Ian grabbed her mug and set it on the hearth with his, then rubbed her back as she chewed and swallowed and finally grinned at him, sporting a white mustache. So of course he had to pull her face toward him and kiss the confection off her lips.
Oh yeah; his chest still hurt from the blow she’d given him earlier, and was now throbbing quite painfully with wanting her. Keeping her lips occupied while being mindful she wasn’t very limber, Ian maneuvered Jessie onto his lap and tucked her head in the crook of his arm to get serious about loving her mouth.
Her response was more than he’d hoped for and somewhat surprising as she daringly darted her tongue between his lips. His want turned into a sharp stab of need when she then maneuvered herself around until she was straddling his thighs, pressing herself intimately against his groin.
But when Ian cupped her backside to urge her even closer, his thumbs naturally slipping under the back of her jersey at her waist, Jessie reared away with a gasp, pushing off his chest so quickly that she tumbled to the floor despite his trying to catch her. Her startled cry brought Toby off his bed with a snarl, and the dog was standing over her and giving him the evil eye before she’d even finished falling.
“Sweet Christ, Jess, calm down,” Ian said quietly, going perfectly still.
“I’m calm,” she said, taking gulping breaths as she lay on her back holding down the hem of her jersey. “It’s just that I got . . . I forgot and I . . . I’m calm.” She pushed Toby off her and then used him to awkwardly pull herself into a sitting position. “I’m okay, Tobes,” she crooned, rubbing him soothingly. “Ian wasn’t hurting me.”
Ian snorted, though he did so without moving a muscle.
Her face as hot as the flames licking the glass on the woodstove, Jessie nudged Toby back to his bed, then crawled over to sit down beside Ian again and touched his arm—which is also where she aimed her gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lead you on like that, and then . . .” She finally looked up, and the sadness in her eyes started his chest hurting again. “Where are we going with this, Ian?” She gestured weakly toward the hallway that he knew led to her bedroom. “I think you’ve realized by now that I’m not like Mer—that I’m not a casual . . . Dammit, I have scars.”
Ah, yes, her scars. And he didn’t want to forget her missing boob, now did he?
Finally
she was going to openly acknowledge them. With a furtive glance at Toby, only to find the dog watching him like a hawk, Ian gave Jessie a sinister grin. “Would these scars happen to be in any interesting places?” he asked, arching a brow. Seeing her surprise—or maybe that was horror—he immediately pulled his shirttail out of his pants. “Let’s play show-and-tell; I’ll show you one of mine and you show me one of yours.”
“Ian, no,” she said, grabbing his arm to stop him.
Yup, that was definitely horror. “See there?” he said, leaning back on his elbow and touching his side just above his belt. “That one’s compliments of Duncan, when I was six and he was seven and the little snot convinced me I could fly just before he pushed me off the barn roof.”
Her horror turned to concern, and she squinted and leaned closer to touch the skin beside his finger, only to straighten and glare at him. “That’s barely a scratch.” But then her cheeks reddened again and she turned away. “I . . . I have big ugly scars.”
“Scars aren’t big or small or pretty or ugly, Jess,” he quietly told her, straightening back up. “They’re just skin that’s done a damn fine job of healing itself. And I don’t know about you, but that impresses the hell out of me.” He nudged her shoulder with his own. “Show me one of your scars, lass, and I’ll show you a miracle.”
Her head still bent so her hair hid most of her face, Ian saw more than heard her sigh and guessed he was pushing a little too much too soon. But before he could tell her it was probably time he went home, she pulled the right sleeve of her jersey up to her elbow, and still without looking at him thrust her arm in front of his chest.
With one more glance at Toby, Ian gently took hold of Jessie’s wrist and turned her arm to the light coming from the lamp beside the chair, and immediately recognized the defensive wounds as well as the weapon that had made them.
