Carefully, she told the woman, “Jamie says you have some remarkable power and used it to save my life.”
Clara smiled wryly. “This must be so difficult for you to accept.”
“How can you do such a thing?”
“It’s an hereditary ability passed down through the women of my line. I use it seldom, and I certainly don’t flaunt it.” Again Clara fixed Catherine with that curious stare. “It could prove very inconvenient—even dangerous to me—should it get out.”
“We won’t tell. Jamie says I must stay hidden anyway.” There was a man called Boyd after her. She squeezed Jamie’s fingers harder, and he returned the pressure. “When will I start remembering things?”
Clara’s expression turned sympathetic. “It’s impossible to say. It seems to vary from subject to subject, and we’re learning as we go. Things may begin to come back slowly a bit at a time. Or it may come in a flood.”
Cat fretted, “It’s just so disconcerting to have a big blank when I try to look back. I can remember part of the scene in the street when I—when—”
“Most of those I’ve resurrected remember the actual death. When other things come back, they don’t seem like memories so much as—well, preferences. You should talk to my husband about it. He’s working now at the coffin shop.”
“You—you raised your husband? That great, strong man?”
Ruefully, Clara said, “It’s how we met. And bonded, incidentally.”
James’ fingers spasmed in hers. Cat shot him a questioning look, but his expression remained closed. Cat’s mind struggled with it. Ah, yes—he feared the bond that now existed between the two of them, and Cat’s feelings for him, were just a byproduct of the resurrection.
To Clara she said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“How could you be sure your husband loved you, and wasn’t just in thrall to you because you raised him?”
Clara glanced into James’ face and then fixed her gaze on Catherine again. “A valid question, under the circumstances. I came to believe the raising intensified an attraction that would have existed anyway. As for the veracity of his feelings, I just knew. Women do, I believe. Men are often a bit thicker when it comes to such matters.”
The dining room door opened, and a woman came in. Fair-haired and lovely, she had a sweet, rosy face and blue eyes clear as a summer sky.
“Clara, Mr. Murphy is here.”
A man came into the room, burly and red-haired, with a plain, broad face. Cat felt she must know him, yet when she searched for an identity, the fog in her head merely intensified.
“Tate,” Jamie said and got to his feet, pulling Cat up with him.
“By God, James lad, you’ve done it this time.” Ireland flavored the man’s voice. He turned kind eyes on Cat. “Miss Delaney, are you all right?”
“I scarcely know, sir. I don’t remember. I…”
“That’s all right. Brendan filled me in on a few things. You must be Mrs. McMahon.” He extended his hand to Clara and then turned to look at the blonde woman who had showed him in. “And—?
“Her sister-in-law, Nancy McMahon,” the woman said, and held out her hand to Murphy. Even Cat, in her distracted state, heard the sizzle of attraction when their palms met.
“So where do we go from here?” Jamie asked. “Mr. and Mrs. McMahon have been most generous, but we can’t stay here long. Is there any word? Boyd hasn’t been caught?”
“Eh?” Tate Murphy dragged his gaze from Nancy’s and tried visibly to concentrate. “Not yet. Police are following some leads, one being that he and his captive were picked up by an airship from the roof of a neighboring building.”
“His captive?” Cat looked at Jamie just in time to catch him shaking his head slightly at Murphy.
“He’s an unsavory character, is Mr. Boyd,” Murphy said quickly. “Brandon’s been after investigating him since all this began and has uncovered some things that will be of interest to the authorities in Toronto as well as here in Buffalo. All that money of his? It’s dirty. Our guesses about the flesh trade weren’t far off.”
“Not those girls who have been disappearing around the city?” Jamie asked in horror. “Was that him?”
“Aye, or his agents.”
“No respect for life,” Jamie said bitterly. “He needs answering.”
“Not by you, lad. Understand? You stay underground with your lady and let the police handle this. I’m here to take you to a safe house. You’ll stay put there till I come for you.”
Your lady. Cat thrilled to those words and moved closer to Jamie, tucking herself into his shoulder.
“Oh, and I’ve a message for you from Officer Kelly,” Murphy went on. “Said to tell you he’ll speak with the good doctor as soon as possible.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Who is the ‘good doctor’?” Catherine asked James. She rested on the bed beside him, waving her legs idly in the air; he found it impossible not to be distracted. The room, small, warm, and the third they’d inhabited in the last two days, lay at the top of still another house. Catherine wore only her new undergarments, donated by Mrs. McMahon, far lacier and more fetching than those that had belonged to Albert.
Mrs. Pidgeon, the affable Negress who owned the house, told them this room had once been a hiding place for escaping slaves who were then ferried across the river to Canada. The knowledge failed to make James feel more secure.
So far almost nothing had gone right. The police had failed to locate Sebastian Boyd, though they’d rounded up some of his associates, including his henchman Carter. Catherine had failed to remember much of her past, and James had failed to come up with a way to tell her about her sister. He feared the worst for Becky; his imagination ran so rampant he almost envied Catherine her ignorance.
“What good doctor?” he asked now, and fought the desire to run his hand up Catherine’s leg, all the way up.
