Fire Lily (A Dangerous Hearts Romance)

by Deborah Camp

  “I’m trying to find Cecille Meeker,” Griffon said, pressing the cloth to his throbbing head. “That’s the pretty girl’s cousin,” he told Jasper, and received a gleeful grin. “Anson knows Cecille.”

  The woman shook her head, worry dulling her eyes. “What are you called?”

  “Griffon. And you?”

  “Eva.” She glanced nervously behind him. “You go now. My husband and his sons will be looking to make sure you’ve run. Go or they’ll kill you.”

  “How did you get here … with Jeffers? Where is your Rom family?” Griffon asked, letting her guide him from the clearing. He saw that she and Jasper had been picking berries before he’d burst into their lives.

  “He took me from my family when I was thirteen. They didn’t know he lived so far away.” She shrugged off her history. “The deed was done. It was a long time ago. Go now. Go! You’re too handsome a Rom to be shot like a coyote.”

  “Which way is the creek?” Griffon peered through the slanting shadows. His head ached so fiercely that it distorted his eyesight.

  “Yonder way,” Jasper said, pointing east.

  “Eva Davidovitch … Jasper …” Griffon turned back to them, sensing comrades among this hive of hostility. He offered Eva the blood-soaked scarf, but she pressed it back to his temple. “Thanks. Thanks to you both.” He smiled at her, then at her son. “I’ll be back. I know she’s here. Dead or alive, she’s here.”

  “Paw-Paw’s coming,” Jasper whispered, giving Griffon a mighty shove that sent him reeling into the thick woods.

  Griffon regained his footing and grimaced against the pain shooting through his head. For a few moments, he couldn’t focus on a plan. He stood, rooted to the spot, his mind blank, the pain overtaking him. Then he felt her … Lily. Her thoughts came so clearly to him, he felt as if she’d spoken his name, her lips brushing his ear. He blinked and held his head, warding off his stupor to let Lily’s shining spirit guide him in the right direction.

  Over and over again, he heard her sound his name. Her worry reached out to him, pulled him along, propped him up when he would have fallen, prodded him into a run when his energy began to sag. Her thoughts of him were so strong, they carried him to her.

  Lily had been dozing, but she came to her feet in a rush of fear. She plastered one hand against her right temple and squeezed her eyes shut, nearly passing out from the tearing talons.

  “Lily, what is it?” Orrie asked, hurrying to her. “Honeypot, why are you crying? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes!” She pulled her hand away and stared at her palm. Where was the blood? Hadn’t she been shot?

  Orrie ran her hands over Lily’s hair. “What is it, child? Where do you hurt?”

  “No … not me.” As the pain subsided, she began to understand. This wasn’t her pain. “It’s Griffon.”

  “What about him?” Balthazar asked, leaping to his feet.

  “He’s hurting. He’s been shot, I think.” Lily paused to decipher the messages whirling in her mind. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and closed her eyes.

  “What are you saying, Miss Lily?” Balthazar demanded.

  “I feel … he’s coming, but he’s wounded.” She began to pace as a chill overtook her. It had been the same with Cecille. The cold, the dread, the nerves unraveling until she thought she might go mad. “Griffon … oh, Griffon.” She blinked back tears. “Come on, Griffon. Come to me. Hurry. Hurry.”

  Balthazar scratched his head. “Has she gone daft?”

  “She’s no more daffy than your Griffon Goforth. Can’t you see she’s in the grips of something terrible?” Orrie stood back to watch helplessly as Lily continued her pointless journey, going nowhere, but unable to stand still. “She knows things about people she loves. Don’t ask me to explain it. She just knows. Always has. Before I ever knew her, she had the knowing. Her own mother would be alive today if she’d listened to Lily’s warnings.”

  Lily stopped, assaulted by the ghastly memory Orrie had exposed. “I told you never to talk about that!” she snapped.

  “Yes, honey. I’m sorry.” Orrie bowed her head, contrite.

  Balthazar studied first one woman, then the other. He shook his head and squatted by the basket of food. “I’m going to have some supper because I think you’ve both taken leave of your senses. That’s what I think.”

  But it wasn’t an hour later that Griffon came stumbling into camp, one hand clamped against his bloody head.

