The Brothers Bernaux [01] Raisonne Curse

by Rinda Elliott

  “You did look sleepy when I walked up. Sorry I ruined your nap.”

  He stroked a hand over her head. “Elita Raisonne, you didn’t ruin anything. And I can think of nothing I’d like more than to sleep a little right now, right here with you.”

  Her palm was still on his stomach and a certain part of him had obviously perked up. She was pretty sure all she’d have to do was move her fingers maybe an inch and she’d feel it. “You can’t think of anything you’d like to do with me more? Really?”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could pull them back. Then she realized she didn’t have to move her fingers at all. Her words had caused him to grow even harder and longer and he stopped breathing when his cock poked her hand.

  Should she move her hand away?

  They both were so still, the hammock had stopped moving. Elita held her breath too, as sudden shyness held her in its tight grip. And at the thought of grip, it took everything in her not to slide her hand down enough to really touch him. To move her fingers over that part of him, to prove that they did need to explore whatever this was happening between them—despite his words yesterday.

  But she didn’t. In fact, she casually moved her hand higher up on his chest and tried to pretend she hadn’t felt that happen. It occurred to her that he’d never answered her question and sudden worry combined with the realization she’d pretty much forced herself on him had her scrambling to get out of the hammock—which wasn’t an easy thing to do gracefully. She tried to slide her legs over the side and sit up without using his body to push off and ended up falling nearly on top of him.

  “Elita, stop.” He wrapped his arms around her, held her still against him. “I’m sorry, cher, I truly am.”

  Even more humiliation swamped her and this time, she pushed harder until he let her go. Climbing over him to get out of the damned hammock didn’t get any easier and he let out a grunt as her knee connected hard with his hip.

  At least she’d managed to not knee him in the groin.

  Knowing her face was hotter than the sun, she finally stopped on wobbly legs beside the hammock.

  Pryor’s exit from the stupid thing was a lot more graceful. He stood in front of her and once again lifted her chin so he could look her in the eyes. “I know my hot and cold routine is confusing and I’m sorry.”

  “Help me understand then.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezed gently. “Our magic gives us an unfair advantage over people.” Pryor’s smile was rueful. “When we…help people, it makes them feel more toward us than they would under normal circumstances.”

  “You’re saying that you think what I’m feeling for you is because of the magic.”

  “I know it is.”

  “And everyone you help feels this way toward you? All women? All men?”

  He laughed. “No, not all. And it is usually women—though Wyatt was courted pretty hard by a young guy we helped last summer after he gave him a head wash. We all felt bad about how the boy took things. He fell kind of hard. My brother is a charmer.”

  “More than you?”

  “I’m not a charmer.”

  “When I first walked up to this house, the look on your face was one hundred percent bad boy charm. Admit it. That grin was naughty as hell.”

  He gave her that grin. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

  “One who wants you and who does not believe it has anything to do with your magic because I felt it before you gave me that shampoo. I felt it right away like a slap to the face.”

  “And it didn’t get stronger during?”

  “It’s been getting stronger ever since.” She frowned. “And I know it has nothing to do with the magic or the way the ghosts of your family seem to want to push us together. They are trying hard—you know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded. “They haven’t talked in years and started up the moment you stepped into my home.”

  She looked away from him, caught a glimpse of his dog among the trees, and smiled. Her smile faded as she remembered the dream the day before. If it had been a dream, because it sure as hell had felt real.

  She looked back up at Pryor and felt her heart skip a beat at the intensity with which he studied her. His golden brown eyes were locked onto her face like he was trying to memorize her features. He hadn’t shaved, his square jaw shadowed with light brown whiskers. He had broad shoulders and strong muscles in his arms and she wanted them around her, but she didn’t know how to convince him what she felt was real.

  Elita took a step back from him and tried to shake off the need to plaster herself against all that masculinity. “So.” She cleared her throat. “How about I make us something nice for dinner?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Now I’m wondering if you’re here for spell work, me…or my kitchen.”

