The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

15

Declan grunted and hurried upstairs, clamping his mouth shut against echoing the reply, the words all but tripping over themselves to leap from his tongue.

When he reached his and Wren's bedroom, he found his wife sitting in chemise and bloomers on the edge of the bed, her right leg riding the edge of the mattress and her left foot on the floor while she struggled to pin her wavy auburn hair into a bun with limited use of her right arm.

"What're you doing?" He grumbled with a frown, plopping his hands on his fists. "You're supposed to be laying in bed, resting."

She jumped and dropped the hairpins, her auburn locks spilling down her back in thick, tumultuous waves that beckoned for his touch. "It's been almost a week."

"And you've got at least another five before you can be walking on that ankle," he murmured, retrieving her hairbrush from the dresser, then crossing to the bed and kneeling on his right knee behind her to brush her hair. "That's if Uncle Em says it's healing right. Could be longer."

"D'you come up here to remind me I'm gonna be trapped in this room for a while yet?" she grumbled, picking at the quilt covering the mattress, "or to make me jealous you have two perfectly workin' legs and can leave at any time?"

"Isn't that the same thing?" He chuckled, tossing the brush aside, then twisting and securing her hair into a poor semblance of a bun. "My mama could make it prettier, but it'll keep it from blowing in your face."

Wren frowned at him over her shoulder, "Why would it be blownin' in my face if I'm stayin' in our room the next five weeks?"

"Kildare's having lunch with us," Declan whispered before he swooped in for a quick, firm kiss, then walked to the wardrobe and pulled both doors open. "What dress you want to wear today? This blue one with the unsightly orange flowers? Well,... it might not be so bad with these ruffled sleeves and the daring neckline," he teased. "Heaven knows you're more than beautiful enough to make up for all its faults."

When she didn't respond to his questions or flirtatious remarks, Declan glanced over his shoulder, grinned, and pulled the dress from the wardrobe, absolutely delighted he'd stupefied his wife.

Wren stared at him, her mouth hanging open, eyes wide, and incapable of making a sound.

"Corset and petticoats?" Declan asked with a quirked brow as he tossed the dress to the bed.

She blinked and met his stare. "Beau's here?"

"All right, no to both. They're a nuisance anyway," Declan grumbled, choking back a laugh.

"What'd he say?"

Muttering a curse, Declan ensured the bodice was facing the right direction, then gathered the hem to the waist and held it over Wren's head as he said, "Arm's up."

She obeyed without making another sound, wincing as she eased her right arm through the elbow-length ruffled sleeve.

Then, as he bent to button the bodice, Declan glanced up, caught her watching him, and whispered, "He said it's good news, Wren."

Her throat convulsed on a swallow, and she hesitated before quietly asking, "Chet's dead?"

Declan kissed her again, unable to help himself with her lips so close, then straightened to his full height and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her right ear, careful to avoid brushing against her skin. "I don't know. I think he's waiting until you're there to go over the specifics of what happened the past five weeks."

"I should get dressed."

"Already are," he replied with a satisfied grin and a wink as a hairpin ejected itself from Wren's hair with a metallic twang, and her bun cascaded around her shoulders.