by Jo Goodman
"Hollis says she won't believe it."
Mary's smooth brows came together as she realized Hollis Banks was probably right. She didn't confirm it for Jarret. "You'd better go, Mr. Sullivan. They'll be waiting for you in the carriage." She escorted him to the main doors of the chapel and opened them. "God bless you," she whispered as he passed in front of her.
He grinned. "I'd be a fool not to think I need it." He hurried down the stone steps, Mary's light laughter in the air around him.
* * *
The house at the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street was only slightly smaller than the palatial French country home on which it was modeled. If Moira Dennehy had had her way, she would still be living in the cramped and cozy apartments on Houston Street where she had raised her daughters; but Jay Mac had his own ideas how his mistress should live, and when New York's elite started moving uptown, Jay Mac moved the Dennehys right along. A relatively quiet scandal resulted as neighbors whispered Jay Mac had no right, and the newspapers hinted that he had overstepped the bounds of good taste. His own home, after all, was only a few blocks away, just west of Central Park, and much was made of this fact. It didn't matter to John MacKenzie Worth, and, if the truth had been fully known, it mattered not a whit more to his wife.
Jarret waited in the carriage until the driver had helped Moira, Maggie, and Skye alight. Though he was quite conscious of Rennie's anger, he smiled encouragingly in her direction. "Will you need help, ma'am?"
All the replies that came quickly to Rennie's mind seemed so trite that she held her tongue. She doubted she could shock him by telling him what he could to with his help. It was far more likely that he would be amused, and if he laughed at her again, Rennie thought she might just go crazy with anger. "I can manage," she said coolly.
Jarret watched her consideringly for a moment longer. A pale wash of color flushed her cheeks, followed by a flash of something lively in her green eyes. She was making an admirable effort to hold herself in check, and Jarret thought he had better exercise the same restraint. There was nothing to be gained by baiting her further. He moved his long legs so that they were no longer blocking her exit, grinning behind Rennie's back as she practically leaped from her seat to take the driver's extended hand.
Rennie went straight to the front door, but her mother and sisters waited politely for Jarret. He tipped his hat slightly as he spoke to Moira. "If you don't mind, ma'am, I'd like to scout around the house, get a feel for it, so to speak."
Moira's eyes darted between her daughters, then settled gravely on Jarret. The threat to her family seemed very real again. "You must do what you think is best, Mr. Sullivan."
Rennie paused in opening the door to her home and glanced back over her shoulder. "Certainly, Mr. Sullivan," she said, her tone too sweet to be respectful, "you must do what you think is best. Tramp all over Mother's flower beds, jiggle the locks, pry at the windows, and please, please, make a nuisance of yourself." She stepped in the house and slammed the door behind her.
Jarret held up his hand, stopping Moira's apology. "I'll be careful of your flower beds, ma'am." He tugged his hat lower over his brow and began walking the perimeter of the house.
The mansion had the look of a fortress, with its large blocks of smooth gray stone, a wrought iron railing bordering the property, and prickly rose bushes edging the foundation. But it also had twenty windows and four doors on the ground floor, and none of them were particularly secure. The lock on the delivery entrance was so loose that a single hard twist was all Jarret required to get inside.
It was when he stepped into the hallway that he bumped into Rennie—on her way out. "I thought you'd be in your room sulking," he said.
"And I thought you'd still be skulking," she snapped.
He grinned. "Obviously I'm done. Lucky for you. I might have missed your exit if I'd been on the other side of the house." His eyes were drawn to the open collar of her coat. "You've changed your gown."
"I thought I'd save my wedding gown for my wedding."
"Makes sense." Jarret leaned back against the doorjamb, blocking Rennie's access to the delivery area and the freedom beyond. His thumbs were hooked in the pockets of his duster. "You were thinking of going somewhere?" A thought occurred to him. "The privy, perhaps."
Rennie rolled her eyes. "The privy is indoors, Mr. Sullivan."
"Imagine that."
"Oh, dear God," she said, sighing. "That Jay Mac could have saddled me with you."
"You read my mind."
Moira appeared at the other end of the long hallway. "Rennie, what are you doing there? Sure, and it's wanting to worry me sick that you're not in your room right now."
