by Laurel McKee
As he turned the corner, he glanced in a shop window and caught the ghostly reflection of a black-clad man several feet behind him. A knife gleamed in the man’s hand. Dominic suddenly spun around and saw the flicker of surprise on the man’s bearded face just before Dominic’s fist shot out and caught him on the jaw. He staggered back and crashed into the wall.
But he recovered quickly, and with a roar, launched himself at Dominic. He was a big man, bulky with muscles and fat under a rough wool coat, but Dominic was used to fighting such men, just like his opponent in the gin-joint. They tended to rely on their sheer size, while years of stage sword fighting and acrobatics had taught Dominic speed and agility. He ducked out of the way as the man’s meaty fist shot toward him, and he came back with a blow to his opponent’s midsection.
His blood was still up after the fight in the gin bar, and he knocked his attacker to the ground. But as he turned to leave, a group of men came running around the corner.
This is not good, he thought wryly, just as the first man reached him and felled him with a hard blow to the jaw. More blows rained down as Dominic fell to his knees on the pavement, but he felt only the first of them as darkness closed around him.
Sophia sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding. For an instant, she was completely confused, caught halfway between dreams and waking, and she didn’t know quite where she was. Not in her girlhood chamber in her father’s house, with its abundance of frills and ruffles; not in one of the endless shabby hotel rooms she and Jack called home. She was lost.
Then she drew in a deep breath and watched as a ray of fading gaslight from the street outside fell across the bare wood floor, and she remembered. She was in her little apartment at La Reine d’Argent, and it must be very late indeed. It felt as if she had just fallen asleep, exhausted after chasing out the last of the drunken customers and seeing Camille and Count Danilov off to a late supper, but the night was still deepest purple-black outside. Not yet near dawn.
What had awakened her? Sophia rubbed her hand over her face and tried to chase away the last cobwebs of her dreams. Had it been some nightmare? She had thought those bad dreams would be gone once she was safe, away from men like Lord Hammond and in charge of her own life. Or had she forgotten something she was supposed to do, something important?
Or was she just thinking about that day in Montmartre with Dominic yet again? Memories of it had come back to haunt her in the days since then, usually when she least wanted them. Least wanted to remember how much she had loved his body over hers; how much she wanted to see him again. She knew he was still at the Theatre Nationale, but he hadn’t appeared again at the club.
“Oh, just go back to sleep,” she murmured. She lay back down and rolled onto her side. Her worries would surely keep until morning.
A sudden pounding noise from downstairs made her sit up straight again. Someone was at her door, and the cold pit of feeling deep in her stomach told her it was not good. Only ill could come to the door so late at night, a lesson she had learned too well in her life with Jack. As a knock echoed again, Sophia slowly slid out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. As she slid her feet into her slippers, she opened the drawer of her bedside table and took out the small pistol Camille had given her.
Holding its reassuring, chilly weight balanced in her hand, she crept down the stairs and paused to light a lamp on the landing. There wasn’t another knock, and Sophia half-hoped whoever it was had gone. That it was merely some confused drunk stumbling past. But somehow she knew that wouldn’t be the case tonight.
She crossed the foyer and pressed her ear carefully to the front door. She could hear only the soft rush of the wind sweeping leaves and debris down the street, and she leaned back as she let out the breath she was holding. She started to turn away, but a sudden sound, a scratch on the wood like a cat’s claws, brought her back again. Somehow that soft noise was more ominous than the pounding knocks.
Clutching at the pistol with one hand, she threw back the locks and opened the door a mere crack to peer outside. For a second, she could see nothing but the quiet, darkened houses across the street, their stones pale in the moonlight. Suddenly a strong grasp closed on the hem of her nightdress, and she screamed in shock.
“Bloody hell, woman, you will make my head explode,” a man said hoarsely.
Sophia looked down at the shocking sight of Dominic St. Claire lying on her doorstep, his hair bright in the moonlight. “I must still be dreaming,” she whispered, and gave her head a hard shake. Because otherwise it simply made no sense at all that he would be there.
She stepped back to try to slam the door, and his fist tightened on her hem. She tried to pull herself free, and that was when she saw it. Blood dripped down his hand and stained the white muslin of her gown. She knew it was no dream.
“Dominic!” she cried. She fell down on her knees beside him and dropped the gun to the pavement with a metallic clatter. In the gaslight, she could see that his head was bleeding as well, a stain spreading along his temple into his beautiful hair. She reached out with her trembling fingertips to carefully touch his cheek, and he pulled away with a hissing breath.
“Dominic, what happened to you?” she said. She brushed away his protests and gently turned his face into the light. She could see bruises, and a cut under one eye, as well as the bleeding wound on his temple. The sleeve of his coat had ripped away where another wound had started to clot and dry.
“You are in a rare mess,” she said, her heart aching.
“Part of it is from the gin palace earlier tonight,” he said. He tried to laugh, but it ended in a choking cough that made him wince with pain.
Sophia thought it best not to ask what he had been doing brawling in a gin palace. She had to concentrate on helping him now. “And the other part?”
“Some men attacked me when I left there. At least I think that is what happened, from what I remember, which I admit is a trifle hazy.”
