“Pleased to meet you, sir.” Murphy put out a beefy hand, which even after only two weeks Catherine could have told him was a tactical error. Boyd did not touch people often, which, so far, had been the only thing saving Catherine’s sanity.
Boyd nodded, and Murphy withdrew his hand. The four men at his back said nothing, and Cat turned her gaze from Murphy’s pleasant face to examine them.
Big men all, though not as hulking as Murphy. The first had black hair and olive skin, a thin nose, sensual lips, and a scar on his chin. The second wore a disagreeable expression and a bowler hat that, scuffed and battered, looked like it had been through the wars. The third—
Cat looked at him and her thoughts stuttered; her mind recoiled, not quite able to take in what she saw. A monster, she thought first, and then, correcting that initial impression, no—a man. But by heaven, what had happened to him? And how could anyone go through life so?
Distracted for the first time in days from her own misery, she stared. He too had reddish hair, very dark. Her mind sought for the word: auburn. But it grew from only one side of his head. The other, a mass of scar tissue, sported no hair at all, just mottled, thickened skin. The affliction spread down the right side of his face as well, a ghastly half-mask that dominated his appearance. Whatever catastrophe had befallen him—a fire, Cat would guess—had left but half an eyebrow on that side. His right ear had been reduced to an overgrown mushroom, his jaw a sweep of shiny pink.
Ugly, Catherine’s reason told her. Yet his eyes, deep blue in that terrible countenance, met hers without prevarication.
“Your message said you’re looking for some security,” Murphy stated. He indicated the four men at his back. “You want round-the-clock service?”
“I require only one man.” Boyd wore the emotionless mien Catherine had, in so short a time, learned meant he would not negotiate. “But I wish to choose him. I don’t like narrow options.”
“All right.” Murphy seemed taken aback but recovered well. “How many hours a day do you need?”
“That will vary. I need a guardian for Miss Delaney at the times I’m not with her.” He gestured at Catherine. “She will not be out of your man’s sight, and I’ll hold you responsible, Murphy, for any breach.”
“Perhaps two men—” Murphy began.
“I want one.” Boyd cast his gaze over the men at Murphy’s back, considering each in turn. With a flicker of his eyes he made his choice. “Him.”
Catherine stifled a gasp. Boyd had gestured at the man with the half face.
Murphy turned and directed a long look at the man in question. “Good choice. Kilter is one of my best.”
“I would not expect you to bring me a man who can’t do the job, Murphy,” Boyd snapped. “I want him to start immediately.”
“Very well, sir.” Murphy pronounced it “sor,” but the Irish lilt did not disguise his distaste. “How long will you be in the city?”
“That has not been determined. “I’ll have him as long as I need him.”
“Fine. The fee is—”
“The cost doesn’t matter, and I don’t deal with such things. Present your bill to my business manager.”
Murphy turned to the chosen man. “You all right with this assignment, Kilter?”
The man nodded. So far he had not taken his gaze from Catherine save to glance once at Boyd, his expression unreadable. For some reason, a frisson traveled down Catherine’s spine, half dread and half anticipation.
“A vehicle is supposed to meet me,” Boyd said, promptly dismissing Murphy and his remaining men. “Come along.”
They moved off, Catherine still trapped between her two hateful captors but now with another behind. She thought back to the moment, two weeks ago—just fourteen short days—when she had learned her fate. She wondered how she had survived so long. Sheer stubbornness, no doubt.
“Locate our ride,” Boyd told Carter, and they paused while Carter went ahead, the sun pounding on the top of Catherine’s head like a fist.
Boyd swung round and looked at the man at their back—Kilter, Murphy had called him.
“Do you understand your duties? You will watch over Miss Delaney at all times, not only to keep her from harm but to prevent her straying when she is not in my company. She has an unfortunate tendency to stray. I will hold both you and your employer responsible if that occurs on your watch. Think of yourself as her guard dog. No one is to get near her but me.”
