by Kim Bowman
She took a deep breath. “I thought the opening went for another few days. Why did you leave?”
“I had some unfinished business in Wildwood.” At her start of surprise, he continued. “I left a woman there with the impression that the only reason I wanted her with me was for the good luck she brought me. And I needed to tell her that I know better. Where were you headed?”
She smiled shyly. “To New York. To the gallery. Because I needed to be there. I used my mother as an excuse because I was scared.”
“You, scared? You single-handedly opened up a business and spearheaded an event like Wildwood has never seen. You’ve got the entire town praising you for helping its economy. Why would you be scared to go to New York?”
“I was afraid of my feelings. I wasn’t sure about going back to the place where my old life fell apart. I need to let go of my past anger. If your mother can forgive our family for the wrong my father did to yours, then I need to forgive Father for abandoning us.”
Charlie started. “He left you? I thought he died.”
“He did. He jumped out of the window of his office on the tenth floor.”
His breath caught. How horrible it must have been to lose her father like that. He reached over and took one of her hands. Despite the hot coffee she’d held, her hand was icy.
“I’m so sorry he did that. I can’t understand his reasons, but he shouldn’t have left you to deal with everything alone. I won’t be able to provide the kind of life you had before, but I promise you — if times get tough, I will never leave you to face it by yourself.”
He took her other hand and held both of them between his. “That’s what I was coming home for. I realized I was all wrong about why I needed you. Yes, my life has turned around since that day you stopped at my booth on the Boardwalk. But it’s not because you’re a Lady Luck. It’s because you make me want to be a better man, a better artist, a better person. You inspire me. Not just as a muse, but as someone who encourages me to be the best I can be.”
Her eyes shone. Were those tears? Was he too late?
“You inspire me, too,” she said. “After losing Father, I stopped seeing the beauty in life. I thought I needed stability and saw things in black and white. You brought the color back for me. And Mother agreed with everyone else — I belonged here with you.”
He sat back, still clinging to her hands. “So what do we do now? Do you want to go back to Wildwood?”
“No, let’s go to New York. I want to see the gallery and the paintings that you have there. I’m proud of you, Charlie, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t more supportive of your big chance.”
Charlie shook his head. “You were worried about your mother, and rightly so. I’m glad my mother and the neighbors are there for her.” He gave her hands another squeeze. “All right, we’ll go. I want you with me, not to bring me luck, but because being with you brings me joy. With you by my side, I can do anything.”
They went to the counter and purchased their tickets for the next train north. Charlie kept Rose’s hand in his, reluctant to let it go when he picked up their suitcases to board.
As they settled in, Rose exclaimed, “Oh! I almost forgot. Your mother gave me this package to give you. She said it was something you might need.”
Charlie watched, puzzled, as she pulled a small leather pouch from her purse. Inside was an envelope addressed to him in his mother’s handwriting. He opened it quickly, knowing his mother rarely wrote anything, so if she had written to him, it had to be important.
The stationery was yellowed and musty, a further testament to the rarity of Susie Brannigan’s writing effort. The penmanship was shaky but legible. He held it up to the window to read it.
Dear Charlie,
I always knew you would be a success. I knew from the time you were a little boy that you weren’t cut out to be a fisherman like your Pa. I think Pa knew it, too. That’s why he didn’t argue so much about you going to New York to be an artist. He never said much, but he was real proud of you, just like I am.
Rose is a special lady. I’m glad she’s going there. I’ll feel better, knowing you’re together in the Big City. Whether you return to Wildwood or not, there will always be a place at the table for you — and Rose.
In the side pocket of this pouch is a little trinket that you might need very soon. It’s something Pa gave me thirty years ago, and now I’m giving it to you. I know Pa would approve.
Love,
Ma
He felt the side pocket, smiling to himself when he found the outline of the ring his mother had worn for thirty years. The simple white gold band topped with a sparkling single diamond had never left her finger, and now she was giving it to him. Pa had always wanted to buy her a bigger diamond, but Ma always insisted she didn’t need anything more. “We’ve got each other, and we have our family. I don’t need a bigger diamond to remind me of the riches I already have.”
Would Rose feel the same way? He hoped so. At his side, Rose had settled in, a little notebook on her lap, scribbling what looked like a list. His ever-practical Rose would keep him grounded if his success as an artist continued. But she would work beside him if times got rough. Tonight, he decided. He’d take her to a nice little restaurant near the gallery and ask her to wear the ring that bound his parents together.
And if his lady accepted, he’d consider himself the luckiest man alive.
About the Author
Patricia’s wide array of experiences tend to show up in her writing. Trained as a musician, certified as an elementary school teacher, and raised as a lifelong learner, she loves to travel, sew, craft, and play Words With Friends. She and her husband live in southwest Michigan, near their children and grandchildren.