  “It’s definitely your kitchen.”

  That damned sexy grin came back.

  She had to work not to roll her eyes. “I’m in the mood for some crawfish étouffée and I just happened to have a cooler full of mud bugs with me. I’ll cook if you’ll clean them. What say you?” she asked the same way her grandmother would have as she winked.

  He sighed, closed his eyes. “I say you, woman, are making this very, very difficult.”

  “Tell you what.” She put her hand on his chest and barely managed to stop herself from running her palm over the hard muscles she could feel under the cotton of his shirt. “I think you have everything for bread too. Why don’t you take that nap and let me loose in that gorgeous kitchen of yours? You can come in when it’s time to de-head the crawfish.”

  His sigh was loud. “I knew you were here for the kitchen.”

  “Did I tell you differently?” She blinked and gave him her most innocent expression.

  Laughing, Pryor tugged her close and wrapped those arms she wanted around her tight. “I’m in so much fucking trouble. You have no idea. And I would love some étouffée.”

  Elita let herself bury her nose in his chest and inhale before she pulled back. “You gotta stay out here until the end. My recipe is a much-guarded secret.”

  “No problem.” He walked to the hammock and crawled in it without an issue.

  Grinning, she grabbed her purse and went into his house.

  She really did love the kitchen.

  She set her purse on the counter and started looking for the ingredients. He had celery, onions, garlic in a jar—which made her lip curl—bay leaves, cayenne… She’d have to make do with the dried parsley and other spices. If this were her kitchen, she’d have fresh on hand at all times. Hell, she’d have a garden out back to grow all the fresh vegetables and herbs. He had a perfect spot near the outbuildings that would get full sun and wouldn’t be far from the outdoor faucet she’d seen near the grill.

  Elita had decided last night that she definitely wouldn’t be returning to Boston, outside of going back to get her clothes and pictures and stuff. She’d stay with Ma’man until she found a job here. And then she’d work on getting her own place with room for a garden.

  The bayou had pulled her back in.

  And so what if a small voice in her head was telling her that Pryor Bernaux had as well?

  She went through his crazy spice cabinet, vowing to set it to rights before she left, then remembered that the brothers had a lot of spices in jars in their spell room.

  She went down the hall to the room that was set apart from the house and looked again at the thick, reclaimed barn wood table that had been shoved against the wall. She wondered how much it would cost to get Pryor to make her a table like this one. Open jars and an oil lamp cluttered its surface now. She ran her hand over the timber, knowing he’d fashioned the old-style table himself. Wondering if he’d stroked his hands over the wood as he sanded, checking for splinters.

  The room grew darker and she frowned and glanced at the window. They must be due for another storm because clouds were moving in fast. She picked up the matches next to the oil lamp an
d lit it.

  All the hair suddenly stood up on the back of her neck as it became obvious she was no longer alone in the room. She closed her eyes, tried to ignore the way the very air around her turned oily and fetid. Grimacing, she counted slowly in her head, determined not to let whatever this was affect her. Then…she felt a brush of breath over her neck. It wasn’t hot. Breath should be hot. Her own froze in her chest as she slowly turned, half-expecting to see Pryor there.

  Vertigo wrapped her in its grip as a thick, black shadow enveloped her. She gasped and the air tasted wrong—like rancid olive oil. She shut her eyes to try and battle the swirl of the room around her. Her head felt suddenly stuffed full of cotton, her mouth went dry, her heart racing so hard and fast, she was sure she’d pass out.

  She lurched toward to the door. The weight of the curse came back full force, heavy and thick and her knees buckled. One hit the hardwood floor, making a cracking noise that seemed to echo inside her foggy brain. Elita managed to grab on to the bulky table and tried to pull herself up. The table tilted, sending her and all the jars crashing to the floor. The weight of the heavy wood slammed into her hip so hard she screamed. She tried to crawl from underneath the table, glass sliding into both her palms and into her arms.

