Protecting Peggy (6 page)

He was gone. Had something scared him away? She didn't know. All she knew was that she was alone. Shaking, scared and alone. Until he came back.

Sheer black waves of terror threatened to engulf her.
What if he came back? He'd been immensely strong, could have snapped her neck with one twist of his powerful hands. What if he killed her next time? Samantha had no other family, she would be alone. Who would take care of her child? Love her?

Sobbing, Peggy raised a trembling hand above her head and gripped the edge of the bench. Her fingers slipped, leaving a streak of dirt. She tried again, using both hands. When she pulled herself up, pain seared up and down her thigh from the spot on her hip that had smashed against wood.

Eyes watering from the pain, short breaths scraping at her throat, she took an unsteady step forward. Then another. Her instinct for survival shrieked for her to get inside the inn, get away. Lock herself in before he came back.

Reaching out, she gripped the bench that held the peat pots. She saw that her garden shears had landed in the middle of the small pots, scattering them. Her fingers numb and stiff, she gripped the shears as though they were a weapon. If her attacker came back, if he tried to touch her again, she would use them.

Leaning her weight against the bench, she inched toward the open door, her heart hammering wildly. Fingers of fog crept across the dirt floor, sliding around her ankles like shackles, making her progress seem more of a crawl than an unsteady walk.

Even as she told herself she was more frightened than hurt, her brain registered the sickening crunch of gravel coming from just outside the door.

She went still, her body rigid, every muscle and tendon taut. The fog-obscured silhouette that darkened
the doorway sent claws of terror digging into her throat.

He's back.

Panic threatened to swamp her, and she forced it away. She could panic later…if she survived his next attack.

With the quick, instinctive fear of a cornered victim, she raised the shears. When the dark form advanced through the door, she lunged.

 

It happened fast, a blur of motion and sound. One second, Rory was striding across the gravel parking lot, his mind half focused on the microbiological quality of Hopechest Ranch's water. The instant he stepped through the door of the greenhouse, adrenaline surged through his chest as he dodged the business end of viciously sharp garden shears.

“What the hell…?”

“Oh, God, it's you. I thought…”

When he saw the shockingly white sheen of Peggy's skin, the pure fear in her moss-green eyes, his heart stopped.

He gripped her shoulders. “What happened?”

“A man grabbed me.” She burrowed into Rory's arms as if he were a lifeline. “Did you see him out there?” Her breath came out on a broken sob. “He's out there.”

Rory looked toward the door and quelled the urge to go after the guy. With the fog so thick, it would be like searching for someone on a moonless night.

“I didn't see him,” Rory said quietly while cursing the fact his gun was upstairs, hidden in his room.

Sliding his arms tighter around Peggy's trembling body, he swept his gaze across the greenhouse's dim interior. Nothing. He saw nothing amiss, except the small pots with tiny green sprouts scattered across one of the wooden benches.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Tell me what happened.”

She shuddered. “I…thought someone…was behind me. No one was. Then…he grabbed my hair. The back of my neck.” Against his chest, Rory felt her hands fist. “He nearly lifted me off the floor. I thought… Oh, God, I thought he was going to…”

Setting his jaw, Rory eased her back. Her sweater was buttoned to the neck, and the only damage to her slacks were smudges of dirt on both knees. If she'd been raped in this setting, her clothing would be soiled, torn.

“I've got you.” He closed his eyes, slicked his palm down the length of her ponytail and chose to ignore the hard, jerky beat of his own heart. “He can't hurt you now.”

“Samantha. All I could think about was Samantha. How alone she'd be if I died.”

Rory's chin jerked up. Dammit, for the first time in his life he'd broken one of the ironclad rules of being a cop. He had let himself feel instead of think. Less than five minutes ago, he'd parked his rental car in the lot, gone into the inn through the front door and immediately started looking for Peggy. When he got to the kitchen, he spotted the flowers in the vase. Since her station wagon was parked outside, he figured she
was around somewhere, so he took a chance she might be in the greenhouse. During his short time indoors, he hadn't heard or seen Samantha.

The thought that some scum had attacked the mother to buy time to snatch her child put a sick feeling in Rory's gut. He'd worked enough crime scenes that involved kidnapped children to last a lifetime. Swallowing hard, he forced his voice to remain steady. “Where's Samantha?”

“At a friend's house.”

Relief rose in him like a wave. “Do you know who attacked you?”

“I…never saw his face.”

“Did he use a weapon?”

