Forever Hidden (Forever Bluegrass #2) (11 page)

“I’ll call a doctor,” Deacon told her as he reached for his phone.

Sydney shook her head and grabbed his hand. “No! No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I was just overwhelmed for a minute.”

Damn. A look of concern softened his hard jawline, and his eyes turned so tender she thought she would swoon just so he would catch her. Sydney closed her eyes to collect herself. A couple days in her ancestral home and she had reverted two hundred years.

She smiled at her own joke and opened her eyes. “Really, I’m fine. Thank you, Deacon.” Then she decided to toss out the old ways of swooning at a man’s feet. Now southern girls were taught to shoot a gun, throw a football, and down a shot of bourbon. And certainly how to kiss a man the way he deserves.

Deacon was worried. Something had happened to Sydney. She had been standing there looking down at the bundle she had just placed on the floor before glancing up to see him place the last of the trunk near her in the living room. Those sexy hazel eyes had gone glassy, her delicious lips had opened on a gasp, and all the color had drained from her face. She looked like she was ready to faint. She just stared blankly at him as if she were in another world.

It didn’t get any better until he’d ordered her to breathe. He heard her suck in air as some of the color returned to her face. It wasn’t until he told her he was going to call the doctor that Sydney finally blinked. But now, now she wasn’t looking through him like she had been. No, now she looked determined. Color rushed to her cheeks, her eyes hooded with passion, and suddenly her voice wasn’t distant. It was husky, as he’d dreamed of her sounding in the bedroom.

“I’m glad you’re all right. You had me worried . . .” Deacon didn’t get to finish his sentence. Sydney fisted both hands into the front of his shirt and pulled.

His mouth opened with surprise, and Sydney took advantage. Her warm tongue slid into his mouth and caressed his. Her lips were soft but sure as they moved over his. Deacon pulled back and looked into eyes dark green with desire. Flecks of golden brown streaked through them like lightning.

She wanted him. And not just to pass the time. She really wanted him. And he wanted her. Deacon kissed her back. He leaned back against the couch, and she followed without breaking the kiss. The room melted away. The whole world melted away until it was just the two  of them. He placed his hands on her hips and picked her up. Sydney gave a squeak of surprise until he put her down on his lap. Her legs straddled his hips, her hands were still locked on his shirt, and her squeak turned into a moan as he moved his hands slowly up from her hips, over her ribs, and to her breasts.

He listened to her breathing change as he circled her nipple slowly. Deacon was overtaken by a desire to learn what caused every throaty moan, every unconscious tilt of her hips, every gasp, and every cry of desire.

Deacon rolled her nipple between his fingers, and she gasped. He trailed his fingertips teasingly down her spine, and she moaned softly. Deacon wanted to spend a lifetime getting to know every reaction she had to him. Nothing had ever turned him on more than knowing he was pleasing Sydney.

“Deacon, please,” she gasped and rocked her hips against him. He wanted nothing more than to take her hard and fast right here, but he wasn’t going to. He wanted to go slowly. To worship every inch of her body and to have her moaning his name long before they finally made love.

She rocked her hips again, and he moved both hands to her breasts. He was about to unhook her bra when the phone interrupted them. He was going to ignore it. Her breasts would take precedence over any phone call, but Sydney pulled back.

“You better get that. It may have to do with Bailey,” she said as she adjusted her shirt.

Deacon groaned as he realized she was right. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “McKnight,” he said, a little more harshly than he intended.

“It’s Gentry. I have something on Bailey Vander. How fast can you be here?”

“Syd and I can be there—” Deacon didn’t have time to finish the sentence before Gentry cut him off.

“She can’t come. You’ll understand.”

“I can’t leave her alone,” Deacon told the detective. "Not a chance. Not after Vic came here."

“I figured that. I have two patrol officers en route.”

“Give me twenty minutes,” Deacon told him as he was already turning off the phone and looking up at Sydney. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but it’s about Bailey. Some officers will be here shortly to keep an eye on the place.”