Being careful not to let her see how badly the idea of someone going after her with a knife angered him, Ian brushed his free hand down the length of her forearm. “Well, I suppose they might be more impressive than mine,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist when she tried to pull away. He traced one of the three-inch scars with the tip of his finger. “But look at what a wonderful job this one did of healing itself, leaving only a thin white line of baby-soft skin.” Not wanting to push his luck—and wanting her to start breathing again—Ian let her go and turned to face the fire. “Did you see my mum’s right hand, Jess?” he asked quietly.
“I saw it. She . . . It looked to me as if she’d been in a fire.”
“Aye, when she was seventeen. She had a sister who died when their house caught fire, and her dad died five years later from having his lungs damaged when he ran back inside to search for her after getting my mother out.” He looked over at Jess. “For a long time Mom thought her scars were ugly, only not because of how they looked but because they were reminders that the candle she’d left burning in their den had killed her sister. It didn’t, Jess,” he rushed on at her soft gasp. “An intruder had caused the fire.” He smiled sadly. “For years Mom wore a soft leather glove on her right hand, claiming she didn’t wish to make people uncomfortable. But she threw her stash of them away the summer she and Dad opened the camp, and only wears one now if they’re attending a function out of town.”
“I thought I noticed she also wears a body sock,” Jessie said thickly. “Does she . . . does your mom go skinny-dipping with the others?”
“She doesn’t, though not from lack of wanting to. But it’s more fun for the campers if they believe they’re pulling the wool over her eyes as well as their parents’. If you come back to TarStone this week and stay alert, you’ll hear a lot of whispering going on as the children make their plans.” He shrugged. “The midnight skinny-dips started out innocently enough about ten years ago, when a bunch of us men stripped off and jumped in the pool after a long day of giving tube rides. We’d forgotten our suits, and when we heard a couple of boys giggling, Robbie dared them to join us. And boys being boys, the little hellions jumped in and then spent the rest of the week bragging about it to their friends. That started the tradition, and now skinny-dipping is more popular than any of the regular activities.”
“Sort of like a rite of passage?”
“Exactly.” He gave a chuckle. “Mom made a huge production of catching us once about seven years ago, and I wish you could have seen the boys’ faces when she flipped on all the lights and started yelling and carrying on as if she’d just caught them robbing a bank. I swear they thought she was going to pack them up and send them home the next day.”
“Sadie?” Jessie said in surprise. “But I can’t imagine she would yell at the children, especially knowing you guys had instigated it.”
“Mom gave them hell
precisely
because people are reluctant to scold a child who’s disabled. But they don’t want to be coddled or pitied or let off the hook, Jess; they want to experience the consequences of being bad just like every other kid.” He chuckled again. “Alec didn’t know Mom and the parents had plotted to catch us, and he nearly drowned the boy he’d been helping by hiding the little heathen behind his back. But the campers who’d been caught were instantly elevated to heroes, and they strutted around the rest of the week feeling quite proud of themselves,” he said, undecided if Jessie was appalled or trying to contain her laughter behind her hands.
“We’re not really targeting the younger kids,” he explained, “but rather the older children and the teenagers, as they seem to be the most self-conscious about how they look. So Mom figures that by strictly forbidding the swims she’s not only giving them a safe way to rebel, but also encouraging them to interact with their normal-looking siblings as well as us adults. And the parents have told her it’s working, because they’ve seen a difference in how the kids interact with their peers at school.”
“Your mother is one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met,” she whispered, lowering her hands to expose her smile. “I’ve decided that if I can be half as brave as she is, and now half as wise, I’ll die a happy woman.”
“You’re already there,
gràineag
,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her.
She reared away. “I am
not
a hedgehog,” she growled—though she was still smiling. “And if you think you can treat me with care so I’ll get all warm and cuddly on you, you’ve got another think coming, buster.”
Ian arched a brow. “Mom actually told you what
gràineag
means?” He sighed. “I didn’t think she would, but I guess women sticking together trumps ratting out a son.”
“Hey, you men have an even tighter brotherhood.” Her gaze suddenly dropped to his chest. “Except your mother isn’t the one who told me
gràineag
is Gaelic for
hedgehog
. Um, do you know someone named Roger AuClair de Keage?”
“How do you know de Keage?” he asked softly.
