Megan's Mate

  Nathaniel now was like fac­ing a wolf with fangs sharp and exposed. His partner was useless, and the man shifted his eyes for the best route of escape.

  Then his eyes lit up.

  Lunging, he grabbed one of the boards waiting to be nailed to the deck. He was grinning now, advanc­ing and swinging the board like a bat. Nathaniel felt the wind whistle by his ear as he feinted left, then the wood slapping on his shoulder on the return swing.

  He went in low. The rushing power took them both over the deck and smashing through the front door.

  “Fire in the hole!” Bird shouted out. “All hands on deck!” His wings flapped frantically as the two men hurtled across the room.

  A small table splintered like toothpicks under their combined weight. The wrestling wasn't pretty, nor was there any grace in the short body punches or the gouging fingers. The cottage rang with smashing fur­niture and harsh breathing.

  Something new crept into the jungle scent of sweat and blood. When he recognized fear, Nathaniel's adrenaline pumped faster, and he used the new weapon as ruthlessly as his fists.

  He closed his hand around the thick throat, thumb crushing down on the windpipe. The fight had gone out of his opponent. The man was flailing now, gag­ging.

  “Who sent you?” Nathaniel's teeth were bared in a snarl as he grabbed the man by the hair and rapped his head hard on the floor.

  “Nobody.”

  Breathing through his teeth, Nathaniel hauled him over, twisted his arm and jerked it viciously up his back. “I'll snap it like a twig. Then I'll break the other one, before I start on your legs. Who sent you?”

  “Nobody,” the man repeated, then screamed thinly when Nathaniel increased the pressure. “I don't know his name. I don't!” He screamed again, almost weep­ing now. “Some dude outa Boston. Paid us five hun­dred apiece to teach you a lesson.”

  Nathaniel kept the arm twisted awkwardly, his knee on the man's spine. “Draw me a picture.”

  “Tall guy, dark hair, fancy suit.” The squat man babbled out curses, unable to move without increas­ing his own agony. “Name of God, you're breaking my arm.”

  “Keep talking and it's all I'll break.”

  “Pretty face—like a movie star. Said we was to come here and look you up. We'd get double if we put you in the hospital.”

  “Looks like you're not going to collect that bo­nus.” After releasing his arm, Nathaniel dragged the man up by the scruff of his neck. “Here's what you're going to do. You're going to go back to Boston and tell your pretty-faced pal that I know who he is and I know where to find him.” For the hell of it, Nathan­iel rammed the man against the wall on the way out the door. “Tell him not to bother looking over his shoul­der, because if I decide he's worth going after, he won't see me coming. You got that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

  “Now pick up your partner.” The other man was struggling onto his hands and knees. “And start run­ning.”

  They didn't need any more urging. Pressing a hand to his ribs, Nathaniel watched until they'd completed their limping race out of sight.

  He gave in to a groan then, hobbling painfully through the broken door and into the house.

  “I have not yet begun to fight,” Bird claimed.

  “A lot of help you were,” Nathaniel muttered. He needed ice, he thought, a bottle of aspirin and a shot of whiskey.

  He took another step, stopping, then swearing, when his vision blurred and his legs wobbled like jelly.

  Dog came out of the corner where he'd huddled, whimpering, and whined at Nate's feet.

  “Just need a minute,” he said to no one in partic­ular, and then the room tilted nastily on its side. “Oh, hell,” he murmured, and passed out cold.

  Dog licked at him, tried to nuzzle his nose, then sat, thumped his tail and waited. But the smell of blood made him skittish. After a few moments, he waddled out the door.

  Nathaniel was just coming to when he heard the footsteps approaching. He struggled to sit up, winc­ing at every blow that had gone unfelt during the heat of battle. He knew that if they'd come back for him, they could tap-dance on his face without any resis­tance from him.

  “Man overboard,” Bird announced, and earned a hissing snarl from Nathaniel.

  Holt stopped in the doorway and swore ripely. “What the hell happened?” Then he was at Nathan­iel's side, helping him to stand.

  “Couple of guys.” Too weak to be ashamed of it, Nathaniel leaned heavily on Holt. It began to occur to him that he might need more than aspirin.

  “Did you walk into a robbery?”

  “No. They just stopped by to beat me to a pulp.”

