A Family Affair
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the Witchblade characters (well, okay, maybe I do occasionally pretend they're mine), I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!
Author's Note: I apologize to my faithful readers for the long wait between chapters. The dreaded real life intruded, leaving me precious little time for writing.
*****
Chapter 52.
*****
Vividly recalling the pandemonium he and the boy had left behind in the kitchen, Ian shot Joseph a worried look when Sara volunteered for cleanup duty and enlisted her niece's aid in the effort.
At first, Ian had observed with wide-eyed amazement and more than a little consternation the mess the teenager left in his wake as he prepared three different kinds of pancake batter, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon. However, he soon overcame his misgivings and wholeheartedly threw himself into the endeavor, frequently laughing helplessly at Joseph's antics, which ranged from juggling eggs (unsuccessfully) to attempting to flip the pancakes without a spatula (again without success). Ian's contribution to the disorder consisted of lots of spilt pancake batter and dropping the half-full mixing bowl, causing it to shatter on the tile floor and creating an impressive spatter pattern on just about every surface within a five-foot radius. After this incident, Joseph and he had stared at each other in shocked silence for about ten seconds before the boy recovered first and called out a patently false statement about everything being under control. But now the wreck they'd made of the once spotless kitchen was about to be discovered -- and by Sara, no less. As she and Gina Marie gathered up the dirty dishes, Ian tugged at his beard apprehensively, unconsciously bracing himself for an eruption of Mt. Pezzini.
"Uh, things got kinda messy in there," Joseph murmured nonchalantly, and then proceeded to follow this major understatement with a bald-faced lie. "It was mostly Ian's fault. He was just out of control."
Ian stared at the traitorous youth in disbelief. "Now, you know that is not true, Joseph," he said, shaking his head. He turned a supplicating gaze on Sara. "I did my best to clean up as we went along, but it was exceedingly difficult to do one-handed and I was thwarted at nearly every turn by the Mad Pancake Cook there," he told her, frowning sternly at his partner in crime.
Joseph just grinned at him unrepentantly.
"I'll bet," Sara smirked, backing through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, followed closely by Gina Marie.
Ian clearly sensed the Wielder's shock at what she found, and everybody at the table heard Gina Marie gasp "Oh my God! This place is a disaster!"
Only Ian and Gina Marie heard Sara's faint response. "It's not as bad as it looks," she said unconvincingly. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time."
"Yeah, right!" her niece opined skeptically.
"My work here is done!" Joey said blithely, jumping up from the table. "I'm off to get dressed to go sledding. Coming, Dad?"
"Yeah." Robert got up from the table. As he passed his wife's chair, he gave her shoulders a squeeze and dropped an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.
*Nottingham, what'd you do, set off one of your grenades in here? Geez!* Sara sent irritably.
*Sorry!* Ian replied guiltily. *Things sort of got out of hand. I'll come help you clean up, my love.* Truth was, he hadn't really made much of an effort to clean up as he and young Joseph went along; he'd been having way too much fun for that.
*No, no, no. Relax, I got it covered. Rule is whoever doesn't cook has to clean up,* Sara refused his offer, heaving a mental sigh. *But, damn! I shoulda known something was up when I heard all of the laughter coming from in here. Thank God they have a dishwasher,* she grumbled.
"It's pretty bad in there, isn't it?" Paula said, correctly reading his guilt-stricken expression.
Ian nodded sheepishly. "I'm afraid so."
"Don't sweat it," she said, rising. "I'll go help Sara and Gina Marie out. It's only fair since I didn't do the cooking. Oh, by the way, you might want to check out the bathroom mirror." And with that last intriguing comment, she disappeared into the kitchen.
Ian headed upstairs to the bathroom that Sara had indicated on their abbreviated tour of the house that the kids primarily utilized only to find Gina Marie in there fussing with her hair in front of the mirror.
"Oh, do you need to get in here?" she asked when she finally noticed him hovering in the doorway.
"Just for a moment," Ian murmured. A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows. "Were you not supposed to be helping your aunt clean up the kitchen?"
The girl shrugged. "Aunt Sara said I could go get dressed to go sledding," she told him, apparently oblivious to the fact that she had yet to do so.
"I see."
"I'm having a bad hair day," Gina Marie informed Ian, frowning at her dark, shoulder-length hair in the mirror. "It sucks having straight hair. I wish it was wavy like my mom's or curly like yours, which has pancake batter in it, by the way."
"It does?"
"Yeah. Take a look," she said, gesturing for him to join her at the mirror.
Ian saw that he had in fact somehow managed to get a glob of batter in his hair, which he wore loose. "So, that is what your mother was talking about," he murmured. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the sink.
"Go ahead. But you might need to use a little shampoo to get it out. It looks like it's caked on pretty good," Gina Marie observed, turning and opening the sliding glass door that enclosed the bathtub. "Here, this is my shampoo." She handed him a brightly colored plastic bottle. "It's kiwi scented."
"Thank you, Princess." Setting the bottle down, Ian turned on the water and wet the lock of hair that had the pancake batter in it. Instantly, the gooey substance began to dissolve and drip onto the front of the apron that he only then realized he was still wearing. He quickly discovered that it was not going to be easy to wash out his hair one- handed, but the girl was showing no signs of leaving the bathroom anytime soon. Consequently, he could not remove his sling to tackle the task.
"Here, let me help you," Gina Marie said, grabbing the shampoo. "Bend over the sink so I can reach your hair," she instructed him. "You're so tall!"
Ian did as he was told, and the preteen girl poured a dab of the sweet-smelling shampoo out onto her palm. She worked it through the lock of hair, creating a rather alarming amount of lather, and then carefully rinsed it out, using a Dixie cup that she got from a dispenser mounted over the sink.
