by Tate, Kristy
He reached for the cloth he’d been soaking in cool water and mopped her forehead. “Mercy, sweet, can you hear me?”
She muttered in her sleep and shifted positions. Trent tucked the quilt around her shoulders and attempted something he’d sworn he would never do.
CHAPTER 28
Broth requires only two things: water and something flavorful to boil, such as an onion, a bouquet of herbs, a piece of meat, or even a bone.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
Mercy woke with a spoon her mouth. She blew out the soup before even opening her eyes and showered Trent. “What?” she mumbled, her eyes fluttering open.
Trent smiled, the crease of worry between his eyebrows easing. “Soup.”
In her sleep, she’d imagined him close, but on waking, his nearness surprised her. She felt his body heat as he crouched beside the sofa, his face inches from hers, his shoulders leaning in, his hand bearing a spoonful of the smelly soup. She needed to wake, but she couldn’t rouse herself from the quilts and the strange lethargy that filled her. Before she could wonder how she’d come to be wrapped in blankets in front of a fire in a small cottage, another spoonful of the nastiness slipped in her mouth. She sputtered and then turned away. “Please, no more.”
Trent laughed while dipping the spoon into the broth. “I will have my way.”
Mercy pulled the quilt over her face and found, on closer inspection that she wore only her chemise. Horrified, she popped her head out of the quilt. “Did you take off my clothes?”
Trent had the grace to blush. “Somebody had to do it.”
Glancing around the tiny room, she spied her steaming dress and stockings laid out before the fire. “And you volunteered?”
“Mercy, I was scared. Worried you’d catch your death in those freezing, sopping clothes.”
“And now you’re trying to poison me?”
He laughed, obviously relieved that she was not only reviving, but also forgiving. He dipped the spoon back into the soup. “Just a bit more.”
Mercy shook her head and then stopped, surprised by stab the movement sent rifling through her body. “No,” she said, clenching her teeth against the pain. “That’s the worst soup ever.”
Trent considered the broth. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Mercy sat up and the quilt slipped off her shoulder. She covered herself. “You are? You want me to be miserable?”
“No, actually, I want you to be happy and for a while I just wanted you to be. I was afraid I’d lost you.”
Mercy blinked. “If you want me to be happy, you’ll stop spooning me soup.”
Trent leaned back and looked into the bowl. “This is my gram’s famous beef broth. It’s renowned for its healing ability. People in town come for it whenever they’ve an ill loved. Once when Hoss had torn a-”
“Hoss, your horse?” Mercy sat up, but this time remembered to clutch the quilt around her shoulders. “You’re feeding me horse soup?”
“Nonsense, it’s for people and for horses.”
“And dogs and cats?”
“And the occasional raccoon.” Trent refilled the spoon. “You must admit you’re feeling better. I was so worried. I didn’t think Higgins would have all the ingredients, but then I discovered he had a pot already in his icebox. Fortunately, he must have been under the weather recently.”
“How fortunate.” She settled into the crook of the sofa, as far as possible from the loaded spoon, and pulled the quilt so that it covered her mouth.
“Gram always says that if it tastes good, it won’t work.”
“And to think I’d liked your grandmother.” The quilt muffled her words.
Trent held the spoon on the other side of the quilt. “It’s not as good as your pies, of course.”
Mercy sat straight up and her head swam. “I’m supposed to make pies!”
Trent pushed her back down. His hand felt warm against her skin and for a moment, his hand lingered against her. “Gram will understand.”
Mercy’s heart thundered as recollections raced through her mind. She’d seen Steele, he’d seen her, she’d argued with Trent. He kissed her. Again. And even though the kiss should have been a small consideration, given all that had happened and all that could yet come to pass, the kiss, at this instant, seemed the largest thing of all. Mercy sat back into the quilt and pulled it around her like a shield. She couldn’t let this happen. Steele knew where she was, he’d recognized her, she couldn’t afford to stay another moment. She looked down at the quilt. “No, I don’t think she will.”
