Garden of Scandal

by Jennifer Blake

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t do that,” she said, her lips tightening.

  “What, ma’am?” His gaze was as innocent as he could make it.

  “Act all subservient when you know good and well you’re nothing of the kind.”

  “No, ma’am, I won’t.”

  Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t rise to the provocation. It was just barely possible she had his number, too.

  Putting two fingers under his chin, she tilted it up while she ran the warm cloth over his face, taking care around the gouges on his cheek where he’d attempted a brief love affair with the tree trunk. He could get used to this, he really could, he thought, as he let his pent breath out on a soundless sigh.

  Of course, she was standing entirely too far away from him. Her arms were going to get tired if she kept having to reach across the long lengths of his thighs. He opened his knees and put his hands on her narrow waist to draw her between them. She hardly seemed to notice as she concentrated on cleaning his face. He allowed his grasp to linger.

  She was so soft yet resilient under her thin cotton shirt. She smelled of jasmine soap and sunshine with an acidic hint of pottery clay. His fingers tightened an instant, then he released her with an effort. Distraction was needed here. Big-time.

  His voice a tad husky, he said, “You’re pretty good at this first-aid business. Or is this the TLC part?”

  “Neither one. Could you please be quiet while I wash your face?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I told you not to call me ma’am.” Her glance was jaundiced.

  “Why? It make you feel like my mother or something?”

  “Hardly.” The word was tart.

  “Good. You can’t be that much older, anyway.”

  “Oh, can’t I?” she snapped. “I must have at least a decade on you.”

  “Yeah? Well, it’s not the years but the miles, so they say, and I’ve got a few thousand on you, maybe more.” He could hear the satisfaction in his voice at finding an opening to slip in that particular theory. “Besides, you look like a kid, like maybe time forgot about you while you’ve been shut up here. I figure that makes us about even.”

  She paused, a startled look in her sea blue eyes. “That’s a weird point of view.”

  “But my very own,” he said, holding her gaze. “One I’ve been thinking about for a while.”

  She made no reply as she turned back to her job, though an intriguing shade of wild rose mounted from the scoop neck of her shirt to shade her cheekbones. The color was so bright it looked as if she had been heavy-handed with the blush. Not that she was wearing a trace of makeup. Her skin was fresh and clear and so fine-grained he could see the faint shadows of the veins at her temples and along the curve of her neck. The sweetly comforting scent of her went to his head like a shot of fine bourbon. He didn’t need a drink after all.

  He was beginning to smell like jasmine, beneath the pine resin and sweat, since she was using her own scented soap on him. He loved it. Actually, he was enjoying the whole thing far too much, he thought, as she leaned over him to strip off his shirt, then began to wipe wood chips and grit and blood from his chest. If he didn’t watch out she was going to look down and see exactly how much he loved it.

  Her hands stilled in the neighborhood of his right collarbone. He could feel her tracing the shape of his tattoo, although he was too busy watching the fascination in her face to look at what she was doing.

  Voice subdued, she said, “Your dragon nearly lost his tail.”

  “It’ll grow back.” He hoped it would. He could remember pressing his shoulder against the tree fairly hard while he looked for a good place to fall.

  “Is there something behind it? I mean, why a dragon?”

  “Several reasons, but mainly good luck,” he said. “The dragon is the Oriental symbol for regeneration, the ever-returning possibility of new life and happiness. Sort of like our diapered baby who turns into an old man by the end of the year, he can always be reborn, and so stands for eternal hope.”

  “And what else?”

  “Well, there’s the tradition of Oriental-style combat, which says the dragon fights with patience and intelligence—compared to the tiger, for instance, which uses bravery and brawn. Also, dragons were considered guardians in the old days, guardians of sacred places, special treasures. They fought to protect what they guarded, even sacrificing themselves for it.”

  “Did it hurt—to have it done, I mean?” Her question was intent and somber as well as curious.