"There. All clean," Gina Marie announced, blotting his hair with a hand towel.
"Thank you, Gina Marie. Do you have an elastic band I could borrow? I think I will wear my hair back. However, I will need your assistance once again."
"Sure. I could even braid your ponytail for you," she offered.
"I do not wish to impose on you. After all, you still have your own hair to do."
The 11-year-old shrugged again. "It's hopeless, but I can fix yours up really nice. Just let me get the package of fancy hair bands from my room," she said. "I'll be right back."
Ian waited, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. He was not sure he liked the sound of "fancy" hair bands.
Five minutes later, his hair had been neatly plaited into what Gina Marie claimed was an "awesome French braid." She tied off the end of the braid with a fuzzy fuchsia-colored elastic band.
"There. You look very handsome, Ian," she said, smiling at him in the mirror.
"Thank you, Princess. I could not have done it without you, especially with my arm in this sling," Ian told her, fervently hoping he could manage to put his hat on before anybody noticed his new hairstyle.
"Anytime. Now, I have to go get dressed. See you downstairs." She left.
Ian glumly gazed at his reflection in the mirror, absently noting that his beard and mustache needed trimming and that fuchsia was definitely not his color. Sighing, he closed the bathroom door and used the toilet.
'Maybe if I act nonchalant, nobody will notice my hair,' he mused as he washed his hands. 'Yeah, I'll just casually go downstairs, head straight for the coat room, and put my hat on. That won't look suspicious. We are going outside soon, after all.'
However, a moment later, Ian forgot all about his predicament when he sensed that Sara was upset. Removing the apron, he swiftly descended to the first floor.
*Sara?* he sent worriedly, a moment before entering the kitchen through the dining room. *Are you all right? I sensed that you were upset.*
Sara hastily pulled away from Paula Siri's comforting embrace when Ian appeared. *I'm fine,* she lied, turning away from him, but not before he saw her brush tears from her cheeks. She grabbed a sponge and began wiping down the once again spotless countertop.
"I just came in to return this. It could use laundering," Ian said aloud, holding up the apron.
Sara threw a quick look over her shoulder, but otherwise steadfastly avoided making eye contact with him. "That reminds me," she said to Paula. "Do you mind if I do a few loads of laundry?"
"No problem," their hostess said. "You know where the machines are. I'll finish up in here. The floor needs mopping, but I want to wait until everybody leaves before I tackle it."
Sara frowned. "I don't mind doing it, Paula," she protested, but her sister-in-law waved her off.
"That's okay," she assured her. "It needed a good mopping even before the Mad Pancake Cook and his assistant went to town." Her good- natured grin took the sting out of the words for Ian.
"Okay. Ian, would you help me bring the laundry downstairs?" Sara asked him.
"Certainly," he said, following her into the coat room.
*Why were you crying, Sara?* he sent as he stuffed the soiled apron into one of the pillow cases that was doubling as a laundry bag.
*Hormones,* she said, her tone clearly warning him not to pursue the topic. *Get used to it.*
As he followed her down into the basement, Ian fought back the feeling of panic that her attitude engendered in him. Despite everything they had gone through over the past week, he still could not fully convince himself that she wouldn't suddenly revert back to her old self, the one who hated and mistrusted him. It hurt when she shut him out like this. A lot. But he knew her well enough to know that she had to work out whatever it was that was bothering her at her own pace. Letting her see how apprehensive he was would only make matters worse. So, he waited, unaware that Sara clearly sensed his anxiety.
*****
"Are you sure you do not wish to come sledding with us?" Ian asked Sara quietly, watching her load the washing machine in an alcove adjacent to the family room.
It was the first words either of them had spoken in several minutes, aloud or otherwise.
After they'd left the kitchen, the silence between them had quickly grown uncomfortable, but Sara had stubbornly refused to break it. Although she knew Ian hadn't believed her excuse for her tears, there was no way she was going to admit the truth of the matter to him. Actually, she truly believed hormones were at the root of her uncharacteristically emotional state. What other explanation could there be for her lapse in self-control just now in the kitchen? Now Nottingham was anxious, fearing that he was somehow to blame -- and with good reason. She could sense the anxiety coming off him in waves, and it added to the maelstrom of emotions that was threatening to make her burst into tears again or, worse, lash out at him. Sara hated feeling so off-balance.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I think I'll take a nap. I've got a bit of a headache," she admitted, keeping her voice level with an effort. "The sleep will do me good."
"Do you want me to stay with you? I do not mind," Ian said softly. Coming up behind her, he placed his big, warm hands on her shoulders and gently began to massage them.
At first, Sara stiffened, but then gradually relaxed beneath his touch. She groaned softly as his thumbs dug into the base of her skull, breaking up the knots that had formed there over the course of several stress-filled days. Tension magically melted away from her neck and shoulder muscles, and with a grateful sigh, she turned and slid her arms around Ian's waist, pressing her face against his chest. Strong arms automatically encircled her.
"Thanks, baby," she whispered, "I needed that."
"Anytime, my love. So, would you like company while you nap?" he asked again, his words causing his chest to vibrate pleasantly beneath her cheek.
"Nah. Somehow, I don't think we'd end up doing much napping. Funny, how that happens when we're in the vicinity of a bed," she said wryly, inhaling his familiar scent with pleasure. "You go on. The fresh air and exercise will do you good. But at the risk of repeating myself, I'd really rather you didn't actually do any sledding. I don't want you to run the risk of re-injuring yourself," she told him, only then realizing that he'd taken off the sling. "What happened to your sling?"
Sighing, Ian removed it from the back pocket of his borrowed jeans. "Although I realize that most people who have suffered the same type of injuries that I did normally wear a sling for quite a bit longer, I was hoping I could get away with not wearing it for the rest of the day," he murmured.
