Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  But Carter buttoned his lip, went inside, and shut the door firmly. James backed down the stairs, reluctant to leave. Turning, he met the gaze of a fellow standing beside what James now recognized as a steam ambulance.

  “What happened in there, do you know?” James asked.

  “Confidential,” the fellow replied, looking askance at James and his ruined countenance.

  “Oh, come on—I work there, but I’ve been turned away. I have a right to know why.”

  “Well, you didn’t hear it from me. Rich fella who lives in there? His doxy attacked him, did a right job on him, too.”

  “She kill him?”

  “No, he ain’t dead, but hurt bad enough. We’re on standby, but no hospital in this city’s good enough for him. They’ve already called in four doctors.”

  James’ mind reeled. “Where’s the woman gone?” he asked.

  The ambulance attendant shrugged. “Nobody knows. Ran off, she did, after.”

  A great breath escaped James. Ran off where? She knew no one in the city, and he was all too aware of the dangers that might befall her.

  “Thanks,” he told the attendant.

  “Remember, you didn’t hear it from me. Hey, buddy, what happened to your face?”

  James started and gave the fellow a glare.

  “Just professional curiosity,” the man said. “Steam burns, right? Those are some of the worst I’ve ever seen, and I’ve worked with burn patients.”

  “The contents of a whole boiler erupted on me before I could move away.”

  “Figured it must have been something like that. You ever hear of Dr. Roesch?”

  “Who?”

  “He’s the man who got involved with that crew of steamie hybrids that came to light a couple years back.”

  “The ones in the police force?”

  “That’s them. We in the medical profession heard Roesch is studying the methods those two madmen used to graft skin over metal. They say he’s made some great advances. Might be able to help you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Could be worth your while to talk to him. He’s pricey, though.” The man raked James with a comprehensive glance. “Probably more than you can afford, come to think of it.”

  James just nodded, since there seemed nothing to say. He tucked the name “Roesch” into his memory and took himself off up the street.

  How could he figure out where Catherine had fled? He tried to imagine what must have taken place yesterday, or last night, to cause her to strike out at Boyd. She seemed so delicate, yet there was nothing helpless about a young woman who would knock a man down.

  Would she run to the waterfront? Try to make it back to Canada? Go to the police? He dared not hope she would think to come looking for him, yet she had virtually no other contacts in the city.

  He walked back to Tate’s slowly, his eyes everywhere, hoping for a glimpse of a strawberry-blonde head and a graceful, narrow back. By this hour the streets were busy, and he caught glimpses of many women, but not the one he sought.

  When he reached Tate’s, he found the man himself leaning on the jamb of the front doorway, arms crossed and a curious look on his broad face.

  “You’re back early, old son,” Tate observed without moving.

  “Job’s fallen through. Boyd’s in the hands of the quacks, and the bird has flown.”

  “Has she?” Tate raised his brows. “Any idea where?”

  “I wish I did.”

  “Then go into my office. Somebody here to see you.”

  James’ heart began to slam in his chest. He hurried past Tate, only half aware the man followed him. The door of Tate’s office stood closed. He opened it and looked in.

  The sight for which he’d been searching the streets met his eyes. She wore a rumpled, tattered gown of green, the bodice of which barely covered her bosom. Her hair tumbled in disarray around a face so pale he wondered how she kept on her feet. Her pretty lips formed a tight line of distress, and her eyes looked haunted.

  “Catherine,” he said, relief washing through him. “What happened?”

  Her only answer came in a rush of steps that carried her across the office and into his arms. His heart pounded harder as she burrowed against him, hands clutching the rough material of his coat, face pressed hard into his shoulder, a woman taking refuge without hesitation.

  Protectiveness—never far from the surface in him—swelled. Without thinking of right or wrong he wrapped his arms about her and held her tight.

  “Hush now, hush,” he murmured, though so far she had not said a word. “Are you hurt?”