  He shifted a shoulder. “A little.”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Because some things matter more than the pain.”

  The look she gave him held greater understanding than was comfortable. Turning away, she stretched one-handed to rinse her cloth, then turned back, bending over him to give closer attention to the bloody gouges on his abdomen. He clasped her waist with both hands to move her back a bit.

  “Here, let me stand,” he said. “You’re having to work way too hard.”

  She stepped away, indicating the pedestal washbasin at the same time. “It would help if you’d move closer over here, too.”

  He was willing. Anything to oblige. Or to prolong the operation.

  He leaned his backside against the cool porcelain of the pedestal. Realizing his chest was a little too high for her comfort, he spread his feet and slid down a couple of inches. Guiding her between his thighs again, he asked, “Better?”

  “I suppose,” she answered, though she kept her lashes lowered so he couldn’t see her eyes. Her cheekbones, however, still carried a flush.

  She set to work on his chest again. The gentle sweep of the warm cloth over his skin did incredible things to his libido. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, and he was nearly as dizzy as he had been the moment he came to after the fall. The fight to control his reaction sent an involuntary shiver over his skin that left goose bumps in its wake.

  She flicked him a brief glance. When she returned to her job, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The need to soothe the small dents she was making was so strong he felt his insides twist.

  The sweep of her cloth caught one of his paps, which instantly hardened until it looked like a brown-red pencil eraser. As she glanced up at him again, he shook his head with a wry smile. Dredging up his best imitation of Bogart in The African Queen, he drawled, “There’s not a thing I can do about it, ma’am.”

  She put down her cloth and picked up a bottle of alcohol and a gauze square. Wetting the square liberally, she slapped it against his chest.

  “Ouch!” he exclaimed, caught unprepared in his preoccupation with the taut yet sweet curves of her lips.

  “Serves you right,” she muttered, rubbing his scrapes and cuts without mercy.

  “Think so, do you? You wouldn’t be trying to cool me down?”

  Her glance was sour. “I’m trying to keep you from dying of infection.”

  “Thanks a bunch, but I think—Ouch!” he ended in indignation as she wet her gauze again and smacked it over a particularly raw spot.

  “Don’t be such a baby!” she said with a challenging look.

  “Right,” he replied as he reached to close his hands on her upper arms. “You want me to act like a big boy, huh? Maybe even like a man?”

  Alarm flared in her eyes, probably in response to what she saw in his face. Her lips parted as she said, “No, I don’t—”

  But it was too late. He pulled her against him. Tangling his long fingers in the silk of her hair, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  God, she was delicious—a blend of apple lip-gloss, spring day and sweet, sweet woman. She was as right as he had known she would be, her mouth as warm and soft. And he was a fool. But even fools had to get lucky sometimes.

  Laurel wanted to be outraged, wanted to be cool and strong. But she knew she had provoked him, had maybe even meant to do it. So there was remorse in her mind along with the warm, rich feelings that flooded
through her while she spread her palms against the satin of his skin. He was so solid, so strong there in the close bathroom, so overpowering among the feminine array of pink towels, bottles of bath salts and dishes of perfumed soap. How was she to resist such potent magic, especially when his hold was so firm and commanding yet gentle, his intent so plain? And her need so great.

  His kiss was hot and consuming magic, like tasting the fire of the dragon. It burned away doubts, ignited long-buried desire. With a low murmur, she moved against him, into him, absorbing the smooth wonder of his lips, accepting the tender probe of his tongue.

  As he gathered her closer into the hard circle of his arms, she slid her fingers into his hair and stripped away the leather thong that held it. Clutching a handful of the coarse black silk that retained the warmth of his body, she pressed deeper into the cradle of his thighs, wanting, needing to feel his hard strength against her. The heat of him was like a balm, his firmness at the apex of her legs a wanton incitement.