But when Ian saw Jessie suddenly pale, he realized she’d heard the alarm in his voice. “I . . . I met him the day before the storm. He was selling his wares on the camp road just down from your driveway. And he had an old TarStone trail groomer; I know it was one of yours because there was a faded resort emblem on the door.”
Ian stood up so she wouldn’t see how badly her news disconcerted him. What in hell was de Keage doing here, and more importantly, why was he messing with Jessie? “So the old bastard’s still running around with our snowcat, is he?”
“Did he steal it?”
“Yes and no.” Ian rubbed the back of his neck, wondering what to tell her. “Roger bartered it off Camry, Megan’s sister, in exchange for a wedding two years ago.” He waved toward the window. “She and her not-yet husband were up on Springy Mountain looking for a satellite that had crashed up there the summer before.” He sat on the stone hearth and, resting his arms on his knees to clasp his hands, decided telling Jessie a half-truth might be wiser than pretending he didn’t know Roger. “Camry and Luke, both physicists, had been having a heated e-mail exchange for over a year but had only met in person a couple of weeks earlier. In fact, none of us thought they even liked each other.” He snorted. “Well, they obviously did, because when Camry discovered the old hermit they’d stumbled upon happened to be a justice of the peace, she asked him to marry them. And Roger said he would in exchange for the snowcat Camry had
borrowed
from the resort to go look for the satellite.”
He snorted again. “But nobody thought the old bastard would actually keep it. He left Luke and Cam stranded on the mountain in a snowstorm, and they had to walk thirty miles with only one pair of snowshoes and an old sled Roger had made out of what remained of the satellite. So, what did de Keage have to say, Jess? Did he happen to mention why he was in town?”
It took her a bit of a struggle to get to her feet, but Ian decided not to help her. “He didn’t mention why he was here,” she murmured, her lying straight face paling again. “But he did persuade me to trade my cane for one of his walking sticks.” She gave a forced laugh. “He also wanted me to give him my cell phone in exchange for a heavy cast-iron pot and wagon, but—”
Ian straightened. “You gave Roger your cell phone for that wagon on the porch?”
“No! I told him the phone wouldn’t do him any good without a service plan, but when I arrived home from taking Merissa to the airport, I found the wagon and pot sitting in front of my door. And inside the pot was a card,” she said, going to the chair beside him and picking something up from the table. “It’s a Christmas card,” she said, handing it to him then sitting on the edge of the chair to clasp her hands on her knees.
Ian stared at the angel on the card, remembering something about Grace and Greylen getting a similar one when Camry had been missing two years ago, and his gut tightened. If Roger had given one just like it to Jessie . . . well, this couldn’t be good. He opened the card and read the inscription.
Yuletide greetings to you, Jess, along with my wish that all your dreams come true in this enchanted place throughout this magical season. Welcome home, lass.
Roger AuClair de Keage
PS: Don’t worry, Tobias; there’ll be something under the tree for you.
Wonderful; the old bastard had mentioned the magic even while managing to make it sound harmless. “That’s it?” he asked, turning to Jessie. “Just the card?”
He saw her hands tighten with her soft laugh. “There were detailed instructions on cooking a venison roast.” She sobered. “And also a letter.”
“What did it say?”
“I don’t . . . It was personal,” she murmured, looking down at her hands. She suddenly stood up. “Do you want to see the walking stick? Roger said it won’t draw attention in town nearly as much as my cane did.”
Ian also stood up and set the card on the table beside her chair. “Yeah, I believe I would like to see it.”
She disappeared into the downstairs hallway, and he walked over to the window and stood staring out into the black, moonless night. Dammit, what was de Keage doing here and what did he want with Jessie? And what in hell had he said in that letter?
Ian turned when she came into the room carrying a walking stick about five feet tall, and made sure not to show his alarm when he saw the thick burls on the top third of the stick, which—sweet Christ, Roger had given Jessie a
staff
.
The damn thing was a conductor of energy.
Jessie started to hand it to him but hesitated, her large hazel eyes filled with what appeared to be trepidation. “It gave me a shock the first time I touched it.”