  She moved her head in denial, and her hair, soft as silk, brushed his chin. So small was she that she came no higher than that; so thin did her body feel he might have broken her in his hands. Not that he would harm one bone of her, one hair, not under pain of death.

  “How did you come here?” he asked, but she just burrowed harder. The miracle of it—the true wonder—was that she would touch him this way, voluntarily. Women rarely did, without being paid.

  “Well, is this not a touching scene?” The drawl came from behind them. Tate stepped into the office and shut the door firmly.

  James spun to face his boss, but Catherine remained in his arms and moved with him.

  “Miss Delaney,” Tate said softly, “is this the fellow you wanted? Will you tell us now what’s been after happening?”

  “How did you find me?” Very gently, James eased his hold on her and looked into her eyes. He almost hated to do so; once she got a good look at his face she would surely rethink her position, realize just where she was, and move away.

  “I killed him. I think I killed him,” she said.

  “No, he’s not dead.”

  “He is. He fell. There was blood.”

  “No, Catherine, listen to me. I just came from there. They’ve called in doctors, and the ambulance men are standing by, but he’s alive.”

  “Oh, God!” Tears came then, filled her moss-colored eyes, and spilled over. “I thought…”

  “Listen to me, listen.” James rubbed her mostly bare shoulders in a gesture meant to convey comfort. “What did he do to you?”

  “I—” She shot an agonized look at Tate. “I can’t speak of it.”

  “Give us five minutes, Tate, please,” James appealed.

  “Look here, old son. I can’t be having this. You’re in my employ and I’m hired by Boyd, which makes me involved. I’ll not be crosswise of a man like that if I can help it.”

  “Five minutes.”

  Tate went out, the door snicked shut, and James began, “Now take a deep breath, sit down there, and tell me all—”

  “No! No, don’t leave go of me. Please hold me, Kilter, please.”

  James’ heart promptly melted. Warmth spread through him from the direction of his groin and straight to his head. Softly, as he might to an injured animal, he crooned, “I’ll not let go, not if you don’t want me to.”

  “Never let go,” she implored.

  Chapter Twelve

  One anchor existed in Cat’s world. It wore a rough coat, had gentle hands, and possessed a deep voice that rumbled through her ear when she pressed in tight. It—he—felt warm to her touch and emitted comfort, a balm to her panic and terror.

  But could she speak even to him of her humiliation? Could she describe what yesterday, what last night, had been like?

  If she did, would the man, Murphy, send her away? Where would she go then? Just thinking of it made her clutch at Kilter still more tightly.

  “Come now.” His voice vibrated through her again. “What did he do to you?”

  She gulped a deep breath and fought to gather herself, but the last threads of her composure had broken the moment Boyd ordered her to her knees.

  She tipped her head back and sought Kilter’s eyes; an expanse of ruined skin met her gaze, patchy and uneven from his chin upward. Funny, she had forgotten while burrowing into him, while feeling him, how he looked. Now the impact
of his appearance rushed over her, another unwelcome wave of shock. Yet the deep blue eyes looked kind, and trust overwhelmed her reaction.

  “It’s so filthy and demoralizing, I hate to say.”

  His lips, so close above hers, twisted in what might be an ironic smile. “More demoralizing than walking around with half a head of hair?”

  “Yes. Not that I pretend to understand how you feel.” She caught her breath again. “At least, Mr. Kilter, you still own yourself and are not available to sweeten a business deal or…” For the life of her, she couldn’t tell him what Boyd had said: You will accommodate me, you will accommodate my associates when I tell you—at dinners, at parties, at business meetings…

  Kilter’s big hands moved comfortingly over her shoulders again. Did he realize he touched her naked flesh? She stood before him in very little, just this dress with its scrap of bodice and nothing underneath.

  “He threatened to pass you to his cronies, is that it?”

  “That’s what the day at the river was all about. He was showing me off like a prize mare, a carrot dangled before a herd of asses. That’s all I was. Then when we got home he brought me to my room.” Her cheeks flamed with heat, and she dropped her gaze from Kilter’s for the first time. “He asked if I were…if I were—”

  “Untried?” Kilter supplied the word.