As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Deacon kissed her as he walked out the door. “I’ll call you when I know something. Lock the doors.”

He smiled as he slid into the car. He loved the idea of coming home to Sydney every day. The only trouble was, he knew when this was over she wouldn’t be there to greet him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sydney stood at the door and watched Deacon until he disappeared from sight. She couldn’t stop thinking about him. And her. And them. She didn’t know how long she stood staring at the empty driveway, but her phone vibrating in her pocket finally pulled her back into the now.

“Hi, Mom.” Sydney smiled into the phone.

“John Wolfe said you were attacked while staying at Grandma Wyatt’s house in Atlanta. Are you okay? What happened? When are you coming home? Do you want your father to come pick you up?” Her mom peppered one question after another.

Sydney just shook her head but let out the long breath she’d been holding. It felt good to hear from her mom. And she didn’t even want to know how John, who was approaching 100 years old, had heard about the attack. It was Keeneston’s biggest mystery. Some say he had the whole town bugged, but that wouldn’t explain how he figured out when things happened outside their small town. Others thought he was a mystic. And then a growing contingent of people believed aliens told him.

“Mom, slow down and let me answer,” Sydney rolled her eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me. It’s my job as your mother to worry.”

“Mom! I’m a grown woman,” Sydney said for the millionth time, not even asking how her mom knew she’d rolled her eyes. Maybe the aliens were talking to her, too.

“Does she want me to come get her?” she heard her dad ask in the background.

“I don’t know, she won’t answer.”

“Mom, I don’t need Dad to pick me up,” Sydney insisted.

“She says she doesn’t, but go ahead and pack a bag in case you have to go down there,” her mom told her father as she tried, and failed, to cover the phone.

“Marshall Davies, don’t you dare pack that bag,” an old voice said somewhere in the background of her parents’ house.

“Is that Grandma Davies?” Sydney asked her mom. Marcy Davies was her father’s mother, and that sharp order spoke of rearing six children.

“Yes, she and your grandpa are here to watch the UK basketball game,” her mother said absently as Grandma Davies and Sydney’s father argued over whether he should pack a bag and drive to Atlanta.

Sydney dropped onto the couch and closed her eyes. She loved her family, and there had never been one day in her whole life she hadn’t felt loved in return. But right now she was feeling a little too loved.

“She is a grown woman, Marshall Davies,” her grandmother lectured. “If she needs help, she’ll ask for it. My goodness, I thought I was done raising y’all. And you thought I interfered in your lives. Hello, pot, meet kettle.”

Sydney snickered and drew her mother’s attention back to her. “Fine, I won’t send your father. But what are you still doing in Atlanta? What happened? Are you . . .?”

“Mom,” Sydney cut off her litany of questions. “I am fine. That Vic guy broke into the house to tell me to stop asking questions about Tristan Models. That’s suspicious, right? It also means someone told him I was asking. I’m assuming it’s not you,” Sydney teased.

“Of course it’s not me! I knew you were in trouble when you asked about them. They’re no good. There have always been people like that. People who prey on those weaker than themselves.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still here. I’m not weak, and I’ll be damned if I let them get away with this.”

“But are you safe?” her mother asked worriedly.

“Yes. I broke his nose. And Deacon busted in a window to protect me. In fact, he just had to leave to follow a lead and made sure a police cruiser would check on me.”

“Deacon? Who’s Deacon?” her mother asked suddenly.

“Deacon? Who the hell is that?” She heard the hard edge in her father’s voice.

“If you want grandbabies, you’ll hang up that phone right now!” her grandmother ordered.

“I don’t want grandbabies. Do you know how grandbabies are made?” her father yelled.

“Well, I want grandbabies,” her mother yelled back and suddenly the phone went dead. A second later, her phone pinged and Sydney pulled up the new text message.

We love you. Call us if you need anything. Can’t wait to meet Deacon. – Mom

Sydney groaned again and tossed the phone onto the other end of the couch. She had more important things to worry about than her mom’s grandbaby schemes and her dad’s grandbaby fears. In front of her were three wrapped bundles from the past. She was ready to fulfill her promise to her great-grandmother to find the treasure and bring it home.