  “Lily!” The name fell from his lips before he dropped to the ground.

  Lily rushed to him, cradling his wounded head in her lap. “I told you he was injured,” she said, looking up at Balthazar. “Now do you believe me?”

  Balthazar touched the side of Lily’s face with gentle fingertips, and his eyes shone with wonder. “I believe.” He caressed her right temple with his thumb, and his gaze moved to Griffon’s matching wound. “I believe Griffon is right about you. You’re bloody miraculous.”

  Chapter 9

  Resting Griffon’s head in her lap, Lily skimmed her thumb over the tips of his thick lashes and thought about what Balthazar had said to her when Griffon had stumbled into camp. Miraculous, she mused. Balthazar had said Griffon had described her as “bloody miraculous.”

  Sweet gratitude seeped through her. No one had ever thought of her in such terms. She was used to being chastised, ostracized even, when voicing her hunches. Only Orrie and Cecille had encouraged her to reveal her inner visions. Around all others, she stifled herself. She’d learned to block out the “knowing” and tell no one of her waking dreams. But Griffon had seen within her and had not shunned her. He had called her “miraculous.”

  Lily adjusted the makeshift bandage, made from a length of Orrie’s petticoat, wrapped around his head. They’d all doctored him, working together to cleanse the wound where a bullet had burned through his skin. Balthazar had determined that Griffon wasn’t as badly hurt as they’d all feared when he’d staggered through the brush, blood staining his head and his shirt. Head wounds bled profusely, no matter how slight, Balthazar had assured the frightened women. They’d stopped the bleeding and bandaged his head. Balthazar had removed Griffon’s blood-soaked shirt, and Orrie had taken it to the creek and washed it. Now it hung over a tree branch, drying in the evening breeze.

  They’d all realized that Griffon was their focal point. He lashed them together. Without him, they’d never find Cecille. That had become crystal clear to Lily as she’d washed the blood from Griffon’s face, neck, and shoulders. Perhaps she could help, but it would take Griffon to find Cecille. Griffon, who could channel his powers. Griffon, who had no fear of those powers.

  “You’re the miraculous one,” she whispered, dousing her hanky with water from the flask and cooling his face and throat with it. “Your powers of perception are so strong, th-they scare me.”

  It was true. When she’d heard his name the first time, she’d been frightened. The word psychic sent dread through her. Hadn’t she rejected that word and others like it her whole life? Yet, over the last few days, she’d become less afraid and more intrigued. Her fingers touched her temple with the memory of the pain she’d endured—a ghost pain, Griffon’s pain. She’d known the exact moment when the bullet had plowed through his hair, taking a flap of skin with it. She had felt him running, diving through the woods, trying to reach her.

  “I’m here,” she whispered, bending over him to press her lips to his bandaged forehead. Remembering she wasn’t alone, she glanced toward Orrie and Balthazar and was relieved to see that they were deep in whispered conversation, their backs to her.

  Balthazar had decided to chance a small campfire. He and Orrie had rolled out the bedding, placing the women’s on one side of the fire and the men’s on the other.

  Griffon stirred and mumbled something, giving Lily a start and causing both Orrie and Balthazar to spin around.

  “Griffon?” Lily cradled his chin in her palm and pressed her fingers and thumb gently into his lean cheeks.
“It’s Lily. Wake up, Griffon. Come back to us.”

  Cloudy blue eyes stared at her through plentiful, black lashes. His lips moved and he swallowed with difficulty. Lily tipped the flask to his lips and he drank deeply, sputtered, then drank some more. Balthazar came to crouch beside them. Orrie stood next to Lily and squeezed Lily’s shoulder.

  “See? Told you he’d come around soon,” Orrie said. “He’s going to be feelin’ fine by tomorrow.”

  “Take a swig of this. It’ll kick the life back into you.” Balthazar produced a small flask from his inner coat pocket and uncapped it. Amber liquid trickled into Griffon’s mouth. Griffon choked, mostly in surprise, then gulped greedily. “That’s the way, my friend. Drink it all.”

  “What is that?” Lily asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  “He shouldn’t drink that!”

  “Why not?” Balthazar asked.