"Uh, not a good idea. Robbie would definitely think it was strange. He majored in sports medicine and is a physical therapist, so he's very familiar with just how long it takes to recover range of motion after dislocating a shoulder, not to mention breaking your collarbone. You'd better keep wearing it," Sara told him. "As soon as we leave here, you can chuck it for good."
Ian sighed again, but acquiesced, allowing her to help him put the contraption back on. "I will return within an hour and a half, Sara," he said, his lips brushing her forehead.
"I'll be napping in the guest room upstairs. Please, Ian, no matter how much fun it looks like Joey, Gina Marie, and Robbie are having, promise me you won't take any chances on taking a ride down the hill," Sara reiterated, meeting his gaze.
"I will merely be a spectator, my Lady," he promised solemnly.
"Good. See you in a couple of hours," she said. He turned to leave, but Sara caught a flash of bright pink out the corner of her eye, and did a double-take. "Wait a sec," she said, staring at the back of his head. "Ian, is that a French braid?"
He froze. "Yes, Sara, it is."
"And what in God's name possessed you to fix your hair like that?"
"I did not do it, your niece did." He sighed, darting an embarrassed look at her from beneath his lashes. "She helped me wash the pancake batter out of my hair, which, by the way, you could have told me about. I am sure you noticed it."
Sara smirked at him. "Go on. I'm dying to know how you got talked into this."
"Well, I decided to wear my hair back, but I did not have an elastic band on me, so I asked Gina Marie if she had one she could spare. I also enlisted her aid in securing my hair," he indicated the detested sling, "which is impossible to do one-handed. She said yes, then offered to braid my ponytail for me. Unwisely, I accepted her offer. I did not have the heart to stop her when she began French-braiding my hair. She was very proud of the end result and assured me that I looked very handsome."
"And stylish, too. Who knew you were such a softy, Nottingham?" she grinned. "I advise you to keep your hat on when you head out to the park. That is, unless you actually want your bad-ass rep to be completely destroyed."
"I think it is already too late to prevent that," he said wryly. "I do not know many bad asses who enjoy making smiley-face pancakes -- or at least none who would dare to admit it."
Sara's smile widened as she remembered his obvious pride in said pancake. "You've got a point there. You'd better get going," she said, hearing the tromping of feet overhead. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."
"Get some rest, my love," he said, pressing an all-too-brief kiss to her lips.
"I will. Have fun," she murmured. He left.
Sara finished loading the washing machine, added detergent, and started it. Next, she filled the sink next to the machine with cold water, putting Nottingham's wool trousers and thermal underwear, both of which were stiff with dried blood, in to soak. Within minutes, the water turned reddish brown, a stark reminder of how close she'd come to losing Ian. Mindful of Paula's presence in the house, Sara opened the drain and thoroughly rinsed both garments before tossing the long johns into the churning washing machine and then refilling the sink and adding Woolite. When she was satisfied that the trousers were clean, she rinsed them out again and hung them up to drip dry on a nearby wooden drying rack. Idly, she acknowledged that this was probably not the last time she'd find herself washing blood out of her Protector's clothing. Not even close. It came with the territory, she thought morosely, glancing at the Witchblade. The bracelet's red stone was dark. In fact, ever since the vision It had imparted of her and Ian's future offspring, she hadn't sensed anything from It. She was grateful for the reprieve, but she knew it wouldn't last. Just as she knew that her and Ian's idyll was rapidly coming to an end.
She waited until the first load was ready to be removed from the washer and then transferred it to the dryer before refilling the washing machine with more dirty laundry and restarting it. Rubbing her aching temples, she wearily trudged upstairs.
"When did they leave?" she inquired from the kitchen doorway.
Paula was almost finished mopping the kitchen floor. "About 20 minutes ago," she said, eying Sara's dispirited mien.
"I'm gonna go lie down for a while in the guest room. I've got a bitch of a caffeine withdrawal headache," Sara told her.
Her sister-in-law made a sympathetic face. "Ouch. It's not gonna be fun until you do, but you'll be glad when you finally get the java monkey off your back. It took me a couple of months to kick the habit, but I hardly ever miss real coffee anymore. Hope you feel better when you wake up, Sweetie."
"Me, too," Sara said. "Oh, I've got a load in the dryer and another in the machine, but I'll finish doing the rest of the laundry after lunch. Under no circumstances are you to do it, you got that?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sleep tight."
Sara slowly made her way up to the second floor and the guest room. Unlacing and then kicking off her boots, she stretched out on the bed with a weary sigh, covering herself with the heavy cotton bedspread.
But sleep turned out to be elusive. Her restless mind kept going over what she had admitted to Paula about being terrified of falling in love with Ian Nottingham.
She could not help but feel that her fear was irrational, especially when confronted with evidence of just how gentle and good-natured Ian could be. Like earlier, when she had noticed his French-braided hair. She was certain that it had never entered his mind to deny her 11-year-old niece the pleasure of styling his hair like that. It was at times like these that Sara found it very hard to remember that he was a very, very dangerous man. However, when it really came down to it, she believed she had good reason to be afraid of giving him her heart. Despite her assertion earlier that morning that he was merely cracked, not broken, Sara acknowledged that she really had no idea how badly damaged he'd been by the man he thought of as his father/master. The stories Ian had told her about his upbringing and the physical and psychological evidence that had been left behind spoke volumes about Kenneth Irons' cruelty. Ian's silent tears, habitual submissiveness, and, until recently, maddening predilection for speaking in riddles all pointed to the unholy influence the man who'd raised him (for want of a better term) had exerted over him -- still did, she swiftly reminded herself. The chains that bound Ian to Irons were very much intact. This fact in and of itself made her blood run cold. In the vision Sara had had the night her Protector had come perilously close to dying, Elizabeth Bronte had exhorted her to do everything in her power to help him win his freedom from the "Iron Man." Believing in him, as Sara had professed to do, was all well and fine, but she couldn't help but wonder if it would be enough to overcome the lifelong conditioning of subservience and unswerving loyalty to the charismatic and powerful billionaire.