She stopped at the last bundle to be set down. It must be the oldest since it was at the bottom of the trunk. It was held together by a yellow ribbon, which had faded and frayed over time. Her hands shook as she tried to untie a ribbon that could be hundreds of years old. And sure enough, when she tried to pull it, the ribbon frayed and started to fall apart. Not wanting to destroy the whole thing, Sydney went to the kitchen for a pair of scissors and carefully cut the base of the knot.

She pulled back the fabric, and almost cursed. She sat back on her heels and stared at the multiple bundles in front of her now, each separately wrapped. On top of them was a small, flat wrapped package with a large ribbon. She laid it out first and then the large heavy rectangular object and finally a soft clumsy bundle that she left lying where it was. Syd almost started to open the bundles when she saw a pale yellow ribbon sticking out from underneath the soft bundle she had thought was the bottom of the pile. She lifted the edge of the material and pulled out a small pouch of a bundle that clinked as it was moved.

Deciding that would be as good a place as any to start, Syd neatly cut off the ribbon and opened the unbleached material. A dark tan leather pouch was inside, and it jangled as Sydney moved her hand. She took her time untying the thin leather straps holding it closed and slowly emptied the contents onto the ground.

“Holy . . .” Sydney couldn’t even finish her surprised gasp as she stared at gleaming gold and silver coins. Her fingers shook as she picked them up and looked at them. Some appeared to be British, while she thought others might be French and Italian. There were over thirty of them in the pouch. Sydney didn’t know how long she stared at them until the shock wore off.

She then went for the large soft package that had been sitting on top of the coins. Carefully opening it, she looked down at a beautiful cream-colored silk dress. A vine and flower pattern covered the dress as lace edging trimmed the low square neck and V-shaped stomacher. The dress was carefully folded and preserved. “I can’t believe it,” Syd whispered in shock as she jumped up and ran for the mudroom.

She pulled out a pair of latex gloves and wished she had a pair of all-natural cotton gloves to handle the delicate material. She didn’t want to risk getting any of her body oils on such an old and beautiful dress.

Sydney took her time and unfolded the dress while piling the wrappings up in the corner of the room. The dress had elbow-length sleeves with lace flowing from the edges. The back of the dress had room for petticoats and any extra undergarments they wore at the time. It was simply stunning. Like a child at Christmas, Syd turned to the heavy bundle and opened it. An oil painting was tacked onto a wooden board. In the painting a young man and woman stared back at Sydney with the barest quirk of their lips. The woman in the portrait was wearing the dress Syd had just unpacked.

“Who are you?” Sydney whispered as she stared at the portrait. The small package caught her eye, and Sydney hurried to open it. Inside was a folded parchment, and Sydney read the shaky handwriting.

20
th
day of this October in the year of our Lord 1770.

I have lived a full life. I am dying, and I am lucky enough to know it for it gives me time to reflect on my life. I was born into privilege. I traveled the continent in preparation for my first Season. After all, as a future duchess, I should be well travelled, well spoken, and intelligent without necessarily being so. But after meeting my intended, I knew I had no choice but to flee my family, my friends, and my homeland.

I married my true love, Mr. John Abbott, and in our marriage I found a treasure grander than the duke’s Mayfair House and worth more than all his money. I found love and happiness.

I gave birth to three boys and one girl we named Agatha. John and I worked hard to show our children a marriage of happiness and love. In return, our children looked for and found their own happiness and success in life.

My dear Agatha married a wonderful man, Stephan, and gave birth to a beautiful girl, Sarah. Harder than leaving all I had known to travel to a new country was welcoming a granddaughter an hour before losing my daughter. Stephan moved onto our farm so that I might help with little Sarah, and it’s because of her I’m writing this letter from my deathbed. For I never want any daughter of mine to be in a position to be forced to wed for money or property. Therefore, I have given little ten-year-old Sarah my trunk I used to cross the mighty Atlantic, my wedding dress, and the portrait of my dear John and me on our wedding day so she will know to always look for love and never settle for anything less. I’ve also included all the money from my trip on the continent for her to live on in case love cannot be found. I now know I can leave this place and see my dear John again in Heaven knowing that Sarah, and all my daughters after her, are cared for.