  “Yes, and when I said I was, he told me he wouldn’t spoil that because it made me more valuable. He meant to use me as part of some deal, you see, even as he took me in a deal from my stepfather. Like a thing and not a person at all. He implied there were other ways he could…could…”

  “You needn’t say it; I understand.” Again his hands moved across her back, a gesture of protection. If only Cat might stay here with him forever, where she felt safe. But his boss, Murphy, would never allow such a thing, for surely she brought ruin in her wake.

  “I reacted; I didn’t think. I flew at him, scratched and clawed.” Ruefully she added, “They call me ‘Cat’ for a reason, you know. I knocked him down, and he struck his head on that little table, you know the one with the marble top. Oh, Kilter, I can’t go back there. What am I to do?”

  “You wait it out.”

  “But what’s going to happen? He’s still alive, you say?”

  “He was, when I left there.”

  “Then I can’t stay here, can’t bring him down on you. For I fear he’ll come after me.”

  “He might.”

  She expected him to thrust her from him then; instead the big hands stroked her hair. She wished she could press her head into his chest and stay there, but instead she drew away. He released her immediately.

  Once more she sought his eyes, hauling up her determination. “I must leave. If he comes after me and finds you—”

  “He won’t come so soon. He’s in no condition at the moment. Anyway, why would he expect you to run here?”

  Did a second question lie beneath that one? Did he wonder why she had run to him? All that lay between them was conversation shared in the dark, a certain feeling of intimacy. Instinct had brought her; she didn’t think she could explain that.

  “I don’t know.” Wildly, she shook her head. “He has the means to send out a small army through the city.” Again she told him, “You’d be mad to help me. I never should have come.”

  At that moment the office door whispered open and Murphy walked in. “Well? Have you come to some understanding?”

  “I can’t send her back,” Kilter told him. “The man’s abusive, Tate.”

  Murphy swept Cat with a comprehensive glance. “She does not look harmed.”

  “Not so you can see, maybe.”

  “Laddie,” Murphy began, “I know your heart’s in the right place, but this is a right nest of hornets.”

  Kilter shifted on his feet. He stood beside Cat now, both of them facing Murphy, but his hand still held hers tightly.

  “He’s right.” Cat cast Kilter a look. “I’ll leave.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know.” Tears flooded Cat’s eyes; she fought the emotions down.

  “Can you go back to your family in Toronto?”

  “First place he’ll look.” Surprisingly, Murphy spoke the words.

  “He’s right.” Panic rose through Cat again. “It’s my family who’ll suffer for this. How could I have forgotten?” She turned to Kilter. “What if he takes my sister in my place? She’s the only reason I agreed to go with him in the first place.” Her lips trembled. “He likes young girls. I must go back. I won’t have Becky at risk because of me.”

  Kilter and Murphy exchanged glances.

  With deceptive mildness Murphy said, “Disgusting, that. Man has no business with a girl under the age of consent.”

  “My stepfather will give consent on her behalf,” Cat told him. “In order to save himself, he will. That’s why I said I’d come.”

  “Craven fecker,” Murphy murmured. “Well, lass, I do not see how we can help your family.”

  “If we could just get the sister away somewhere safe,” Kilter suggested.

  Cat’s heart leaped, but Murphy shook his head. “From Toronto? And, laddie, do you really want to get in the middle of this?”

  “No. But I won’t abandon someone in need.”

  “Aw, shite, lad—excusing my language, miss, but the situation does warrant. Perhaps we can get her out of the city, if we act quickly.”

  “Where?”

  “Damned if I know. But if she stays here it spells ruin for all of us.”

  “I’ll go,” Cat said again helplessly. “I don’t want to bring trouble down on either of you.”

  “Hush,” Kilter told her once more, and his fingers tightened on hers.