Website
Blog
Facebook
Twitter
Also by Patricia Kiyono
The Legacy
The Christmas Phoenix
Aegean Intrigue
The Partridge and the Peartree
The Samurai’s Garden
The Calico Heart (with Stephanie Michels)
Love’s Refrain
Searching for Lady Luck
My Lady of Deception
by Christi Caldwell
1802
Bristol, England
Robert Emmet, a leader of the Irish nationals, has returned from the Continent with a contingent of Irish exiles. An organization of British spies is intent on stopping their revolution. It has plans to hunt these men down and execute them.
Signed,
A Loyal British Subject
Chapter 1
If children were guilty of the crimes of their fathers, Georgina Wilcox was going to burn in the eternal flames of hell.
Piteous moans from another of her father’s victims echoed from the other side of the wood panel door. Georgina clenched her hands into fists to keep from opening the door. She could not go in. Must not go in. The angry purple bruise on the inside of her wrist throbbed as a subtle reminder of what happened when she questioned her father.
A groan more befitting a wild boar echoed from within the room. Georgina wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out the man’s pleas for help.
I cannot bear this.
She reached for the handle.
The floorboards creaked.
Georgina spun around.
Jamie Marshall pinned her in place with his cold, hard stare. “What are you doing, Georgina?” The faintest hint of an Irish brogue lent his words a lyrical quality.
With his lean physique and black crop of curls, he had the look of a dark angel, only he possessed a soul black enough to rival the devil. To those in his traitorous circle, he was The Hunter, enemy to the Crown. To Georgina, he was also the orphan taken in by her father when English soldiers had murdered his parents those fifteen years ago.
“I-I…” She gestured to the door. “Who is in there?”
Jamie strode toward her, and her heart climbed into her throat. “I asked you
a question.”
She met his gaze evenly, not wanting him to see the effect his presence always managed to have on her. She knew the cruelties he was capable of.
A moan punctured the silence and renewed her determination to help the stranger on the other side of the door. “I heard a man screaming.”
An icy smile turned his perfect lips. “And you were compelled to help him?”
She narrowed her gaze on him. “If the man in there is to be of any value to you then I must care for him.”
He closed the small distance between them and grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you presume to know what is best?”
Georgina glared. “No. Just what is right.”
His fingers dug into her jawline. “Are you being insolent?” He ran a hard gaze over her face.
She met his unrelenting stare, refusing to give Jamie the pleasure of seeing how painful his touch was, or the fear he sent coursing through her limbs.
She’d learned early on he seemed to find a perverse pleasure in her unease. Just as she knew he’d never tolerate outward shows of disobedience on her part. She gentled her tone. “Let me care for him,” she pressed. “He is not use to you dead.”
Jamie lowered his head so that his brandy-scented breath fanned her lips.
She sucked in an audible breath even as her pulse kicked up a beat. Life had taught her that liquor made him even more unpredictable.
He released her. His brows dipped as he appeared to contemplate her entreaty.
She drummed up her best impression of a debutante’s innocent smile. “Please, let me help him. I—”
Jamie pressed his finger to her lips. A shudder of revulsion snaked through her belly, and she pressed her lips into a tight line. Through the years, he’d treated her first as a bothersome sister then a useless servant, and now another shift had occurred. At some point, he’d begun looking at her in a way that made her flesh crawl.
Yet, his obvious attraction, however, had proven useful. A teasing smile and flutter of her lids had earned her the freedom to help prisoners in the past.
His pale blue gaze fell to her mouth.
She took a hasty step away from him. Her back thumped against the door.
As if the unexpected movement had roused the beast within the chambers, a roar echoed through the house. “You bastard. Free me.”
Georgina jumped.
Jamie’s maniacal chuckle blended with the sheer-terror of the stranger’s shouts. “Still want to tend his wounds?”
Oh, how she wanted Jamie to suffer. His time would come and when it did, she would relish it. She tamped down the words she longed to hurl at his traitorous face.
“Hunter?” her father’s voice boomed.
Jamie’s broad shoulders stiffened beneath his blue cutaway frock coat.
She said a silent thanks for the timely intervention, even if it was her father.
“Above stairs,” Jamie called out. He paused, a black grin tilting the corners of his lips. “With Georgina.”
Her heartbeat kicked up its rhythm as her father labored up the stairs. He stopped and studied her.
His astute gaze went from Georgina to his newest prisoner’s closed door. He dabbed at his bald pate with a stained kerchief. “What are you doing up here, gel?” A wheezing cough escaped him, and he spit into the cloth.
It was hard to fathom that this fat figure, known to the Irish Republicans The Fox, could be one of the organization’s most powerful orchestrators in their plan to force an Irish revolt against British rule.
Georgina dropped her gaze to the frayed carpet and buried all hint of rebellion. She wet her lips. “I—uh…I was—”
“Speak up.”
Georgina looked up and held his stare. “I wanted to help.” It wasn’t altogether a lie. She had wanted to help—just not him.
“Help?” Father erupted into a fit of laughter until he began coughing. He swiped the back of his sleeve across his mouth. He dismissed her and turned to Jamie. “We have a meeting with Emmet. He’s returned from France.”
