Chapter 42
Mallory Plantation—Remy
Remy and Skye glided down the hallway to Archibald’s suite, conveniently located next to Remy’s within the sprawling visitors’ wing of Charlotte and Braham’s stately mansion.
For three years, Remy’s room, a cocoon of comfort featuring twin large-screen TVs, had been his sanctuary.
He had never once considered relinquishing the peace he found within its silent walls.
Yet, tucked away in the quiet recesses of his mind, he had always braced himself for the inevitable day when he would ache for more than a mere guest suite.
Charlotte, with her characteristic foresight, had sold him a river-facing plot of land—his very own blank canvas upon which to build his future, whenever his forever girl materialized.
Since meeting Skye, those carefully laid plans hadn’t just changed or evolved.
They had morphed, transforming his entire outlook on permanence and belonging.
The very idea of settling into a home felt like a character transformation, a shift in his carefully constructed world.
It was all because of Skye, a woman he hadn’t yet shared a bed with, but one he loved with a fierce intensity—a woman he couldn’t fathom living a day without.
“How long have you lived in your suite?”
“Since I started working for Elliott three years ago. I have a room here, one at the farm in Kentucky, another one at the winery in Napa, and another one at the castle in Scotland.”
“A castle?” Her eyes widened. “A real castle?”
“A very old one.” He smiled at her reaction. “I’ll take you as soon as you get settled.”
“Do you have pictures?”
“I’ll text them to you when we get back to the room.”
“And the farm,” she added quickly, ticking it off on her fingers. “And the winery.”
He laughed under his breath. “Castle. Farm. Winery.” He lifted his hands in surrender. “Got it.”
Before they entered Archibald’s room, he pulled her into his arms and sealed their shared universe with a kiss.
He inhaled a heady, floral essence, hinting at sun-ripened fruits and the green mystery of the forest floor.
He lowered his face to her neck, drawing a slow breath, capturing sweet, fruit-bright top notes.
Shifting his head to the other side, the intoxicating heart of jasmine enveloped his senses, finally settling into the lingering, warm embrace of rich woody notes.
“What is that scent you’re wearing?”
“What do you smell?”
“Jasmine,” he said, a deliberate simplification, because she’d think he was crazy if he identified all the complex notes his mind was cataloging.
“That’s what Kenzie said you would say, but that you have excellent scent memory and would recognize the perfume. What is it?”
He nuzzled her neck again and wanted her—immediately, recklessly. “Probably Miss Dior. Am I right?”
“You are. Kenzie knows you so well. How come?”
“Because Kenzie’s job is to know everything about everyone in Elliott’s orbit, and I probably spend more time inside his sphere than most. Well, except for Braham, David, and Charlotte. They’re part of his inner-inner circle. Now let’s go see Archibald. I have plans for the rest of the evening.”
“Do they include me?”
“Every thought I have begins and ends with you.”
“That’s very romantic.” She kissed him, and the brush of her lips ignited a slow current that flowed directly to his heart. Then she took his hand in hers and led him into Archibald’s dimly lit room.
Shadows cloaked the converted suite, the blue glare from the medical monitor slicing cleanly through the gloom.
Braham had maneuvered a hospital bed into the room.
The man was a wish-granting, larger-than-life former Union Cavalry officer whose presence filled the room with his competence.
He delivered solutions with flair, pulling off minor miracles even while the world around him dealt with disasters.
“What are those lights?” Skye whispered.
“Archibald is attached to a patient monitor, which tracks his heart rate, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation in real time. Charlotte can monitor his condition and know immediately if there’s a problem.”
“Does she expect one?”
He didn’t want to worry Skye, but Charlotte expected complications; without Archibald’s medical history, which meant David hadn’t yet breached the firewalls of his doctor’s computer system. But he would with Ofello’s help.
“Don’t just stand there,” Archibald groaned. “Come over here and sing to me.”
“I didn’t know you were awake.” Skye rushed to his side and kissed his forehead. “How do you feel? I’ve been so worried about you.”
Archibald managed a grin. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. How are ye adjusting?”
She gracefully twirled one complete rotation on the balls of her feet.
“I’m wearing trousers and four-inch heels, and I have a new hairstyle.
” Skye performed a dramatic, seductive hair flip reminiscent of a classic Hollywood temptress.