  “Looks like they did a good job of it.” Holt waited for Nathaniel to catch his breath and his balance. “Did they mention why?”

  “Yeah.” He wiggled his aching jaw and saw stars. “They were paid to. Courtesy of Dumont.”

  Holt swore again. His friend was a mess, bruised, bloodied and torn. And it looked as though he were too late to do anything other than mop up the spills.

  “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “Yeah, good enough. I kicked their butts back to Boston to deliver a little message to Dumont.”

  Half carrying Nathaniel to the door, Holt stopped, took another survey. “You look like this, and you won?”

  Nathaniel merely grunted.

  “Should have known.” The news made Holt mar­ginally more cheerful. “Well, we'll get you to the hospital.”

  “No.” Damned if he'd give Dumont the satisfac­tion. “Son of a bitch told them they'd get a bonus if they put me in the hospital.”

  “Then that's out,” Holt said with perfect under­standing. “Just a doctor then.”

  “It's not that bad. Nothing's broke.” He checked his tender ribs. “I don't think. Just need some ice.”

  “Yeah, right.” But, being a man, Holt was in per­fect sympathy with the reluctance to be bundled off to a doctor. “Okay, we're going to the next-best place.” He eased Nathaniel into the car. “Take it slow, ace.”

  “I can't take it otherwise.”

  With a snap of his fingers, Holt ordered Dog into the car. “Hold on a minute while I phone Suzanna, let her know what's going on.”

  “Feed the bird, will you?”

  Nathaniel drifted between pain and numbness until Holt returned.

  “How'd you know to come by?”

  “Your dog.” Holt started the car and eased it as gently as possible out of the drive. “He played Las­sie.”

  “No fooling?” Impressed, Nathaniel made the ef­fort to reach back and pat Dog on the head. “Some dog, huh?”

  “It's all in the bloodlines.”

  Nathaniel roused himself enough to probe his face with cautious fingers. “Where are we going?”

  “Whereelse?” Holt headed for The Towers.

  Coco squealed at the sight of him, pressing both hands to her cheeks, as Nathaniel hobbled into the family kitchen with one arm slung over Holt's supporting shoulders.

  “Oh, you poor darling! What happened? Was there an accident?”

  “Ran into something.” Nathaniel dropped heavily into a chair. “Coco, I'll trade you everything I own, plus my immortal soul, for a bag of ice.”

  “Goodness.”

  Brushing Holt away, she took Nathaniel's battered face in her hands. In addition to bruises and scrapes, there was a jagged cut under one eye. The other was bloodshot and swelling badly. It didn't take her longer than a moment to see that the something he'd run into was fists.

  “Don't you worry, sweetheart, we'll take care of you. Holt, run up to my room. There's a bottle of painkillers in the medicine chest, from when I had that nasty root canal.”

  “Bless you,” Nathaniel managed. He closed his eyes, listening to her bustling around the kitchen. Moments later he hissed and jerked when a cool cloth dabbed the cut under his eye.

  “There, there, dear,” she cooed. “I know it hurts, but we have to get it clean so there's no
infection. I'm going to put a little peroxide on it now, so you just be brave.”

  He smiled, but found that did nothing to help his torn lip. “I love you, Coco.”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.”

  “Let's elope. Tonight.”

  Her answer was to lay her lips gently on his brow. “You shouldn't fight, Nathaniel. It doesn't solve anything.”

  “I know.”

  Breathless from the run, Megan burst into the kitchen. “Holt said— Oh, God.” She streaked to Na­thaniel's side, grabbed his sore hand so tightly he had to bite down to suppress a yelp. There was blood dry­ing on his face, and there were bruises blooming. “How bad are you hurt? You should be in the hospi­tal.”

  “I've had worse.”

  “Holt said two men came after you.”

  “Two?” Coco's hand paused. 'Two men attacked you?” All the softness fled from her eyes, hardening them to tough blue steel. “Why, that's reprehensible. Someone should teach them how to fight fair.”

  Despite his lip, Nathaniel grinned. “Thanks, beau­tiful, but I already did.”

  “I hope you knocked their heads together.” After a huffing breath, Coco went back to work on his face. “Megan, dear, fix Nate an ice bag for his eye. It's go­ing to swell.”