She studied his wounds again and saw the gleam of his watch chain, the gold signet ring on his finger. “Was it a robbery? They don’t seem to have been very thorough,” she said, trying to stay as careless as he was trying to be. She feared she couldn’t, not when her heart was pounding with fear for him.
“Not a robbery. It seems they were looking specifically for me.”
“Indeed?” Sophia held his face gently between her hands and searched his eyes. The pupils were dilated, nearly obscuring the green, and she knew enough to be sure she needed to keep him awake, keep him talking. “Was it a rival theater owner? A disgruntled husband?”
He gave another groaning laugh. “Who knows? I didn’t have much conversation with them. I wondered if it was you, taking your revenge on me for my piss-poor behavior toward you.”
Sophia had to laugh, too, despite her fear. “I would take my revenge myself, you can be sure. But how did you get here?”
“Now that I could not say. I was sadly knocked unconscious, and when I woke, I was here. A parcel I’m sure you have no use for.”
Sophia sighed. It was true she had hoped to be done with trouble, to find some peace somewhere. To make a new life. But trouble always knew where to find her. And Dominic, too, it seemed. They were two of a kind.
She glanced down the street, half-afraid his attackers still might linger there, but everything seemed quiet. When she turned back to Dominic, his eyes were closed, and his head was heavy in her lap. “No, don’t go to sleep,” she said urgently. “We must get you inside, and I certainly can’t carry you.”
“Then leave me here,” he said. He didn’t open his eyes. “Your doorstep is quite comfortable.”
“It’s also quite damp, and I can’t let you catch a chill on top of everything else.”
“Why, Sophia.” A smile drifted over his lips. “I didn’t realize you cared so much.”
“I don’t want the trouble of explaining to Camille how you happened to die outside her house.” Sophia took his uninjured arm and slid it around her shou
lders as she tried to tug him upright. It was like trying to move a boulder. “Come along now, Dominic. We need to get you somewhere that I can take a proper look at your wounds.”
“Into your bed, perhaps? Mrs. Westman, how terribly shocking you are being tonight. I must say I am flattered.”
“Half-dead and still trying to flirt. Of course.” Sophia gave his arm an impatient tug, and he finally sat up. She felt his body tense, his breath catch, and she knew he was truly in pain, no matter how much he tried to conceal it. That made her even more frightened.
She helped him stagger to his feet and into the foyer of the house. She propped him carefully against a marble table while she fetched her gun and relocked the door, and when she hurried back, he was listing badly to one side.
“Come along,” she said briskly as she put her arms around him. She tried to remember the reassuring way her old nanny used to deal with nursery wounds and to not give in to her own panic. “I’ll help you upstairs.”
“You are being much too nice to me, Sophia my dear,” he answered. He leaned on her as they made their slow way up the stairs. “I must be in bad shape indeed.”
“Yes, you are,” Sophia said, breathless from holding him upright.
“I don’t deserve it. Not after the way I behaved,” he said. “Not after the way I think about you all the time…”
How did he think about her? Sophia very much wanted to know, but this didn’t seem like the right time to press. “No, you don’t. But I’ll send for the doctor. Should I find your family, too? Your brothers and sister?”
“Certainly not,” Dominic answered. His voice was stronger, more adamant, as they stumbled over the last step. “My sister would be in hysterics if she knew, which would not be helpful, and Brendan is—occupied tonight. I’ll be fine in an hour or two and out of your house.”
Sophia wasn’t so sure about that. The bruises on his face looked alarmingly vivid, no matter how he had gotten them, and he winced when her hand accidentally slid over his ribs. She didn’t need this kind of trouble. But she could never turn him away, not when he needed her. He seemed like the kind of man who never needed anyone.
She nudged open her bedroom door and led him to the rumpled bed. “What makes you think I won’t go into hysterics?”
He gave another laugh that ended in a worrying cough. He slowly lowered himself to the edge of the mattress, his arm wrapped tight around himself. “You haven’t had hysterics yet. You seem much too cool-headed for that sort of thing. I doubt you would faint at the sight of a little blood.”
“Me? Cool-headed?” Sophia laughed as she knelt to help him remove his boots. “My family would surely disagree with you. They always declared me to be wild and flighty.”
“Did they?” Dominic murmured, as if he grew sleepy. “Why would they say that?”
“Because I was trouble from the day I was born, at least according to my father. And I proved him right in the end, running away with Jack like I did.” She tossed aside the boots and sat back on her heels to look up at him. In the light of only one lamp, she could barely see the bruises that marred his handsome face. His hair was tangled over his brow, and he watched her closely with his darkened eyes. He always seemed to have that power to focus so closely, to see so much. It made her want to turn away, to not let him see. To protect herself from being hurt again.
But it also gave her the strangest, strongest urge to tell him all her secrets, all the doubts and hurts she kept hidden. As if he could really be the powerful, golden angel he appeared to be.
Yet he was not an angel, she reminded herself sternly. He was a man who had made love to her, given her the greatest pleasure, then vanished. He was a man who had gotten into a vicious fight and found his way to her doorstep in the middle of the night.