~ Elizabeth Woodbury Abbott

Sydney wiped the tears from her eye. Sarah must have found love for she didn’t touch the contents of the trunk. But did that mean she added to it? Sydney scrambled on her hands and knees for the second bundle. She hurried to open the pale blue ribbon tied around it and was somehow not surprised to pull out four wrapped packages. A small one that clanked, a small one that looked to hold a letter, a soft bundle, and a large hard one.

In a matter of minutes Sydney had the bundles open. She looked down at a pouch full of British pounds sterling, Spanish dollars, and what had to be new-at-the-time American paper money issued by New York, New Jersey, and Massachusetts, followed by American gold and silver coins. A peach-colored, iridescent silk gown with lace-edged elbow-length sleeves, rounded hem, ruched bodice, and square neckline covered with a neck kerchief and finished with a blue sash lay on the floor next to a painting of a man and woman smiling close-lipped, the woman wearing the peach gown. And finally Sydney opened the letter.

7
th
day of March, 1839

I am a grandmother to another little girl. Laura was born last night. My second granddaughter and my tenth grandchild. She came out screaming, and I had never heard such a sound. It was demanding, persistent, and utterly reminded me of myself. With Laura’s birth, I know when I depart this world I will leave to her the security my grandmother left me. A security I luckily never needed that I can now pass on to little Laura.

I have lived what some may say is a harrowing life. But it was that independence and bravery Grandmama Elizabeth taught me that led me to my own treasure, Thad Majory. I will never forget that 7
th
day of October, 1777. The Revolutionary War was in full battle, and our little farm near Saratoga became part of it. Father was fighting for the colonies and had been called north to fight with our local militia. At seventeen, I was put in charge of my little brothers, and in the early morning mist, I headed out to hunt. That morning I was determined to get us some game, for the Crown had taken our family’s cows and pigs, and we had not eaten meat in a month.

What I got instead was trapped in a tree as some British soldiers came marching through the woods. They were headed to Mr. Barber’s wheat field, and I overheard the command to divide their forces to try to surprise General Gates. My father was on the other side of that farm in Bemis Heights with General Gates. The fear of losing my father prompted me to climb slowly from the tree and dart through the woods behind and then around the British. It took me hours, but as the sun was close to ten o’clock in the morning and I slowed from being out of breath, I was captured as I neared Gates’s army.

A hard band of steel wrapped around my waist, lifting me from the ground. A dirty hand clamped over my mouth and pulled me tight against a hard, tall wall of a man. I kicked, bit, and fought with all I had until I heard the man chuckle, “It’s all right, girl. I won’t hurt you. I just can’t have you screaming.” I stilled and the man whispered into my ear, “I’ll let go if you promise not to scream. Nod your head if you agree.” I nodded and the hand was dropped from my mouth. I was spun around to face a man about ten years my senior in a blue Continental uniform. I let out a visible sigh of relief, and the man quietly chuckled again.

I told him I had to see Stephan Wells right away, but my heart dropped when he shook his head and told me he didn’t know anyone by that name. He then told me that there were almost ten thousand people in the camp and asked who if I knew his commanding officer. I froze temporarily but practically shouted that my father was with Morgan’s Riflemen as I remembered the name. I pleaded with the stranger to let me find him. The man nodded, showing that he knew who Morgan was, but his brow was still knitted in concern. He asked why it was so important to find my husband. I explained how Stephan was my father and that he was in danger. When the handsome stranger asked how I knew my father was in danger, I had to decide if I should trust this man. “How do I know I can trust you?” I asked. The man smiled at me with a look of respect—something that was hard to come by for a woman—and my heart sped up even more.