“I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t realize how very upsetting you’d find my little ruse.”
Allowing Loretta’s arm to remain, probably because she had no choice unless she wanted to engage in fisticuffs with her employer, Marjorie unclasped her handbag and dug out a handkerchief. She engaged it with vigor, mopping her eyes and cheeks and blowing her nose. “Little ruse, be damned,” she growled. “It was a big, fat lie.”
“There, there,” Loretta murmured.
“And he knew it!” Marjorie said with renewed energy. “Your little ruse didna fool him for a second!”
Regaining her own composure, Loretta withdrew her arm and allowed her secretary to walk unencumbered. Still rather pleased with herself, in spite of Marjorie’s not unexpected but exaggeratedly poor-spirited reaction to the day’s adventure, Loretta said, “Well, it doesn’t matter what he thinks. He couldn’t possibly have guessed the real purpose for our visit.”
The autumn afternoon had fallen into evening, and the walkway was dark except for a row of dim electrical bulbs lining it at intervals. Loretta wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do if the cabbie had given up on them and left, but she’d paid him a lot to wait, so she hoped he’d still be there.
He was. “Oh, good!”
The two women walked up to the gate and stood there, Marjorie gazing up at its solid black iron-ness, Loretta wondering if she was supposed to push a button to get the gatekeeper to open it.
Nothing happened, so Loretta searched for a button. She couldn’t find one, and she searched harder. For only a moment or two, her heart quavered unpleasantly. The tiniest feeling of panic knocked at the door of her composure.
Could Tillinghurst have divined her purpose in coming here today? Could he be planning some dire means of keeping her quiet? Could he—oh, heavens!—could he be planning to kidnap her and Marjorie?
The last thought had just entered her head, causing her stomach to clench and her hands to curl into fists, when the gate groaned once and slowly started to open.
A voice from behind them said, “Sorry, ladies. I wasn’t in the gatehouse when you walked up!” It was a friendly voice, and Loretta’s insides unclenched.
She waved at the unseen gatekeeper. “That’s all right. Thank you!” Grabbing Marjorie, she hurried out to the automobile.
The cabbie, with a big smile on his face, jumped out of his machine to open the door for them. Loretta’s rattling heart began to slow. Then, because she was suffering from left-over fear and despised herself for it, she forced herself to step aside and allow Marjorie to enter the cab first. Only after Marjorie was settled and she’d thanked the cabbie for waiting, did Loretta enter the cab, slowly and with dignity.
They arrived at her Russian Hill home in time for dinner, a meal taken in virtual silence, since Marjorie was still angry with her.
As for Loretta, she spent the meal thinking. Hard.
# # #
She was still thinking when she walked to the soup kitchen the following morning. Although she’d decided that she wasn’t fat, she had also renewed her vow to get more healthful exercise. It wouldn’t do to allow her body to become lax. Strong body, strong mind was a sound concept by which to live. Besides, walking assisted her thinking processes.
Because Marjorie had reacted so violently to yesterday’s agenda, Loretta had left her at home this morning. While she missed her company, she worried about Marjorie’s overall mental health. She intended to talk to Dr. Hagendorf about the poor woman, with or without Marjorie’s blessing.
After reading about it several times over the last few years, Loretta would have liked to undergo analysis herself just to see what the process was like, but she didn’t have the time. Also, if her family learned she was seeing an alienist, they’d assume it was because there was something wrong with her. Worse, they’d believe they’d been right about her, and that Loretta had begun espousing radical causes because she was crazy.
Well, she wasn’t crazy. She possessed an enlightened attitude and a keen social conscience, two attributes that would help the world a good deal if more people shared them.
The sound of raised voices ahead made Loretta pick up her pace. Curiosity chased indignation from her mind. There had been so much social unrest and political turmoil in recent years. Workers, tired of the oppression under which they’d been laboring for so long, had begun doing something about it. Unfortunately, many of them were choosing anarchy over dignified and legal agitation for labor unions, and there had been several bombing incidents.