  Murphy gave Kilter a speaking look, but he said to Cat, “Lass, have you relatives elsewhere to whom we might send you? Another city in Canada, perhaps? I’d be willing to pay your fare.”

  “That’s kind of you.” Emotion threatened to block Cat’s throat. “I do have a grandmother in Halifax, but she’s old and sick.”

  “Cousins there, or anywhere in this country? Friends? Must be someone you can turn to.”

  “Nobody in a position to help.”

  “I’ve old friends in Boston, but I can’t send you there before I contact them.” Murphy seemed to reach a decision. “Jamie, lad, you’ll have to take her to Roselyn for now. Roselyn’s me sister,” he added for Cat’s benefit. “Runs a boarding house over on Prospect. You can stay there till we figure what’s to be done. But”—this time Murphy’s gaze raked Cat—“you can’t go anywhere looking like that. Attract too much attention.”

  Futilely, Cat tugged at her bodice, using the hand not held fast in Kilter’s.

  “Wait here,” Murphy bade them and went out again.

  “He’s very kind,” Cat whispered, and her throat grew tight again.

  “Tate? Heart of gold, and solid gold at that.”

  “I’ve caused nothing but trouble.” Cat’s fingers twitched in Kilter’s, but he didn’t let go. “I’m a pariah.”

  He turned his head to look at her, his eyes intensely blue in his patchwork face. “You can say that? You’ve no idea what being a ‘pariah’ means.”

  “I’m sorry.” Again her eyes filled with tears; this time they spilled over.

  “Don’t cry,” he bade her. “You’ll like Roselyn. And no one will think to look for you there for a day or two.”

  Murphy reentered the office, this time with a bundle of clothing in his hands. “Put these on, lass. We’ll burn the dress out back once you’ve gone. Bundle all that hair into the cap, mind. We can’t have you recognized out on the street. James and I will wait outside.”

  Cat accepted the clothing and nodded. Reluctantly, she released Kilter’s hand. Both men went out, and sudden cold rushed at her, along with reaction.

  For an instant she thought her legs would collapse beneath her. All her strength seemed to have gone out the door with Kilter. No, James. Mr. Murphy ca
lled him James, or Jamie. She liked “Jamie.” It suited him somehow, despite his size and appearance.

  Shivering, she stripped off the detested green dress and as quickly as possible donned the clothing Murphy had provided. It proved to be a boy’s trousers, linen shirt, and cap. Good thing she was so thin, she thought ruefully as she buttoned the shirt. Without the built-in wire and whalebone that reinforced the scanty bodice of the gown, her bosom virtually disappeared.

  Just like that of a child. No wonder Boyd was interested. Murphy had it right—he’s a craven fecker.

  With the cap crammed on her head, Cat opened the office door. Both men stood outside with their backs turned as if to provide her an extra measure of privacy.

  Gentlemen, she thought, despite their rough appearances.

  “Here, Mr. Murphy.” She held out the green dress. “I never want to see it again.”

  “And you won’t.” Murphy jerked his head at Kilter. “Off you go, lad. You’ll have to walk. ’Twould look suspicious, hailing a steamcab at this hour.”

  Kilter turned his eyes on Cat. “Can you manage?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded. She wished he’d take her hand again, but a man and a lad wouldn’t walk so through the city.

  “Then come along.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy.” Impulsively, Cat turned to the big Irishman. “I know you don’t have to help me and I’m a complication you don’t need.”

  “Not sure how much I can help you, lass. Boyd’s a powerful man. But for now we’ll try and keep you safe. Go along with Jamie, now.”

  Gratefully, Cat went.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Jamie,” Cat said a bit breathlessly as they hurried along. At least she hurried; Kilter appeared to walk at an easy enough pace, but his stride made two of hers. “That’s what Mr. Murphy called you.”

  Kilter slanted a look at her. The light of the clear morning proved merciless to his scarred face, exposing each shiny patch of skin, but she didn’t see that so much as the tentative expression in his eyes.

  “James,” he said carefully. “Nobody but Tate calls me Jamie.”