“Just his hands.” Her voice quavered. “They were enough.”

“Okay.” Nudging her gently back a step, Rory peeled off his leather jacket, settled it over her shoulders. “I'm taking you inside, Ireland.” In an unconscious gesture, he skimmed his long fingers over her pale cheek. Even her lips had lost color. “You need to lie down while I call the police.”

“I… Fine.”

They started toward the door. With his arm draped around her thin waist, Rory not only saw but felt the limp in her walk. His eyes narrowed as he halted.

“You are hurt.” That knowledge sent fury pounding through him.

“He shoved me.” When she looked up, he saw a flash of pain in her green eyes. “My hip rammed into the potting bench.”

“The son of a bitch.” Teeth set, Rory tightened his arm around her waist. “I'm also calling a doctor.”

“My hip's bruised, is all. I don't need a doctor.”

“Why don't we let someone with the letters M.D. after their name confirm that?”

“I don't need a doctor. Really.” She ran her tongue over her lips. “Some tea, a couple of aspirin, a hot bath and I'll be fine.”

When she leaned into him, Rory felt something move inside him. Something he was at a loss to identify. “I'll make sure you get all of those things,” he said quietly. “Plus a session with a doctor.” Never before had he felt such a searing need to protect. To rescue.

“I'm fine.” She was shaking like a leaf. “I just…need to get off my feet for a minute,” she said, then closed her eyes.

“I can help you there, too, Ireland.”

Sweeping her into his arms, Rory carried her out into the fog and the wind.

“Y
ou can set me down at the table,” Peggy said when Rory shouldered open the back door and stepped into the kitchen. She knew her voice still sounded shaky. She couldn't help it.

“You need to lie down.” With her tucked firmly in his arms, he used one foot to shove the door closed behind them. “Where's your room?”

“I just need to sit—”

“Through there?” he asked, inclining his head toward a dim hallway that jutted off the back of the kitchen.

She raised a hand, intent on protesting. When she realized she was still trembling from the attack, she expelled an unsteady breath. Maybe she did need a little more comfort than what a kitchen chair had to offer.

“Yes, through there.”

He carried her effortlessly down the hallway, then through the open door into the sitting room painted in soft white where a forest-green, button-tufted couch and matching chairs grouped around a low coffee table. Bugs, his pink fur looking worn and matted, lay on the table. After she'd stitched the poor rabbit's head back on, Peggy had looped a length of white gauze around his neck, tourniquet-style.

Rory paused, his gaze flicking between the two closed doors at the rear of the room. “Which is your bedroom?”

The thought of him venturing into the intimate confines of her bedroom tightened Peggy's throat. “Just put me on the couch.”

“You need to lie down.”

“I will. On the couch.”

When he hesitated, she pressed her palm against his chest and attempted to push from his arms. The feel of rock-hard muscles beneath her fingers told her she would have as much luck trying to move a brick wall.

His arms tightened around her. “Okay, the couch,” he said, turning on his heel.

He leaned, settling her gently into a V of soft cushions and throw pillows at one end of the couch. The gesture put his nose, his eyes, his mouth even with hers. Although she was still feeling the effects of the attack, that didn't prevent her heart from flipping straight into her throat and blocking any chance of air.

When her breath hitched, his blue eyes narrowed. “You okay, Ireland?”

Her lips parted. If he leaned the slightest bit for
ward, his mouth would be on hers. His eyes had flecks of aquamarine in them that she hadn't noticed before. His tangy scent rose from his leather jacket that still covered her shoulders. The clean, salty smell of his skin seeped into her lungs, reminding her what it was like to be this close to a man. It had been so long, so very long, since she'd been held. Just held.

“I'm fine.” Her voice wavered as she tried to ignore the ache in her throat where her pulse had begun to pound. “I'm…a little shaky.”

His gaze dropped to her throat, lingered there. With quiet deliberation, he lifted his eyes to hers. Their lethal blue color had gone one shade darker. “So am I.” He cupped his hand to her cheek too gently for her to refuse the contact. “Right now, I need to call the police. If the guy is still anywhere near, the cops might get lucky and pick him up.”

“True.”

When he straightened and headed across the room for the phone that sat on the small writing desk tucked into a corner, Peggy raised a hand to her throat. Her pulse hammered madly beneath her fingertips. If he hadn't moved when he did, she knew she would have started shaking like a leaf again.

Not from fear this time. Any question about whether Rory was as attracted to her as she was to him had been answered when his gaze lifted to hers and she'd glimpsed raw need in his eyes.