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he'd said earlier that morning, when Sara had asserted that he didn't belong to anyone. But what about body and mind? Kenneth Irons had molded Ian Nottingham into perhaps the world's deadliest assassin, one who was mysteriously imbued with superhuman strength, speed, and reflexes, as well as amazing recuperative powers. Furthermore, Ian had told her that he and his fellow Black Dragons had been schooled in all of the intellectual arts in an effort to fulfill Irons' vision of them as "poet warriors." Not only that, the ruthless billionaire had subjected the former members of this top- secret military project to experimental drug therapies meant to enhance their intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, and, most important of all, their obedience. Nottingham had admitted that until he met her, he had never questioned the orders the man he called his master had given him.
Sara was honest enough with herself to admit that she harbored more than a little trepidation about just what Ian had done at Irons' behest. She had the sinking suspicion that her resolve to believe in her Protector would be sorely tested when his past misdeeds came to light, as he had warned her that Irons would make certain of. And although she highly doubted Kenneth Irons would be so foolish as to make common knowledge the various assassinations Ian had so loyally carried out on his behalf, thereby incriminating himself, Sara had the awful feeling that he would contrive to let those she cared about know exactly what sort of man she had taken up with. This called for some kind of preemptive strike, but she squirmed uneasily as she envisioned attempting to explain to her friends and family that her lover and father-to-be of her baby had a blood-soaked, extremely violent past.
'Yeah, Danny, Ian used to kill people for a living. But now that we're together, he's out of the assassination business. Oh sure, he'll gladly kill again if necessary. That's what he was born to do. You see, he's my Protector, and there's these bad people out there who want to kill me because of this pretty bracelet I wear, which, by the way, isn't simply a piece of jewelry. It's an ancient, sentient weapon, and I'm Its Wielder. Oh, and did I mention that I'm pregnant with Mr. Walking Lethal Weapon's child?'
"God help me!" Sara groaned aloud, vainly massaging her throbbing forehead. Could her life get any more complicated? As if of its own volition, her right hand went to her abdomen. 'Oh, yeah, that's right,' she mused. 'In about nine months, it sure as hell will.'
"Hello in there?" she whispered. "It's me, your Mommy. The Wielder. Maybe I'd better get a head start on explaining the meaning of 'dysfunctional family' to you. And while I'm at it, I should probably tell you that your Daddy really isn't to blame for all of the murders he's committed. Your Grandfather is responsible for that."
Abruptly, it occurred to Sara that, perhaps better than anyone else (with the possible exception of Irons, but that didn't bear thinking about), Ian could relate to her predicament. After all, he'd been born with his bond to the Witchblade, and thus was all-too-familiar with the unique quandaries associated with serving It. He would be an invaluable ally in her attempt to restore some semblance of order to her increasingly chaotic life -- if such a thing were even possible. She also reminded herself that he would be an extremely willing participant in his struggle to break free of Kenneth Irons' hold. If anything, Sara would be moral support. Nottingham would be forced to do most of the hard work all by his lonesome. Suddenly, she found that she missed him terribly.
*Ian?* she sent, wondering if the distance separating them made it difficult or even impossible for them to communicate telepathically.
*Yes, my love?* he responded instantly.
*Nothing. I was just seeing if we could still do this even though you're not nearby.*
*I believe I could be a thousand miles from you, Sara, and I'd still be able to hear your thoughts.*
*Uh, I hope you're not planning on testing that theory anytime soon.*
*No, my love. If it were left up to me, I would never leave your side again.*
*Well, I wish I'd taken you up on your offer to nap with me,* she told him. *I can't seem to fall asleep without you next to me. I miss you, baby.*
*I miss you, too, Sara.*
*Would you be terribly disappointed to cut short your outing?*
*Not at all. I've already seen enough. Just let me tell Robert that I'm leaving, and I'll be there within minutes.*
*Okay, if you're sure.*
*I'm sure. Although observing the activities is highly entertaining in and of itself, it's frustrating not being able to join in,* he said a tad wistfully. *Oh, and you were right about sledding being dangerous, Sara. I've been here barely 15 minutes and already I've witnessed two crashes. Thankfully, neither was serious. However, some of the more rambunctious youngsters appear to think sledding is a contact sport -- Joseph included, much to your brother's dismay. And the hill in this park isn't even that steep. It must be thrilling to slide down a really large hill. I'll bet you could build up quite a bit of speed. I'd like to go sledding with you before this winter is through, Sara.*
*To be honest, the possibility of crashing is a major part of sledding's attraction for me,* Sara admitted. *It's the adrenaline junky in me, I guess. In fact, the bigger the hill, the better! But contrary to what you might think, that does not extend to other areas of my life, like riding my Buell,* she said wryly, forestalling the remark she sensed was on the tip of Ian's tongue. *However, I think I'd better wait until I don't have a baby on board before I go sledding with you, Nottingham. Now, get your butt back here!* Mentally, Sara disconnected, but she became aware of a warm presence on the edge of her consciousness that from that moment on she identified as Ian. She smiled to feel a wave of anticipation at seeing him again wash over her. Even the pain of her headache seemed to subside, and although she was convinced that she would not be able to fall asleep until her lover's comforting warmth was beside her once again, she dozed off.
*****
More to come. Thanks, as always for all of your wonderful feedback. I couldn't continue without it!
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the Witchblade characters (well, okay, maybe I do occasionally pretend they're mine), I'm just borrowing them. Enjoy!