“What did you do that was so much trouble, Sophia?” he said gently. “Why do you live alone now, so far from your family? Just because of your marriage?”
“That is too long a tale for tonight, and you’re in no condition to listen to my stories anyway.” Sophia pushed herself to her feet and busied herself with pulling down the bedclothes and piling up the pillows.
Dominic suddenly reached out and caught her hand. He was shockingly fast and strong for someone who had just been in a brawl, and he held her there until she looked at him. “I like stories,” he said. “I want to know yours, Sophia. Very much.”
“I am very dull,” she answered. She gave her wrist a twist, and he let her go. Avoiding his gaze, she went behind him to help him ease out of his coat. Surely he didn’t really want to know about her; no one did, especially men who wanted to sleep with her. But she found she did want to tell him, too much. “Especially compared with the dashing actresses and Society beauties you see every day.”
“I suspect there is nothing dull about you at all, Sophia. And you must know you could outshine any other Society beauty you wanted to.”
He thought her beautiful? “What do you want to know then?” Sophia folded his ruined coat over the foot of the bed and turned to look for her box of salves and bandages in the cupboard. In her life with Jack, she had learned never to be without them, but she wouldn’t have expected to need them for Dominic St. Claire.
“I want to know everything,” he said. She heard the soft shift of cloth, and she glanced over her shoulder to see that he had pulled off his shirt. The lamplight poured a soft glow over his bare skin, gilding the lean planes of his chest and his ridged abdomen. He stretched his neck from side to side, and Sophia swallowed at the sight of him. He was so gloriously handsome.
“Everything?” she said. She laid the box on the bedside table and poured out water into a basin. “That might take some time.”
“It appears I’m not going anywhere.”
Sophia laughed wryly. “Is this a ploy to persuade me to let you read Mary’s diary?”
Dominic shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face as she worked. “I have no interest in long-dead people tonight, no matter how they are related to me. I want to know about you. What brought you here. What you want next in your life.”
“Well, I would rather hear about you, I think.” As Sophia leaned closer to him, she saw that his perfection was an illusion of the night’s shadows. It was marred by darkening bruises and by the cut on his arm that was oozing blood again. He would have to use a great deal of stage makeup before his next performance, she feared. But the wounds seemed only to enhance his strange magic, carving a dimension of vulnerability to him that was otherwise never there. A rare glimpse behind his armor, the primitive allure of a warrior.
“Ah, now I really am dull,” he said with a smile.
“I can’t believe that,” Sophia answered. She tucked the blankets around him and lay down by his side. The rush of fear and danger that had sustained her when she discovered him had faded, and now she was tired. But she knew she couldn’t sleep yet. “The life of an actor could never be dull. Isn’t it exciting when hundreds of people are applauding you?”
Dominic laughed wryly. “I do admit I like the applause. But that only lasts a few minutes. There are hours and hours of practice that lead up to it. Repeating the same words, the same actions, over and over until you’re sick of them. There’s playing peacemaker in fights between other actors, doing accounts, ordering costumes, planning seasons years in advance, worrying about what other theaters are doing—all very dull. And the work never ends.”
Sophia shook her head. “It still sounds wonderful to me. Doing something you love, in the company of other people who love it. Having the support of your family. Being part of something that makes so many people happy.”
“You’re right. It’s not so bad.” Dominic closed his eyes. “I can’t imagine doing anything else. Yet it can be hard to maintain a balance between the theater and a personal life, if someone hasn’t been born to the acting life and thus understands it.”
Sophia remembered the snippet of gossip she had heard from Camille, that Dominic had lost his fiancée.
“I heard you were once engaged, though.”
A frown flickered over his brow. “Yes. Once.”
“To a woman named Jane Grant?”
“That was her name. I see gossip can fly fast over the Channel.”
“Camille knows everything about everyone. She mentioned it when we attended your play.”
“Did she tell you Jane died?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sophia said, feeling terrible that she had even brought it up. She hated it when people tried to pry about Jack. “I am so sorry.”
“We were probably not a good match.”
“Did she not like the theater?”
“She didn’t fully understand what I did there, why I needed it so much. But she wanted to understand. She was a sweet, kind lady who wanted everyone to be happy.”
Sweet and kind. Two words Sophia feared could never be used to describe herself. “So she would have tried to understand what happened to you tonight?”
Dominic started to laugh again and winced with pain. “She might have tried, but I fear she never would have. There are things inside me she could never have fathomed.”
“Where did you meet her?” Sophia asked.
“She was the daughter of an old school friend of my mother’s. Her father owned a textile import business, very respectable. I had known her since I was young, and when we got older we met at parties more often, and it felt like time for me to settle down. To mend my wild ways. Or try to, at least. And Jane and I liked each other. It seemed a good fit, a way to build a suitable future.”
It didn’t sound like a grand passion to Sophia, the kind she would expect with a man like Dominic, who was obviously a man of fire. But it did sound like something she herself would try to seek, and would surely never find, because it simply wasn’t in her. “Do you miss her?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “For a while, I didn’t know what to do next. She had been like an anchor to me and suddenly I was adrift again.”