Nothing could come from that attraction, she reminded herself while she worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She wouldn't let it. Even if Rory wasn't married—which he might be—he was just
passing through. He could be packed and gone within a week, maybe even a few days.

“I need to report an assault.”

The cold reality of the words Rory spoke into the phone focused her thoughts. She gripped one of the throw pillows that littered the couch and pulled it against her chest. Jay had died one week after she found out she was pregnant, yet she had not felt as vulnerable then as she did right now. Someone had attacked her, could have done unspeakable things to her. Killed her. Her emotions were roiling, her senses reeling. She was simply having a natural reaction that made a part of her want to cling to the man who had swept her into his arms and carried her to safety.

She had to get her balance back.
Intended
to get it back. She had an inn to operate and a daughter to take care of. She was going to report what had happened to the police and later, soak in a hot bath to ease the stiffness that had already settled into her hip. She had never treated intimacy casually and she was
not
going to get involved with a man she barely knew whose long, narrow face looked akin to a pirate's.

“Dispatch is sending a uniform by.”

“Good.” Her eyes narrowed. “You sound like a cop.”

“Just repeating what the dispatcher told me.” As he spoke, Rory slid his fingertips into the back pocket of his black jeans and pulled out a business card. “I need to make another call. After that, I'll bring you some tea and a couple of aspirins.”

“Thanks.”

He checked the card, then punched a number into
the phone. “This is Rory Sinclair, I was there a couple of hours ago. It's important that I speak with Dr. Colton again. Yes,
now.
”

Peggy ignored the pain that jabbed in her hip when she leaned forward. “I told you, I'm fine. A little bruised and stiff, is all. There's no need to bother Jason.”

Rory flicked her a look out of the corner of his eye, then turned his back on her and began talking into the phone.

Eyebrows knitted, she tugged his leather jacket off her shoulders, laid it across the top of the couch then leaned back. That was the problem, she reasoned. The instant she'd seen him standing in the foyer last night, watching in silence while she put that lech, O'Connell, in his place, she had sensed that Rory Sinclair always did exactly what he pleased. He was tough and authoritative, a man whom a woman would be helpless to guide…or control.

That, she thought on a sigh, was what made him so dangerously appealing.

 

“So, you never saw his face?” Sergeant Kade Lummus asked a half hour later from the chair nearest the couch on which Peggy sat. “Not even a glimpse?”

“No. Like I said, he stayed behind me with one of his hands in my hair, the other locked on the back of my neck. The only way I'm sure it was a man was because of his strength. For an instant, he nearly lifted me off my feet.”

When the sergeant arrived, Rory had settled on the end of the couch opposite Peggy. From there, he had
answered the few questions Lummus had directed at him, then spent the remainder of the interview quietly observing. Lummus was in his mid-thirties, tall, with a tough, sinewy look about him. His uniform was pressed, the creases in his dark pants sharp enough to shave ice. He had a shrewd, intelligent face, thick black hair and observant brown eyes. It hadn't been lost on Rory that, the instant Lummus strode into Peggy's small living room, those eyes had filled with concern that went way past professional.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Rory shifted his gaze from Lummus to the opposite end of the couch. Sometime during the interview, Peggy had untied the bloodred ribbon that had held her hair loosely back. Now dark waves framed her face, tumbling down over the shoulders of her gray sweater. Her skin, which had looked sickly pale right after the attack, had regained its ivory creaminess.

He couldn't ignore the fact that he liked looking at her. Any more than he could shrug off the kick of lust he'd felt when he'd settled her on the couch and his mouth had wound up an inch from hers. Or the need that had clawed inside him when he saw her pulse pounding wildly in her throat.

Pounding for him.

He had known, in that split-second of time, that he could have her.

The memory had Rory rubbing a hand across his face. It had been more than just the knowledge of how vulnerable the attack had left her that had made him take a step back. It was the realization that there was more involved. Something that went beyond the phys
ical. Admiration, he decided. How could he not admire a woman armed only with garden shears who had the mettle to lunge at a man? A tightness settled in his chest as he pictured her with weapon raised and fire in her green eyes. Yes, whatever it was that had his insides knotted went way beyond physical.

And he damn well didn't like it. Any more than he liked the feeling of restless discontent that had plagued him over the last couple of months. Once his job in Prosperino was done, he would call his supervisor, extend his leave, go off somewhere. He needed some quiet time to think, to logic out what the hell it was in his life that had changed. Then fix it.