Humiliation flooded over Catherine like a drench of hot water. Boyd treated her as if he had just purchased her, which in truth he had. Somehow she kept her head high, but her gaze strayed to Kilter’s face, seeking his reaction. He remained expressionless, save for his eyes. Those narrowed for an instant before he gave a nod.
“You can rely on me to do the job for which I’m hired, Mr. Boyd.”
“So I should expect.” Boyd gave one of his thin, merciless smiles. “Ah—that must be our vehicle now.”
The largest steamcab Catherine had ever seen drew up; Carter flagged it down and began speaking with the driver.
Under cover of the noise, Boyd bent his head toward Catherine to say, “At least, my dear, I need not worry about you cheating on me with your guard—he is far too ugly and repellent, is he not?”
****
Ugly, James thought, even as he slid into the rear seat of the steamcab. That made twice in less than ten minutes. And how many times had he heard that word over the past ten years? So many it didn’t matter what a piece of filth like Boyd said of him now.
That Sebastian Boyd truly was a piece of filth James had no doubt. Arrogant and with a cruel streak a mile wide, he immediately put James’ back up.
James told himself a job was a job; he need not like the man to work for him. Yet something here smelt wrong. And he had not missed the fact that Boyd wanted him to overhear that last comment.
Had it been aimed at Miss Delaney or at him? As if such a creature as she would ever spare him so much as a glance…
Which was the whole point, wasn’t it? Boyd wanted a fierce watchdog whom he need not worry about poaching on his territory.
But Miss Delaney made an unlikely sort of doxy, if such she was. James had seen plenty of those in his time, even high-class ones such as Boyd might hire for a thousand dollars a night. They usually carried an aura, even the best of them.
The steamcab had four rows of seats and a gleaming black exterior at least fifteen feet long. The driver disappeared up front, and James found himself relegated to the back row with the squat, thick-set man Boyd kept as a go-fer. Boyd and Miss Delaney sat in the row ahead so James could see only the backs of their heads.
Better get used to it, he told himself. This would likely be the view from now on. And he had no complaint with viewing even the back of Miss Delaney’s head, exquisite as the rest of her.
Curious thing, though: most doxies—or hired escorts, as the upper class tended to call them—exerted themselves to entertain their clients. Miss Delaney did not speak a word to Boyd and in fact drew herself up so as to be sure not to touch him.
James thought of Rosie, a lass of the waterfront who—were the price right—might sometimes be persuaded to accept him when his need proved great. Even Rosie touched him, if only in the dark, with more eagerness than Miss Delaney displayed.
Yes, even despite his unquestionable and enduring ugliness.
Chapter Three
The steamcab stopped at one of Buffalo’s grand mansions. Situated on The Avenue near the traffic circle that bisected North Street, it boasted three tall stories and a stone facade. No sooner had the cab drawn up than a small army of steam servants spewed forth from the elegant front doorway.
Boyd climbed from the cab and stood like a minor god while they all bustled around him. The henchman preceded James from the rear door onto the sidewalk.
He saw Miss Delaney step out and stand on the curb in front of him, looking up at the building. She swayed on her feet; for an instant James thought she woul
d fall down.
Instinctively, he stepped forward and caught her by the elbow. A tingle, akin to how he imagined lightning must feel, traveled from the point where his fingers touched her flesh up his arm and straight to his head.
He expected her to flinch—most women did, at contact with him. Instead she turned her head and gazed into his eyes.
Once again James caught his breath. It felt precisely like being punched in the chest. His heart stumbled and then recovered to beat double-time.
“All right there?” he asked.
She parted her lips to respond but didn’t—at least not in words, though he saw a wealth of answers in her eyes.
Hazel eyes they were, a hazy, peaty green-brown guarded by brown lashes. Set slightly tilted in her delicate face, they should have been bright with light and enthusiasm. Instead James beheld shadows, defiant strength, and banked misery.
