Mac frowned at his father. “Are you sure that’s wise?”
Titus looked directly at Julia when he answered. “She’s the only one who will be able to handle him.”
Was he serious? It had taken five men to wrestle Sampson away from Nicholas, and Dante and Micah were probably right now holding him down so Rowan could tend his wounds. “You mean after he gets out of the hospital, right?” she whispered, hugging Sol more tightly. “Someone did call an ambulance, right?” And the sheriff, she refrained from adding, remembering there was an honest-to-God dead man in that tunnel.
“Nicholas won’t hurt you, Julia,” Mac said, not answering her question. “Father’s correct; you’re the only one he won’t fight.” He smiled tightly. “Not physically. But I’m afraid you should be prepared for verbal attacks.”
“After he gets out of the hospital,” she repeated.
“There will be no hospital,” Titus said. “Rowan and the others will take him home and . . . settle him in.”
“The fewer people who know what went on here tonight, the better,” Mac added, drawing her attention again. He held up his hand when she tried to speak. “I would ask that you trust us, Julia, for Nicholas’s sake. There’s a good chance he’s still in danger, and the safest place for him is right here on this mountain.” He stepped closer. “I must have your word that you won’t speak to anyone about any of this.”
Or what? she wanted to ask. She nodded instead, tucking Sol under her chin.
“And you’ll stay with Nicholas while he mends?”
She must have nodded again, because the next thing Julia knew, Mac was taking Sol from her and setting him on the floor, then leading her out of the office. “I will allow you to go home and gather enough clothes for a few days,” he said as he opened the door and ushered her outside. He stopped beside her cart and turned her to face him. “I suggest you tell your sister that . . .” He stopped, looking past her shoulder in thought. “No, instead of going home, call Trisha and tell her the resort doctor believes you may have contracted a benign illness from one of your clients. Explain you’re being quarantined as a precaution and Olivia decided you should stay at Nicholas’s house because of its isolation.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone—that she couldn’t help notice had a fingerprint of blood on it. “Ask her to pack your clothes because you can’t be in contact with anyone, and one of our guards will pick them up.”
He waited while she made the call, Julia forcing herself to sound perturbed and inconvenienced for Trisha’s sake, then handed the phone back. Mac opened the door on her cart, but Julia didn’t get inside.
“Um, I know this probably isn’t the time, but has anyone . . . Do you think Phantom might be hurt and wandering around the resort someplace?”
Mac looked back toward the pavilion, then lifted his gaze toward the summit and shrugged. “That old warrior has managed to find his way back to Nicholas before, despite being given up for dead.”
As in this has happened before? Julia wanted to shout, instead sliding into the cart.
Mac held the door from closing. “I would have your word that you will go directly to Nicholas’s house and stay there.”
She nodded, then looked toward her office. “Would you make sure the cats are put outside before you leave?”
“I will. And don’t worry about the mess. We’ll clean it up.”
“Oh, wait; we have the employee Christmas party tomorrow night. That’s why I was still here when . . . when . . .”
“Mother will see to it. And Julia?” he said when she straightened from turning on the headlights. “Once he calms down, Nicholas will answer all your questions.”
He closed the door on that ominous promise and walked back inside, and Julia glanced at her office windows to see Titus pick up Sol and hug the cat to his chest.
She pressed down on the accelerator, snapping back against the seat when she forgot about the more powerful motor, and headed toward the guard booth, even as she reminded herself that her inner voice was sure she trusted Nicholas with every fiber of her being, even though she had absolutely no idea who—or what—he was.
Chapter Nineteen
It took Julia longer than she cared to admit to finally realize the cooking range was induction, so only the pots and ultimately their contents heated up. But needing to keep busy, she was making soup from two cans of vegetables and a couple of bouillon cubes she’d found in the mostly empty cupboards while Rowan and Micah and Dante were upstairs getting Nicholas . . . settled in.
She didn’t know how they’d gotten here ahead of her since no one had passed her on the road, but Julia had arrived to a heated discussion—in that same foreign language—going on upstairs. Most of the heat was coming from Nicholas, although Rowan occasionally gave back as good as he got in between impressive stretches of amazing patience. Even the cats had beaten her here and were now lined up like little soldiers sitting on the couch as they also listened to the goings-on upstairs, their huge unblinking eyes fixed on nothing. Well, except Sol, who was up on the balcony facing the hallway leading to the bedroom, apparently prepared to do some damage of his own if he decided Nicholas needed his help.
Cussing, Julia was discovering, was unmistakable in any language.
And so was anger, especially when rooted in guilt. She remembered their discussion walking home the Friday night they’d made love on the deck and Nicholas saying that if he ever needed anyone guarding his back, they’d be too late because he’d already be dead. Only no one had told Sampson, apparently, as he had stepped in front of the fatal blow meant for Nicholas.
Yeah, she supposed she’d be acting crazy, too, if someone died saving her.