However much Loretta favored unionization as a method of assuring workers their rights as human beings, she didn’t believe that violence was ever the answer to any problem. The vision of Malachai Quarles swam into her mind’s eye, and she allowed there might be one or two exceptions to her anti-violence stand.
But no. She didn’t want to perpetrate violence against the captain. She might be more comfortable if her desires in his regard were to physically hurt him. What she wanted to do with Malachai Quarles had nothing to do with damaging his person. Far from it.
Anyhow, that was neither here nor there. As Loretta approached the source of the noise, she turned a corner onto Powell Street and saw that a large crowd had gathered. The fact that she was shorter than most of the people in the mob didn’t deter her in the slightest. With loud, “Pardon me’s,” and shrill, “Step aside, if you will’s,” she elbowed her way through the assembled masses.
When she got to the inner edge of the circle, her breath caught in her throat when she realized that her very own Moor man, Derrick Peavey, was being beaten by a man who was twice as big as he. Darting forward, she cried, “Mr. Peavey!” With a vicious swing of her handbag, she whacked Peavey’s attacker on the back, yelling as she did so, “Stop that, you brute!”
The brute, too caught up in the moment to recognize the sound of a woman’s voice, clouted Loretta on the side of her head with a vicious backhanded blow. Loretta flew through the air to the edge of the mob, where she smacked against a body or two and fell to the ground, stunned.
Unable to move due to dizziness and a strange feeling that somehow her consciousness had become detached from her body, she sat there, trying to get her scattered brain cells reassembled. Before she could accomplish this feat, she was plucked up from the ground with a whoosh that scattered her thought processes again, and held tightly in a pair of arms that felt like steel bands encircling her.
She recognized the feel of those arms.
Blinking to clear her clouded vision, she attempted to bring Captain Malachai Quarles’ face into focus. “Wh-what’re you doing here?”
“Rescuing you, you damned fool!”
Loretta still felt quite fuddled, but she was sure that wasn’t an appropriate response to her civil question. Drawing her eyebrows down slightly, she said, “Thass nah true.” Then she frowned for real.
Her words hadn’t come out right. A brief survey of her mouth with her tongue explained the problem. The inside of her mouth was torn, it was swelling up like a balloon, and she tasted blood. Her tongue hurt, too. She suspected that she’d bitten it either during her flight or her landing.
Wriggling her fingers free from the captain’s grip, she felt her cheek and winced. “Wha hap’d?”
“What?”
Speaking slowly, Loretta tried again. “What happened?”
“You ran head-first into a fight and got yourself knocked cockeyed for it.”
The captain had a very curt and unkind way of explaining things. She’d take him to task for it later, since she wasn’t up to it at the moment. “Mithter Peavey?” she asked, trying with little success to pronounce her esses.
“See for yourself.”
He didn’t release her, for which Loretta was grateful, since she wasn’t sure she could stand on her own yet. He turned so that she could view the scene of the former melee.
Mr. Peavey sat on the ground, pressing a rag to his head. A couple of men who looked vaguely like sailors to Lor
etta’s unsophisticated eye were bending over him solicitously. The big man who had been pounding on Mr. Peavey lay unconscious on the ground a few feet off. Loretta blinked, trying to make sense of it all.
“D’I do ‘at?
“What?”
Oh, dear. She wished her tongue and her cheek would behave. Trying again, she enunciated for all she was worth. “Did . . . I . . . do . . . at—that?”
“Do what?”
She realized the captain was carrying her away from the scene of battle. She didn’t object, not being up to it. He sat down on some steps of a building a few yards off, and plunked her on his lap. Her head bounced unpleasantly and she reached up to steady it. That awful man lying on the ground had struck her very hard.
“That.” She pointed for only a second before bringing her hand back so that she could balance her head properly. It felt unpleasantly swimmy and insecure; rather as if it was going to fall off her neck.
“What?” Malachai’s voice rumbled dangerously. “Knock that man out? What the devil makes you think you knocked him out?”
