“Isabelle? Can you hear me?” I gently lift her head to feel the back of it. Mutter a curse as I look at the smear of blood on my palm. Although it’s not bleeding heavily. I lift her and am relieved she landed like she did. The rock just inches away would have caused more damage.
I run my hand over her spine as she flops forward into me. When she groans, I exhale with relief.
“I’m going to lift you up,” I tell her. She doesn’t respond and doesn’t move as I set one arm at her back and the other under her knees. Her head drops against my chest and her arms hang limp as I carry her back to the house.
This wasn’t the kind of bloodletting I was talking about.
I walk in through the same door we exited and carry her upstairs. It’s still dark, everyone will still be sleeping. I’m grateful for that. The last thing Angelique needs to see is me carrying a bloody, dirt-covered Isabelle upstairs. She’s already become attached to her. Something I hadn’t counted on. And definitely not for it to happen as quickly as it has.
I bypass Isabelle’s door and carry her into my room, drawing the blankets back and laying her in my bed. I look down at her. She looks so small. So fragile. More breakable than I thought.
With a sigh I walk into the bathroom stripping off my soaked sweater as I go and tossing it on top of the hamper. I grab a few towels, the first-aid kit and walk back into the bedroom. She hasn’t stirred. I set the towels down and sit her up to pull the T-shirt she’s wearing over her head. I drop it to the floor and peel off her panties.
I take a moment to look at her, then get to work. She’s cold. Her skin icy. I dry her off, wiping away dirt as best as I can before dropping the soiled towels on the floor and choosing a warm sweater from my dresser for her. I slip it over her head and cover her with the blanket. Then cradling the back of her head, I feel the bump there. My fingers come away dry. Again, I’m relieved.
She stirs then, a sound of protest. The bump is tender, I’m sure.
“Shh, relax,” I tell her as she blinks her eyes open. They’re heavy and I imagine she’ll fall asleep again but then she looks at me. For a moment, it’s as though she doesn’t recognize me. Just for a moment. Then her eyes go wide and she tries to sit up, but can’t. I watch her, see the effort it takes her to keep her eyes open.
“Just close your eyes, Isabelle,” I tell her.
“You…” She’s drifting but fighting it. She manages to put a hand to my chest. I think she means to push me away but her arm flops back onto the bed.
“I’m going to take care of you. You’re safe,” I say without thinking.
“I’m not,” she mutters but her eyes don’t open again. I look at her face, her pretty face. There’s a cut across her cheek. It’s superficial. I’ll tend to that too but first the one on the back of her head.
I turn her head slightly and clean the dried blood as best I can without irritating the cut. It’s matted into her hair, but it could have been worse. Once it’s as clean as I can get it, I leave her in the bedroom and go downstairs for ice. When I return, she still hasn’t moved, and her breathing is even. I set the ice at the back of her head, she winces, tries to pull away.
“Shh,” I tell her, cupping her cheek. “Sleep.”
She does and I get to work on the other injuries, cleaning cuts and bandaging what needs to be bandaged. By the time it’s done I’m tired. Fucking exhausted. I walk around to the other side of the bed—I’d put her on my side without thinking—and climb in. She still doesn’t stir so I turn out the light and listen to her steady, even breathing, feel the warmth of her body beside mine. I let myself drift off knowing it will be a fitful sleep.
18
Isabelle
I wake up to the chirping of birds outside. It’s a sound that’s familiar. There’s a nest of finches on one of the trees by my window and I love hearing them first thing in the morning.
Although I’m neither in my room nor am I in my bed. I know from the light even through closed eyes. I know from the smell. And when I remember where I am, I bolt upright with a gasp and instantly regret it.
“Ah. Fuck!” I touch the back of my head gingerly, hissing when my fingers brush against the tender bump.
“Headache?”
My gaze snaps to him. Jericho St. James. He’s standing against the wall, leaning his full weight on it, one hand in his pocket, mug of coffee I can smell from here in the other. He’s wearing a suit, black like his soul, dark hair still wet from a shower, watching me. Just watching me.
And I remember last night.
I remember him walking into my bedroom at God knows what hour of night. Taking me to that chapel, the cemetery to show me my ancestor’s forgotten grave. Tell me the ugly history of the Bishops and the St. James’s. And to play that stupid game to find the well where Nellie’s body had most likely been thrown after she’d been murdered. I remember the dark of the woods, the cold of the rain. And then falling.
“You fucking bastard.”
He nods as if in agreement and sips his coffee. “Aspirin is there. With water. Also not poisoned.”
I feel the bump at the back of my head. “I need a doctor. I could have a concussion.”
“You don’t have a concussion. It’s barely a bump.”
“You jerk, I could have died!”
“Died is a bit much, Isabelle.” He finishes his coffee and pushes off the wall to come toward me. “Let me see.” He sits on the edge of the bed. I have a vague and strange memory like this has happened before except that last time he was naked from the waist up and my hands were on him. Feeling the swell of muscle beneath his warm skin.
I close my eyes and force the image of him half-naked with that dragon tattoo curling around his arms and shoulders away.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, slapping at his arm and jerking away but that jerking costs me. “It hurts. Shit.”
“Here.” He holds up the aspirin and the glass of water.
I look at them, then at him.
“The bottle is right there. They’re just aspirin.”
I glance to the nightstand where I see the bottle. I reach out and take them from him, pop them in my mouth and swallow them with one gulp of water.
“Drink it all. It’s good for you.”
“You almost killed me last night. You now want me to believe you care what’s good for me?”
“I didn’t almost kill you. You’re fine.”
I drink the water but not because he tells me to. I’m just very thirsty. When I’m finished, he takes the glass and sets it aside, then cups my jaw. His touch isn’t hard like the last time he did it. He’s being careful. Is that guilt?
He turns my head and I feel his fingers near the spot that’s currently throbbing but he’s gentle when he touches it.
“Swelling hasn’t gotten worse, but I’d leave it alone if I were you.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor.” I say when he straightens.
“Just a concerned citizen.”
“Fuck you.”
“Careful. Remember the commandments. I’ll let you go on it considering you just hit your head but watch your mouth.”