Another spoonful popped into her mouth and Mercy gagged. “Augh, it’s really awful.”
“But, it works.”
“Yes. See, I’m much better, so you can stop. With the soup.”
“Hmm. Not yet, I think. I’ve some questions.”
“And unless I answer you’ll torture me with soup?”
Trent didn’t say anything, but sat down beside her on the couch. He trapped the quilt beneath him making it so that if Mercy shifted, the quilt stayed. Moving risked exposure.
“This isn’t very nice,” she told him.
“Remember, I’m only the Prince of Polite, not the King.”
“You might not be the king, but you’re acting extremely officious.”
“Officious? I don’t think that’s a word.”
“Officious and overbearing.”
“You knew Steele in New York.”
“That’s not a question.”
“In fact, he courted you.”
“Again, not a question.”
Trent paused the spoon, inches from Mercy’s lips. “What ended it? What did you mean by lucky girl?”
Mercy stared at Trent, her eyes wide.
“In your sleep, you said you wouldn’t be a lucky girl. What did you mean?”
“You must know.”
“Could I persuade you to be a lucky girl?”
“Not in that way, no. I’d rather die.”
“As you pretended to do.”
“How much do you know?”
“I know you staged your suicide.”
“How?”
“And then you stole Steele’s passage to Seattle.” Trent bent over and placed the bowl of soup and spoon on the table beside the couch.
Mercy felt a wash of relief that her meal had ended, but her pulse quickened as Trent leaned over and gently kissed her forehead on the side without the bump.
“How could you know?”
“Darling, you talk in your sleep. A trait that will surely come in handy in the future.”
“Future?” Mercy pulse fluttered as Trent began to nuzzle her neck. He smelled of soap and faintly of garlic. The soup. She wanted to push him away, to remain angry, but she hadn’t the will, and if she were honest, the desire. She really wanted only one thing. She wanted him.
“Our future.” Trent breathed against her skin.
The quilt shifted between them and Mercy tugged on it. Trent hovered above her, one hand stroked her cheek while his eyes lingered on her lips. “You really couldn’t expect to spend the night alone in a cottage, nearly naked, with a single man and not be compromised.”
He kissed her long and deep and Mercy felt dizzy again, although this time she suspected the spell had nothing to do with her aching head. Her arms slipped free of the quilt and circled his neck, her hands touched his hair. She remembered this. This was exactly how she’d felt on the bank of the Stilly river.
She would remember this, after she was gone.
CHAPTER 29
The judicious use of a spice or herb can transform a dish. Once you know what flavors will complement and enhance, it’s fun to experiment. Use fresh herbs whenever possible.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
The shadows had fallen and a weak moon poked through the thinning clouds. A wind danced the tree branches across the windows. The fire cast an orange glow through the room. But Mercy couldn’t hear the wind or see the shadows or feel the fire’s glo
w; every sense focused on Trent.
Could this be love, she thought. This warmth, this safety? Could she stay sheltered with this man for a lifetime? Could she tell him about Steele, trust him with her secrets and with her heart? Of course, he hadn’t said he loved her. He hadn’t asked her to be his wife, in so many words. He’d talked of their future. Did he want to marry her? He hadn’t actually said so.
Trent had his face buried against her neck. His kisses sent spirals of heat across her body. She sank beneath his warmth and size, knowing that she would never tire of this. A small voice in her head sent warning signals, but she didn’t try to turn away from temptation.
The door opened and then closed with a click. Cool wind blew into the room and Mercy heard a small gasp. Struggling beneath Trent’s weight, Mercy tried to see who had come, despite her reluctance to face the intruders. Trent remained slumped against her, a heavy weight and immoveable protection against the interlopers.
“Oh no,” a female said, her voice filled with a host of emotions.