  “Yes, why not?” Orrie echoed.

  “It’s spirits. He … he’s ill enough already.”

  “Don’t you fret,” Orrie said, patting her shoulder. “Whiskey is medicine to the ill. Look, his color’s already comin’ back. See that flush in his cheeks?”

  Lily caressed his flushed cheek with her finger. Griffon smiled lopsidedly. “I think he’s getting drunk.”

  “Who’s getting drunk?” Griffon asked, his voice foggy, his words sliding together.

  “Griffon?” Lily held a lock of inky hair off his forehead. “How do you feel? Are you in much pain?”

  “Not much.” He lifted a hand to explore the cloth wrapped tightly around his head. “Feels as if there’s a blooming blacksmith in there hammering away at what’s left of my brain.”

  “Poor thing,” Lily crooned. “Those Jefferses will pay for hurting you. I swear it.”

  “What are you going to do?” Griffon asked, still wearing that crooked grin. “Scold them to death?” His grin grew when Balthazar barked a laugh and Orrie giggled.

  “I can see you’re feeling much better,” Lily said, trying to sound miffed but failing. “And I’m ever so glad. We’ve been on pins and needles.”

  “Can you put something in your belly?” Balthazar fit an arm beneath Griffon’s shoulders. “Sit up, Griffon.”

  “Don’t hurry things. He’s weak and—”

  “He’ll feel much better on his own power,” Balthazar said, overruling Lily’s qualms. “We saved you a pork chop, a hunk of bread, and an apple.” He propped Griffon against a tree trunk. “Got some hot coffee here, too. I went ahead and built a small fire.”

  Lily sat to one side, letting Balthazar and Orrie fuss over Griffon. Weariness washed over her, and she suddenly found it hard to keep her eyes open. Now that Griffon was awake and in good hands, she felt utter, deflating relief. Using every shred of energy she had left, she went to her pallet, removed her shoes, unbraided her hair, and curled onto the thin pad of bedding. It felt as good as a feather mattress to her tired body, and sleep had no trouble finding her.

  Coming awake slowly, Lily realized it was still dark. Her name, spoken by Griffon, jerked her to full wakefulness, but she didn’t move. Balthazar’s voice rumbled. Parting her lashes a fraction, she saw Griffon and Balthazar on the other side of the fire, sitting side by side, talking quietly. Orrie’s soft snoring sounded near her. Having finished eating, Griffon looked better. Natural color had returned to his skin. He propped an arm on his bent knee and laughed at whatever Balthazar had said. Lily strained to hear the conversation, telling herself she had a right to eavesdrop since they seemed to be discussing her.

  “She did that, did she?” Griffon asked, and Balthazar nodded.

  “Grabbed her head like she’d been shot and said you were hurt. It wasn’t an hour before you came bleeding into camp. You don’t seem surprised by this.”

  “I’m not.”

  “You did tell me that you thought she was special, but I thought you were thinking with what you’ve got between your legs instead of what’s between your ears. What happened tonight convinced me otherwise.”

  Lily was glad for the cover of darkness, for she was sure she’d blushed clear up to the tips of her ears. Even her scalp tingled. She turned her face into the lumpy pillow, closed her eyes, but kept her ears open for every sound, every word or sigh.

  “The first night we stayed at the Meeker house something happened that disturbed me,” Griffon said. “I had a dream, but it didn’t seem to have any connection to my own life. Usually, as you know, Zar, my dreams are puzzles I can solve. But not this one. Not until I spoke with Lily later did I discover the reason why.” He fell silent and only the crackle of the dying fire competed with night crickets and croaking frogs. “I dreamed her dream, Zar.”

  Lily frowned into the pillow. What on earth did that mean?

  “What say?” Balthazar asked, obviously as puzzled as Lily. “Her dream? I don’t understand.”

  “Somehow, her dream entered my unconscious mind. Visions of dolls, one with ink stains. I couldn’t figure out why I’d dream such a thing, but then Lily mentioned she’d dreamed it. It was a childhood memory about her and Cecille. That’s never happened before, Zar, and I began to realize the power of her mind.”

