“You’ve already shown me how you are with animals. Now tell me about Lucius.”
He sat on the chair across from her. Its frame groaned with the burden of the big man’s weight.
“We argued, and something went wrong. He started grabbing at his chest and gasping. Before I realized what was happening, his lips were turning blue. I took him to the carriage. Galloped Samson so fast to St. Michael’s that he threw a shoe and came up lame this morning. I wasn’t fast enough, though. The man’s dead as a mackerel, and I’ve ruined a good horse.”
Shae covered her face with both hands. “It was the cameo that did it, wasn’t it? If you didn’t kill Lucius outright, you finally bullied him to death.”
King stood, took two paces, and kicked over the oak table. It landed on the broken dancer and further splintered shattered porcelain. “I don’t give a good goddamn who sent your mother’s necklace. I didn’t kill him, Mary Shae. I swear it.”
She stood and started toward the door. “Just like you didn’t kill my mother.”
He grabbed her again and spun her toward him, then backhanded her so sharply that her head snapped back. His shouts roared in her skull. “What in God’s name are you saying? I I loved that woman, stupid as I was. And she left me. She left me, the cheating whore! I’ll be damned if I lose you as well! Now go get in that carriage! I’m taking you home, where you belong.”
For a moment, pain and dizziness washed over Shae and she slumped against the doorway. Then, recovering herself, she clutched the carpetbag tightly and swiped at her nose with the back of her free hand. A smear of bright red came away.
She stared wide-eyed at her father, her emotions a melee of anger, grief, and fear. Never before today had he struck her, and now he’d done it twice. Was he capable of worse?
She threw open the door and did as he ordered. Forgetting her sore foot, she ran and untied Delilah. Then she climbed into the phaeton, with Jasper at her heels.
“Half a moment,” King called. “I need to lock this door.” He walked it toward her, his tone confident, convinced of victory.
“You’d do better to lock up that temper,” Shae whispered; then she gave Delilah a harsh chuck of the reins.
Beyond the sounds of the jingling harness and Delilah’s hooves clattering through the streets, Shae thought she heard for blocks her father, roaring like the angry surf.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As if the horse could sense her panic, Delilah spooked at every stray dog, at every puff of wind. Maybe the mare smelled blood, Shae thought, as she wiped her nose with the back of her blouse sleeve. Or maybe her lighter touch on the reins reminded the animal of past calamities. Whatever the cause, Shae forced the animal to slow to a civilized trot. She couldn’t afford one more disaster now, and King had long since fallen far behind.
But outrunning King did nothing to answer the questions that pressed her from all sides. Had Father really murdered not only Lucius, but her mother, and if so, what was she to do? With only a cameo as evidence, how could she prove anything? And even if she succeeded, could she really have the police arrest her father? She tried to imagine King on trial for two murders, with everything about their lives subject to endless public speculation. Shae felt shame heat her face. How horrible it all would be, the stories of her mother’s supposed infidelities, the whispering about her father’s temper, even her own “unladylike” behavior. Every day, new gossip would unfold, fed like flame by clippings from the local paper.
Aunt Alberta would be all that she had left. Shae imagined her reaction, imagined the recriminations about taking trouble outside of the family, as the old woman put it. Her aunt was still so bitter about Shae’s mother’s disappearance. If there were some sort of trial, she’d blame that on Glennis McElbee Rowan, too. And Shae. She would never, ever forgive Shae.
Still, if Father had killed two people, how could mortification excuse Shae from ignoring crimes so grave? She shook her head. Nothing would excuse her if she let such foul acts go unpunished. Her mother’s ghost, and Lucius’s, would haunt her for all time.
A sick chill made the fine hairs on her arms and neck all stand on end. Was she ready to admit, then, that her mother had been murdered? What if she had run off and sent the cameo to Shae herself? Why would she even bother, after all these years?
Though Shae could think of no good answers, she still wondered if the handwriting on the note might be her mother’s. Slowing Delilah to a walk, Shae dug into the carpetbag.
