For Her Eyes Only

by Cait London

  “At the pond. I got that from you somehow. You spoke to me. I heard your voice.”

  Leona remembered her fear for him; Owen had picked up her love for him. And he’d kept that tidbit to himself.

  They would talk later—definitely. She steadied herself with the reminder that he was safe in her arms. Then she blotted damp paper towels over his back, circling the gash on his shoulder. It was long, if not deep. “Owen, I think we should go to the emergency room.”

  “Get the envelope out of my pocket.” His hand moved weakly toward his jeans.

  Owen’s curt order caused Leona to move quickly. Reaching in the pocket of his jeans she pulled out a rumpled envelope, gave it to him, then continued gently to pat the dried blood away from the gash. More blood welled up into the cut. “Owen, let’s go to the emergency room…Please.”

  He lifted his head and sniffed slightly. “Fresh paint?”

  Blinking owlishly at her, he rose unsteadily to his feet. He braced his hand against the wall as he walked to the hallway. When Leona hurried to support him, he stared at the chest of drawers in front of the bedroom door and groaned. He moved slowly back to the kitchen. “Don’t tell me.”

  “You need to sit down…. You said you were working on the plumbing, and I had to do something—”

  Owen turned to her, and this time his eyes were sharp and steely. He glanced at her grandmother’s handkerchief and at the candles, then at Leona. “Like what?”

  “Never mind that right now,” she answered, guiding him back to the chair.

  Owen sat down and rubbed Max’s head as if glad for a friend. “He used the microtape in the envelope. He edited my voice into what he needed. I played bits of it, before I left. I didn’t call you…. Ah, is that the teakettle whistling, or just the buzzing in my head?”

  “Are we going to the emergency room or not?” Leona demanded as she tended the kettle.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Owen—”

  “No. I’d just as soon not explain what happened…not after finding a dead woman in my pond and my revolver is missing. I may be facing questions I don’t want to answer—and neither do you. Get me some aspirin, will you? And tell me what you’ve got in your medicine cabinet in the way of bandages and antiseptics.”

  Leona hurried to gather every supply possible and returned to see Owen studying that tiny cassette tape. She set to work cleaning his back. The four-inch-long gash had ripped the outer skin. It seemed unusual, the cut almost in a V, down, then back up. “You didn’t report that gun as missing, did you? Why not?”

  “Circumstances. It could lead to a death years ago. I’d rather the details weren’t refreshed just now, but I didn’t do it,” he said, and retrieved a slug from his jeans pocket. He tossed it on the table. “I dug this out of the barn door. That cut on my back wasn’t caused by a bullet…try a three-foot-long sword blade. He sliced me once, then used the sword butt on my head. I couldn’t see through the blood. The shot came later, when I got up. He didn’t want to hit me—I’d have been an easy target. He just wanted me to know he had something I cherished—my father’s gun.”

  Leona sucked in her breath. Images of how Owen had nearly been killed tumbled around her like shards of ice. Owen glanced at her. “What?”

  She thought better of telling him just what she’d seen in that mind-stream, the connection with Borg’s descendant. “Nothing.”

  As she reached for the antiseptic, Owen frowned and caught her wrist. He turned it slowly and eased aside the rune bracelet to study her skin. “Did you burn yourself?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “You’re going to tell me about it when you stitch me up.”

  “Stitch you up?”

  Owen smiled sheepishly. “Just kidding. That’s what they did in the Old West, wasn’t it? Poured whiskey over it and used a needle and thread? But a few butterfly bandages should do it, honey.”

  “This is an odd time to start making jokes, Owen.”

  Those gray eyes pinned her again. “Going to tell me what you’ve been doing since I last saw you? Other than painting that closet? And why you’re dressed like that, with that headband, and burning candles?”

  He touched the stack of index cards. “And about those? Explain. More details. You’re leaving something out.”

  Leona was hiding something.

