Adam's eyes widened. Sir Loring was dashing about the conservatory, crying mournfully and tearing out fistfuls of his hair. "That woman! That maddening madwoman has thrown out my native soil. The native soil that filled my coffin. What shall I do? I'm doomed—doomed!"
Mrs. Monkfort peeked over the fountain. The garden room was filled with a dense array of foliage and colorful flowers. It was an exotic jungle with the rich scents of earth and hundreds of flowering plants. Normally it was a place of sanctuary and serenity. Not today.
"Oh, dear," Eve remarked, a frown furrowing her brow. This was serious. Vampires had to have their native soil close at hand in case of accidents, since native soil aided greatly in their regeneration. It also helped vampires who had a tendency toward hysteria, calming their overwrought nerves. Sir Loring, more than most undead, was particularly grounded in his soil.
Turning to the culprit in question, Eve leveled a stern look at her. "Mrs. Monkfort?!"
The woman pointed an accusatory finger at the vampire. "I won't have all this dirt in my house. It's disgraceful and so, well… dirty!"
"Mrs. Monkfort, it wasn't your dirt, and this isn't your house. It's mine. You had no right to throw away anyone's dirt, or even to touch another patient's belongings," Eve replied. "Where is the dirt?"
"Where you'll never find it. Never."
Sir Loring continued to whine.
Teeter groaned. "It's an orchard in here, I tell you. Every day, a veritable new treeful of fruits. I must insist on higher wages. I can't take much more. Especially if I'm to do this sober."
Adam silently seconded the butler's thoughts.
"There's too much dirt," Mrs. Monkfort continued. "Too much nasty, nasty dirt. And naughty little bugs crawling around in it. We're got a long, long way to go before we're clean. And that bloody leprechaun isn't making my task any easier," she added, pointing.
Eve glanced over to where Mrs. Monkfort was motioning, where Fester was digging up the flower beds. "Fester!" she yelled in outrage, spotting two very large holes near her orchids. "How could you?"
At the sight of Fester's panicked face and his wife's fury, Adam couldn't help but laugh.
Eve put her hands on her hips, incensed. Adam should be helping her halt this nonsense, but instead he was hysterical. Well, she would have a long talk with him and remind him of a husband's duty—both to a wife and to her mad patients.
Fester turned a guilty glance their way and set aside his shovel. He knew better than to dig a deeper hole for himself, especially when Dr. Eve was wearing her little-admiral look. His ship was sunk.
Placing a hand on his wife's shoulder, Adam narrowed his eyes in speculation. Could Fester's gold finally be here? He hoped so. What Captain Bluebeard had paid him had been a great help, but a man could always use more. Especially if he were to do what he truly wanted.
"Fester, I think you should stop. You've upset Dr. Eve," he said with a hint of steel in his voice. "You're about to make her check herself out of a loony bin. We'll hunt down your gold later. After all, two heads are better than one. Right, old man?"
The chagrined leprechaun thought about it a moment or two, then finally nodded and threw down his shovel.
Eve shook her head, annoyed. But before she could begin a reprimand, a tiny voice from behind the Venus flytraps rang out: "Help me! Help me!"
Both Adam and Eve glanced at each other, shock on their faces. The leprechaun shrugged. "Me hearing ain't what it used to be," he said. "I never heard no cry of help before."
They cautiously made their way down rows of towering green plants and dense foliage, and Mrs. Monkfort scurried behind them. She wore a slightly guilty look. Ahead, half-hidden in shadow, three massive Venus flytraps rose from the corner of the room. Mr. Pryce was entwined in what appeared to be a large spiderweb, his hands outstretched and wrapped in white tendrils. He was staring in sheer terror at the large gaping mouths of the flytraps.
But there was a bigger surprise. The spiderweb was the giant lacelike thing Mrs. Monkfort had been crocheting.
Eve's jaw dropped open, her eyes round in patent disbelief. "Really, this is simply too much, Mrs. Monkfort!" she cried.
The pitiful Mr. Pryce tried to flap his pretend wings, buzzing and shrieking in a high voice, "Help me!" He indeed looked like a desperate housefly.
Everyone turned at once to glare at Mrs. Monkfort, who began dusting a massive fern next to her. Glancing up, a haughty expression on her countenance, she asked crossly, "What? I did only what needed doing. We don't need such fake flies in our home, especially not going around and buzzing respectable people who are hard at work. Yes, I wrapped him up in that lace cloth and set him in front of the flytraps, but he's the one who froze like that. It's not like the demented man is stuck. He could be free if he wanted." She waved a dismissive hand at him.
Eve said frostily, "Mrs. Monkfort, this is cruel. Mr. Pryce is terrified of flytraps. How could you do this?"
Noting Mr. Pryce's dejected, desperate expression, and Mrs. Monkfort's blush, Adam suddenly had a brainstorm of epic magnitude. The puzzle pieces clicked together all at once. "Mrs. Monkfort," Adam addressed the odd lady, "I do believe I know what's happening. Mr. Pryce is courting you in the only way he knows how."
Surprise replaced the woman's arrogant demeanor. A slight smile crossed her thin lips; then she remarked, "No. I don't need a man buzzing about me, a fly in the ointment. Besides, he's got the personality of a gnat."