Beside her on the seat, Jasper whined and nuzzled her arm as if he could sense her distress. Digging frantically, Shae ignored the terrier.
With a groan, she realized she had lost the note. Then she remembered just where she had dropped it. She must have left it on the wood floor of her father’s sanctuary, right where he or Aunt Alberta would have found it.
And then her father had driven straight to Lucius Oliver. Her stomach twisted with the realization. Perhaps Lucius’s death was the key to all of this. If he had died a violent death or turned up missing, that would help prove her darkest fears. But perhaps the tale King told about some sort of natural death was true. She remembered how pale, how drawn Lucius had looked yesterday. If she spoke to the doctors at the infirmary, that might relieve her, at least partly, of this dreadful burden.
Shae bit her lip in frustration, thinking that if she showed up at St. Michael’s right now, she might well be mistaken for a patient. She could hardly go ask questions in her state. She could barely even think. Filthy, footsore, and driving a stolen phaeton, she wondered if she could go to Phillip and ask for his help.
She tried to picture herself searching for his house, knocking on his door, and facing his family, perhaps the sister he had mentioned. An image of Cynthia and her mother leaning forward came to Shae. She shuddered. No, not that. She couldn’t face the hungry eyes of strangers, the clear knowledge that her visit would provoke even more cruel gossip. But aside from that, she knew of only one other place to go.
To Ethan and the only option left to her. With Ethan’s influence, surely she could learn the truth. Blinking back her tears, she thought of what his help would cost her. She remembered his smug smile, his hand skimming down her side, the way he’d known she would come crawling back.
He’d been right, heaven help her. He would have her after all, and she would be condemned forever. She thought of all King’s and her Aunt Alberta’s warnings, about the minister’s stern forecasts of brimstone. Let her burn, then, if God would give no other option. Better she writhe in a lake of fire than be tortured with these questions of her mother’s fate!
*
Since the disastrous engagement party, Ethan had often fantasized about Shae Rowan returning to him. In his favorite version, she wore rags and crawled on hands and knees to beg his favor. He dragged her by the hair down the yacht’s companionway and into the dark cabin, where he tore those tattered clothes away. And then . . . he had to close his eyes against the lurid pictures that slashed through his imagination, images of punishments that created such unbearable pressure in his groin.
A clatter of hooves distracted him, and he recognized the Rowans’ black phaeton. Ethan put down the stone he’d been using to sharpen his fishhooks.
His lust died as he wondered if Shae’s father had caught wind of his ungentlemanly offer. Despite his boast to Phillip, Ethan’s heart hammered against his chest wall. A reasonable man could be dealt with, even threatened, if need be, but what of a man with King Rowan’s notorious temper? Oh, he’d been charming enough while tempting Ethan with his lovely daughter. He was charming enough with anyone of means. But Ethan had long since heard stories of his back room fits and the way he dealt with those who slighted him. If King felt his family had been insulted, he might do anything. Avoiding an attack from Rowan could be much more difficult than staying Phillip Payton’s fists.
Ethan’s fear evaporated when he recognized Shae climbing out of the carriage. By God, she’d stolen her father’s rig again! He laug
hed aloud with both relief and admiration at her gumption.
Then, as she tied the horse and limped toward him, he wondered if he might have dozed aboard the El Dorado’s deck. With her clothes rumpled and her hair wild, Shae looked so like his fantasy that he stood immobilized by desire. Until he noticed the dried blood crusted on her face.
The old bastard must have hurt her. His anger flared, and he swore a silent oath to bankrupt S. Rowan Jewelers. Shae broke into a hobbling run until she reached the gangplank. After moving carefully onto the deck, she closed the gap between them and threw herself into his arms.
Shuddering with sobs, she wrapped her arms around him and let him hold her as she never had before. Let his hands drift along her arms, over her hips, as he softly whispered, “Shhh. I’ll take care of you now.”
With his chin over her shoulder, Ethan’s fury switched, chameleon-quick, to silent laughter. To hell with breaking that old carpetbagger, King! If this was what the fool’s temper sent his way, he’d instead send over a bottle of the finest wine.