Most certainly she was not all right. Nothing was, about this situation. If Miss Delaney occupied the place of Boyd’s doxy, it was against her will.
James experienced a rush of familiar feeling: protectiveness. A crusader at heart, he could not stand to see anyone abused, be it an animal or a fragile woman.
But he let go of her arm, telling himself she would not want him, of all men, playing her white knight. He had a job to do, nothing more.
“Come,” Boyd called as he might to a hound, and the whole knot of them moved off up the walk and through the grand doorway, James following at Miss Delaney’s heels.
Amazing what money could do, James thought as he gazed around the foyer. He didn’t know who had built this place or who owned it now, but the sheer ostentation of the building and fittings boggled his mind. Like the airship back at the waterfront, he found it difficult to reconcile the kind of money that might be spent on foot-high oak moldings and curlicues carved round the ceiling—not when, as a boy, he’d known a potato for supper to be wealth.
But, he reminded himself, his business wasn’t to think—no more than the steamies that trundled about organizing the luggage, a veritable army of them.
From around them emerged a human butler, a tall figure clad all in black who approached Boyd obsequiously.
“Welcome, sir, and I hope you enjoy your stay. My name is Riles, and I will do whatever I can to make you comfortable.”
Boyd snorted. “I was told there’s an office. I have business to conduct.”
“This way, sir.”
“And bring me a drink. Then show the rest of my party to their rooms.”
“Yes, sir.”
Boyd went off with the butler, and James watched the tension drain from Miss Delaney’s slender back.
Carter gave him a look from beady eyes. “You know what to do, right? Don’t let her out of your sight. If you lose her, there’ll be hell to pay.”
He went off in Boyd’s wake, leaving an awful silence behind. The steamies, all carrying luggage, moved off also, and very soon James and his charge stood in the sumptuous foyer virtually alone.
I’m not hired to talk to her, James told himself. It’s more a matter of my big body between her and the door. For quite obviously she didn’t want to be here, and presumably she would leave if she could.
But she didn’t move, save to tangle her trembling fingers together. And then the butler reappeared, gave James a carefully guarded look, and focused on Miss Delaney.
“Madame, I will show you to your quarters. This way, please.”
Quarters, was it? James followed the butler, or more accurately the fluttering hem of Miss Delaney’s dress, up a broad sweep of staircase to a sumptuously carpeted hallway and thence to a door at the end of it. Riles said nothing as he opened the door with a flourish and showed Miss Delaney in.
Not a room but a suite of them, all decorated in rose pink and soft gray. High windows dominated the chamber they entered, along with a fireplace flanked by two rose-colored wing chairs and faced by a sofa. Through an interior doorway James could glimpse what looked like a bower of roses—pink flowers splashed across the wallpaper and on the coverlet of the huge bed.
For an instant his mind rebelled. He could not imagine Miss Delaney in that bed alone. He reminded himself he barely knew her and, anyway, he had no reason to believe she would be alone. Presumably, Boyd meant to join her there.
“Sitting room.” Riles stated the obvious. “Bedroom.” He swept them into the rose bower. “And wash room. Also”—he indicated a second room off the bower, a small place that housed a narrow cot, obviously intended for a maid—“for your bodyguard, as requested.”
Bodyguard, was it? James stole a look at Miss Delaney’s face, which had frozen into an expressionless mask, all but her eyes, which were those of a chained dog.
“If there is anything you need, madame, please don’t hesitate to ring the bell beside the bed. Would you like a steam servant assigned to you?”
Violently, Miss Delaney shook her head.
Riles took himself out, leaving the two of them in the bower alone.
Do not look at her, James told himself. Afford her what privacy you can, which from the look of this is to be precious little. He knew for a fact his ruined face did not betray much of what he felt and doubted she would see any of what surged through him—sympathy and dismay. She wouldn’t look at him anyway. Why should she? He must seem even more an abomination in this beautiful place.