"He doesn't have to bug you," Adam suggested. "He's not always hieing fly."
Eve, catching on quickly, took up the reins. "No, he isn't. And Mr. Pryce is not just any man. He's quite wealthy in his own right, the third son of a marquess. So he sometimes needs a good swat. But how could you blame him for being taken with your charms? You know what they say about flies and honey… But he's also a werewolf, and wolves are noted for their faithfulness—as well as keeping themselves and their dens clean."
Mrs. Monkfort stood quietly, preening at the mention of a clean den. "I should quash his pretensions," she remarked, stealing a glance at the trapped bug-man. "After all, Mr. Pryce lives here. It's a lunatic asylum, you know," she confided.
Adam whispered to Eve, "No place else could these two meet."
Mrs. Monkfort cooed, her gaze going all coy. Behind her, Teeter untangled Mr. Pryce from the crocheted web.
Adam chuckled, and Eve shot him a speaking glance, but before either could talk, a loud rasping and banging drew their attention. Sir Loring the vampire was quietly but methodically beating his feet against the floor. He had lain down under several exotic ferns and vivid pink orchids, and was sniveling.
"My poor soil. It's gone!" he moaned.
The vampire was truly pitiable, and although Adam had never cared for bloodsuckers personally—due mostly to having been on the business end of several pointy teeth a time or two—he couldn't let the poor old fellow suffer.
Leading Mrs. Monkfort quickly to the fly-man, he cajoled hurriedly, "Just think: Mr. Pryce is mad about you. To celebrate this momentous occasion, we should do something a little special."
"What?" the washing widow asked. She fluttered her eyelashes at the flyboy.
"Let's find Sir Loring's dirt—so he can be jolly too."
Adam explained in his softest, huskiest voice. He didn't really expect the morose Sir Loring ever to be jolly, but he hoped for an apparent mild contentment. "You can take the dirt, but can you dish it out?"
Mrs. Monkfort looked strangely thoughtful, then finally agreed. "All right. Perhaps I can wash it for him. I threw it in Fester's hole. The one over there by the orange tree."
Giving her a quick peck on the cheek, Adam thanked her, and Mrs. Monkfort blushed becomingly. Unfortunately Mr. Pryce took exception to the kiss, and he took his new lady's hand and firmly walked out the door, the large spiderish blanket trailing behind the odd couple, still entangled about his waist.
Adam just grinned.
Soon afterward, Sir Loring's dirt had been restored to its rightful owner and Eve and Adam soaked in the calm after the storm of insanity. Eve shook her head and glanced around the garden.
"Sometimes my patients do things that fly in the face of all reason. Imagine Mr. Pryce being held captive by that crocheted blanket!"
Adam chuckled. "The imagination is a powerful thing," he said. And he should know—he'd been imagining the things he would do to Eve all night. Clasping her hand, he teased, "Alone at last. And in a place like this, crawling with manic monsters, solitude is not easy to get."
Admiration lit her face, and she stared up at him. "You were marvelous. You really should have been trained as a psychiatrist. I've been amazed that you instinctively know how to treat the patients, or at least help them with their troubles," she confided, staring at him with wonder. "You have hidden depths, my pirate husband. I do believe they are deeper than the Atlantic Ocean."
Her admission stirred Adam deeply. He needed Eve, like his biblical namesake must have, for this woman was clearly made especially for him. His yearning for her defied all logic and physical boundaries. Somehow Eve had become everything wonderful and delightful to him, and she gave him determination to beat all of life's challenges. She was the laughter of a child, the cooling wind on a hot Caribbean beach, and the brightest star in the heavens. Infinity was found in her smile, and true goodness in her desire to help those less fortunate. "I adore you, my love, and I always will," he vowed.
In Adam's eyes, Eve could see her beauty, her desire, and… yes, perhaps her destiny. She was all things to him, and that was a heady thought. Especially to a scientific-minded female who had not thought to marry.
Eve smiled. She was through fighting against overwhelming odds, against Adam's dashing nature and wit. The time for pretense was over. Adam was like no one she had ever met. He was better even than her imagined husband, and that was saying something.
"Such hidden depths," she marveled. "I knew you were trouble the minute I laid eyes on you. But aren't I the fortunate one?" She touched his cheek, her eyes misting with love.
"Hidden depths, eh?" he remarked wickedly, smiling, keeping her tears of happiness at bay. Pressing her hand up against his suddenly painful erection, he said, "I have a feeling you have a few hidden depths as well. Depths I'm well ready to plumb. Do you feel what you do to me?"
Eve suddenly felt feverish. Placing her hand on her chest she said, "I feel what you do to me." Her heart was beating madly, her breath coming in soft gasps. She wanted this man, wanted him with an intensity that was almost ludicrous. "What would you recommend, Dr. Griffin?"
"Complete bed rest, with lots of Verbal Intercourse to keep you sane. And we must not forget good old' fashioned regular intercourse. Every night for at least a year or two—or perhaps even a lifetime," he suggested.
"I concur, Dr. Griffin, with your treatment." And with that, Eve wrapped herself around him and hung on for dear life.