  Still, the room whirled around her, the vertigo keeping her from being able to focus. Not even when the fire broke out around her.

  Chapter Seven

  “Merde!”

  The weight of the table was suddenly gone and strong hands lifted her just as a crash sounded behind her—like a mini-explosion. A shelf fell off the wall, the jars smashing into the floor. She tried to crawl toward the fire extinguisher she’d seen in the hallway.

  “Elita!”

  She cried out in pain when he lifted her into his arms. Smoke had turned the room gray, the air thick and abrasive. The fire must have reached the herbs in the jars because one by one, shattering noises preceded the pungent aroma of burning lavender, sage and other herbs she couldn’t identify. Some of them seared into her lungs like sharp spikes and she began to cough.

  Pryor carried her into the hall and shouldered his way through the screen door before running down the stairs. He set her on the ground gently, then ran his hands down her arms and around her ribs, then hip where the table had hit.

  “We’ll take care of me in a minute,” she tried to yell. It came out more as a husky rasp because her throat felt like someone had turned it inside out. “Go get that fire out! Hurry!”

  He hesitated, reaching out to touch the hand she’d placed over her hip.

  “Oh, Pryor, your house. You have to get that fire out! I saw an extinguisher in the hall.” Of course he knew it was there. “Please. I’ll be fine. Go!”

  He finally stood and stared at her another moment before running back inside the house. The next thing she heard was the loud hollow-sounding release of carbon dioxide from the extinguisher.

  She unsnapped the button on her shorts and peeled them down. Her hip was red where the table had hit it, but she was pretty sure nothing was broken. A bruise had already started to form. It was going to be a doozy. She began to pick the glass out of her arms, happy to see that all but one were just surface cuts. She pulled out the one larger piece of jar out of her arm and hurriedly held the bottom of her T-shirt over the wound. She pressed, hoping to stop the bleeding.

  “Sure is a lot of blood, you,” a new voice said right over her head.

  Elita screamed and looked up to find an old woman standing over her. She gulped, then choked. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come up.”

  “Of course you didn’t—not with all that racket.” She frowned toward the house, sniffed. “Ca pue! Fire, huh? I need a hex broke so I hope that wasn’t the woo woo room.”

  Elita frowned as the old woman complained about the stink. Heavy wrinkles pulled most of her features south. It would be hard to guess her age because she could be ninety or sixty and a sun worshiper with that skin. Her stooped shoulders made Elita lean more toward the upper number. She wore baggy jeans and a long, dress-like shirt, the pink so bright it hurt Elita’s smoke-sensitive eyes.

  “So was it?” the woman barked out.

  Elita blinked, coughed some lingering smoke out of her lungs. “Was it the spell room? Yes, I’m sorry, but it was.”

  Moochon ran up and growled at the woman.

  “Passe’!” she hissed, waving her hands at him.

  Her merely sat and continued his low growl.

  A raindrop hit Elita’s nose and she looked up at the still-darkening sky just as the clouds released a soft rain. Not enough to soak immediately, but enough to make things more miserable.

  Pryor came back outside, set the extinguisher down and didn’t even hesitate when he saw the old woman next to her. He just picked Elita up and carried her to the steps. “Can you get the door for us, Paulina?”

  Elita watched the woman scowl as she wiped water off her face and stomped up the stairs ahead of them.

  “Didn’t come here to be ordered around, Bernaux.” She opened the door.

  Pryor sighed, cradling Elita close as he walked past the closed door to his spell room and into the kitchen. “I know. But whatever you need will have to wait while I tend to her.”

  “That’s it. Tend to the younger, prettier woman.” She started coughing.

  So did Elita.

  “Hold your breath until we get to the bathroom. The smoke seems to have mostly stayed in the kitchen. Should only need an airing out.” He looked over his shoulder. “Paulina, it would help so much if you’d open all the windows and doors while I’m helping Elita.”

  She made a rude grunting noise but stayed behind as he continued down the hall with Elita.

