re acting extremely officious.”

“Officious? I don’t think that’s a word.”

“Officious and overbearing.”

“You knew Steele in New York.”

“That’s not a question.”

“In fact, he courted you.”

“Again, not a question.”

Trent paused the spoon, inches from Mercy’s lips. “What ended it? What did you mean by lucky girl?”

Mercy stared at Trent, her eyes wide.

“In your sleep, you said you wouldn’t be a lucky girl. What did you mean?”

“You must know.”

“Could I persuade you to be a lucky girl?”

“Not in that way, no. I’d rather die.”

“As you pretended to do.”

“How much do you know?”

“I know you staged your suicide.”

“How?”

“And then you stole Steele’s passage to Seattle.” Trent bent over and placed the bowl of soup and spoon on the table beside the couch.

Mercy felt a wash of relief that her meal had ended, but her pulse quickened as Trent leaned over and gently kissed her forehead on the side without the bump.

“How could you know?”

“Darling, you talk in your sleep. A trait that will surely come in handy in the future.”

“Future?” Mercy pulse fluttered as Trent began to nuzzle her neck. He smelled of soap and faintly of garlic. The soup. She wanted to push him away, to remain angry, but she hadn’t the will, and if she were honest, the desire. She really wanted only one thing. She wanted him.

“Our future.” Trent breathed against her skin.

The quilt shifted between them and Mercy tugged on it. Trent hovered above her, one hand stroked her cheek while his eyes lingered on her lips. “You really couldn’t expect to spend the night alone in a cottage, nearly naked, with a single man and not be compromised.”

He kissed her long and deep and Mercy felt dizzy again, although this time she suspected the spell had nothing to do with her aching head. Her arms slipped free of the quilt and circled his neck, her hands touched his hair. She remembered this. This was exactly how she’d felt on the bank of the Stilly river.