Mercy flattened her hands against Trent and pushed his chest. His heart beat rapidly beneath her hands. He leaned into her and held her tighter, despite her attempts to wiggle free.
“Get. Off. Of. Her,” a male voice demanded.
Trent was wrenched from her arms, leaving her cold and shaky. Sitting up, Mercy clutched the quilt beneath her arms, exposing her shoulders.
Miles held Trent by the collar and Chloe looked on with a horrified expression. “Oh Trent,” Chloe said, disappointment and a touch of amusement in her voice.
Miles cocked back his arm for a right hook, but Trent grabbed him around the middle and the two men crashed to the floor.
“Stop,” Mercy pleaded, suddenly conscious of her near nudity. She wanted to spring between the men, but she couldn’t risk losing the blankets. “Please, Miles. Trent.” She sent Chloe an imploring glance, but Chloe shot a look at Mercy’s exposed shoulders and shook her head in disgust.
Trent had Miles on the floor, wedged between his knees, but Miles had his hands around Trent’s throat.
“Chloe, stop them,” Mercy called from her perch on the sofa.
Chloe folded her arms across her chest. “He rather deserves it. I know Gram would do much worse if she were here.”
Mercy fluttered between the horrible realization that Chloe would probably tell Mrs. Michaels everything and that she would lose the good opinion of all of Trent’s family. “It’s not how it looks,” Mercy said. She motioned to her clothes lying near the fire. “I fell in the river and then I hit my head.” She lifted her hair away from her face to show Chloe her wound.
Chloe took her eyes off the two sparing men for a moment to inspect Mercy’s forehead. Her eyes crinkled with concern. “Oh, nasty.”
“Yes, so you see--”
Chloe gave her head a tiny shake. “I know what I saw, and I still think Trent deserves this.”
“Then so do I, but honestly, does Miles?”
Chloe’s attention returned to the men sparing in front of them. They’d long since crashed to the floor. Miles was on top, and then Trent, and then Miles; Mercy couldn’t tell who was winning, for they both appeared to be losing. Their fists flew around them and occasionally landed with a sick thud. Trent managed to ease away from Miles, and tried to stand, but Miles grabbed his ankle. Trent went down with a bellow and then quickly retaliated, catching a hold of Mile’s shirt and bumping his head on the floor.
“Boys!” Chloe called. She marched over and kicked Trent’s shoulder and he sagged onto Miles. Miles managed to get his fingers around Trent’s throat.
When Trent and Miles had both secured each other’s throats and their faces were turning motley red, Mercy turned towards Chloe, but Chloe was not where she’d been just moments earlier.
Oh dear. Take two men, add sexual tension, a spark of fire, a hint of wind…Mercy twisted around in time to see Chloe tripping forward, the pot of broth in her hands. Chloe splashed the broth on the wrestling men and then hit her brother over the head with the pot for good measure.
When the two men separated she said, “Broth heals all wounds.”
*****
Twilight tinged the sky pink by the time they returned to the ranch. From the kitchen Mercy could smell a savory smoke and she imagined Mrs. Michaels, capable and unflappable, whipping up something for her guests, minus trout, minus huckleberries and minus her two grandchildren and their two guests. The twist in Mercy’s stomach had nothing to with hunger.
Her clothes, sodden earlier, had been wrung out, and laid before the hot stove so that they were now merely damp. At first, because of the fire, they’d been warm and moist, but sometime during the walk, the heat had chilled. The wrinkly clothes clung to her skin like they were a part of her, and Mercy felt has wrung out and battered as her dress.
Because he’d insisted, Trent carried her in his arms. He’d wrapped her up in a blanket, but her bare feet dangled in the air. Her shoes had never been recovered. Trent radiated with nervous energy. Miles, on the other side of her, looked hostile and stony faced. He had wanted to carry her and Mercy had been so worried that another fight would ensue that she’d started to cry. That had shut up both of the men. Only Chloe seemed to be enjoying herself. She bounced beside Miles, as if the impending scene could only promise great fun.