Julia set the lid back on the pot of simmering soup, then turned and braced her hands on the granite island counter as she looked toward the living area gently illuminated by beautiful wrought iron floor and table lamps. The lamps had arrived three weeks ago with several end tables, an eight-foot-long dining table that opened to twelve feet—making her wonder who Nicholas intended to have over to dinner—two bureaus and the huge, extra-long bed upstairs, and a beautiful desk and credenza that she’d had the deliverymen place in the room off the downstairs hall.
She’d learned from one of the men that all the furniture had been made right here in Maine from native cherry and had been ordered over a year ago. Then a few days later she’d gotten a call from Rowan, saying he’d signed off on a delivery of leather furniture and could she please come tell him where to place everything.
It had been after Rowan and Micah and Dante had left that Julia had stood in the middle of Nicholas’s amazing home and realized the mysterious man from an island somewhere in the Atlantic had completely immersed himself in the elements of wood, water, earth, fire, and metal. He’d also managed to include the element of air by literally suspending himself over it. No plastic in sight, not even cladding the window casings. Heck, the only truly man-made material in the house was glass, and that was made mostly of sand. That little revelation had gotten Julia curious enough to snoop, and she’d found that all the clothes hanging in his closet were made of natural fibers; hemp, cotton, leather, and even silk.
Julia stopped breathing to listen, realizing that after hearing the shower running and footsteps going back and forth from the bedroom to the en-suite bathroom upstairs for nearly an hour, everything had suddenly gone quiet.
Maybe, she hoped, they’d found something in the triage kit for pain that had finally knocked him out, because she really hadn’t been looking forward to babysitting a big strong angry man. She walked into the living area to see Rowan descending the stairs, rolling down the sleeves of his more wet than bloody shirt.
He stopped at the bottom when he saw her. “You shouldn’t be here, Julia,” he said, his cheeks darkening as he glanced up at the balcony before giving her a forced smile. “Come back in a few days, when he’s . . . more like himself.”
“Titus asked me to stay with him,” she said, feeling
her own cheeks heating up. “Because he believes Nicholas won’t get . . . that he won’t fight me.”
Rowan looked back upstairs just as Dante and Micah appeared on the balcony, Dante carrying the triage bag and Micah picking up Sol and holding the cat to his chest.
“Will you tell me what his injuries are?” Julia asked, drawing Rowan’s attention again. “Is he going to be okay?”
“We stitched a deep gash on his side and wrapped his ribs on the chance they might be cracked, and he has a nasty bump on his forehead and a bunch of minor cuts and bruises.” He shrugged. “Knowing the commander, he’ll be hobbling around as early as tomorrow and probably back at work in a week,” he said, smiling tightly again.
“Are you sure he shouldn’t be in a hospital?”
That smile vanished and he shook his head. “Until we know more details of what happened, he’s safest right here at Nova Mare.”
Julia looked away. “No one’s calling the sheriff, are they?”
“No.”
“And . . . Sampson?”
“I imagine Titus and Rana will personally take him back to—back home.” Rowan looked upstairs. “Which won’t lighten Nicholas’s mood any, I’m afraid, as he’ll feel that is his duty.” He looked at her, his cheeks darkening again. “It’s not my place to say any more, Julia. Nicholas will answer any questions you have.”
“Yeah,” she said on a sigh, “that’s what Mac said.” She turned away and walked to the kitchen. “Is he asleep? I made some soup.”
“You should wait until morning to try feeding him anything,” he said, following her. “Men’s bellies won’t accept food so soon after battle.”
She stopped with the lid half off the pot and stared at the wall behind the stove so Rowan wouldn’t see what she thought of that little piece of information given so nonchalantly, as if he were as well acquainted with battle as Nicholas apparently was.
“Would you prefer one of us stays the night?” he asked, just as she heard the other two men walking down the stairs. “There’s much that needs to be done at the conference pavilion before morning, but I can leave Dante or Micah here.”
“Did you give Nicholas something for the pain?” she asked, not turning around.
“We tried,” he said with a humorless chuckle, “although I don’t know how much we actually got into him or how effective it will be. But just coming down off the rush should knock him out.” She barely stifled a flinch when he set a hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I completely agree with Titus; Nicholas would never hurt you, Julia, as his inherent nature is protective—especially of women.”
“Yeah, the man’s a hero,” she softly muttered, finally turning around. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be okay with him.” She gestured at Micah setting Sol down on the floor before unrolling his own wet and bloody sleeves. “And anyway, I have Solomon. The big lug’s been hanging around Nicholas so long that he saved me when the wall exploded.” She shook her head at the three men’s obvious surprise. “He must have sensed what was happening, because he knocked me to the floor and even covered my head with his body.”
They all turned to watch Sol walking back upstairs, the other five cats following.
“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be okay,” Rowan said tiredly, “we’ll be going.”
“Um, that door seems to be stuck,” Julia said, motioning at the front door. “I tried to go get something out of my cart earlier, but the door wouldn’t open.”
Micah reached out and turned the knob and opened it, then looked at her and grinned—also tiredly. “It appears to be fine now.”
Julia followed them and stood in the doorway as they walked down the two steps off the porch. “How did you guys get here? I didn’t see a truck.”
“We . . . ah, came down the shortcut,” Rowan said.
“You can take my cart back,” she offered.
