Firestorm (18 page)

Storm was going to be sick. She wrenched over, retching. After she had finished, she became aware that Brett had his hands on her, supporting her gently. She wanted to weep. The desire grew stronger when he started stroking her hair. “Don't,” she moaned.

His hand stopped. A long moment passed. Storm kept seeing the beautiful woman while fighting waves of dizziness and nausea. Then Brett spoke, his voice soft, low, worried. “The carriage is here.” He lifted her easily, and Storm turned her face into his chest. He carried her to the coach, stepped up, sat down, cradling her on his lap. For some reason, being held like that made her lose all control. She started to cry, very softly.

“Are you in pain?” he asked instantly, his body tensing beneath hers, his arms warm and hard around her.

“No,” she said through the tears. “My head aches.”

“Don't cry, please,” he said softly, holding her closer against his chest so she could feel his heartbeat against her breast. She shut her eyes, her face buried in the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Why are you crying, Storm?”

She shook her head. She couldn't talk. The gentleness of his voice merely encouraged her ragged emotions. But she felt his hands, stroking, reassuring, and just before a welcoming blackness took her, she thought that he whispered, “I'm sorry,
chère
.”

 

She was still unconscious an hour later.

Brett stood next to her, butterflies winging through his heart as he looked at her pale face, so serene right now, as he'd never seen it before, while Doc Winslow examined her. “Well?” Brett said, his voice tense. “Why is she still unconscious? Is she going to be all right?”

“Relax, Brett, your beautiful bride is in one piece.”

“What does that mean?” Brett demanded.

“No broken bones, but she does have a concussion. There's a lump back here the size of an orange.”

“That can be serious,” Brett said, not moving, his voice strangled.

“Not if she has a very quiet week. I want her in bed for the next three days. After that she can have visitors, but only for short periods. No walking, no riding. Separate bedrooms. Lots of rest.”

Brett frowned, thinking how he would keep Storm inactive for a full week. “She'll fight me hand and foot,” he muttered.

“No fighting,” Winslow said. “I want her kept quiet.”

“She's got the worst temper I've ever seen.”

Winslow smiled. “Don't rile it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Brett murmured, looking at the unconscious girl on the bed.

“You can give her some laudanum drops for the pain, if it gets too bad,” Winslow continued.

“What pain?”

“She'll have a few headaches.”

Brett moved to the bed and readjusted the covers, looking down at her, studying her. “Are you sure it's just a concussion? She vomited back there.”

“It's just a concussion,” Winslow assured him. “No need to come, Brett. I can see myself out.”

Winslow left, and Brett sat down on the side of Storm's bed. She didn't stir. He took her hand and held it. It was warm and dry, callused, not silken and soft. He held it, felt it, studied it. It was so strange seeing her like this—she seemed young and vulnerable. He brushed her thick hair away from her temples, then leaned forward without thinking and kissed the spot he had cleared. A tingle of delight and desire swept through him.

I won't do it, he thought. I won't annul this marriage, and that's that.

Having made up his mind, he felt immensely better. He would not analyze it further. Not one iota further. If he
thought about it, he'd get furious with himself and start vacillating or change his mind. She moaned.

He stroked her hair. “Storm,
chère
, sleep.” His voice was low and melodious. “Shhh, sleep.”

Her eyes fluttered open in confusion. “Oh.”

“Are you in pain?”

She swallowed. “My head aches.”

“Do you want some laudanum?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes, thank you.”

Brett prepared the drops without rising; everything was on the bedside table. “Do you want to put on a nightrail, or do you mind sleeping in your shift tonight?”

Storm frowned, sighed. “I don't care.” She watched him. He smiled slightly, slipped one arm behind her, and propped her up. With the other he held the glass, tilting it for her to drink. When she had finished, he set it aside.

“You're not mad?”

Brett looked at her. “We'll talk about everything in a few days,” he said. “Storm, if you need anything tonight, more laudanum, I'll be right next door.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because that's where I sleep.”

“You could have fooled me,” she said, trying to lift her chin, her voice still weak.

To her amazement, Brett did not jump to the bait and get angry. “That's where I sleep,” he said firmly.

“You can go back,” Storm murmured. “To her…fine with me…”

Brett felt the beginnings of anger. “Why do you provoke me so?”

“Very beautiful,” she murmured, and fell asleep.

He frowned. Did she do it on purpose? Did she enjoy scrapping with him? Was that it? No woman had ever baited him before, much less so incessantly. But she was like no other woman. She was completely, irrevocably, unique.

He moved to his bedroom, keeping the door between
their rooms open. He couldn't sleep. Three times in the night he went to check on her, and every time she was sleeping peacefully.

 

Storm sighed. The smell of maple syrup permeated her nostrils. Pancakes, she thought, Mother makes the best pancakes…She strained for the sound of her brothers, at least Rathe, who was never quiet, always teasing, and Nick's drier tones, her father's amused ones, the clatter of plates, footsteps. The aroma grew stronger, and Storm knew she had overslept; it was time to get up, she had missed her morning chores. She didn't care, not today; she felt wonderful, warm, secure, loved…She stretched, sighing, stretched again, and opened her eyes.

For one instant she was utterly confused as she stared into the dark, handsome face of the man standing by her bed, holding a tray.

Then comprehension and a terrible, devastating disappointment fell over her. She wasn't home. She was here, married to this man. This man who disliked her and had a beautiful mistress. Brett.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling.

When his gaze roamed her leisurely, Storm realized she had kicked off the covers, and she reached down and pulled them up, sitting. She looked at the tray in his hands.

“Hungry? I brought you some breakfast.” He smiled again. Her heart did a flip-flop, and something liquid and warm raced through her body to its very core.

“Starved,” she said, regarding him suspiciously.