“Mr. Murphy mentioned him. Said someone called Officer Kelly meant to speak with him on your behalf.”
Nothing wrong with her immediate recall, James thought ruefully. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. He knew he could distract her, and he knew exactly how.
He turned onto his side and placed his hand on her stomach, just below her delectable breasts. Outside, the city went about its business in a noisy fashion. Evening drew on. But here they seemed to inhabit a world of their own.
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” She gazed into his eyes, and it felt like she pulled at his heart with invisible strings, the way it always felt now when she looked at him. Almost, he wanted this to last forever. Almost, he didn’t want her to remember.
No denying a powerful connection now existed between them. What concerned him was what might happen when reality began to drift back into her mind, and with it discrimination.
No matter, he told himself; he’d experienced more pleasure and happiness these last two days than he’d ever hoped to attain.
“Believe me,” he said and leaned forward to kiss her. She parted her lips beneath his and purred softly in satisfaction.
She broke the kiss before he was ready and said, “Why should you want to see a doctor, though? You’re not ill, are you?”
“I’m not ill.”
“Then, why?”
His Catherine, as he’d learned, could be persistent. It didn’t make him want her any less. “No reason. I probably won’t see him after all.”
She covered his hand with hers and continued to gaze into his eyes. “You know, Jamie Kilter, if anything should happen to you I couldn’t go on. I can’t live without you now.”
“So you may think.”
“Why do you always say things like that? Why do you try to blame what I feel for you on what happened when I was brought back?” She frowned. “I think—I know I cared for you even before that.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It does matt
er!” Anger flashed in her eyes. “It’s bad enough me not remembering much, without you denying what I do know.”
“I’m sorry.” He bent his head and laid his forehead against her neck. “It’s just hard for me to believe.”
“What? That I could love you, Jamie Kilter? Well, I do.” She lifted his face and engaged his eyes. “I do.”
James’ heart seized in his chest and then started up again with great, shuddering beats. She didn’t. She only thought she did and, God help him, he had to savor it while the delusion lasted.
She laid her hand against his scarred cheek. “This means far more to you than it ever will to me. How can I convince you of that?”
Helplessly, he shook his head. She gave him a chiding look. “And have you nothing to say to me in return, James Kilter?”
“I adore you, Catherine. God knows I do. You must feel that every time I touch you.”
“Then touch me. Touch me again.” She lifted his hand to her breast. The soft warmth of her flesh met his fingers through the thin fabric of her chemise. He trembled as he cupped her and found her nipple with his thumb.
“I want to feel you, Jamie,” she said. “All of you. Then I’ll know you love me.”
“Never doubt it,” he said, and gave her all she could desire.
****
“The news isn’t good.”
Tate Murphy stood at the back door of Mrs. Pidgeon’s house. Rain pelted down from a lowering, gray sky, and Cat could smell the river. Murphy looked as grim as the day.
Cat glanced at Jamie, seeking as she so often did to take her reaction from his. They stood in Mrs. Pidgeon’s kitchen with their fingers linked. She felt dismay race through him and tensed in response.
“Best come in,” he said and looked at Mrs. Pidgeon, who nodded before she departed the kitchen, leaving the three of them alone. Murphy shut the door against the wet and shot Cat a look.
“How are you, Miss Delaney?”
Cat shook her head. The last three days had been a swirling fog of lovemaking, uncertainty, and bits of returning memory that made little sense. She scarcely knew how she was.
“I’ve come about your sister, lass.”
Cat froze, shock spearing through her as it always did when she heard something unexpected. She looked at Jamie, who promptly let go of her hand and raked his fingers through the hair on the left side of his head.
“I have a sister?” she asked.
Jamie grimaced and looked at Murphy. “I have not had time to tell her.”
“No time?” Murphy repeated. “You’ve been together for three days. What have you been doing?” His eyes swept Cat. “Scratch that question. Surely you could have fitted in some conversation?”
“No doubt he was reluctant to upset me,” Cat supplied. “He thinks I’ll become distressed if I remember things.” In truth, she found the opposite true. More and more the lack of memories drove her wild.
Yet some things had come back to her, more than she’d admitted to Jamie. Flashes of pictures, scenes like the remnants of dreams: dogs in a kennel, and a strapping woman with red-brown hair; a horse collapsed in the street, and Jamie, her Jamie, beating a man with his fists; another man with a cruel, arrogant face. Could that be Boyd? But she remembered nothing of a sister.
“Best tell her now, lad,” Murphy urged. “For the situation could scarcely be more desperate.”
Cat reached for Jamie’s hand again. She found she could think more clearly when she touched him. His eyes, full of misery and regret, met hers.
“Here’s the way of it: you have a family, Catherine—not here in this city but in Toronto, Canada.”
Toronto? The name meant nothing to her. Helpless, she shook her head.
“This man you’ve heard us talking about—Sebastian Boyd—he knew your stepfather in Toronto and had a hold on him, financial, you said. Boyd likes young girls, and he wanted your little sister, Becky. You bargained to keep her safe and came away with him instead.”
Becky. That name did mean something and roused all Cat’s protective instincts, even though she could summon no image in her mind. Fear squeezed her heart. “My sister.”