  Initially, Lily rejected the story, but common sense gradually won her over. Why would he make this up? Besides, she remembered that morning when he’d seemed so interested in the recollection of her dream, of the swing outside her bedroom window, of the doll she’d ruined. At the time, she’d wondered about his strange reaction. Now it was clear. But that didn’t make it any less disturbing. The man could not only read her mind, he shared her dreams! The men’s voices wove through her shocked thoughts.

  “… a witch burned at the stake,” Balthazar was saying.

  “Yes, that’s true. Witches and warlocks; that’s what we used to be called.”

  “Some still believe you’re spawned from the devil or from some evil place.”

  “Do you think that’s why she resists me so?”

  “Who?”

  “Lily, of course.”

  “She resists you, does she?” Amusement colored Balthazar’s rumbling bass.

  “Much to my eternal regret, yes.”

  “That wasn’t what she was doing earlier. Why, she hovered over you like a guardian angel. She was absolutely possessive of you!”

  Lily cringed, wishing Balthazar was less theatrical and more truthful. She’d shown concern, that’s all.

  “She’d never admit it,” Griffon said, sounding depressed. “Did you notice that once I was conscious again she put as much distance as she could between us? She doesn’t hold me in high regard, Zar.”

  “You’re foreign to her, that’s all. Your accent, the way you dress, your background … she’s never known anyone like you. She’ll warm up. I bet she’s different toward you by morning even. I tell you, Griffon, she was frantic when she thought you were near death. Frantic.”

  Griffon heaved a sigh. “No. She looks down on me. She’s afraid to get too close. She thinks I’ll soil her.”

  Lily bit her lips to keep from crying out in protest. Her mind yelled to him that he was wrong … wrong! It was that stupid Gypsy goat remark—thought—and he’d never forget it. Never forgive her for it. It wasn’t fair for him to snoop into her mind and find things he wasn’t meant to find, and then punish her for them. She didn’t think he was beneath her. She just felt vulnerable around him. She’d always been able to fold into herself for protection, but she had no shield from him. There wasn’t anywhere she could go that he couldn’t follow.

  Eyes tightly shut, she sought courage, but couldn’t find enough of it to tell Griffon what was in her heart. Yet, she had to find a way, she knew. When he’d been wounded, she’d realized how much she’d come to care for him. Against her own counsel, she’d put her trust in him. She admired him, found herself wishing to be more like him. It must be wonderful to simply be one’s self, she thought. To admit all frailties, all strengths, all problems and peculiarities, and not flinch when ot
hers laughed at you or turned their backs on you. Yes, she must tell him that she cared and didn’t fancy herself his superior.

  Opening her eyes, she smothered a gasp when she saw a tall silhouette standing over her. The shape moved sideways so that the firelight fell upon his face. Griffon! Her heart floated from her throat to its rightful place in her chest.

  “You … you.” She held the blanket high against her throat. “You gave me a start. Is something wrong?”

  “Thank you, Lily.”

  “For what?”

  “The kind words … thoughts.” He came down on one knee. His eyes were a shade of blue that made her think of heaven. “I needed them. It pained me—more than this gash in my head—that you thought of me as filth. I still don’t entirely understand why you reject me and what I offer, but it’s a comfort to know that you hold some regard for me.”

  Lily propped herself up on her elbows and scowled at him. “Griffon, you simply must stop intruding on my private thoughts.”

  “Even when they make me feel wonderful?”

  “Well … I’m glad you’re feeling better. And if I’ve helped in some way, then I suppose I’ll forgive you this one time for stealing my thoughts.”

  “I’m not stealing them, only sharing them.” He bent closer until his lips brushed her temple. “She’s there, Lily,” he whispered against her hair. “They’re hiding her.”

  Lily clutched at the collar of his shirt. Linked as they were, she knew he was talking about Cecille being held captive by the Jefferses.

  “Griffon, did you see her?”

  “No, but I felt her.”

  “She’s alive? You think she’s alive?”

  “That I can’t say for sure. I only know that she’s been there—recently—and the Jefferses don’t want anyone to know about it.” He nuzzled her ear, blowing softly. “I saw your secret admirer. Jasper Jeffers? And I met his mother. She’s Gypsy.”

  “A real Gypsy?”

  “Yes. I think she and Jasper might help us if they can.”