  Megan obeyed, torn into dozens of pieces, by the damage to his face, by the fact that he hadn't even looked at her.

  “Here.” She laid the cool bag against his eye while Coco cleaned his torn knuckles.

  “I can hold it. Thanks.” He took it from her, let the ice numb the pain.

  “There's antiseptic in the left-hand cupboard, sec­ond shelf,” Coco said.

  Megan, feeling weepy, turned to get it.

  The door opened again, this time letting in a crowd. Nathaniel's initial discomfort with the audience turned to reluctant amusement as the Calhouns fired ques­tions and indignation. Plans for revenge were plotted and discarded while Nathaniel suffered the sting of iodine.

  “Give the boy air!” Colleen commanded, parting her angry grandnieces and nephews like a queen mov­ing through her court. She eyed Nathaniel. “Banged, you up pretty good, did they?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Her eyes were shrewd. “Dumont,” she murmured, so that only he could hear.

  Nathaniel winced. “Right the first time.”

  She glanced at Coco. “You seem to be in able hands, here. I have a call to make.” She smiled thinly. It helped to have connections, she thought as she tapped out of the room with her cane. And through them she would see that Baxter Dumont knew he had put a noose around his own neck, and that one false move would mean his career would come to an abrupt and unpleasant stop.

  Nobody trifled with Colleen Calhoun's family.

  Nathaniel watched Colleen go, then took the pill Coco held out to him and gulped it down. The move­ment sent fresh pain radiating up his side.

  “Let's get that shirt off.” Trying to sound cheerful, Coco attacked the torn T-shirt with kitchen shears.

  The angry mutters died away as Nathaniel's bruised torso was exposed.

  “Oh.” Tears stung Coco's eyes. “Oh, baby.”

  “Don't pamper the boy.” Dutch came in holding two bottles. Witch hazel and whiskey. One look at Nathaniel had him gritting his teeth together so hard they ached, but he kept his voice careless. “He ain't no baby. Take a shot of this, Captain.”

  “He's just taken a pill,” Coco began.

  “Take a shot,” Dutch repeated.

  Nathaniel winced once as the whiskey stung his lip. But it took the edge off a great many other aches. “Thanks.”

  “Look at ya.” Dutch snorted and dumped the witch hazel onto a cloth. “Let 'em pound all over you, like some city boy with sponges where his fists should be.”

  “There were two of them,” Nathaniel muttered.

  “So?” Dutch gently swabbed the bruises. “You getting so outa shape you can't take two?”

  “I kicked their butts.” Experimentally Nathaniel probed a tooth with his tongue. It hurt, but at least it wasn't loose.

  “Better had,” Dutch returned, with a flash of pride. “Tried to rob you, did they?”

  Nathaniel's gaze flashed to Megan. “No.”

  “Ribs're bruised.” Ignoring Nathaniel's curse, Dutch prodded and poked until he was satisfied. “Not cracked though.” He crouched, peered into Nathan­iel's eyes. “D'ya pass out?”

  “Maybe.” It was almost as bad as another thump­ing to admit it. “For a minute.”

  “Vision blurred?”

  “No, Doc. Not now.”

  “Don't get smart. How many?” He held up two thick fingers.

  “Eighty-seven.” Nathaniel would have reached for the whiskey again, but Coco shoved it aside.

  “He's not drinking any more on top of the pill I gave him.”

  “Women think they know every damn thing.” But Dutch sent her a look, reassuring her that their charge would be all right. “Bed's what you need now. A hot soak and cool sheets. Want I should cany you?”

  “Hell, no.” That was one humiliation he could do without. He took Coco's hand, kissed it. “Thanks, darling. I'd do it all again if I knew you'd be my nurse.” He looked back at Holt. “I could use a ride home.”

  “Nonsense.” Coco disposed of that idea instantly. “You'll stay here, where we can look after you. You may very well have a concussion, so we'll take shifts waking you up through the night to be sure you don't slip into a coma.”

  “Wives' tales,” Dutch grunted, but nodded at her behind Nathaniel's back.

  “I'll turn down the bed in the rose guest room,” Amanda stated. “C.C., why don't you run our hero a nice hot bath? Lilah, bring that ice along.”

  He didn't have the energy to fight the lot of them, so he sat back as Lilah walked over and touched her lips gently to his. “Come on, tough guy.”

