Guard of Honor by Tracie Delaney
Chapter Nine
Mack kneltand shined his torch around the base of the tree where the earth lay disturbed following Honor’s frantic digging. He wanted to believe her, but the evidence spoke for itself. Her vehemence worried him. Hallucinations weren’t a common sign of PTSD. Flashbacks, yes, but not hallucinations. Although, the lack of sleep she’d suffered could easily contribute to imagining that things existed when they didn’t. He pushed to his feet. A shadow moving on the upper floor caught his attention, and as he tipped back his head, he spotted Lizzie at her bedroom window, staring down at him, her arms folded across her chest, and her mouth in a firm, disapproving line. She must have witnessed the entire thing. He didn’t acknowledge her. Instead, he went inside to search for Honor.
She wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room.
“Honor?” He jogged upstairs, coming face-to-face with Lizzie, her expression even more annoyed than when he’d seen her a few minutes earlier. “Where is she?”
“What did you do to upset her?” Lizzie demanded, hands planted on her hips.
“Nothing.” He dodged to the left. Lizzie shifted to block him. His nostrils flared. “Move or you won’t like what happens.”
“Honor is my friend, and I hate it when she’s upset. She’s been through enough.”
The words “You’re a fucking employee, love, just like me” were on the tip of his tongue, but he held them back. For now, he saw no reason to unnecessarily piss off the housekeeper—although simply by being here, he was doing that—but if she didn’t get out of his fucking way, he might change his mind.
“I understand what she’s been through far more than you do.”
He shifted around her, and this time she let him go. He marched to Honor’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
“Honor.”
“Go away,” came the muffled reply.
“Sorry, Red, no can do.”
He twisted the doorknob and pushed. Honor lay on her bed, her back to him. She’d curled into a ball, and her arms were wrapped around her knees. He perched on the edge of the mattress and laid a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t shrug him off, which he took as a good sign.
“Can we talk?”
“Not if you’re going to tell me I’m insane.”
“Aren’t all humans insane on some level?” he asked. “As it goes, I find lunatics far more interesting than those who have all their faculties.”
She rolled over, her eyes filled with dismay. “I’m telling you, they were there. Someone is messing with my pebbles. They have to be. I didn’t take them.”
“If that’s true, then I gotta say you’re making it easy for them, Red.” His lips tipped up playfully, and he tapped her on the thigh. “Come on, sit the fuck up.”
She hoisted herself into an upright position and folded her arms in a further sign of defiance coupled with self-protection.
“I’m not crazy,” she repeated, but the fight had gone out of her voice. She dipped her chin into her chest, her hair falling in a veil, hiding her face.
Mack leaned forward and tucked it behind her ear. “No, I don’t think you are. A little broken, maybe, but not crazy.”
“Then you believe me?”
She sounded so incredibly hopeful that his chest tightened.
“Yeah, Red, I do.”
He wasn’t telling the whole truth. He believed that she believed it. Physical objects didn’t just disappear on their own, and noises in the dead of night always had an explanation. But the last thing a woman in such a delicate mental state needed was for him to heap more doubt upon her.
“Please don’t tell my father,” she whispered. “He’ll lock me away.”
“Your father would never do that to you. He loves you.”
She shook her head violently. “He’s already mentioned it. A while ago. About sending me away to one of those recuperation places. That’s what they call them, but really, they’re a prison. Once I’m in there, I’ll never come out.” She gripped his wrist with immense power, her fear adding to her strength. “You have to promise me that you won’t tell him about this.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “You have my word.”
She threw her arms around his neck and clung on tight. “Thank you, Mack.”
His arms encircled her waist. Christ, she was still so thin. Clothes hid a multitude of sins, but as he ran his hands over her back, he could feel each vertebra that formed her spine. If he had to force-feed her, he’d make it his personal business that she ate three square meals every day, plus one or two protein shakes to build her up.
He released his hold, and she hung on tighter. Her breathing sped up but became shallower at the same time.
“Don’t let me go, Mack. Hold me, please.”
A rough sound left his throat. He was all too aware that they were in her bedroom, on her bed. It wouldn’t take much to press her into the mattress and sink home, and she’d let him, too. Wrong move, dickhead. But he could hardly reject her when she’d laid herself bare, her skinny body trembling against him.
On automatic pilot, he held her, one hand cupping the back of her neck. “I’ve got you.”
He lost count of how many minutes passed, too busy negotiating with his dick to go the fuck down, the ache in his balls almost unbearable, but when Honor sniffed and lifted her head, he dropped his hold on her. This time, she didn’t ask him not to.
“Sorry.” She swiped a hand underneath her nose and sniffed again.
He grabbed a tissue from a box on her bedside table and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, blowing her nose.
He got to his feet and gazed down at her. Despite her height, she looked small and lost, her eyes haunted, something he recognized all too well. For months after his traumatic rescue, he’d been a fucking mess. Drinking too much, sleeping too little, terrible nightmares and flashbacks. Clara had taken the brunt of it, and in retrospect, he was surprised she’d stayed as long as she had. Compared to him, Honor was holding it together like a fucking legend. He couldn’t help wondering if the events of this morning were the start of her unraveling, something akin to a delayed reaction to severe trauma. And if that happened, he’d have to break his promise and involve her father.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
“Try to get some sleep,” he said. “Things will look far more positive after a little shut-eye.”