Rennie was immediately contrite. "Mother, you know that's not true, but you can't expect that I'm just going to go along with Jay Mac's plans. Papa had no right to interfere."
"Perhaps not," Moira said. "But it's done for now. Let it be."
Turning on her heel, Rennie walked briskly toward her mother, the hem of her hunter green gown swirling about her legs. Her shoes tapped lightly on the carpet runner. "I want to see Hollis," she said, lowering her voice.
Moira shook her head. "I want your promise that you'll stay here. How can Mr. Sullivan protect you otherwise? Now join your sisters upstairs and help them pack for tomorrow while I see to Mr. Sullivan's comfort."
Rennie's mouth curved sardonically. "Then we'd better move the privy outside."
"Rennie! Mr. Sullivan is—"
"Standing right behind you," Jarret said softly.
Embarrassed, and angry for being embarrassed, Rennie darted Jarret a scathing look. "I don't appreciate you sneaking up on me."
"I merely followed you," he said, unrepentant.
"And I find myself growing increasingly weary of that edge of humor in your voice. I see nothing at all amusing."
"That's because there's no mirror handy."
Moira clapped her hands and effectively silenced both combatants. "That's enough, both of you. Rennie, you're being unconscionably rude. As I was trying to say, Mr. Sullivan is our guest. When your sisters and I leave he will be your guest, and I expect you to treat him as such." She raised her gently lined face to Jarret. "You have my permission to lock her in her room if that's what it takes—"
"Mother!"
"But I suggest you cease teasing her," Moira said. "Rennie is not known for her sense of humor."
"Mother!"
Jarret nodded. "Your point is taken," he said solemnly. "I apologize, Miss Dennehy."
Rennie opened her mouth to accept, albeit with little grace, when she realized he was apologizing to her mother, not to her. A muscle twitched in her cheek as her teeth ground together. "If you'll excuse me," she said tightly.
Moira and Jarret watched Rennie's stiff retreat up the stairs. "You're incorrigible, Mr. Sullivan," Moira said, but she was smiling now. "Sure, and it's a time of it you'll have with that one."
"Can't say that I'm looking forward to it, ma'am."
Her response was soft. "Liar."
Before Jarret could convince himself that he'd heard correctly, he was being ushered through a succession of parlors, corridors, and stairways as Moira made him familiar with her home. In contrast to the fortress-like exterior, the inside was welcoming and warm. The sitting rooms were filled with overstuffed furniture, fringed pillows, figurines, and photographs. In the dining room a splendid Irish linen tablecloth covered the large walnut table. A portrait of the five Marys as children graced the wall above the sideboard. Walnut wainscoting trimmed the walls and unified the rooms in a single design. Blue and gold wallpaper carried color down the long hallways and brightened the staircases. Moira took Jarret into the kitchen and introduced him to the cook, Mrs. Cavanaugh, who was preparing him a meal, and let him explore the pantries as well as the wine and fruit cellars.
They took the mansion's rear staircase to the upper floor and weaved in and out of the bedrooms, sitting rooms, dressing and bathing rooms, until Moira showed Jarret to the room where he'd be
staying.
He shook his head. "It's not close enough to your daughter's room. I'm afraid it won't do. I already have to contend with locks that don't lock and more windows than I want to think about. I'll just bed down in the hallway outside Miss Dennehy's door. The truth is, ma'am, that right about now I'm so tuckered that I—"
Moira was instantly contrite. "Forgive me, Mr. Sullivan—"
"Jarret."
She smiled. "Jarret. Of course you're tired. I've been foolish to forget. Let me show you another room where you can sleep. Do you have any bags?"
Jarret dutifully followed Moira down the hall. "My bags are with Ethan, wherever he is now."
"That's fine. I'll send Mr. Cavanaugh to get them at the St. Mark." Moira opened the door to a bedchamber on the northeast corner of the house. "This will give you a view of the street, and it's not far from Rennie's room."
Jarret glanced around the room, trying not to look overly eager to use the bed. He parted the dark blue drapes and surveyed the avenue below, first Broadway, then 50th. Satisfied with the location, he turned to Moira and thanked her for her graciousness in trying times.