Author's Note: I apologize to my faithful readers for the long wait between chapters. The dreaded real life intruded, leaving me precious little time for writing.
*****
Chapter 52.
*****
Vividly recalling the pandemonium he and the boy had left behind in the kitchen, Ian shot Joseph a worried look when Sara volunteered for cleanup duty and enlisted her niece's aid in the effort.
At first, Ian had observed with wide-eyed amazement and more than a little consternation the mess the teenager left in his wake as he prepared three different kinds of pancake batter, scrambled eggs with cheese, and bacon. However, he soon overcame his misgivings and wholeheartedly threw himself into the endeavor, frequently laughing helplessly at Joseph's antics, which ranged from juggling eggs (unsuccessfully) to attempting to flip the pancakes without a spatula (again without success). Ian's contribution to the disorder consisted of lots of spilt pancake batter and dropping the half-full mixing bowl, causing it to shatter on the tile floor and creating an impressive spatter pattern on just about every surface within a five-foot radius. After this incident, Joseph and he had stared at each other in shocked silence for about ten seconds before the boy recovered first and called out a patently false statement about everything being under control. But now the wreck they'd made of the once spotless kitchen was about to be discovered -- and by Sara, no less. As she and Gina Marie gathered up the dirty dishes, Ian tugged at his beard apprehensively, unconsciously bracing himself for an eruption of Mt. Pezzini.
"Uh, things got kinda messy in there," Joseph murmured nonchalantly, and then proceeded to follow this major understatement with a bald-faced lie. "It was mostly Ian's fault. He was just out of control."
Ian stared at the traitorous youth in disbelief. "Now, you know that is not true, Joseph," he said, shaking his head. He turned a supplicating gaze on Sara. "I did my best to clean up as we went along, but it was exceedingly difficult to do one-handed and I was thwarted at nearly every turn by the Mad Pancake Cook there," he told her, frowning sternly at his partner in crime.
Joseph just grinned at him unrepentantly.
"I'll bet," Sara smirked, backing through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, followed closely by Gina Marie.
Ian clearly sensed the Wielder's shock at what she found, and everybody at the table heard Gina Marie gasp "Oh my God! This place is a disaster!"
Only Ian and Gina Marie heard Sara's faint response. "It's not as bad as it looks," she said unconvincingly. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time."
"Yeah, right!" her niece opined skeptically.
"My work here is done!" Joey said blithely, jumping up from the table. "I'm off to get dressed to go sledding. Coming, Dad?"
"Yeah." Robert got up from the table. As he passed his wife's chair, he gave her shoulders a squeeze and dropped an affectionate kiss on the top of her head.
*Nottingham, what'd you do, set off one of your grenades in here? Geez!* Sara sent irritably.
*Sorry!* Ian replied guiltily. *Things sort of got out of hand. I'll come help you clean up, my love.* Truth was, he hadn't really made much of an effort to clean up as he and young Joseph went along; he'd been having way too much fun for that.
*No, no, no. Relax, I got it covered. Rule is whoever doesn't cook has to clean up,* Sara refused his offer, heaving a mental sigh. *But, damn! I shoulda known something was up when I heard all of the laughter coming from in here. Thank God they have a dishwasher,* she grumbled.
"It's pretty bad in there, isn't it?" Paula said, correctly reading his guilt-stricken expression.
Ian nodded sheepishly. "I'm afraid so."
"Don't sweat it," she said, rising. "I'll go help Sara and Gina Marie out. It's only fair since I didn't do the cooking. Oh, by the way, you might want to check out the bathroom mirror." And with that last intriguing comment, she disappeared into the kitchen.
Ian headed upstairs to the bathroom that Sara had indicated on their abbreviated tour of the house that the kids primarily utilized only to find Gina Marie in there fussing with her hair in front of the mirror.
"Oh, do you need to get in here?" she asked when she finally noticed him hovering in the doorway.
"Just for a moment," Ian murmured. A slight frown creased the skin between his dark brows. "Were you not supposed to be helping your aunt clean up the kitchen?"
The girl shrugged. "Aunt Sara said I could go get dressed to go sledding," she told him, apparently oblivious to the fact that she had yet to do so.
"I see."
"I'm having a bad hair day," Gina Marie informed Ian, frowning at her dark, shoulder-length hair in the mirror. "It sucks having straight hair. I wish it was wavy like my mom's or curly like yours, which has pancake batter in it, by the way."
"It does?"
"Yeah. Take a look," she said, gesturing for him to join her at the mirror.
Ian saw that he had in fact somehow managed to get a glob of batter in his hair, which he wore loose. "So, that is what your mother was talking about," he murmured. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward the sink.
"Go ahead. But you might need to use a little shampoo to get it out. It looks like it's caked on pretty good," Gina Marie observed, turning and opening the sliding glass door that enclosed the bathtub. "Here, this is my shampoo." She handed him a brightly colored plastic bottle. "It's kiwi scented."
"Thank you, Princess." Setting the bottle down, Ian turned on the water and wet the lock of hair that had the pancake batter in it. Instantly, the gooey substance began to dissolve and drip onto the front of the apron that he only then realized he was still wearing. He quickly discovered that it was not going to be easy to wash out his hair one- handed, but the girl was showing no signs of leaving the bathroom anytime soon. Consequently, he could not remove his sling to tackle the task.
"Here, let me help you," Gina Marie said, grabbing the shampoo. "Bend over the sink so I can reach your hair," she instructed him. "You're so tall!"
Ian did as he was told, and the preteen girl poured a dab of the sweet-smelling shampoo out onto her palm. She worked it through the lock of hair, creating a rather alarming amount of lather, and then carefully rinsed it out, using a Dixie cup that she got from a dispenser mounted over the sink.
"There. All clean," Gina Marie announced, blotting his hair with a hand towel.
