Mirror of My Soul, Joey Hill [ereader iphone .txt] 📗

him want to turn cartwheels, but he took her hand as if they’d been carrying on a two-way conversation all along, his only reaction a tremor that ran through his fingers, which he covered by tightening his grip on her.

“But you will. Because you love me.”

“Talk too much.” She closed her eyes. “Never shut up. Tired. Sleep.”

“Food first,” he said firmly, then couldn’t stop himself from holding her to him a moment. He kept his touch tender when he wanted to crush her, shake her. Beg her to talk some more.

He took her downstairs, coaxed her into an unsatisfying handful of bites. He was sure Sarah was cooking nine or ten different dishes for each meal, anything to coax out her appetite. Just nothing—

“Oh, holy Christ.” He almost smacked himself in the head for his stupidity.

“Marguerite?” He took her hand. She was nodding off in the chair, inflicting sleep on herself to escape again. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Her eyes opened, a glimmer of interest. After a quick call to Sarah he found that he had three types, all ones Marguerite had brought to his house for him to try. In short 195

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order, Sarah had steeped and brought him a cup of each. He spaced them before her as he’d seen her do at her own shop when she drank from several in succession, trying the different flavors on her tongue.

She studied them, reached out, touched them, moved them, changed their

arrangement on the table, making their relationship a more widely spaced triangle.

Picking up the middle one with her functioning right hand, she started to bring it to her lips. She hadn’t eaten enough and she was normally left-handed. Her hand started to shake. Leaning forward, Tyler steadied it with his own and moved with her to bring it to her lips. It touched briefly, a quick sip. Her eyes looked up at him then down as she drank some more. He could tell her hand was tired, so he pulled over a chair and sat next to her. Slid his arm around her so she could lay her head carefully on his shoulder as she continued to take sips. Both his hands were clasped under hers, cupping them and the teacup, giving her the extra strength. He noticed the cup’s heat and his heat were warming her fingers somewhat.

“Japanese tea ceremonies, cha-no-yu…”

Her voice drifted off, and he coaxed her back. “What about them? Talk to me,

angel.”

“During…the cha-no-yu… You do things a certain way, behave a certain way.

Make the outside world quiet…contemplate… Stupid things. The way a flower grows.”

Her throat was rusty with disuse and she was quiet for another moment while he waited, trying not to press. “Only it’s not stupid. It’s beautiful. Simple and perfect. Why can’t we be like that…”

“You’re like that to me,” he said at last. “I could sit and watch you do nothing for hours except sit in my garden. With the flowers. With that perfection.” He fished out a handkerchief, took it to her eyes as he saw a tear fall into the bowl of the cup.

“Not.” She sniffed. “Only if I was naked. You’d get bored otherwise.”

“You being naked would be a lovely perk, but you’re wrong. I would spend my

entire life looking at you. Clothed or not clothed. I want to, remember?”

She closed her eyes, her face adjusting carefully to burrow into his neck. As her hand lowered, he helped her ease the cup back to the table. “You never give up.”

“No. I don’t. Not on you.”

“You should. Just let me die, Tyler. I’m so tired.”

Fear crawled inside him. The anger that was so close to the surface ripped at him with rabid teeth, but he managed to rein back the reaction. Lifting her from him, still supporting her, he curved his hand around her delicate jaw, his finger teasing her lips, bringing her eyes up to him. “Not going to happen. So stop pouting about it and get over it. I love you and you’re stuck with me. You sleep as much as you need to, until you’re no longer tired. Awake or asleep, I’m here with you.”

A sigh went out of her. Her blue eyes drifted closed, the lids coming down over that distant, sad look, but he thought for a moment he saw a reaction of aggression.

Defiance. But then she was gone, her breath even, telling him she’d left him again.

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The desolation swept him, but he fought it. She’d spoken.

To tell him she wanted to die.

He lifted her, carried her to the sofa in the sunroom. He spent the rest of the afternoon watching over her slumber, doing paperwork, watching TV, reading. Trying not to lose his mind and roar his frustration.

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Chapter Nineteen

“Mr. Winterman? There’s a gentleman at the door for you. Well, actually he says he’s here for Miss Marguerite.”

Tyler left Robert watching over Marguerite and was surprised to find Brendan

standing in his foyer. He wore jeans and a crisp shirt, his hair styled well. Every inch of him the late twenty-something professional, the pretty-boy type with a great body, the kind of looks that would make a woman run through a stoplight and create a four-car pile up to gawp at his ass if he was walking down the sidewalk.

He was a beautiful man, a man who carried Marguerite’s brand. Tyler was all too cognizant of that as he turned from his contemplation of the vaulted ceiling, the artwork. “Master Tyler. You have a beautiful place here.”

“Brendan. It’s a long drive, unannounced.”

“I thought I could make a better case in person. It’s going around The Zone, what Mistress Marguerite did. I want to help. I thought I could help, in some way.”

“How?” Tyler asked bluntly.

“Her name was on the news. Everyone knows she saved the little girl and the

kidnapper was a man named Peninski, a released convict.” Brendan met Tyler’s gaze.

“Do