Metsy Hingle - Secret Agent Dad

“Hurry, mon ami.”

The other man’s voice spurred him to action. The baby didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash as he wrapped it up and eased it into the pouch strapped to his chest. When he went to retrieve the other one, big blue eyes stared up at him. “Hey, sugar britches. Uncle Blake’s going to take you on a trip to see your Aunt Anna. How would you like that?” The little one didn’t protest, merely reached out tiny fingers to touch his black-sooted face. Blake’s throat went dry. He caught the little hand, not wanting to dirty those perfect white fingers with a warrior’s paint.

“Blake,” the other man spit out his name in warning.

“There’s something going on downstairs. Guards are rushing inside the palace.”

Steps sounded outside in the corridor. Deciding quickly, he unstrapped the pouches from his chest and began fastening them to the other man’s body. “Take them to the boat.”

“Are you crazy? I know nothing of babies. ”

“Neither do I,” Blake informed his companion as he urged him to the balcony doors.

“What if they cry?” the other man asked, his dark eyes wide with fear and his accent more pronounced

“Try singing to them. You always say the ladies love your voice.”

The other man grumbled something in his native tongue, which Blake made no attempt to translate in his head. Grateful that neither baby protested this middle-of the-night intrusion, he pressed a kiss to each tiny head. “Be good for Michel. I’ll see you in a little while.”

“But, Blake—”

“Go,” Blake ordered.

“Hurry, mon ami.”

Hurry. Hurry.

The words came at him again from out of a fog—this one of blinding rain and skidding tires. His head hurt, felt like it was ready to explode any minute. He swiped at his head, and groaned at another stab of pain. He could feel something warm and sticky on his fingertips. Blood, Blake realized. Doesn’t matter. Have to keep moving.

He couldn’t see. The road was too dark, the rain too strong. And he was tired. So tired. But he couldn’t stop, didn’t dare stop or they’d find him, kill him, steal the babies. He couldn’t let that happen. Only his head hurt something fierce, and he couldn’t seem to remember which way to turn.

Remember, we’re depending on you, Blake. Be careful, and for God’s sake man, hurry.

Blake heard the man’s voice, and he struggled to sit up. “Have to hurry. Can’t let them down. Gave my word,” he muttered.

“Shh. It’s okay.” Gentle hands pressed him back down to the bed. “You can’t go anywhere right now. You need to rest.”

Blake tried to open his eyes, to see the face that went with the new voice that came to him out of the fog. But try as he might, his eyes refused to obey. He tried to sit up again, but was pressed back against the mattress.

“It’s storming outside, and the phone lines are down,” she told him. “Even if the roads are still passable, you’re in no condition to drive. So, you might as well quit fighting me and try to rest.” Fingers as soft and warm as the voice stroked his brow, eased the ache in his head.

“If you’re worried about your babies, you don’t need to be. They’re safe and sound asleep in the next room.”

Babies? He didn’t have any babies.

He wanted to tell her that, tried to make sense of what she was saying to him, but it hurt too much when he tried to think. Instead, he allowed himself to be soothed by the gentle touch of her fingers, the sweet sound of her voice.

“Yes. That’s it. Try to rest,” she murmured. “I’m afraid that I’ll have to wake you up again in an hour. That’s what the book says to do for head injuries. Wake up the injured party every hour so that you don’t go into a coma.”

Talk of head injuries, comas and babies jumbled in his brain. So he focused on her touch, the soothing sound of her voice. Her familiar voice. Frowning, he tried to remember. Was she friend or enemy? Could she be trusted? When she started to press something cold against his head, he grabbed her hand.

“It’s all right,” she murmured, but made no attempt to wrestle free. “You pulled the bandage loose. I’m just putting more ointment on that cut before I bandage it up again.”

The need to see her, to see the face that went with the voice was so strong he battled to open his eyes. When he finally managed to do so, he caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes. “Angel,” he whispered, his eyes closing again. But even as the darkness began to tug him under, he could still see those clear green eyes—the eyes of his angel.

Two

You’re a good girl, Jocelyn. Not everyone can be counted on to remain calm and clearheaded in a crisis.

The crisp tone of Sister Charles Marie’s voice came back to Josie as though it were only yesterday and not twenty years ago that she’d snuffed out a grease fire in the kitchen of the orphanage and saved another girl from being badly burned.

Today had been another crisis, Josie realized, as she tamed her thick, black hair into a braid. She’d remained calm and clearheaded while she’d settled the twins into the spare bedroom. She’d even managed to remain calm and clearheaded when she’d maneuvered the little darlings’ daddy to the only other room with a bed—her own. And somehow, she’d managed to stay fairly calm and clearheaded when the man had started thrashing about on the bed and pulled his bandage free. But there had been nothing calm or clearheaded about the way she’d felt when he’d opened his eyes and called her “angel” again before passing out. No one had ever called her by a pet name before—certainly no one from the orphanage or the foster homes she’d lived in. To them she’d always been Jocelyn, and even Ben had never strayed from the “Josie” she’d insisted on being called. She’d come to accept the fact that she wasn’t the sort of person that people called “sweetie” or “honey” or “sugar.” Deep down she’d sometimes wondered if it was because she simply wasn’t special enough to warrant such an endearment.

But he had called her “angel.” Not once, but twice. It was ridiculous that his doing so should make her pulse quicken or make her feel like her heart was smiling. After all, the man had been injured, and in his delirious state he probably thought she was someone else. Yet he had looked at her the way a man looks at a woman—with appreciation, with interest—and for those few seconds awareness had hummed between them and lingered like the scent of her roses. By the time she’d repaired his bandage, she’d been too flustered to even attempt to rid him of his wet clothes.

Now, having had the benefit of a hot shower and a change of clothes herself, guilt sneaked in on her. She really shouldn’t have left him in those wet things, she conceded, then groaned. “I didn’t even take off his boots!” Irritated with herself, she dismissed that sexual zing of his kiss and blamed her reaction on the steady diet of romantic dreams she’d fed herself for years. She dug out a pair of Ben’s old jeans and shirt from the box marked for charity, determined to march right in there and get him out of those wet clothes before the fellow caught pneumonia. Suddenly her throat went dry at the prospect of undressing him.

Get over it, Josie. It’s not like you haven’t seen a naked man before.

And it wasn’t, Josie reminded herself. She had been married for pity’s sake. Feeling some of her calm and clearheaded self return, she armed herself with aspirin, a pitcher of water, a glass, and the clothes. She picked up her tray and headed to the bedroom to check on her patient.

A teensy measure of her newly reclaimed calm slipped when she opened the bedroom door. He lay motionless on the four-poster bed, looking too big and too male amidst the pale rose and ivory bedding. Lamplight framed his handsome face, making his hair gleam like wet gold. The white bandage on his forehead stood out in stark relief against bronzed skin. Once again the image of a golden prince came to mind.