A rumbling growl distracted him, and Ethan looked down to see a small white dog snarling up at him. He swung his former fiancée between himself and the annoyance.
While Shae wept, he sneaked a pat on her left buttock, which he found small, but firm, beneath the pouf of bustle. Delicious! She didn’t even flinch.
He decided then and there that he would send King Rowan a whole case of French champagne.
*
Why the hell had he listened to Justine, Phillip wondered. He felt ridiculous, skulking like a stray dog near the docks harboring the yachts. Hanging around waiting for . . . what? The courage to trade all his father had struggled to achieve for the satisfaction of knocking Ethan’s smile down his throat? Or the sense to go home now, to lick his wounds even though he felt emasculated by the prospect?
Stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets, he paced toward the working docks, where the smell of fish loomed larger. Several men were gathered around an old seaman who had just stepped off a battered trawler.
“Catch was off for me, too. Hell’s a comin’, mark my words. Water’s all stirred up, and the current’s far too strong.” The grizzled-bearded captain’s words carried easily to Phillip’s ears.
“A storm’s out there. I feel it,” a younger fisherman agreed.
A round-bellied man with a sour mouth wrinkled up his face. “Bunch of milksops. Can’t you see that Ketchum’s just tryin’ to scare you off that inlet he’s been fishin’? Sky looked fine this mornin’. You see any red?”
“Crabs is gone,” the bearded man asserted. “That seals it.”
Phillip was distracted from their argument by the approach of a horse-drawn black phaeton. He thought he recognized the animal from last evening. Could that be the Rowan’s horse?
Shae emerged from the carriage as if in answer to his question. The sight of her, in last night’s rumpled clothing, with blood smeared on her face, moved him in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible. Before he knew what he was doing, he found himself striding toward her.
But she didn’t see him. Instead, she stared at Ethan as if he were the answer to her prayers. When Phillip saw her rushing toward Lowell, he froze. By the time she reached Ethan, then threw herself into his arms, nausea struck him like a breaker. Phillip had to turn aside his gaze as Ethan stroked Shae with too familiar an embrace for any but a lover.
Deliberately, Phillip put his back to the two of them. Curse Ethan, he would have them both his Rachel and Shae Rowan! The knowledge fanned his anger like a gale force wind.
He tried to walk away, tried to move toward where he’d tied his gelding. But his feet refused him, and he kept wondering if he should stop this, or if he only wanted Shae because Ethan swore to have her.
*
If she lived to be a wrinkled crone, Shae knew she would never forget the sound of Delilah’s hooves trotting toward Ethan’s apartments nor the rattling of the phaeton’s frame as it bumped over the rough road. Both imprinted themselves as the sounds of her surrender.
Ethan had still been gentleman enough to help her to her seat, but not enough to say a single word to reassure her. She supposed she ought to give him credit. At least he didn’t try to pretend that the cost of this apartment would be anything less than her virtue.
Her cheeks had burned shamefully as they drove toward the gulf beach. Past fine hotels and restaurants, then along the main roads just as if she remained a proper woman. All during that ride, she stared down at her knees, too afraid to look up, too afraid of whom she might see watching her.
Alone now, Shae waited in the phaeton while Ethan chatted outside with a thin-faced man who managed the apartments. She sincerely hoped he couldn’t see her face, nor the tears that dampened both cheeks. To comfort herself, she rocked and listened to the squeaking seat frame mimic gulls’ cries above the crashing of the nearby surf. Her fingers stroked Jasper’s coarse, white hair over and over, the way her mother’s had once stroked rosary beads, as if she were praying for forgiveness.
After securing the horse, Ethan took her elbow as if he were guiding a blind woman. With Jasper bounding in their wake, he led the way up a rusting stairwell to a second-story balcony. Once there, they passed several doors, then stopped at one with chipped paint, like the others. The key stuck when he jammed it in the lock, but after a prolonged struggle, the door swung open with a creak.