"Thank you, Gina Marie. Do you have an elastic band I could borrow? I think I will wear my hair back. However, I will need your assistance once again."
"Sure. I could even braid your ponytail for you," she offered.
"I do not wish to impose on you. After all, you still have your own hair to do."
The 11-year-old shrugged again. "It's hopeless, but I can fix yours up really nice. Just let me get the package of fancy hair bands from my room," she said. "I'll be right back."
Ian waited, wondering what he'd gotten himself into. He was not sure he liked the sound of "fancy" hair bands.
Five minutes later, his hair had been neatly plaited into what Gina Marie claimed was an "awesome French braid." She tied off the end of the braid with a fuzzy fuchsia-colored elastic band.
"There. You look very handsome, Ian," she said, smiling at him in the mirror.
"Thank you, Princess. I could not have done it without you, especially with my arm in this sling," Ian told her, fervently hoping he could manage to put his hat on before anybody noticed his new hairstyle.
"Anytime. Now, I have to go get dressed. See you downstairs." She left.
Ian glumly gazed at his reflection in the mirror, absently noting that his beard and mustache needed trimming and that fuchsia was definitely not his color. Sighing, he closed the bathroom door and used the toilet.
'Maybe if I act nonchalant, nobody will notice my hair,' he mused as he washed his hands. 'Yeah, I'll just casually go downstairs, head straight for the coat room, and put my hat on. That won't look suspicious. We are going outside soon, after all.'
However, a moment later, Ian forgot all about his predicament when he sensed that Sara was upset. Removing the apron, he swiftly descended to the first floor.
*Sara?* he sent worriedly, a moment before entering the kitchen through the dining room. *Are you all right? I sensed that you were upset.*
Sara hastily pulled away from Paula Siri's comforting embrace when Ian appeared. *I'm fine,* she lied, turning away from him, but not before he saw her brush tears from her cheeks. She grabbed a sponge and began wiping down the once again spotless countertop.
"I just came in to return this. It could use laundering," Ian said aloud, holding up the apron.
Sara threw a quick look over her shoulder, but otherwise steadfastly avoided making eye contact with him. "That reminds me," she said to Paula. "Do you mind if I do a few loads of laundry?"
"No problem," their hostess said. "You know where the machines are. I'll finish up in here. The floor needs mopping, but I want to wait until everybody leaves before I tackle it."
Sara frowned. "I don't mind doing it, Paula," she protested, but her sister-in-law waved her off.
"That's okay," she assured her. "It needed a good mopping even before the Mad Pancake Cook and his assistant went to town." Her good- natured grin took the sting out of the words for Ian.
"Okay. Ian, would you help me bring the laundry downstairs?" Sara asked him.
"Certainly," he said, following her into the coat room.
*Why were you crying, Sara?* he sent as he stuffed the soiled apron into one of the pillow cases that was doubling as a laundry bag.
*Hormones,* she said, her tone clearly warning him not to pursue the topic. *Get used to it.*
As he followed her down into the basement, Ian fought back the feeling of panic that her attitude engendered in him. Despite everything they had gone through over the past week, he still could not fully convince himself that she wouldn't suddenly revert back to her old self, the one who hated and mistrusted him. It hurt when she shut him out like this. A lot. But he knew her well enough to know that she had to work out whatever it was that was bothering her at her own pace. Letting her see how apprehensive he was would only make matters worse. So, he waited, unaware that Sara clearly sensed his anxiety.
*****
"Are you sure you do not wish to come sledding with us?" Ian asked Sara quietly, watching her load the washing machine in an alcove adjacent to the family room.
It was the first words either of them had spoken in several minutes, aloud or otherwise.
After they'd left the kitchen, the silence between them had quickly grown uncomfortable, but Sara had stubbornly refused to break it. Although she knew Ian hadn't believed her excuse for her tears, there was no way she was going to admit the truth of the matter to him. Actually, she truly believed hormones were at the root of her uncharacteristically emotional state. What other explanation could there be for her lapse in self-control just now in the kitchen? Now Nottingham was anxious, fearing that he was somehow to blame -- and with good reason. She could sense the anxiety coming off him in waves, and it added to the maelstrom of emotions that was threatening to make her burst into tears again or, worse, lash out at him. Sara hated feeling so off-balance.
"Yeah, I'm sure. I think I'll take a nap. I've got a bit of a headache," she admitted, keeping her voice level with an effort. "The sleep will do me good."
"Do you want me to stay with you? I do not mind," Ian said softly. Coming up behind her, he placed his big, warm hands on her shoulders and gently began to massage them.
At first, Sara stiffened, but then gradually relaxed beneath his touch. She groaned softly as his thumbs dug into the base of her skull, breaking up the knots that had formed there over the course of several stress-filled days. Tension magically melted away from her neck and shoulder muscles, and with a grateful sigh, she turned and slid her arms around Ian's waist, pressing her face against his chest. Strong arms automatically encircled her.
"Thanks, baby," she whispered, "I needed that."
"Anytime, my love. So, would you like company while you nap?" he asked again, his words causing his chest to vibrate pleasantly beneath her cheek.
"Nah. Somehow, I don't think we'd end up doing much napping. Funny, how that happens when we're in the vicinity of a bed," she said wryly, inhaling his familiar scent with pleasure. "You go on. The fresh air and exercise will do you good. But at the risk of repeating myself, I'd really rather you didn't actually do any sledding. I don't want you to run the risk of re-injuring yourself," she told him, only then realizing that he'd taken off the sling. "What happened to your sling?"
Sighing, Ian removed it from the back pocket of his borrowed jeans. "Although I realize that most people who have suffered the same type of injuries that I did normally wear a sling for quite a bit longer, I was hoping I could get away with not wearing it for the rest of the day," he murmured.