  He touched the delicate inner surfaces of her mouth with his tongue, twined around hers, abrading the slick underside with sure friction. He tended the sweet, magic fire inside her with courtesy and careful, plundering strokes, until her heartbeat shuddered into the same rhythm that throbbed beneath her breasts and her mind swam with perilous inclinations. They breathed the same air, blended their scents and body heats. And he was her match, her mate in experience and need, the lost twin of her soul, the other half of her whole.

  Yes, and she was a silly, deprived widow who had not only succumbed to Alec Stanton’s charm without a struggle, but who had not even been able to recognize it in time to guard against it.

  With a soft sound of distress, she put her hands on his shoulders and shoved backward. Eyes wide, lips trembling, she searched his face, looking for triumph in the smoky darkness of his gaze, or at least for the complacent assurance that he had her where he wanted her.

  There was nothing. Nothing, except, possibly, valiant patience and regret.

  He recovered first, to her chagrin.

  “Oh, Mrs. Bancroft,” he said with a faint smile as he slowly shook his head, “I’ve heard of kiss and make it better, but I had no idea. If that won’t fix me up, then nothing will.”

  9

  “So how are you making out with the beautiful widow?”

  The question came out of the evening dimness where Gregory sat at the other end of Grannie Callie’s screened front porch. Alec turned his head in that direction, but all he could see was his brother’s slight form. If anyone else asked him such a thing, he wouldn’t bother to answer. As it was, he made it as brief as possible. “I’m not.”

  “What’s the problem, bro? Losing your touch?”

  Alec didn’t need the reminder of what had happened in the bathroom at Ivywild, didn’t want it. He had been searching for peace and quiet here in the gathering dusk, with the smell of frying pork chops perfuming the air from the kitchen and the call of a whippoorwill echoing from back in the woods. The dumb bird sounded as mournful as he felt, and about as hopeful of finding his mate.

  “Maybe,” he answered finally, his tone moody.

  “Don’t take it so hard. She’d have to be a brave woman to take you on after hearing about your sins.”

  “And you made sure she heard,” Alec said softly, “didn’t you?”

  “I did my best for you.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Hey, women love an outlaw. Didn’t anybody ever tell you that?” Mockery was plain in Gregory’s voice.

  Alec sent a hard stare in his direction. “Yeah, but the idea of some guy being out for what he can get from them doesn’t strike women as quite so romantic.”

  Gregory gave a mirthless chuckle as he said, “So you have to try a little harder. That should keep it more interesting.”

  “Supposing that keeping it interesting was the idea,” Alec said with suppressed savagery.

  “My, aren’t we touchy. What happened? She object to your manly attention? Is that where you got all the scratches?”

  “That isn’t funny.” Alec glared down the porch.

  His brother shifted in his seat, then sighed. “Guess maybe it wasn’t, at that. Forget it, will you?”

  Alec leaned back in his old-fashioned metal lawn chair without answering. He could feel the layers of paint that crusted the arm under his tight grip. He had put a couple of those layers on himself during different summer visits. By counting the layers and colors of paint you could get a pretty good idea of how old the porch chairs were, since giving them a new coat to fight off rust caused by the damp climate was a yearly job.

  Gregory spoke again into the growing dusk. “So what did happen?”

  Alec told him, knowing his brother needed something to take him out of himself, as well as requiring the sound of a human voice to remind him he was not alone. That was one reason they were here at Grannie Callie’s place. Gregory couldn’t take the silence in his California apartment.

  “God, Alec,” his brother said when he had finished, “you don’t have to kill yourself trying to impress this woman.”

  Beneath the rough disparagement in his brother’s tone was concern, or so Alec thought; it was hard to tell with Gregory. There were a lot of things he couldn’t tell about him, in fact. They hadn’t been close in years. Gregory had been on his own since Alec and Mita moved into the cottage at the Chadwick mansion. Until he got sick.

  “There’d have been no special danger if everything had been equal,” Alec said.