“Do you remember, lass?” Murphy asked kindly.
“I’m not sure.”
“You met James, here, when Boyd hired my company to keep you from bolting. James helped you escape instead. And so Boyd’s been after hunting you, but now he’s got his hands on your wee sister.”
“Becky.”
“Aye, he’s holding her hostage, and making demands.”
“I thought he made off in an airship.” Jamie sounded as horrified as Cat felt.
Murphy grimaced.
“That was just a story that henchman of his, Carter, put about. Boyd’s been hiding under our noses, and the wee lass with him. But he’s taken a stand now and is making demands in earnest. One of them is for his airship, which he wants flown in to lift him off the roof of the building where he’s held up. He’s threatened to kill the lass if he doesn’t get what he wants.”
Cat felt like someone had punched her in the stomach. “You have to save her!”
“Fagan’s trying, Miss Delaney. We’re all trying, but to be frank, negotiations have broken down. We decided you had a right to know what was after happening, in case the worst occurs.”
“The worst? You mean, if he kills her?” Cat’s thoughts flailed in her mind and beat against the dark fog that enveloped it.
Murphy said, “He’s threatening to do just that, if the police do not meet his demands. We debated it, Brendan and I. Were I in your place, I believe I would want to know. I would not welcome someone coming to me afterward with such news.”
“Take me to them,” Cat demanded.
James’ fingers clenched Cat’s so hard it hurt. “No, Catherine. You stay out of it.”
She turned to him and engaged his gaze with wide eyes. “How can I, Jamie? She’s a young girl, yes? Alone and frightened.”
A bit wildly, James shook his head. “Right now Boyd still thinks you dead, and out of it. Why expose yourself? Better to stay clear.”
“But there might be something I can do. Mr. Murphy, you say negotiations have broken down?”
“Aye; it sticks in the police’s craw to meet this villain’s demands, and if we allow his airship to move in, there’s no assurance he won’t take the lass with him anyway.”
“You need to get her away from him.”
“You think Brendan hasn’t tried?”
Cat lifted her chin a notch. “But I’m the one he’s been chasing, right? I’m the one with whom he’s angry. That’s why Jamie’s been keeping me hidden all this time. So maybe he’d trade her for me.”
“No.” The word burst from James’ lips. He seized Cat between suddenly hard hands and turned her toward him. She felt violent protest stream from him, just as she now felt all his emotions. “I won’t let you, Catherine, I won’t! Anyway, what good will it do to exchange one hostage for another?”
Regretfully, she gazed into his eyes. “It will do her good, won’t it? Better me, in his hands, than a child.”
“No.” Jamie cast a desperate look at Murphy, who returned it apologetically.
“Sorry, lad. I never thought—”
James ignored him and shook Cat slightly. “You have no idea what Boyd is like, the depravity to which he might subject you in the cause of revenge.”
“I have a pretty good idea; I’ve remembered more over these few days than I let on.” Fearlessly she told him, “That’s why I can’t leave my sister in his hands. At least I know what to expect. And I’ll spare her if I can.”
Before Jamie could protest further, she turned to Tate Murphy. “Please take me there, Mr. Murphy. At least I can try to negotiate with him. You say he thinks me dead; maybe he’ll be so shocked to see me it will make a difference.”
She turned to Jamie, engaged his eyes once more, and saw the raw terror there. For her; all for her. Her heart thudded; the depth of his love both thrilled and
shook her. “If you love me, Jamie, you’ll let me go. Because how will I ever live with myself, if he harms her? You speak a lot about monsters, Jamie Kilter; it’s time, now, I went and faced a real one.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The area surrounding the building on Franklin Street had been cordoned off, the block closed. Police were everywhere, both regular officers and what James recognized as members of the Irish Squad. Rain crashed down like iron spikes, and the bricks of the street shone slick.
At every window of the house James saw steam cannons. Narrowing his eyes against the rain, he caught glints from the metallic bodies of steamies behind them—mechanicals, not men.
He edged toward Brendan Fagan, who stood amid a group of other officers, holding a bullhorn. Fagan gave him a look that held a full measure of hard despair before sweeping Catherine, beside him, with a glance.
“I do not want her here. We’ve enough trouble already.”
Catherine pushed by James and toed up to Fagan. “Mr. Murphy says this horrible man has my sister hostage. I want to talk to him.”
James had rarely seen Brendan Fagan lose composure, but now he tossed back his head and his eyes rolled like those of a startled horse. “Out of the question. Kilter, muzzle her and get her away from here.”
James swallowed hard. He suspected the only way he’d get Catherine away from this scene would be to drag her bodily, kicking and screaming.
He had no opportunity to speak, however, for Catherine bristled. “You can’t give him orders, nor me! Where is my sister?”
Fagan gestured with the bullhorn. “There, on the roof. We’ve been attempting to negotiate, but Boyd’s threatening to throw the girl off the building if we don’t meet his demands.”
James looked, and his throat went dry. Sure enough he saw Boyd, wet as a drowned rat and barely recognizable, standing behind the parapet of the brick building with a tiny figure in his clutches.
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