Pooh. She was going to have to talk again. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, tested her tongue against her teeth, tasted blood once more, and wished the captain hadn’t asked his question. Nevertheless, unwilling to be perceived as weak by him, she struggled to speak coherently. “I hih—hit—” her Ts hurt. “—him wiff my purth. Purse.” So did her esses. She checked, and discovered her handbag still hung from her wrist. Good. It was a new one, and Loretta didn’t want to lose it. She hoped her spectacles, which were in their case inside the bag, remained undamaged. She’d look later.
“Don’t be a fool,” Malachai said in his deep, growly voice. “You couldn’t swat a fly with that damned thing, much less deck a big fellow like that with it.”
“Oh.” How disappointing. She’d wanted so much to be of service to Mr. Peavey. “Why’d he hih—hit Mithter Peavey?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Peavey in a minute.”
He was holding her quite tightly. While Loretta might have objected had she been in complete possession of her senses and in full health, at the moment his strong arms felt good. With his arms around her, she got the—silly, no doubt, but there anyway—feeling that nothing could hurt her. She realized he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running or doing something else of a strenuously physical nature.
“Were you running?”
“What?”
Why did he persist in misunderstanding her? She was speaking perfectly clearly, if a trifle slowly. She repeated her question. “Were you running? You’re patting.”
“I’m what?”
Drat. She formed the word carefully. “Panting.”
His roar hurt her ear. “Well, of course, I’m panting! When I saw you whaling away at that man with your stupid purse, I damned near fell over! I decked the man and grabbed you up! That’s why I’m panting, damn it!”
“Oh.” Loretta was rather pleased with his explanation, even if she didn’t approve of his profanity. Surreptitiously pressing her palm against his chest, she realized his heart was racing, as well. However, this situation couldn’t last. It was inappropriate at the very least, and Mr. Peavey probably needed medical attention. “Puh me dow, pease.”
“What?”
Loretta rolled her eyes and discovered that the gesture hurt. She spoke again and with care, “Pwease put me down.”
“Are you able to stand?” He sounded worried.
Loretta thought that was sweet. She was not, however, totally sure she knew the answer to his question. “I thick so.”
“We’ll try it carefully, then.”
And he rose from the steps, taking Loretta with him. The view from his arms was interesting. People seemed to be staring at them. She noticed that one of the sailors who had been tending to Mr. Peavey was now in the process of tying up the fallen villain with a rope. “Who is he?” she asked.
“Who is who?”
Loretta didn’t understand why the two of them failed to communicate whenever they met. “Tha’ man. Th’one who hih Mithter Peavey and me.”
“Damned if I know.” The captain called to his men. “Johnson! How’s Peavey doing?”
“Better, sir,” a tall young man with bushy brown hair said. “He’s a little shaken up.”
“Peavey’s always shaken up,” muttered Malachai.
“Thath noh nithe,” said Loretta.
“Huh.”
With more delicacy than Loretta had expected of him, Malachai set her on her feet. She wobbled for only a second, clinging like a barnacle to the captain’s hand, before her head stopped swimming and she was able to steady herself on her own.
“Where’s your friend’s clinic?” Malachai asked gruffly.
“Wha’ frien?”
“Dr. Abernathy. Who the devil do you think I mean? Where’s his office, for God’s sake?”
“Oh. Jathon. Ith on Thacramen’o and Gran’. I can drive uth . . . us.”
“In what?”
Pooh. Loretta had forgotten she wasn’t driving today. For health reasons. If her face didn’t hurt so badly, she’d have smiled in irony.
“I’ll hail a cab.”
And leaving Loretta suddenly to her own devices, Malachai strode off to do just that. Finding herself alone and momentarily bereft of cogent thought, Loretta glanced around, wondering what to do.