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Not exactly.” The words were without expression. “The safety belt was cut.”

  Gregory stared at him through the dimness. Finally he said in a biting tone, “The widow?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.” Alec let his annoyance show.

  “You think somebody wants you out of the way, then?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Fine, then why the hell don’t you go? Tell the lady to get herself another boy.”

  “I would,” Alec drawled, “except she might.”

  A crack of laughter greeted that comment. “That’s rich! Who’s she going to get?”

  “I don’t know. You, maybe?”

  “I wish.” Gregory was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Come on, she’d never give me a second look and you know it.”

  Implacable in his annoyance, Alec said, “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s what made you pass along the sordid details of my past, wasn’t it? That’s what it was all about. You wish she would, wish some woman could see you the way you used to be.”

  “God, Alec.” The pain lacing his brother’s tone was real. Too real.

  Alec drew a sharp breath and let it out slowly. He rubbed the side of his face where the scraped skin was beginning to scab over. “Forget I said that, too, will you?”

  “No, you’re right,” Gregory said, the words abrupt from his end of the porch. “I get like that, sometimes, I guess. I start thinking that if I can’t have the light, then I’d as soon the whole world was dark. I’m jealous because you’re still healthy and hearty, always fine, no matter what you come up against. So, yeah, I let the widow lady know what’s what with you. You got a problem with it?”

  “Oh, hell, no,” Alec said, surging to his feet, turning toward the door into the house. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  Gregory, watching him go, said under his breath, “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  Grannie Callie turned from where she was stirring the ingredients for corn bread in a blue earthenware bowl. She was as small and feisty as a bantam hen, and kept her silver-streaked brown hair cut short in a style that framed her face like soft feathers. She watched Alec, her bright, intelligent eyes holding his a long instant, before she went back to what she was doing.

  Over her shoulder, she asked, “You and Gregory at it again?”

  “I guess,” Alec answered with morose resignation. “I don’t know what gets into him, sometimes.”

&
nbsp; “He’s fighting as best he can, lashing out at everybody as well as his problem,” she said. “It takes some that way.”

  She was right, Alec knew, but knowing didn’t necessarily make it easier. In a deliberate change of subject, he asked, “Something I can do to help with dinner?”

  “I’ve got it under control. Supper, that is,” she replied as she scraped corn-bread batter into sizzling hot oil in a heavy iron skillet and shoved it into the oven. “Just sit down and talk to me. I heard what you were saying out there about your fall.”

  “I should have known.” The words held humorous resignation. Instead of doing as she said, he moved to the cabinet and took out plates and glasses to set the table for the meal. With his back still turned, he asked, “So, you have any idea who might want me out of the way? Or why?”

  She stepped to the sink beside him to rinse the bowl she had been using before she answered. “Not really. I talked to Maisie, though, this evening.”

  “Yeah? What did she have to say?”

  “She wanted to be sure I was up to speed on all the latest goings-on in town.”

  He sent her a quick look, alerted by a hint of purpose in her voice. “And?”

  She told him about the poison-pen letter and the stir in the church attended by Laurel’s son-in-law. As he started to swear under his breath, she went on. “Maisie didn’t say so, but I also heard a couple of women at the beauty shop dredging up all that business from when Laurel’s husband died. They were hinting there might be more to it than meets the eye.”

  “Trial by gossip,” he said in disdain.

  “It’s the American way,” she quipped.

  Turning to the table, he carefully placed forks on the left side of the three plates he had set so he wouldn’t have to meet her gaze. “You think I ought to back off, leave the lady alone?”

  She clicked her tongue in a soft sound of consideration. “I don’t know. Sounds to me like something is coming down.”

  The phrase seemed so strange on her lips that he flashed her a grin. “Doing what?”

  “You know, smarty,” she returned with acerbic affection. “Anyway, it’s hard to say whether you’re the problem here or the cure. But I can’t see how you can quit until you find out.”