Read Online The Trouble with Magic (Loveswept) by Mary Kay McComas - Free Book Online
Authors: Mary Kay McComas
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devotion.
But that was neither here nor there, he decided, pushing his tall frame from a soft leather chair to fix himself another drink.
He’d showed himself through the rooms on the first floor. They were beautifully decorated, stuffed with antiques and, like the other unused rooms in the house, shrouded in dustcovers. Only Harriet’s bedroom and bath, the kitchen, and the library looked lived-in.
He liked the library. Books lining all four walls, circled by a catwalk, the large room felt close and cozy and friendly. Despite the copyright dates in some of the books and the number of first edition collectibles scattered throughout the shelves there was a ... youthfulness about the room, almost as if the words and wisdom contained within stayed endlessly young, waiting to appeal to any fresh, inquiring mind that happened by.
There were two huge mahogany desks, one positioned near each of the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the light. The sound of his footsteps was muffled in a thick area rug, woven in warm hues of gold and russet. Soft brown leather wing chairs and ottomans were pulled close to the six-foot fireplace. It would be a homey room any season of the year, he imagined.
He rubbed the dull ache in his temples and paced. It could have been the Library of Congress and not a single volume would contain the answer to his present dilemma.
There had to be a way to get around her. Talking reason to a woman, sane or not, was a waste of breath. And Harriet was not only a woman, she was a willful and resolved woman. God help him, she was a woman with a cause, which meant she’d see her foolish scheme through to the end.
Thinking about it made his head hurt more. He needed to think clearly. The answer was most likely quite simple, if he could just get a handle on it. A rescue fire on the beach? Smoke signals? If there was a chance that someone on a passing cargo ship or ferry or tug or even a fishing boat would hear him, he could scream his lungs out for help.
“Damn the woman,” he said, sitting back down in a chair by the empty fireplace. What would induce her to abandon this madness, short of disaster, injury, or illness?
The tense throbbing in his forehead started to break up and scatter. His lips curled upward at the corners. A germ of an idea took root in his mind, then bloomed in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he was feeling much better.
“Mr. Dunsmore? Payton?” Harriet said a short while later, alarmed, having entered the library to find Payton sprawled out in a chair, a leg flung over one armrest, his face buried in the bend of his shirtsleeve. “What is it? Are you all right?” She hurried to his side.
“Do I look all right?” he asked, his voice weak, barely a whisper.
“No. You don’t. Are you ill? Is there something I can do for you? Are ... are you in pain?”
“Pain. Yes. Excruciating.” His arm fell away from his face in a listless fashion.
“Where? Where do you hurt, Payton?” she asked, gravely concerned.
He groaned. “Everywhere. All over. Head. Neck. Shoulders. Stomach. Legs.”
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Do you have migraines, Mr. Dunsmore-ah-Payton?” she asked, her expression empathetic. “My mother had them occasionally. They were awful. And I haven’t fed you. When did you eat last?”
He had her now, he thought, inwardly chuckling. He waved his arm vaguely. “Breakfast?”
“Good, but that’s still been a while. It’s probably the stress and tension of all this,” she said, filled with guilt. She threw her thick braid back over her shoulder. “It would give anyone a headache.”
“Stomach too.”
“Oh. I am so sorry.” He opened his eyes and gave her a pitiful look. She wasn’t wearing her glasses again, he noted. Her eyes were big and warm with compassion; her brows bent with worry and remorse. She placed a comforting hand on his cheek, cool and soothing and caring. It almost blew his performance—she was truly distressed!
But that was neither here nor there, he decided, pushing his tall frame from a soft leather chair to fix himself another drink.
He’d showed himself through the rooms on the first floor. They were beautifully decorated, stuffed with antiques and, like the other unused rooms in the house, shrouded in dustcovers. Only Harriet’s bedroom and bath, the kitchen, and the library looked lived-in.
He liked the library. Books lining all four walls, circled by a catwalk, the large room felt close and cozy and friendly. Despite the copyright dates in some of the books and the number of first edition collectibles scattered throughout the shelves there was a ... youthfulness about the room, almost as if the words and wisdom contained within stayed endlessly young, waiting to appeal to any fresh, inquiring mind that happened by.
There were two huge mahogany desks, one positioned near each of the floor-to-ceiling windows to catch the light. The sound of his footsteps was muffled in a thick area rug, woven in warm hues of gold and russet. Soft brown leather wing chairs and ottomans were pulled close to the six-foot fireplace. It would be a homey room any season of the year, he imagined.
He rubbed the dull ache in his temples and paced. It could have been the Library of Congress and not a single volume would contain the answer to his present dilemma.
There had to be a way to get around her. Talking reason to a woman, sane or not, was a waste of breath. And Harriet was not only a woman, she was a willful and resolved woman. God help him, she was a woman with a cause, which meant she’d see her foolish scheme through to the end.
Thinking about it made his head hurt more. He needed to think clearly. The answer was most likely quite simple, if he could just get a handle on it. A rescue fire on the beach? Smoke signals? If there was a chance that someone on a passing cargo ship or ferry or tug or even a fishing boat would hear him, he could scream his lungs out for help.
“Damn the woman,” he said, sitting back down in a chair by the empty fireplace. What would induce her to abandon this madness, short of disaster, injury, or illness?
The tense throbbing in his forehead started to break up and scatter. His lips curled upward at the corners. A germ of an idea took root in his mind, then bloomed in a matter of seconds. Suddenly he was feeling much better.
“Mr. Dunsmore? Payton?” Harriet said a short while later, alarmed, having entered the library to find Payton sprawled out in a chair, a leg flung over one armrest, his face buried in the bend of his shirtsleeve. “What is it? Are you all right?” She hurried to his side.
“Do I look all right?” he asked, his voice weak, barely a whisper.
“No. You don’t. Are you ill? Is there something I can do for you? Are ... are you in pain?”
“Pain. Yes. Excruciating.” His arm fell away from his face in a listless fashion.
“Where? Where do you hurt, Payton?” she asked, gravely concerned.
He groaned. “Everywhere. All over. Head. Neck. Shoulders. Stomach. Legs.”
“Oh, my. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Do you have migraines, Mr. Dunsmore-ah-Payton?” she asked, her expression empathetic. “My mother had them occasionally. They were awful. And I haven’t fed you. When did you eat last?”
He had her now, he thought, inwardly chuckling. He waved his arm vaguely. “Breakfast?”
“Good, but that’s still been a while. It’s probably the stress and tension of all this,” she said, filled with guilt. She threw her thick braid back over her shoulder. “It would give anyone a headache.”
“Stomach too.”
“Oh. I am so sorry.” He opened his eyes and gave her a pitiful look. She wasn’t wearing her glasses again, he noted. Her eyes were big and warm with compassion; her brows bent with worry and remorse. She placed a comforting hand on his cheek, cool and soothing and caring. It almost blew his performance—she was truly distressed!
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