She colored prettily and slipped a lock of dark red hair behind her ear. "Sure, and you're welcome," she said warmly. "I'll see that you have everything for a bath, fresh linens and such, and we'll send Mrs. Cavanaugh's meal to you straight away."
When she was gone Jarret opened the door to the connecting room and found the dressing area and, beyond that, confirmation that the privy was indeed indoors. He didn't wait for fresh linens—the ones he found in the storage cupboard seemed fine to him—and stripped to the buff when the tub filled.
The water was cool, but it didn't matter. Jarret welcomed the chance to get rid of the grit that clung to him like a second skin. He scrubbed enthusiastically, sluicing water over his face and shoulders. His tuneless humming stopped when he heard a sound from the other room.
* * *
Because her hands were busy with the tray of food, Rennie nudged open the door to Jarret's bedroom with the toe of her shoe. Maggie followed behind with warm towels, and Skye entered last carrying Jarret's carpetbag of belongings.
"Well," Rennie drawled, as she looked around, "this is fine protection. I certainly hope Michael is receiving better from the marshal. I'm of a mind to go to the St. Mark and see to it myself."
Skye dropped Jarret's bag on the chair by the fireplace. "Oh, stop it, Rennie. Mr. Sullivan is probably in the bathing room. You're not going to the St. Mark—"
"Or anyplace else," Maggie said. Her mouth flattened as she surveyed her older sister. "I find myself losing all patience with you. Mr. Sullivan is hardly the villain you've made him out to be."
Setting down the tray of covered dishes, Rennie rounded on both sisters. "Have you forgotten this was my wedding day? I certainly haven't. To my way of thinking, Mr. Sullivan has much to answer for."
Skye's cheeks brightened to a shade only a little less volatile than her hair. "Papa is the one who needs to hear this. He's the one who interfered."
"Papa didn't lay Hollis out on the floor of the chapel."
Maggie hugged the towels she carried protectively. "I don't think it was all that dramatic, and what Skye says is true. If Papa hadn't put forth the notion, Mr. Sullivan would have hardly acted as he did."
"And," Skye said, "it seems to me that you're more angry than hurt or disappointed." At Rennie's start of surprise, Skye added, "It's something to think about, isn't it?"
Feeling betrayed, Rennie's dark green eyes darted from one sister to the other, and the hurt that Skye had noted was missing earlier was now there for both of them to see. "There's no talking to either one of you," she said softly.
"Rennie," Maggie implored. "We didn't mean—"
"Just put the towels down," Rennie said. "I'll see that Mr. Sullivan gets everything." She turned her back on her sisters, effectively dismissing them. She felt their hesitation, could imagine them exchanging pained glances, but she would not relent. Did they really think she was without any feeling? When the door shut, and she was alone, some of the steel went out of Rennie's spine. Her shoulders slumped, and her knees wobbled. She placed one hand on the edge of the bedside table to steady herself.
That was how Jarret found her, looking oddly vulnerable with her eyes closed and the slender weight of her braced against the table. He stood in the doorway, a towel hitched around his waist, watching her silent struggle for a moment; then knowing that she wouldn't thank him for the intrusion, he quietly backed into the dressing room.
"Is someone there?" he called.
His voice jerked Rennie to the present. "It's Rennie, Mr. Sullivan. I've brought your dinner."
"Right now I'm more interested in some clean clothes."
"Oh." Rennie imagined Jarret's wicked grin at her flustered response. She drew in a steadying breath. "Of course. I didn't think."
"I'm decently covered."
Now she was certain he was laughing at her. Gathering the loose threads of her composure, Rennie managed to answer coolly. "Stay where you are and I'll take your word for it. Your bag's in here on the chair, and Mother's sent warm towels, too. Someone will collect your tray later. Good evening, Mr. Sullivan."
"Good evening, Miss Dennehy." He doubted she heard him. The door was opening and closing as he was speaking.
Chuckling to himself, Jarret left the dressing room. He ignored the dusty carpetbag of fresh clothes and helped himself to one of the warm towels, rubbing it briskly against his dark blond hair. He also exchanged the damp towel around his waist for a dry one, then sat on the edge of the bed and investigated the dishes Moira Dennehy's cook had prepared.