A soft yellow light shone through the farmhouse windows. From the porch Mercy heard the sound of clattering silverware and subdued conversation. Looking through the doorway, she saw twelve men sat around the dining room table. Mr. Steele sat wedge between a heavyset man with a string tie around his neck, and a barrel-chested man who was tucking into his food with unabashed gusto. Had Steele wished to leave, he’d have to extricate himself, and between the table, the company, and the overflowing food board immediately behind him; it wouldn’t be an easy task. Steele was trapped.
As was Trent. Did he wish to marry her or was he trapped by convention and a misplaced sense of responsibility? She didn’t need his protection. She could manage on her own. Mercy slid a glance at him. His jaw set, his eyes serious, his lips firm, he gently set her down and then took her hand as they passed through the door. Behind them trooped Miles and Chloe. If she dug her heels at this point, how would Trent respond? And how could she drag her feet without shoes?
The seated dinner guests turned to stare. Mercy could feel Steele’s gaze on her face. She caught the widening of Mrs. Michaels’ eyes. Mercy tucked her barefeet out of sight.
Trent smiled in a greeting, but it looked forced and fierce. He dropped her hand, placed his hand around her waist and said, “Grandmother, friends, I’d like to announce my engagement to Miss Mercy Faye.”
The company stomped their feet and cheered their approval. Mrs. Michaels raised her goblet and demanded a toast, but Mr. Steele put down his glass and stared at Mercy with ice blue eyes that seemed to say, you cannot hide behind this man.
*****
A few minutes later Mercy bumped inside the coach between Trent and Miles. An angry heat pulsed between the two men, and tucked inside of blankets, Mercy was, thankfully, at last warm. Stifled, in fact.
Since Trent had announced their eminent marriage, Miles had looked, if anything, angrier. When Trent arranged to return Mercy to her aunt, Miles had refused to be left behind. Without him, she would have had an opportunity to talk with Trent and she had things to say, difficult things that she didn’t know how to vocalize, so as she sat in the neutral zone between two hostile countries, she tried to marshal her thoughts. She had questions for Trent, but none seemed acceptable for Mile’s ears, so she held her tongue and chewed on her lip.
Slipping Miles a guarded glance, she knew she should be glad of his livid hulk, without him she didn’t know where or what she’d be doing. She flushed. Of course, she knew. And from the grim expression on Trent’s face, she was fairly sure he was of the same mind. And he minded. He wanted to be alone with her as badly as she wanted to be with him, but propriety, something that had been
recently disregarded, whispered that she should be grateful for Miles. She didn’t want to be married under duress. She shivered.
Trent noticed and turned to her. “Cold?” He brushed the hair off her forehead, exposing the bruise.
Beside her, Miles bristled and emitted a noise that could only be described as a low growl.
Mercy sighed, leaned back against the cushions, and watched out the window. Shadows danced in the woods. The dark trees swayed in the wind. The noise of the coach and the rattle of the horse’s gear, blocked out all other sound and the wind did little to lift the oppressive warmth of the coach. Once, through the trees, Mercy thought she saw the shadow of a passing rider.
She clutched Trent’s hand. “Could someone be following us?”
Miles looked out the window. “It’s just your conscience,” he said after a minute. Then he settled back into the seat with a disgruntled harrumph.
It would be a long seven miles. Trent let go of her hand and Mercy felt alone, bereft and frightened.
CHAPTER 30
Clotted Cream
Lightly sweeten heavy cream, whip until stiff, and mix with a little sour cream.
From The Recipes of Mercy Faye
When they pulled up in front of Mile’s townhome, they were surprised, given the late hour, to find the windows ablaze with light, the front door standing open, and Laurel, Eloise’s maid standing on the front porch, wringing her hands.
“I’m not getting out until I see Mercy safely back at her aunt’s house,” Miles sat in the coach like a large, immoveable boulder of ill will.