He set the tray carefully on the bed. “Why are you looking at me like that? Did you sleep well?”

“Like I was dead,” she muttered, tearing her glance away. Why was he looking at her as if he were trying to see into her soul? Why was he here, anyway?

Brett chuckled. “Cook makes the best pancakes in town.”

“They smell great,” she said, and proceeded to eat. She caught him watching, and wished she had had a chance to wash her face and comb her hair, which must be a tangled nest. She looked up again—he was still staring at her, sitting at her knees. “Do I look that strange?”

“What?”

“You're staring.”

He smiled slightly, lazily. “It's not unusual for a man to stare at a beautiful woman.”

She colored. “Brett.” It was a protest.

“Finish eating.”

She resumed eating, totally flustered now. Why had he said something so blatantly untrue? What was he up to, disarming her before he started in on her for last night's escapade?

Had he gone back to
her
last night?

“How do you feel today?” he asked when she had finished.

She sipped coffee. “Great.” She took a breath. “Okay, let's get it over with.”

“Excuse me?”

She raised her head defensively. “I know why you're here.”

“Oh?” He raised one brow in that infuriating, superior manner of his.

“To give me hell.”

He smiled. “You love fighting, that has to be it!”

“Only when you're my opponent.”

He frowned. “I brought you breakfast, that's the sole reason I'm here. Well, that and to see how you feel today.”

She met his gaze searchingly. “Betsy could bring me breakfast.”

“Most wives would be thrilled to have their husbands bring them breakfast in bed.”

“Not this one.”

“You are the most uncharitable woman I've ever met,” he muttered darkly.

“I don't want charity, not from you or anyone.”

“Storm, can we be civil? Why do you always snipe at me?”

“Snipe?” She threw aside the covers and swung her long, half-bare legs over the side of the bed.

Brett caught them, preventing them from reaching the floor. His large hands on her thighs felt very, very warm.

“You're to stay in bed for three days.”

“What?”

“Complete bed rest for three days, Storm. And you're confined to the house for a whole week. You have a concussion.”

She stared. “You're punishing me for spying on you!”

He stood abruptly, disgusted. “Don't be foolish. Those are Dr. Winslow's orders, and you're obeying them.”

“I feel fine.”

“You are staying in bed.”

“May I use the chamber pot?”

“Of course,” he said, not moving.

She sank back against the pillows. “Do you or do you not have something to say to me about last night?”

He smiled slightly, a faint quirking at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, in fact, I do. Next time you want to know where I'm going, please ask.”

“You would have told me it's none of my business,” Storm said darkly.

“Possibly,” Brett said. “Dammit, Storm! You could have broken your neck!”

“I wish I had,” she answered, staring past him at the wall.

His jaw clenched. “I'm that bad, am I? Do you know that every single woman in this town would kill to be in your place?”

“I'm not every woman,” Storm retorted. “And I would kill
not
to be where I am.”

They stared, Brett's frustration darkening his face. “You just won't give a goddamn inch, will you?”

She didn't answer.

Brett turned to the door. “I'll check on you at suppertime.” He gave her a hard look. “If I find you've gotten out of bed—” He stopped. “Look, promise me, please, you'll obey the doctor's orders.”

She thought about it.

“Storm, I'll beat you black and blue once you're well if you don't take it easy!”

“All right,” she said reluctantly.

He slammed the door behind him.

The moment he was gone, Storm felt the sinking weight of depression. He had actually been kind to her for a moment until she had started baiting him. But why? Why the abrupt change? Then the events of last night came flooding back to her in their full horror, and she didn't care that she had been rude and uncivil. The image of the auburn-haired woman, Audrey, hit her full force. So little. So damn beautiful. Storm wanted to cry.

Instead, she had an instant headache, so she lay back down, closing her eyes and trying not to think. It was impossible. Brett's image haunted her, dark and wickedly handsome, intense and unsmiling. Her mind began playing games: she saw Audrey, dainty and delicate, in Brett's arms, his mouth hard on hers, kissing her ravenously. Storm moaned.

Still, her day wasn't as endless as she would have expected. After a morning bath, she fell asleep and slept right through half the afternoon. She ate a little lunch, then read the
Illustrated Varieties
, the city's foremost newspaper.

“Storm?”

She realized it was dark outside, and she had fallen
asleep again. Brett's voice tugged at her, soft, hesitant, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to wake her. She heard him say, “Just put that down here, Betsy. She'll probably be hungry when she wakes up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did she stay in bed all day?”

“She slept most of it away, sir, poor girl.”

Silence followed, then Storm heard footsteps and her door opening and closing. She could smell roast beef. She opened her eyes, expecting to be alone. She wasn't.

Brett sat sprawled negligently in a chair, clad in tight riding breeches, gleaming knee-high boots, and a loose linen shirt. His hair was disheveled, and he was staring out the window, giving her a perfect view of his profile.

Storm watched him surreptitiously, beginning with the classic, chiseled profile. Then her gaze drifted, and she found herself studying his legs. She had seen them clad in soft doeskin only once before, for a brief moment. Not like now, when she could stare unnoticed. His thighs were hard and muscled and looked powerful enough to crush her—should she ever get between them. She had a blazing memory of the first time he had kissed her on the beach, of his mouth hard and demanding, of his male hardness pressing eagerly against her belly. Her gaze unthinkingly followed the path of her thoughts. There was no hard, jutting swell now, just a suggestive bulge…

She swallowed, feeling her heart race, and glanced back at his face. She gasped and went a hundred shades of red because he was staring at her now, amused and interested. She wanted to die. Better death than to be caught looking at him with such shameless yearning.

“You're awake,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“That's all right.”

“I thought I'd keep you company while you eat.”

“That's all right,” she said again, not able to look him quite in the eye.