  Sloan moved over to help him to his feet. “Two of them, huh? Puny guys?”

  “Bigger than you, pal.” He was floating just a lit­tle as he hobbled up the stairs between Sloan and Max.

  “Let's get those pants off,” Lilah said, when they'd eased him down to sit on the side of the bed.

  He still had the wit to arch a brow at her. “You never said that when it counted. No offense,” he added to Max.

  “None taken.” With a chuckle, Max bent down to pull off Nathaniel's shoes. He knew what it was to be nursed back to health by the Calhoun women, and he figured that once Nathaniel got past the worst of the pain, he'd realize he'd landed in heaven. “Need some help getting in the tub?”

  “I can handle it, thanks.”

  “Give a call if you run into trouble.” Sloan held the door open, waiting until the room cleared. “And, when you're more up to it, I'd like the whole story.”

  Alone, Nathaniel managed to ease himself into the hot water. The first flash of agony passed, transform­ing gradually into something closer to comfort. By the time he'd climbed out again, the worst seemed to be over.

  Until he looked in the mirror.

  There was a bandage under his left eye, another on his temple. His right eye looked like a rotting tomato. That left the bruises, the swollen lip, the nasty scrape on his jaw. All in all, he thought, he looked like hell.

  With a towel slung around his waist, he stepped back into the bedroom, just as Megan came in the hallway door.

  “I'm sorry.” She pressed her lips together to keep herself from saying all manner of foolish things. “Amanda thought you might want another pillow, some more towels.”

  “Thanks.” He made it to the bed and lay back with a sigh of relief.

  Grateful for something practical to do, she hurried to the bed, plumped and arranged pillows for him, smoothed the sheets. “Is there anything I can get you? More ice? Some soup?”

  “No, this is fine.”

  “Please, I want to help. I need to help.” She couldn't bear it any longer, and she laid a hand to his cheek. “They hurt you. I'm so sorry they hurt you.”

&nbs
p; “Just bruises.”

  “Damn it, don't be so stupid—not when I'm look­ing right at you, not when I can see what they did.” She pulled back on the need to rage and looked help­lessly into his eyes. “I know you're angry with me, but can't you let me do something?”

  “Maybe you'd better sit down.” When she did, he took her hand in his. He needed the contact every bit as much as she did. “You've been crying.”

  “A little.” She looked down at his damaged knuckles. “I felt so helpless downstairs, seeing you like this. You let Coco tend you, and you wouldn't even look at me.” Drenched with emotion, her eyes came back to his. “I don't want to lose you, Nathan­iel. It's only that I've just found you, and I don't want to make another mistake.”

  “It always comes back to him, doesn't it?”

  “No, no. It comes back to me.”

  “What he did to you,” Nathaniel corrected grimly.

  “All right, yes.” She brought his hand to her cheek. “Please, don't walk away from me. I don't have all the answers yet, but I know when Holt said you'd been hurt—my heart just stopped. I've never been so frightened. You mean so much to me, Nathaniel. Let me just take care of you until you're better.”

  “Well.” He was softening, and he reached out to stroke her hair. “Maybe Dumont did me a favor this time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. Maybe his brain was a little ad­dled by the drug and the pain. He hadn't meant to tell her, at least not yet. But he thought she had the right to know.

  “The two guys that jumped me tonight. Dumont hired them.”

  Every ounce of color faded from her cheeks.”What are you saying? You're saying that Baxter paid them to attack you? To—”

  “Rough me up, that's all. I'd say he was sore about me tossing him in the water and was looking for some payback.” He shifted, winced. “He'd have been smarter to put his money on a couple of pros. These two were real amateurs.”

  “Baxter did this.” Megan's vision hazed. She shut her eyes until she was sure it had cleared again. “My fault.”

  “Like hell. None of it's been yours, not from the start. He did what he did to you, Suzanna, the kids. Chickenhearted bastard couldn't even fight for him­self. Hey.” He tugged on her hair. “I won, remem­ber. He didn't get what he'd paid for.”

  “Do you think that matters?”

  “It does to me. If you want to do something for me, Megan, really want to do something for me, you'll push him right out of your head.”

  “He's Kevin's father,” she whispered. “It makes me sick to think it.”

  “He's nothing. Lie down here with me, will you?”