"Uh, not a good idea. Robbie would definitely think it was strange. He majored in sports medicine and is a physical therapist, so he's very familiar with just how long it takes to recover range of motion after dislocating a shoulder, not to mention breaking your collarbone. You'd better keep wearing it," Sara told him. "As soon as we leave here, you can chuck it for good."
Ian sighed again, but acquiesced, allowing her to help him put the contraption back on. "I will return within an hour and a half, Sara," he said, his lips brushing her forehead.
"I'll be napping in the guest room upstairs. Please, Ian, no matter how much fun it looks like Joey, Gina Marie, and Robbie are having, promise me you won't take any chances on taking a ride down the hill," Sara reiterated, meeting his gaze.
"I will merely be a spectator, my Lady," he promised solemnly.
"Good. See you in a couple of hours," she said. He turned to leave, but Sara caught a flash of bright pink out the corner of her eye, and did a double-take. "Wait a sec," she said, staring at the back of his head. "Ian, is that a French braid?"
He froze. "Yes, Sara, it is."
"And what in God's name possessed you to fix your hair like that?"
"I did not do it, your niece did." He sighed, darting an embarrassed look at her from beneath his lashes. "She helped me wash the pancake batter out of my hair, which, by the way, you could have told me about. I am sure you noticed it."
Sara smirked at him. "Go on. I'm dying to know how you got talked into this."
"Well, I decided to wear my hair back, but I did not have an elastic band on me, so I asked Gina Marie if she had one she could spare. I also enlisted her aid in securing my hair," he indicated the detested sling, "which is impossible to do one-handed. She said yes, then offered to braid my ponytail for me. Unwisely, I accepted her offer. I did not have the heart to stop her when she began French-braiding my hair. She was very proud of the end result and assured me that I looked very handsome."
"And stylish, too. Who knew you were such a softy, Nottingham?" she grinned. "I advise you to keep your hat on when you head out to the park. That is, unless you actually want your bad-ass rep to be completely destroyed."
"I think it is already too late to prevent that," he said wryly. "I do not know many bad asses who enjoy making smiley-face pancakes -- or at least none who would dare to admit it."
Sara's smile widened as she remembered his obvious pride in said pancake. "You've got a point there. You'd better get going," she said, hearing the tromping of feet overhead. "I'll see you in a couple of hours."
"Get some rest, my love," he said, pressing an all-too-brief kiss to her lips.
"I will. Have fun," she murmured. He left.
Sara finished loading the washing machine, added detergent, and started it. Next, she filled the sink next to the machine with cold water, putting Nottingham's wool trousers and thermal underwear, both of which were stiff with dried blood, in to soak. Within minutes, the water turned reddish brown, a stark reminder of how close she'd come to losing Ian. Mindful of Paula's presence in the house, Sara opened the drain and thoroughly rinsed both garments before tossing the long johns into the churning washing machine and then refilling the sink and adding Woolite. When she was satisfied that the trousers were clean, she rinsed them out again and hung them up to drip dry on a nearby wooden drying rack. Idly, she acknowledged that this was probably not the last time she'd find herself washing blood out of her Protector's clothing. Not even close. It came with the territory, she thought morosely, glancing at the Witchblade. The bracelet's red stone was dark. In fact, ever since the vision It had imparted of her and Ian's future offspring, she hadn't sensed anything from It. She was grateful for the reprieve, but she knew it wouldn't last. Just as she knew that her and Ian's idyll was rapidly coming to an end.
She waited until the first load was ready to be removed from the washer and then transferred it to the dryer before refilling the washing machine with more dirty laundry and restarting it. Rubbing her aching temples, she wearily trudged upstairs.
"When did they leave?" she inquired from the kitchen doorway.
Paula was almost finished mopping the kitchen floor. "About 20 minutes ago," she said, eying Sara's dispirited mien.
"I'm gonna go lie down for a while in the guest room. I've got a bitch of a caffeine withdrawal headache," Sara told her.
Her sister-in-law made a sympathetic face. "Ouch. It's not gonna be fun until you do, but you'll be glad when you finally get the java monkey off your back. It took me a couple of months to kick the habit, but I hardly ever miss real coffee anymore. Hope you feel better when you wake up, Sweetie."
"Me, too," Sara said. "Oh, I've got a load in the dryer and another in the machine, but I'll finish doing the rest of the laundry after lunch. Under no circumstances are you to do it, you got that?"
"Yes, ma'am. Sleep tight."
Sara slowly made her way up to the second floor and the guest room. Unlacing and then kicking off her boots, she stretched out on the bed with a weary sigh, covering herself with the heavy cotton bedspread.
But sleep turned out to be elusive. Her restless mind kept going over what she had admitted to Paula about being terrified of falling in love with Ian Nottingham.
She could not help but feel that her fear was irrational, especially when confronted with evidence of just how gentle and good-natured Ian could be. Like earlier, when she had noticed his French-braided hair. She was certain that it had never entered his mind to deny her 11-year-old niece the pleasure of styling his hair like that. It was at times like these that Sara found it very hard to remember that he was a very, very dangerous man. However, when it really came down to it, she believed she had good reason to be afraid of giving him her heart. Despite her assertion earlier that morning that he was merely cracked, not broken, Sara acknowledged that she really had no idea how badly damaged he'd been by the man he thought of as his father/master. The stories Ian had told her about his upbringing and the physical and psychological evidence that had been left behind spoke volumes about Kenneth Irons' cruelty. Ian's silent tears, habitual submissiveness, and, until recently, maddening predilection for speaking in riddles all pointed to the unholy influence the man who'd raised him (for want of a better term) had exerted over him -- still did, she swiftly reminded herself. The chains that bound Ian to Irons were very much intact. This fact in and of itself made her blood run cold. In the vision Sara had had the night her Protector had come perilously close to dying, Elizabeth Bronte had exhorted her to do everything in her power to help him win his freedom from the "Iron Man." Believing in him, as Sara had professed to do, was all well and fine, but she couldn't help but wonder if it would be enough to overcome the lifelong conditioning of subservience and unswerving loyalty to the charismatic and powerful billionaire.