“It’s hard to keep the place up, this close to the water,” Ethan muttered. “I see I’ll have to hire a new man again. I haven’t been here in some time.”
Though Shae didn’t think it was yet noon, the apartment’s stale air felt warm and oppressive. She made no move to open windows, but instead sank onto the nearest furnishing, a dusty sofa. Once there, she leaned tiredly into its frayed, green cushions. Her head felt too heavy for her neck to support, her limbs too leaden to control. She wanted to speak to Ethan about learning the details of Lucius’s death, but fear and exhaustion ebbed away her strength. She felt weak in the knowledge of what she must sacrifice for answers.
As Jasper quivered near her feet, Ethan opened the windows of the stifling apartment. First, he forced the one in the front room, a tiny parlor that adjoined the kitchen. Then he moved into what looked to be a tiny bedroom. A puff of sea breeze did little to relieve the heat. Still, Shae began to shiver. She wrapped both arms around her narrow waist, despite the perspiration streaming down her back.
She might pray, but it was too late. She had fallen. Despite her efforts of the past few years, her true nature had played out. Instead of reassurances from God the Father, or the priest her mother once called Father, Shae heard King Rowan’s voice. God help her, he’d been right. She would be her mother after all.
Unbidden, the dreadful memory arose of that day behind the oleanders, when she had spied her mother. Embracing a dark-haired man with the muscular, tanned arms of a common laborer. She remembered the terror in Glennis’s green eyes when she had spotted Shae, the desperation in her voice when she had begged her daughter, Never tell.
Shae hadn’t, yet despite the promise kept, she’d lost her mother. Or had her silence somehow been the cause? And had her forbidden knowledge somehow driven Shae off a dangerous precipice as well?
Now fallen, she would be a rich man’s mistress, Ethan’s whore. In coming here, she had sold herself for safety. She had sold herself for a mirage of peace.
As she summoned the energy to look around, the tears in her lashes did little to soften the room’s stark ugliness. Dust filmed every surface, from the soot-gray walls to the wood floors where grit crunched beneath Ethan’s feet as he moved about. Two chairs perched apologetically beside a leaning table near the cabinet and cheap woodstove that would serve her as a kitchen. Running water in a small sink was the only concession to modern convenience, as attested by the lack of gas lighting fixtures. The limp, chintz curtains that covered the windows were only slightly thicker than the dirt griming their glass. Through a doorway, she glimps
ed the corner of a bed.
“I’ll see about getting some better furnishings,” he promised as he sat beside her. “Anything you need.”
How like King he sounded, promising to buy things to appease her.
But the offer of a few possessions didn’t matter. Shae still felt how far she’d fallen from her father’s handsome town house. The flimsy wall did little to obscure a baby’s crying from the neighboring apartment, nor did it block the smell of beans boiling on a nearby stove. With all his money, Ethan had stashed her in squalor. By coming here she’d not only sold her virginity, she had sold it for a song.
Soon, too soon, he would insist upon collecting.
Ethan laid callused fingertips against her cheek with unexpected gentleness, then brushed away the moisture of her tears. He began to lower himself to the sofa, but the terrier’s low growl seemed to change his mind.
“Since when do you like dogs?” Ethan asked.
Shae reached down to stroke the silkier hair behind the the animal’s ears. “His name is Jasper. He’s mine now, and I intend to keep him.”
“We’ll talk about it later. You know, you have blood on your face. There’s a washtub in the other room and some pans for heating water. I think she might have left some dresses, too.”
Shae stared at Ethan’s face as comprehension dawned on her. Nothing about his expression registered shame at what he’d implied, that he had kept another woman here. At least one.
“She was gone before I met you,” he offered, though Shae could tell he didn’t care much what she thought.
“I I’d like some privacy,” she told him. “It’s it’s been an awful day. Lucius Oliver is dead.”
“Who?”
“My father’s bookkeeper my friend. The one who had the dog. I need to know the details. That’s why I came to you.”
Ethan smiled with catlike self-assurance. “And I thought it was the way I touched you. I could tell you liked it from the start.”
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