  At four o’clock in the morning, Owen left Leona sleeping in her guest room. It wasn’t his bed, and that grated. The instinct to have his woman, in his bed, ate at Owen. The bruise on his head and the V-shaped gash on his back hurt, despite the pain pill Leona had given him and he couldn’t sleep. The last he remembered before dozing off was Leona bending over him to smooth his hair. On his stomach, Owen had given himself to those soft hands roaming his back, her lips trailing a few soft kisses on his skin, the silky wisps of her hair across his shoulders, and had floated off into darkness….

  He’d known Leona was easing and healing him. Even Max understood something was happening and had come to look at him, then had padded off. Owen had drowsily sensed that the dog would stand guard during the night. The shadows he’d glimpsed beneath Leona’s eyes said she’d also stayed awake to rouse him periodically, to ask his name and other details, checking him for a concussion.

  Owen tentatively rolled his aching shoulder. The skin was tight and healing unbelievably fast. Those shadows on Leona’s pale skin probably had more to do with her using healing powers than actual loss of sleep. She didn’t yet know her capabilities, and that frightened Owen; he feared what she could step into.…

  As he eased out of the bedroom, he patted Max. The dog plopped down at the bedroom doorway. “Good dog. Stay with her.”

  As if he understood perfectly, Max padded to the bed and leaped up beside Leona. He lay close against her body. “Huh. Looks like you’ve done that before. Just don’t get used to it.”

  Owen took a couple of aspirin, made a turkey, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, and poured a glass of milk. He checked his messages on his cell: another five-acre farm had just come on the market, the price reasonable, and a couple of older cottages perfect for starter or retirement homes. A farmer had returned Owen’s query about the price of winter hay, and the lumberyard clerk needed to schedule delivery of the farmhouse’s new thermal windows. Owen smiled slightly at the next message: an invitation to one of the thoroughbred farms, the payoff for stepping into the town’s business and society circles.

  The final message gripped Owen: Jonas Saber, an old friend with ties to Montana’s law enforcement had received Owen’s fax, a copy of Janice’s sketch. Owen had sent the sketch to Jonas, knowing that if there was a connection between what happened to Janice and to Leona’s sister, Claire, Jonas would find it. Jonas might also be able to methodically pinpoint and date the guy’s every location and move.

  Greer’s index cards and the jewelry Leona had worn were still on the table. Leona had explained a little about the cards, but not enough. Owen sat down to eat and to compare them.

  Spreading the cards out, he tapped Janice’s, then aligned “Montana” with the “Montana” on Claire’s card. The connection jarred him. “Protector” had been written on his card, and matched the other men’s labels. Three men, three “Protectors.”

  Two cards weren’t in Greer’s handwriting. Leona had written “Grams” on one and “Dad” on another.

  The triplets’ father had died in an accident when the triplets were four. Their grandmother had gone mad and years later, she’d committed suicide. How did Leona connect them to the other cards? What else was she doing when Owen had arrived? The candlelight could have been romantic, but Leona was doing something else—she was definitely hunting. It took one to know one.

  Had she found anything? If she had, she wasn’t talking, and that ran to the issue of trust. Maybe she feared him still. Maybe she feared herself and her power.

  Owen picked up the bracelet and studied the silver runes. He could almost see Leona laying them in flickering c
andlelight, a seer at work. The runes warmed Owen’s fingers, almost as if he’d known them from another time.

  He traced the angular Viking characters as he remembered last night. The slight injury on Leona’s wrist wasn’t an accidental cooking burn. She was hiding the real cause, and Owen sensed that she was protecting him—or someone else.

  He smiled tightly; Leona had definitely acted as if she trusted him. She had hesitated only slightly when he’d mentioned the revolver could be traced to a death, but she hadn’t asked questions. She hadn’t asked about that blade either. Mention of a three-foot sword should have caused some remark and definitely questions. But Leona acted as if she already knew exactly whose sword he was talking about.

  Unused to taking orders, he’d actually liked Leona’s earlier. Her care for him seemed possessive, another indication that he was very special to her. He’d practice that “I love you” thing, so it wouldn’t come out wrong.

  After taking a sip of milk, he picked up the gold band that had been around Leona’s head, running his thumb around it. It was obviously very old. When Leona had opened the door, he’d been slightly dazed and in pain. Her long dark teal-and-turquoise gown, the gold headband around her red hair, those green eyes in that pale face, and the ethnic jewelry could have been Aisling’s, Leona’s ancestor.