“Okay.”
She lay on her side and curled her knees up to her stomach. “Mack?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not so bad.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Coming from you, that’s high praise.”
Closing the door quietly behind him, he went into his room across the hall and took a shower, trimmed his beard, and, discarding the sweatpants, dressed in jeans and a shirt. He didn’t see Lizzie as he traipsed downstairs, drawing pad in hand. With Honor tucked up in bed and the sun having risen as he’d dealt with the fallout from the early morning, he figured that he might as well grab a bite to eat and draw until she reappeared. He’d planned to encourage her to walk to the bottom of the steps outside her house today, but he might have to shelve those plans. He’d see how she was feeling after she’d gotten some rest.
He shoveled down a pile of bacon and eggs and three slices of buttered toast on the side. He preferred English bacon to the American kind, but if it was fried up nice and crispy, it wasn’t half bad. He stacked the dirty plates in the dishwasher and went outside. The south-facing garden was bathed in sunlight, and a bird sat on one of the lower branches of the red oak tree, singing its heart out. Drawn to the tree, Mack set his pad on the bench and wandered over. He crouched to examine the evidence of Honor’s frantic search. She’d vehemently defended her corner, so certain in her belief that the pebbles existed.
His PTSD had been pretty standard—if the horror of it could be described in such bland terms. Flashbacks, nightmares, anger, irritability, feeling jumpy, and being easily spooked. It had taken six months in rehab and a further six months of intense outpatient therapy for him to learn how to control the emotions caused by his experience at the hands of ISIS. By then, it had been way too late to save his marriage, but at least he’d saved himself. He still had bad days, and he guessed he always would, but they were manageable using techniques he’d learned from his shrink.
Pushing to an upright position, Mack strolled over to the bench and stared up at the dazzling blue sky. He went to pick up his drawing pad, but his phone buzzing with a message stopped him. He dug it out of his pocket. The secure app Intrepid used was flashing with a private message. He opened it.
Kill me. Kill me now.
He chuckled. Cruise “Crew” Garrett had been on Loris’s team the day they’d rescued Mack, and since then, the two men had formed a close friendship. Their jobs meant they didn’t get to spend a lot of time together, but they kept in regular contact and caught up in person whenever they could over a beer—alcohol-free in Mack’s case.
Mack hit the call button, and before he heard a ringtone, Crew answered.
“Your latest assignment turning into a bit of a challenge, is she?” Mack queried.
The day after Mack had arrived in the States, Loris had assigned Crew to guard a British pop star on her European tour.
“I swear if she flounces off in a huff one more time at a suggestion I’ve made that secures her fucking safety, or gives me lip, I’m gonna stick her head down the toilet and flush the damn thing until she fixes her goddamn attitude.”
Laughter rumbled through Mack’s chest. “I dare you.”
“Don’t fucking tempt me, man. I swear, this woman pushes every one of my buttons. She pushes buttons I didn’t know I fucking had. Three months. Three fucking months of this prima bloody donna. If Loris thinks I’m taking this gig when her tour moves stateside, he can fuck off.” He sighed heavily. “Let’s talk about something else. Damn female puts me in a bad mood. How’s your babysitting-slash-therapy job going?”
“It’s taken an interesting turn.”
Mack updated Crew on the last few days, culminating in this morning’s events. “I’m worried she’s having hallucinations or has suffered some kind of split personality disorder.”
Crew fell silent for a moment. “Jeez, man, who’s to say what goes on in a person’s brain after suffering like she has. Even doctors freely admit they don’t know much about how the mind works. And if she’s as sleep-deprived as you say she is, then she could easily be doing this herself and not remembering. Or maybe she sleepwalks.”
Mack wiped sweat off his brow, the oppressive heat already almost unbearable. “Loris asked me to take this job because he thought my particular experiences might help and encourage her to go through the kind of therapy I did. To help her see what’s possible, that despite terrible trauma, you can live an almost normal life. But this? This is way out of my league, Crew. If she is suffering from hallucinogenic episodes, or, God forbid, she’s ended up with some kind of multiple personality disorder, then she needs professional help, not a screwed-up Bootneck with a shit ton of problems of his own.”
“Have you talked to Loris? Or her pops?”
“No. Talking to her father is out of the question for the time being. She’s only just starting to trust me, although my reaction to the vanishing pebbles might have put a dent in that. If I go to her father when she’s expressly asked me not to, she’ll never trust me again. I’ll give Loris a call if anything else strange happens. Keep him in the loop.”
“Yeah, I would.” A loud rap filtered down the phone line, and whoever it was at the door had Crew letting out a loud sigh. “Gotta go, Mack. Her Highness is demanding my presence.”
Mack snickered. “Good luck.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.”
Crew cut the call, and Mack stared at the phone for a few seconds. Good to talk to Crew, get his inner thoughts out there to someone disconnected to the situation, and dependable.
All Mack could do for now was watch and wait.