“We’ll walk,” Dante said with a wave over his shoulder. “The shortcut is quicker.”
Julia watched them head out the driveway, then stepped back inside and closed the door. She went over and shut off the burner, put the soup in the fridge, then turned and looked around the silent house. She could sleep on the couch, she decided with a tired sigh as she walked back to the door to make sure it would open—only to find it was stuck again.
She pulled and tugged, then pressed her shoulder into it while turning the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. She rushed over to the double doors leading onto the deck, only to find they wouldn’t open, either. She went to the windows behind the dining table and tried each one, slowly backing away when they wouldn’t open, then headed to the downstairs office only to find those windows wouldn’t friggin’ open, either.
Julia walked back into the main room and stood hugging herself. What was going on? How had the men been able to leave but she couldn’t? Did the house have a secret male handshake or something? But she’d come here a lot over the last month and hadn’t had any trouble. So why in Hades couldn’t she leave now?
“Rowan!”
Julia snapped her gaze to the balcony, then ran up the stairs, worried Nicholas might try to get out of bed. “Rowan and the others have left,” she said, stopping in the bedroom door when he gave a foul curse in good old English. She gave him a tight smile as she approached the bed. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
He turned his head away. “I don’t want you here.”
“Too bad,” she growled right back at him, knowing if she didn’t get a handle on him now, even half dead he’d start flexing his real muscle. “I promised Mac I’d look after you. So what did you want Rowan for? Is there something I can get you?”
He looked back at her, his narrowed eyes almost jet-black. “Yes. Since it doesn’t seem to require participation on my part, you can take off your clothes and crawl in bed with me. If that’s not a service you’re offering, then leave.”
Okay, that hurt. “I tried to,” she snapped right back at him, turning and walking away. “But it appears all your doors and windows are stuck.” She stopped in the hall and shot him an equally threatening glare. “And even though I’m skinnier than a twelve-year-old boy, I can’t fit through your cat door. Oh, and for future reference, you might like to know that it takes more than male posturing to scare off the town slut.”
Julia turned away when he simply lay there glowering at her and wondered what had possessed her to say that. She walked past the cats lying on the balcony facing the bedroom and felt their large unblinking eyes following as she descended the stairs. She walked to the wall of windows facing Bottomless and hugged herself on a shuddering sigh, then simply stood staring down at the lights of Spellbound Falls.
And why, she also wondered, had she thought finding the courage to fall in love with Nicholas would be her biggest hurdle? Because if she had considered him way out of her league before, then tonight’s little . . . event put him an entire world away.
Or should that be centuries away? She might have caught only pieces of the conversation in the tunnel—in a language she wasn’t even sure still existed—but she’d certainly recognized Atlantis, and several words such as mythical, trap or ambush or trickery, and something to do with someone’s birthright.
And then there was Nicholas himself, bleeding all over Sampson cradled in his arms, demanding that Mac bring the man back to life. And Mac saying it was too late, because their friend had already chosen to move on. Move on where, exactly? And if Sampson hadn’t already chosen, did that mean Mac could have brought him back from the dead?
Nicholas certainly seemed to think so. Because why else would he have nearly died himself carrying Sampson all the way back here from . . . wherever they’d been in that hellacious fight dressed like . . . gladiators. No, the armorlike leather and metal skirt both Sampson and Nicholas had been wearing had been more northern European, if she remembered her stolen classes on ancient civilizations correctly.
Another word she was pretty sure she’d recognized had been warrior. An
d she was fairly certain those had been sword wounds on both men, as she couldn’t imagine what other weapon would leave that kind of gouge. For the love of God, Sampson had been hacked nearly in—
Julia stilled on another shudder when she heard the heavy, stilted footsteps in the upstairs hallway.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Nicholas,” she said, not turning around. “I’m well aware that angry, hurting men say and do things they don’t mean.”
“That’s not me. I don’t lash out at people I care about.”
“I know,” she said softly, finally turning and looking up to see him standing on the balcony with nothing but a sheet wrapped partly around his bandaged torso and trailing behind him. She smiled sadly. “And I also know you cared very much for Sampson and feel responsible for his dying. Please go back to bed before you fall down.” She turned her smile crooked. “Because I really can’t carry you there.”
“Come with me.”
Julia felt her smile turn sad again. “I don’t think so.”
She saw his grip on the balcony rail tighten as he swayed slightly. “I’ll let you keep your clothes on. Just come lie with me, Julia.”
“That’s very kind of you, but no.”
“I am not kind.”
“Sorry. I forgot. I seem to keep confusing you with someone else. Go to bed, Nicholas. I’m not going anywhere, apparently,” she said with a soft snort. “So if you need anything, just give me a shout.”
“I need you to come to bed with me.”
It took her only a heartbeat to realize he had every intention of standing there until either he dropped or she complied. Then again, maybe feeling a warm, alive body after carrying Sampson all the way here was what he was asking of her. So with a sigh of defeat, Julia walked back through the living room and up the stairs, then stopped in front of him, gathered up the trailing sheet, and carefully slid her arm around his waist—surprised when he actually leaned some of his weight on her.
The Heart of a Hero Page 25