  A long time ago, he’d seen someone else who looked like Leona and had dressed like her. The image flirted with Owen, then slipped from his grasp. He traced the angular characters with his fingertip; he recognized them yet they weren’t from anything he’d read or actually seen.

  Rubbing his forehead, he tried to remember. Blurred images danced beyond his grasp…. He’d seen another woman who looked like Leona, but with long red hair, tossed by the wind. He’d taken an oath to protect her children with his life. He’d seen a sword like the one tonight before. He’d hunted a man with a sword like that, tracked his scent….

  Owen looked at the runes and the candle. The white cloth the jewelry had been lying upon was linen and bordered with a woven Celtic design. The combination of the elements and Leona’s outfit tonight seemed as if she were exploring who and what she was. If she was, Leona was playing with fire, opening doors to her gifts. What had she found?

  When Max’s claws sounded on the hardwood floor, Owen looked up to see Leona coming toward the kitchen area. She looked exhausted. Leaning forward he waited until she came close to check the gauze bandage over his back. Then he caught her wrist, drawing her down to his lap. He rested his head against Leona’s shoulder; she felt like home, peaceful and sweet and a little bit like his future. “Don’t move, honey. We wouldn’t want those cuts to open again, would we?”

  “No, we don’t. You seem better.”

  “I am.” Leona stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, and Owen let himself drift softly. “Thanks,” he said simply.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “A healer, huh? I’ve heard it could happen.”

  “I had no idea. I just knew that you were responding to me, and that nothing could happen to you. How are you feeling?”

  Owen arranged her to straddle him, sliding his hand up beneath her gown to find her bare and sweetly curved. He nuzzled her breasts, found her peaked nipples beneath the fabric, and suckled them gently. Leona’s uneven breath, her body warming and moistening to his prowling fingers, caused him to smile. “I’m feeling like this,” he whispered against her ear.

  An hour later, Owen lay watching Leona sleep.

  Early dawn lightened the shadows of the room. Her hand looked pale and slender as it rested across his chest. Lifting her hand, he kissed it and studied the mark on her wrist.

  Leona shifted slightly, her leg stroking his, her fingers smoothing his chest. “Mm?”

  “He didn’t intend to kill me, Leona. He wanted something else.”

  Her tone changed to uneasy. “Uh-huh?”

  “He didn’t want to kill me last night, Leona. He’s good with that sword, or he could have killed me. It takes practice to use a blade like that. He wanted to mark me, and that’s what happened to your wrist, isn’t it? He’s marking his kills, Leona. He’s testing me for the real thing—and then it won’t be a game. You need to tell me everything you know, before he comes back to finish the job.”

  When Leona tensed and tried to pull her hand away, Owen held it momentarily. He wanted her to know that he wouldn’t give up getting answers easily. “You know something about that sword, too. I want to know what.”

  Fifteen

  “I’M IN THIS JIGSAW PUZZLE. TO PLAY THIS GAME, I NEED TO know how all the pieces fit…including Joel, your father, and grandmother.”

  Owen leaned against the kitchen counter, a cup of freshly made black chai in his hand. A strand of that sleek, blue-black hair crossed the white bandage on his forehead and those brooding, smoky eyes followed Leona. Lines cut deep at the sides of his mouth and between those dark eyebrows, and morning stubble darkened his jaw. Wearing only jeans, Owen looked tough and ready to fight.

  Leona’s hand trembled as she buttered halves of two toasted bagels. She lifted a jar of strawberry jam and silently questioned Owen. He nodded. “That looks homemade.”

  She spread the jam. “It is. It’s one of the things I like to do for my family, putting jam in jars, sealing them.”

  “Everything all nice and neat and sealed away, huh?”

  She dismissed his comment. It concerned more than jam; it concerned her life. “Sit down. I need to check your shoulder.”

  “Then we’ll talk.” Owen sat down in front of the plate of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and bacon, and dug in.

  “I didn’t know how you liked your eggs.” Leona sat down to pour milk in her chai. As she stirred circles into the dark spicy brew, she compared it to her life. It changed by the minute—Owen’s life blending with hers, the circles of life tightening around them.