“What do you think?” she asked, clearly embracing and appreciating her traffic-stopping, stunning new look.
Archibald couldn’t take his half-lidded eyes off her. “What does Remy think?”
She smiled at Remy. “He thinks I’m hot.”
“I can’t disagree with that.” Then to Remy he said, “I need to go to the bathroom. Will ye help me?”
“Sure. If you doan feel like getting up, I can bring—”
“Absolutely not,” Archibald said abruptly, causing an alarming leap in his pulse that painted a peak on the medical monitor’s green line.
“Okay, calm down. Let me unhook the lead wires connecting you, then you can sit on the side of the bed.” Remy lowered the bed to make it easier to stand. “We’re going to take this slow.”
“I’m not running a marathon tonight.” The angry edge in his voice persisted.
The virile man, who had been a picture of strength and energy on stage with Skye, now required help to go to the bathroom.
She showed no reaction, but Archibald likely felt vulnerable.
Remy had previously observed similar responses in male patients.
But his primary concern was Archibald’s overall health rather than his feelings.
“Can I help?” Skye asked.
“No,” Archibald snapped.
Ignoring Archibald, Remy said, “Flip the light switch by the door, and then push the IV pole behind us.”
Archibald shuffled to the bathroom door and, without glancing at Skye, said, “I can push the pole from here.”
Archibald’s attitude grated on Remy’s nerves, and he vowed to never be condescending if he were ever a patient. “Charlotte will come running into the room when she can’t track Archibald’s vital signs. Let her know where we are.”
Skye’s jaw was clenched so tightly that a muscle jumped in her cheek, probably remembering her mother’s illness. “I’ll tell her.”
Remy helped Archibald to the toilet, and when they walked out, Charlotte was standing there waiting, hands on her hips.
“How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” Archibald said, sounding less terse but still irritated. “Is there anything I can snack on?”
Charlotte hooked Archibald up to the monitor. “Chicken soup and a bowl of fresh fruit are waiting for you.”
“I’ll get it if you tell me where to go,” Skye said.
“There’s a kitchenette at the end of the hall. The soup is in the crockpot, and the fruit is in the refrigerator. There are plates and bowls in the cabinet and silverware in the drawer.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Archibald.
“Whisky neat.”
Skye tsk-tsked. “I doubt that’s on Charlotte’s approved refreshment list.”
“She’s right, and neither are cigars,” Charlotte said. “But how are you feeling?”
Archibald squirmed to get comfortable. “Like I jumped out of a two-story building and got shot while doing it.”
“You jumped out of a window? Why?” Remy asked.
“It was the only exit not guarded by an angry husband.”
Remy glanced at Charlotte. “He shuffled to the bathroom and groaned a lot.”
“Let’s do a full-body MRI to be on the safe side,” she said. “He could have stress fractures or soft tissue injuries, and I can get a better look at his shoulder.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Archibald said. “I can’t answer questions about my gunshot wound, remember.”
“You don’t have to. Charlotte has an X-ray, an MRI machine, and a CT scanner in a room behind her surgery.”
“I would think that was cost-prohibited.”
“Braham spared no expense when he remodeled Charlotte’s surgery and X-ray rooms. There’s a first aid center on the property, but serious stuff gets taken care of downstairs,” Remy explained calmly.
“Let’s do it now, even though he’s not complaining of other injuries. I’d feel better,” Charlotte said.
“What happens if ye find a stress fracture?” Archibald asked. “Will I have to go to the hospital then?”
“We’ll treat it here,” Charlotte said. “But I can’t set a broken bone.”
“What about my dinner?”
“You can eat when you come back.” Then, to Skye, Remy said, “We’ll be downstairs for at least an hour. Why doan you go to bed? We’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”
She yawned. “Will you wake me when you come in?”
“Depends on what time it is.” He kissed her—slow, deep—an ache of a future he wanted to claim now. But she needed sleep, and his patient came first, even as his heart strained hard against the choice.
Skye kissed Archibald’s forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Remy helped Archibald into a wheelchair and wheeled him downstairs for an MRI.
About an hour later, Remy wheeled him back to his room.
Archibald had a stress fracture in his right foot and would have to wear a boot for several weeks.
Remy helped him into bed and then packed ice packs around his foot.
Clay sauntered in. “Where’d you go? I came down an hour ago, and no one was here.”