He would have eaten sawdust and drank hot candle wax. It made him all the more grateful that neither of these items was placed before him. Mrs. Cavanaugh had given him thick slices of roast beef, a mountain of mashed potatoes with a deep reservoir of gravy, and tender baby carrots. The dinner rolls were hot to the touch and shiny with melted butter. The coffee was just the way he liked: steaming, black, and lots of it.
Jarret ate everything, sopping up the gravy with his roll, finishing the pot of coffee with the last bite of black cherry pie. Replete, feeling the meal settle heavily in his stomach, Jarret pushed the tray away and lay back on the bed. He cradled his head in his hands and stared at the ceiling, wondering if he dared close his eyes. Outside his window he could hear the rhythmic clatter of carriages and horses, the excited chatter of neighbors on their way to the theater. He knew better than to close his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and then rubbed his lids. Jarret did not remember falling asleep. In moments he was.
* * *
Rennie pushed the door open when there was no response to her knock. There was no light in the room, and she paused on the threshold until her eyes adjusted. When she could finally see she wondered if that was necessarily a good thing.
Yes, he was decently covered. But only just. Rennie became impatient with herself as she felt her cheeks grow hot. She considered herself rather a worldly woman, yet here she was in her own home sporting a face like a brush fire. All because of Jarret Sullivan. It was not a situation that endeared the man to Rennie. Setting her shoulders stiffly and cocking her head to the side, she stared defiantly at her unwanted guest.
His form was not unpleasing, she thought. With a hint of the objectiveness in which she prided herself, Rennie admitted that quite the opposite was true. His hair was still damp, darker at the edges where it framed his face, and streaked with sunshine at the crown of his head. In repose his features did not look so sharply cut; the hardness that lay just beyond his amused, lazy smile was absent. But then, Rennie realized with some regret, so was the smile.
Her eyes rested briefly on his mouth, then followed the strong line of his jaw to where a droplet of water lay in the hollow of his throat. His chest rose and fell in an even cadence. She made out the curve of his rib cage and the slope of his hard belly. An arrow of dark hair d
isappeared beneath the ridge of his loosely tied towel, and lower, the material split intriguingly along his right thigh. As Rennie stared, the split opened farther. She blinked widely, hardly believing the towel was slowly rising.
Jarret snapped to attention, sitting straight up and drawing his knees to his chest. He hid the heavy fullness of his groin, but the ache remained. His brows arched in question a moment before he found his voice. "You've seen enough?"
Rennie held her ground and answered boldly, "More than I cared to, actually."
"Really?" The smile was back, this time edged with derision. "You were staring pretty hard for someone who had taken her fill." Jarret felt a measure of satisfaction as Rennie's face flamed and her icy shield of arrogance began to melt.
"You're a vile, boorish man, Mr. Sullivan."
"That so?" He was genuinely amused now. "Most people just call me a son of a bitch."
She hated the fact that he was laughing at her. She hated the fact that in spite of his near nakedness, he had somehow gotten the upper hand. She wished she had called him a son of a bitch, for surely that's what he was.
"There was something you wanted?" he asked. "Or am I to assume you moseyed on in here simply to look at me?"
Rennie's chin came up a notch, and the butter-wouldn't-melt expression returned. "You may as well learn now, Mr. Sullivan, that I've never moseyed anywhere in my life. I don't amble, sashay, saunter, or stroll."
"Damn the torpedoes. Is that it, Miss Dennehy? Full speed ahead?"
Rennie's mouth pursed impatiently. "I walk. Sometimes I run. Always with a destination in mind. Not only do I know where I'm going, I know why I'm going there. I've never been inclined to mosey, and it's not a trait that I particularly respect in others."
"You may get where you're goin', but you're missin' the trip."
"Please spare me the good ol' boy homilies. I've been managing just fine on my—"
Jarret held up his hand. "Whoa! You may not walk in circles, but you sure do talk in them. You're making my head ache."
She smiled sweetly as he began to massage his temples. "If my presence here is as welcome to you as a hangover from a three-day drunk, then, Mr. Sullivan, I feel I've accomplished my life's work." For a moment she thought she had gone too far. He stared at her, his features void of any discernible expression; then without warning deep, rumbling laughter shook his shoulders and made his striking eyes crinkle at the corners.