“I should have done something to protect myself,” Peggy snapped at Lummus. “I took that self-defense class last year that you recommended. In the greenhouse, my brain locked up and I couldn't remember a thing. That shouldn't have happened.”

Focusing back on the interview, Rory conceded that Peggy's reaction was normal. Enough time had passed since the attack that her fear had turned to anger.

Lummus apparently recognized that, too, since he nodded and said, “A woman trying to defend herself against a man twice her size doesn't have a lot of options. Like you told me, the guy was big. Strong. You couldn't exactly wrestle him to the ground.”

“I should have done
something.
I didn't even scream.” Peggy's voice quavered. Pressing her lips together, she looked down at her lap where her fingers had a death grip on a throw pillow.

Rory leaned forward, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You did do something. You survived.” His mouth
curved. “And when you thought the creep had come back, you nearly put out one of my eyes with your garden shears.”

She nodded, pulled in a deep breath. “Maybe I did do okay.”

Lummus rose. “You did more than okay.” He slid the small pad on which he'd been jotting notes back into his uniform shirt pocket. “I need to get this information on the air. We've had a couple of reports over the past week of a transient hanging around in the area. This could be the guy who attacked you. Maybe he hid in your greenhouse to get out of the cold and fog.”

“That doesn't explain why he attacked me.”

Lummus gazed down at her, his eyes concerned and intense. “The only place he could have hidden was under one of the potting benches. Maybe he figured it was only a matter of time before you spotted him. You had those shears. Could be he decided to go on the defensive and attack while you still didn't know he was there.” The cop shrugged. “My guess is you scared him as bad as he scared you. He could be in the next county by now.”

Peggy sent him a weak smile. “I hope you're right, Kade.”

Rising, Rory snagged her empty teacup from off the table. “How about more tea while you're waiting for the doctor to arrive?”

She scowled. “How about you call Jason and tell him not to waste his time coming here?”

“How about I get you more tea?”

Lummus stepped to the couch, paused, then settled
a hand on her shoulder. “Peggy, it won't hurt for Jason to have a look at you,” he said quietly.

She smiled up at him. “Thanks, Kade. I appreciate you getting here so fast.”

When she placed a hand on the cop's, a surge of emotion—feeling dangerously like jealousy—hit Rory in the center of his chest. Tightening his grip on the cup, he turned and walked down the short hallway, then into the kitchen.

With the late afternoon quickly transforming to evening, he flicked on the light switch. The copper pots suspended from the rack over the center island glowed in the instant illumination from the overhead lights.

It wasn't the warm scent of baking that permeated the air, he realized. The whole room smelled like Peggy, that hot, spicy scent that made a man's mouth water.

“You're in big trouble, Sinclair,” he muttered.

Shaking his head, he sat the cup on the island beside the paper sack he had lain there earlier that afternoon when he'd arrived back at the inn. The item in the sack was the reason he had ventured out to the greenhouse in search of Peggy.

When Lummus strode into view, Rory forced back the notion that the cop had lingered down the hall because he'd put a liplock on the inn's proprietress. Some thoughts were better ignored.

“Do you really have reports of a transient in the area?” Rory asked.

Lummus flicked him a look while shrugging on his quilted uniform jacket. “Two reports. Both from last week.” He glanced back at the hallway, then remet
Rory's gaze. “Both sightings occurred on the other side of Prosperino. Still, the guy could have made his way to this part of town by now.”

“Could have.” Rory leaned a hip against the counter. “Your theory of a transient makes sense when you take into account that the attack occurred in a greenhouse. We know for sure the guy was there before Mrs. Honeywell went inside, otherwise she'd have heard him come in. There's nothing in there worth stealing, so it wasn't someone looking for loot to pawn.”

Lummus angled his head. “You said you're a chemist, here working for Blake Fallon. Checking out the water at Hopechest Ranch.”

“That's right.”

“You mix in some law enforcement training with that science degree, Sinclair?”

Rory smiled. He figured Lummus would call Blake to check him out. “Like you said, Sergeant, I'm a chemist. I like to work out solutions to puzzles. I'm puzzled by what the man was doing in the greenhouse. What you said sounds logical.” He raised a palm. “It computes.”

“Yeah, computes.” Lummus glanced back at the hallway, his mouth tightening. “I figure the guy took off because he heard your car drive up. I don't like thinking about what he might have done to Peggy if he'd had more time.”