  Pryor set Elita on the closed toilet lid, stepped back and eyed the cabinet he’d reattached to the wall earlier. “You know, I used strong screws to bolt that to the wall and I don’t trust it. Can you lean against the lip of the tub?”

  “I could have walked here,” she said with a half grin that she lost with the next round of hacking. She moved to the tub, hearing the old woman slamming windows down the hall.

  “Who knows what all was in that smoke,” he muttered. Pryor placed his palms on her chest—one under her right breast and one over her left.

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Um, Pryor?”

  “Shh now.”

  Normally, she’d put up a fuss about him shushing her, but something in his expression arrested her. Right before she felt a tingling sensation coming from his hands. Horrified, she pulled back and nearly toppled into the tub. “No. No, you can’t use your magic right now. I saw what it did to your hands before.”

  “Okay,” he agreed as he turned and reached for the first aid supplies. “I’m gonna have to restock often with you around.” He went still, cursed under his breath, then turned to her.

  “I’m no dummy, Pryor Bernaux. You agreed way too quickly and easily.” She took a deep breath, noting her lungs felt clearer and her throat hurt less. She also knew why he’d hesitated. Because of what he’d said. About her being around. Words that made her heart beat faster that had nothing to do with her body fighting the smoke inhalation. “You did something to me.”

  He placed a finger over her lips and looked over his shoulder, then back to her. “I’ll tell you later. There are things I’d rather Paulina never find out.” He leaned close until his lips were by her ear. “I don’t entirely trust her. She’s canaille.”

  “If she’s sneaky, then maybe we shouldn’t let her wander around out there without you.” Elita took the plastic tub of first aid supplies. “I can do this. Now I don’t trust her either, so you go see why she’s so quiet.”

  Chuckling, Pryor took the tub back. “She can’t do much harm out there. She’ll probably steal something.” His lips twisted. “Always does.” He took out gauze and antibiotic ointment. “Let’s fix you up first.”

  Paulina appeared in the doorway. “Who you?” she asked Elita, pale blue eyes narrowed in her wrinkled fa
ce.

  Politeness seemed to be something the woman didn’t have at all. She’d barked out the question again like she had a right to question anyone in this home.

  “I’m Elita.”

  The beady eyes narrowed so much then they disappeared into the folds of skin on her face. “Raisonne?”

  Surprised, Elita nodded. It wasn’t like she was anyone important around here. “You know Ma’man Raisonne?”

  The snarl on those thin lips was ugly. And surprisingly vicious. Paulina didn’t answer, she merely huffed and disappeared down the hall. The front door slammed shut a moment later and Elita looked up at Pryor as he laughed.

  “I don’t know why you’re laughing,” she said. “I’m pretty sure I saw one of the family photographs sticking out of her big purse.”

  “I’ll get it back. Don’t you worry.” He gently cleaned another cut from the glass.

  Elita stayed silent, the absolute and overwhelming guilt hitting her like a blow. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed. “I shouldn’t have come back here. It was such a selfish, dumbass move. I’m so sorry.” She choked, cleared her throat, and opened her eyes. “Is the room destroyed?”

  He paused, met her gaze. “Not entirely, no.”

  “Elaborate please.”

  “Not right now.”

  She closed her eyes again and slumped harder against the tub. “Damn. Damn. Damn! I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be inside this house at all—not with the danger I seem to bring around me.” Something occurred to her and she wiggled, then reached for the snap on her shorts again. Not caring that Pryor stood up suddenly, with a completely interested look on his face, she pulled her shorts down on her side with the wounded hip. “This bruise is already yellow. Days old now.” She looked back up at him. “You did this too?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself.”

  “What will it do to you?” She grabbed his hand and turned it over to find raw, red palms on him again. “Oh, why did you do that?”

  He pulled his hand from her grasp and gently tipped up her chin. “There is no way I’d let you be around me in pain. Not you. Besides, I didn’t break any hexes, so it won’t be so bad this time. Tonight, I won’t even have to go in the—” Shock showing briefly on his face.