She didn’t wonder long. Being careful, since it would be totally humiliating to faint, Loretta walked slowly over to where Mr. Peavey sat on some nearby steps. He appeared confused, although Loretta couldn’t recall ever seeing the man when he didn’t look that way, so she didn’t put too much meaning on his appearance. She sat down next to him, using the stair railing as a balance since she felt a trifle unsteady.
“Are you all righ’, Mr. Peavey?” she asked gently.
He turned his head and gazed at her with blank, unfocused eyes. “It was the Moors done it,” he said.
Oh, dear. Loretta took his hand tenderly in hers and patted it with her other one. “Yeth, Mr. Peavey, it wath the Moors.”
He nodded, evidently satisfied that she’d understood him. “Spaniards never had no chance at all.”
Chapter Ten
When Malachai and his two men, Johnson and Tutwiler, had stepped into the tobacconist’s shop to buy a couple of cigars, he’d expected Peavey to follow them. He ought to have been paying closer attention or made sure either Johnson or Tutwiler had stuck with him. Derrick Peavey lived in his own world, and it bore little resemblance to the one occupied by the rest of the denizens on earth.
Therefore, after he’d made his purchase and realized Peavey had wandered off, he’d dashed outdoors. After a brief search, he’d seen a large bully of a man pounding on poor Peavey’s head. Malachai, while mad as hell, wasn’t surprised. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, ever since they’d docked at San Francisco, Derrick Peavey seemed to draw catastrophe unto himself.
Then, when Malachai had seen Loretta Linden charge out of the watching throng and attack the bully with her handbag, he shouldn’t have been surprised, but he had been. Although Malachai knew Loretta to be reckless and perhaps unhinged, he still hadn’t anticipated her tackling an obviously malicious giant with a handbag.
When the bully had backhanded her and she’d gone flying through the air to land on her luscious bottom on the pavement, he’d seen red. After that he didn’t remember anything until he was sitting on some stairs with Loretta in his lap, his heart pounding against his ribs like a storm at sea.
It had taken quite a while for him to calm down enough to behave rationally. That was unlike him. Malachai Quarles was, above anything else, a rational man. He had about as much truck with unreason as he did with ballet dancing. He couldn’t leave off holding Loretta, though, for what seemed like hours. It could only have been minutes—even seconds—when he came to his senses, and saw that the man who had attacked Peavey lay unconscious on the roadway.
Had he done that? He couldn’t r
emember, but he hoped to hell he had.
Then he called to the two men who were tending Peavey, “Johnson, Tutwiler, get that man bound and take him to the nearest police station.”
“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Johnson called back. And then, like everyone else under Malachai’s command, he and Tutwiler had done what their captain had asked them to do, without hesitation or question.
So far, the only person in his life who didn’t instantly obey any of his commands, was the woman on his lap. She drove him absolutely crazy.
As soon as he was sure she was able to stand on her own, he went to secure transportation for her. He aimed to make sure she was checked out by a competent physician, and Jason Abernathy was probably the closest one to him at that moment.
“Cab!” he shouted into the street, not really noticing if there were any cabs at hand.
A woman nearby screeched in alarm, and he shot her a furious scowl. She scurried away as if he were a scoundrel rather than the hero in the piece. He didn’t have time to brood on the irrationality of the average female human being, since three cabs screeched to a halt in front of him. He chose the nearest one and said, “Wait here.”
The cabbie said “Yessir,” in a frightened-sounding voice, and Malachai stomped back to Loretta.
He found her sitting next to Peavey, with Peavey’s hand in hers. He wanted to yank Peavey away from her, but knew he was reacting unreasonably. The damned woman had pushed him to the edge of total insanity.
“The cab’s at the curb,” he growled at the two. “Can you walk?”
“Of course,” said Loretta.
She would. Malachai frowned down at her, but she only gazed up at him, her eyes bright, her cheek swollen to twice its size, and with the mark of a man’s hand standing out in red against the white skin. She was going to be bruised black-and-blue before the day was out. Malachai fought an impulse to follow his sailors and the bully to the police station and strangle the bully with his bare hands.
Perfect Romance Page 13