Jamie narrowed his eyes. “Does he know we have him?”
“He does.”
Georgina held her breath and attempted to make herself invisible.
Father’s talks of the Irish organization had been as common as a morning meal in their household. She had long heard the story of his mother, a delicate Irish lady who’d fallen in love with an Englishman. When her father had been a boy of five, he’d visited Ireland with his parents, a trip which had proven tragic. While riding one morning, the Irish beauty had been assaulted, and ultimately killed, by English soldiers. Her father had witnessed the whole horrific scene.
Georgina could imagine how such events would ever scar a person’s soul. Still, England was the only home she’d ever known. She wouldn’t blame an entire country for the sins of several, nor could she just sit idly by as witness to the wrongs done here.
Father continued. “Markham should break and give us the information we need.” Her ears perked up. “He…we’ll discuss the details later.”
Without another word, Father and Jamie walked off.
It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d gotten information to the man known as the Sovereign. Their absence had made it possible for her to pass along details about the Irish plot for independence.
She hurried after them. “When will you return?”
“We’ll be gone the night,” Jamie said, a dark frown curved his lips. “Lest you get the idea to do something foolish again, there is a guard stationed outside.”
Her mouth went dry as she remembered the last guard they’d assigned to watch her. The blare of his pistol echoed in her memory. She shook her head to erase the face of the nameless prisoner, and the blood that had blossomed on his chest like a crimson butterfly spreading its wings.
He’d been the last man she’d freed. They’d both paid dearly for it.
Georgina bit back the stinging retort on her lips. “Should I allow the guard entry?”
Father shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “You’ve got a lot of questions, gel.”
“I just want to help,” she lied.
Jamie’s lips turned up in a sneer. “She is a dutiful girl,” he said. He no more trusted her than she did him.
Georgina bowed her head and wry smile played about her lips. “I strive to do my father’s bidding.”
Father and Jamie had come to expect small showings of disobedience from her, but neither suspected the truth—she stole information from them and dashed notes off to the Crown, providing details about their plans. All the while, she plotted to leave this hell. She was biding her time, waiting to find a way out of this lonely, dark life. The only thing that had kept her in this hellish place was a sense of obligation to the men brought here to suffer at Father’s hands. That, and the fear they would hunt her and kill her themselves.
As if suspecting the deceptive path her thoughts had wandered down, Father glowered. “You aren’t to let anyone inside.”
She took a deep, slow breath when they finally left. Georgina locked the door and leaned against it. Her eyes slid closed at the blessed silence.
“I said let me out, you bastards!”
The thunderous shout above the stairs brought her back to reality.
Georgina hurried to the kitchens and prepared a tray of bread and cheese, a pitcher of water, and a glass of red wine to the sound of the captive’s furious shouts. She sliced an apple into neat little pieces. Then she carried the tray to the captive’s chambers, and turned the door handle. For all intents and purposes, the room might as well have been an elegant bedroom for an esteemed guest. A four-poster bed sat in the center of the room and a small table with two chairs had been tucked in a corner.
She stepped inside.
One of those chairs was now occupied.
“You bloody bast—” The invective died a swift death. The stranger, with his arms tied to the backs of his seat, gaped at her. The dimly lit room
and the ten feet of space separating them did nothing to diminish the sparkle of wariness in his emerald green gaze.
Georgina closed the door with the tip of her slipper and faced him. Her stomach turned over at his bloodied and battered face; his swollen lips, the green of his irises glimmering, like a wild animal’s, full of the need for retribution. The slight tilt of his aquiline nose indicated it had been broken at some point. Georgina, too, had known physical pain.
Despite his injuries, she could discern his breathtaking beauty: the hard, chiseled lines of his angular face, his square jaw and chin with the slightest indentation at its center. He possessed the kind of power artists celebrated in stone. She cursed herself for thinking such thoughts at a time like this. Yet she could not look away from his eyes.
“Why are you here?” the stranger asked, his voice hoarse.
Georgina rushed to his chair and set down the tray. Even seated, his long muscular frame filled the room. Her hand quaked with a tiny tremor as she dipped a rag into a bowl of water and gently wiped the blood from his face. It stained her fingers, and the potent smell that was sickly sweet and harsh metal combined, filled the air around them. Bile climbed to her throat.
A hiss slipped from between his teeth and she bit her lip, hating that she’d caused him further pain. Moments later, the blood was gone, but the bruises stood in dark purple contrast to the olive hue of his skin.
Georgina knelt at his feet. When she picked up his bound wrists, a groan grumbled in his throat.
“Forgive me.” Georgina lightened her grip and focused on his left hand, strapped to the leg of the chair. She’d done this many times before—loosened each prisoner’s bindings one limb at a time in order to massage the bruised skin, knowing even as she did that it was dangerous but compassion overrode logic. Within moments, she’d worked one binding over his wrist.