"Oh, but I do belong to you, Sara. Heart and soul," he'd said earlier that morning, when Sara had asserted that he didn't belong to anyone. But what about body and mind? Kenneth Irons had molded Ian Nottingham into perhaps the world's deadliest assassin, one who was mysteriously imbued with superhuman strength, speed, and reflexes, as well as amazing recuperative powers. Furthermore, Ian had told her that he and his fellow Black Dragons had been schooled in all of the intellectual arts in an effort to fulfill Irons' vision of them as "poet warriors." Not only that, the ruthless billionaire had subjected the former members of this top- secret military project to experimental drug therapies meant to enhance their intelligence, physical and psychological endurance, and, most important of all, their obedience. Nottingham had admitted that until he met her, he had never questioned the orders the man he called his master had given him.
Sara was honest enough with herself to admit that she harbored more than a little trepidation about just what Ian had done at Irons' behest. She had the sinking suspicion that her resolve to believe in her Protector would be sorely tested when his past misdeeds came to light, as he had warned her that Irons would make certain of. And although she highly doubted Kenneth Irons would be so foolish as to make common knowledge the various assassinations Ian had so loyally carried out on his behalf, thereby incriminating himself, Sara had the awful feeling that he would contrive to let those she cared about know exactly what sort of man she had taken up with. This called for some kind of preemptive strike, but she squirmed uneasily as she envisioned attempting to explain to her friends and family that her lover and father-to-be of her baby had a blood-soaked, extremely violent past.
'Yeah, Danny, Ian used to kill people for a living. But now that we're together, he's out of the assassination business. Oh sure, he'll gladly kill again if necessary. That's what he was born to do. You see, he's my Protector, and there's these bad people out there who want to kill me because of this pretty bracelet I wear, which, by the way, isn't simply a piece of jewelry. It's an ancient, sentient weapon, and I'm Its Wielder. Oh, and did I mention that I'm pregnant with Mr. Walking Lethal Weapon's child?'
"God help me!" Sara groaned aloud, vainly massaging her throbbing forehead. Could her life get any more complicated? As if of its own volition, her right hand went to her abdomen. 'Oh, yeah, that's right,' she mused. 'In about nine months, it sure as hell will.'
"Hello in there?" she whispered. "It's me, your Mommy. The Wielder. Maybe I'd better get a head start on explaining the meaning of 'dysfunctional family' to you. And while I'm at it, I should probably tell you that your Daddy really isn't to blame for all of the murders he's committed. Your Grandfather is responsible for that."
Abruptly, it occurred to Sara that, perhaps better than anyone else (with the possible exception of Irons, but that didn't bear thinking about), Ian could relate to her predicament. After all, he'd been born with his bond to the Witchblade, and thus was all-too-familiar with the unique quandaries associated with serving It. He would be an invaluable ally in her attempt to restore some semblance of order to her increasingly chaotic life -- if such a thing were even possible. She also reminded herself that he would be an extremely willing participant in his struggle to break free of Kenneth Irons' hold. If anything, Sara would be moral support. Nottingham would be forced to do most of the hard work all by his lonesome. Suddenly, she found that she missed him terribly.
*Ian?* she sent, wondering if the distance separating them made it difficult or even impossible for them to communicate telepathically.
*Yes, my love?* he responded instantly.
*Nothing. I was just seeing if we could still do this even though you're not nearby.*
*I believe I could be a thousand miles from you, Sara, and I'd still be able to hear your thoughts.*
*Uh, I hope you're not planning on testing that theory anytime soon.*
*No, my love. If it were left up to me, I would never leave your side again.*
*Well, I wish I'd taken you up on your offer to nap with me,* she told him. *I can't seem to fall asleep without you next to me. I miss you, baby.*
*I miss you, too, Sara.*
*Would you be terribly disappointed to cut short your outing?*
*Not at all. I've already seen enough. Just let me tell Robert that I'm leaving, and I'll be there within minutes.*
*Okay, if you're sure.*
*I'm sure. Although observing the activities is highly entertaining in and of itself, it's frustrating not being able to join in,* he said a tad wistfully. *Oh, and you were right about sledding being dangerous, Sara. I've been here barely 15 minutes and already I've witnessed two crashes. Thankfully, neither was serious. However, some of the more rambunctious youngsters appear to think sledding is a contact sport -- Joseph included, much to your brother's dismay. And the hill in this park isn't even that steep. It must be thrilling to slide down a really large hill. I'll bet you could build up quite a bit of speed. I'd like to go sledding with you before this winter is through, Sara.*
*To be honest, the possibility of crashing is a major part of sledding's attraction for me,* Sara admitted. *It's the adrenaline junky in me, I guess. In fact, the bigger the hill, the better! But contrary to what you might think, that does not extend to other areas of my life, like riding my Buell,* she said wryly, forestalling the remark she sensed was on the tip of Ian's tongue. *However, I think I'd better wait until I don't have a baby on board before I go sledding with you, Nottingham. Now, get your butt back here!* Mentally, Sara disconnected, but she became aware of a warm presence on the edge of her consciousness that from that moment on she identified as Ian. She smiled to feel a wave of anticipation at seeing him again wash over her. Even the pain of her headache seemed to subside, and although she was convinced that she would not be able to fall asleep until her lover's comforting warmth was beside her once again, she dozed off.
*****
More to come. Thanks, as always for all of your wonderful feedback. I couldn't continue without it!