  “Scrambled are fine. You could have asked,” he said.

  “You didn’t seem to be receptive earlier. You were brooding.”

  Owen munched on a piece of bacon and stared at her. “Do you blame me?”

  “Small talk makes big stuff easier. It oils the way, so to speak,” Leona stated quietly. Her chai was rich brown now and mellower. Her tea was very different from Owen’s dark brew…just as she was different from him. As a woman, definitely. As a person who wanted revenge for crimes committed against her family, she was the same. At times he seemed to move on instinct, and she had that in common with him at times, surprising herself. And there were moments when her dark and primitive elements also matched Owen’s.

  Owen’s body tensed slightly, his eyes averted to his plate. “I never learned small talk. Is that what you did with Joel?”

  Leona looked at the morning sunshine passing through the window; her life with Joel seemed centuries ago, not just five years. “We talked about our dreams as well as everyday things! the children we wanted, my shop, what kind of grass to plant, his work as a medical supplies salesman—incomes, budgets, that sort of thing. He was a very gentle person.”

  Owen took a deep breath and his fork pushed though the hash browns. “These are good.”

  His mind clearly wasn’t on food. Just yesterday, Leona had wanted to see Owen sitting just like this, talking with her. But now shadows slithered between them, and Owen was obviously comparing himself to Joel, the fit uneasy. Leaning back in his chair, his fingers toying with her rune bracelet, he finally spoke. “I loved her…my first love. I didn’t know she was married…to a rich man. My family didn’t have money. She wanted to meet in secret. I believed everything she said, that she wanted to be certain of what we had, before going public. When I found out she was married and faced her with it, she laughed. She said I wasn’t good enough to show off to her friends.”

  “Then she wasn’t good enough for you,” Leona stated firmly. Owen had finally opened a deep emotional wound to her; when wounds were opened, they could be healed. She leaned forward to brush his bottom lip, taking the ti
ny bit of jam to her own lips. Owen sucked in his breath and a jolt of sensuality hit low in her stomach. An image of him, carrying her off to bed, flickered through her mind: Owen over her, possessive, his hands staking hers to the bed, claiming her in hard, hungry thrusts. He’d been perfect for her own hunger. She’d bound him close with her body; she’d captured him as he claimed her, confident that he would see to her pleasure. She’d known that he would come gently into her arms after that storm….

  “You never made love with him like that, did you?” Owen asked suddenly, an indication that he’d also had that image of their lovemaking. He shifted uncomfortably, and in a quick show of her possession, Leona stroked his thigh. Hard muscle leaped at her touch, and pleasure rippled through her. Perfect…primitive…she could be as free as she wanted with him—or as soft and tender and feminine….

  “No. I knew I could trust Joel in certain ways. But he wouldn’t have understood a certain part of me that I’d always known existed. I think he may have been too frightened if I’d opened—and he never would have been comfortable with me again. But he did love me.”

  She’d never told Joel of Aisling’s image, the image that haunted her every time she looked in the mirror. Everything in Joel’s world had been logical. He wouldn’t have understood.

  Leona looked down at her hand on Owen’s thigh, her pale fingers pressing deep into the denim and hard muscle. She knew the feel of that skin against her own, the intimate—

  “Stop that hand, lady. You’re playing with fire.”

  “With you, yes,” she admitted. Nothing pleasured her more than setting Owen off. Love you, babe…

  Owen stilled and turned her hand to hold it. He was clearly set to tell her everything. “She didn’t really care, but that didn’t stop her husband from coming after me. I almost killed him, but a friend—Jonas Saber—stopped it. But I think she did kill her husband, with my dad’s revolver—the one that’s missing now. I’d taken it to show off for her—and she asked to borrow it, for target practice. They tracked the gun to Dad. I was in Wyoming when her husband died so I had an alibi. Dad lied for me and said he’d loaned it to her because she’d heard prowlers when her husband was gone. When the police questioned her she claimed the gun had misfired when her husband was cleaning it. They believed her, though I’ve always questioned that. Then Jonas pulled some strings and got the revolver back for my father.”