He heard her draw a breath and ached to turn his gaze on her, but instead stared away into the air at nothing.
But then she spoke, her voice low and unsteady. “This is nothing more than a prison.”
True. James’ eyes moved to her face without his volition. No longer expressionless, it had contorted with emotion: anger, rebellion, and panic. His heart sank within him. While in Tate’s employ he had supplied no end of security in difficult situations, but nothing approaching this.
Hastily, he debated his options, which appeared few, fought his instincts, and lost.
“Are you here against your will, Miss Delaney? Because if you are—”
Her gaze flew to his again, tangled and held. “Then what, Mr. Kilter? He did say your name’s Kilter, didn’t he? He owns me. Nothing can be done.”
“Owns you? Nobody owns anybody in this country, not anymore.”
“Is that what you think? If so, you have no idea what money can do.”
He did, though, or at least the lack of it. The lack of money could cause a man to lose his pride, could make a woman rise before daylight and work till dark to see her children fed. It could send a boy to a job far too dangerous for him, one that scarred him for life.
“I, Mr. Kilter,” she said bitterly, “have been bought and sold. And there’s nothing you, I, or even God can do to change it.”
James had his own ideas about God, that villain who allowed terrible things to happen in His world. But he would not voice them or any of the other things that crowded his mind.
“You are not my bodyguard,” she added, “but my jailer.”
He’d already figured that out, as well as why Boyd had chosen him: far too ugly to tempt the prisoner to indiscretions.
“Listen,” he said very softly indeed, “if you are in need of help, I will go to my boss. Murphy has a good heart.”
“If you are fond of your employer, Mr. Kilter, you will keep him out of it, unless you want to see him ruined.”
James thought furiously.
She tilted up her chin. “Oh, I know what you must think of me: that I’m his fancy woman, a glorified prostitute.”
James shook his head, even though he had.
“He hasn’t touched me—not yet. He is saving that pleasure for when he thinks it will hurt me most.”
Rage rose in a bubble to James’ head. “That doesn’t have to be—”
“Yes, it does. Please, I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Kilter, but you know nothing of the situation. Just do your job and let me endure my fate.”
No, James thought in utter denial. But out of respect for her he n
odded, went back to the outer room, and took up a post by the door, where he composed himself in the required stance, feet wide, hands folded one atop the other.
And he pretended he couldn’t hear the sound that soon floated to him out of the bower—that of Miss Delaney sobbing.
Chapter Four
Morning dawned with a seep of sickly gray light that let Cat know it rained outside, the world in mourning. She woke in the big, rose-colored bed and lay for a moment as she had each morning since her life was sold away, trying to convince herself none of it had really happened.
As always, she failed. A heaving knot of sickness gathered in her stomach as memory rushed in.
She thought back to the night last month when her life fell apart, three days after her birthday. Since then she’d known nothing but terror, grim determination, and sacrifice.
She shivered even though she lay beneath luxurious blankets and a duvet. Her limbs felt cold all the way through. She could barely catch the beat of her own heart.
Better for her if that heart stopped in her breast, if she slipped away in the night rather than face the future. For she could see no other way out of her misery.
She had tried escape and failed. She had attempted to bargain with the monster who held her. The threats and consequences had been swift and terrible.
He wanted her to live with this humiliation and dread, to contemplate the inevitability of the moment he would come to her door and take the prize he’d won. He wanted to break her first. For all her courage, she knew herself very nearly broken.
Would it happen here in this lovely room? Could nothing save her?
She tried to reason through it as she had already a hundred times. It did not matter so much what happened to her, Cat, so long as Becky remained safe and out of Boyd’s clutches. And Cat’s sacrifice had assured that, hadn’t it?
Her mind worried the question, chewed round it the way a rat might gnaw cheese. It was a good thing that they had left Toronto and come here instead. Distance provided Becky with more protection. So long as Boyd’s attention remained on Cat, he wouldn’t turn his eye back toward her little sister.
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