Loretta hoped so. At this moment, she wasn’t sure a week’s worth of rest would be enough. She might have to take the full two weeks that Jason had prescribed. How embarrassing.
After disposing of Loretta’s shoes and stockings, Marjorie flapped a frilly white nightgown in the air and approached Loretta. “Do you want to remove your combinations first?”
Hmmm. Loretta wasn’t sure. She knew that Malachai would see her in a few minutes, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to do so when she had only a flimsy bit of white silk covering her body. Well, white silk and the bed clothes, but still . . .
On the other hand, if she intended to perpetrate a seduction on the captain, perhaps the fewer clothes she wore, the better. Malachai hadn’t seemed averse to kissing her, but one never knew. Perhaps the kiss had been an aberration. Perhaps she’d have better luck in seducing him if she flaunted herself.
A glance down at her various bruises and a peek in the mirror, where she observed the extent of her face’s realignment and recoloration, decided her. “‘ake off,” she said firmly.
“Very well.” Marjorie helped her out of her combinations and slipped the nightgown over her head. “Can ye get into bed, or do ye need help?”
Good question. Loretta eyed her bed. It was pretty tall. But there was a stool. But should she ask for Malachai’s help? He could lift her in her frilly white nightgown into bed with those strong arms of his, and he might be enticed.
Then again, he might not be enticed. That would be totally humiliating.
Slowly and carefully, Loretta walked to the bed. Marjorie rushed over and pulled out the footstool, and Loretta climbed up, steadying herself on the carved maple headboard. Marjorie had already pulled back the counterpane and the sheets, so Loretta didn’t have too much trouble making herself comfortable. Or as comfortable as possible, considering the circumstances. She didn’t approve of drug-taking, but she was looking forward to that laudanum.
“Do ye want your robe?” Marjorie asked. She stood beside the bed, Loretta’s clothes in her arms.
Frowning at the clothes, Loretta said, “You gonna high ‘ose?”
After puzzling over the question for a second or two before she comprehended it, Marjorie said, “Aye. Dr. Abernathy and Captain Quarles are right. You can’t be trusted to behave well, Loretta Linden. Just look at you!”
“Fooh.”
“I’m going to put these up.” Marjorie shook the armful of clothes at her. “And get you an ice pack. Dr. Abernathy said to keep your cheek iced for several more hours.”
“Aw wigh.” She might as well capitulate with grace, since she perceived no alternative. Wait until she was back in fighting shape, though. Her friends weren’t going to escape lightly.
“I’ll fetch Captain Quarles. He can watch you while I get the ice pack.”
Loretta wanted to say nobody needed to watch her, but knew that protest would be not merely impossible, but fruitless. Besides, even though she knew her face looked like a bloated blue trout at the moment, the rest of her body that showed was shapely and undamaged. If the captain was like people said most men were, he probably wouldn’t even care about her face.
Making sure Marjorie’s back was turned, she adjusted her bedclothes until they covered all of her except a gentle swell of bosom. She tugged the sheet a trifle lower to expose a teensy bit more cleavage. There. That was good.
The door opened and Marjorie stepped aside. “Come ben, Captain Quarles. I’ll just fetch an ice bag. Will ye watch her while I’m gone?”
“Gladly. I don’t want her left alone while she’s capable of flight.”
Flight? Through her swollen eyelids, Loretta eyed her secretary and the captain. Her spectacles were still in her handbag, but she could discern their exchange of confidential grins. Drat them both.
Marjorie vanished into the hall, and Malachai strode to her bedside. Looming over her, he frowned. “You’re a damned mess.”
So much for gently swelling bosoms. Loretta said, “Fooh.” If her cheek swelled up any more, she was afraid the skin on her face would crack. Then there were her eyes. She didn’t suppose even spectacles could help her see clearly if her eyes were swollen shut.
Although . . . it was possible that, after she recovered some, she might like to read. Peering up at Malachai as well as she could, she said, “Pease geh my han’bag.”
“What?” Malachai’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
She took a deep breath. “My han—handbag.”
“Your handbag? What the devil do you want your handbag for?”
The expression on his face told her as plainly as words that he expected her to grab her handbag and run away. Ha! If only he knew. It would be a long, long time before Loretta Linden would run again. Hobble, maybe, although even that was doubtful at the moment. Lifting her hand, she pointed at her right eye. “Speckles.”
“Speckles?” For a second or two, Malachai pondered this odd request, and then enlightenment struck. “Oh! Your eyeglasses!”
“Yeff. Gaffes.”
He shook his head. “I guess that’s all right. You can’t get very far in that silk thing.”
“Huh.”
This wasn’t working out quite as Loretta had hoped it would. It was just like Malachai Quarles to kiss her when she didn’t want him to and then ignore her when she was trying to be seductive. A most contrary fellow, the captain. He looked awfully out of place in Loretta’s pretty feminine bedroom. She’d decorated it in shades of green and rusty orange, and it was quite delicate.
“Delicate” wasn’t a word one would ever associate with Malachai. At the moment, he stood next to her vanity table, looking as if he could thump it with a fist and break it in two if he cared to. His hands were huge as they reached for the handbag Marjorie had laid there. “You want the whole bag or just the glasses?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Gaffes.”
Without hesitation, he unsnapped her handbag, and his gigantic brown hand tried to dip within. It wouldn’t fit. He muttered a soft, “Damn,” and upended the bag over the glass top of her vanity table. Loretta thanked her lucky stars she’d changed bags that morning, because the things that fell out made a most proper and tidy jumble. Handkerchief. Eyeglass case. Change purse. A pencil, two capped fountain pens, and a small notebook.
Malachai picked up the glasses case and marched to the bed with it. “Here.”
“Fank’oo.”
“You’re welcome.”
He stood at the head of her bed, frowning down at her, while she tucked the glasses case under the pillow next to her. Was he staring at her bosom? Or at her ugly, swollen face? After a few seconds of wondering, Loretta, whose lack of patience was legendary among her family and friends, said, “Wew? Wha’?”
When he spoke, his question surprised her. “Do you want a book?”
“Book?” She hadn’t even considered reading when she’d asked for her spectacles. She’d only thought about seeing him more clearly. Which, now that she thought about it, was silly, since she didn’t want him to see her in her eyeglasses. Which was also silly. What difference would a pair of eyeglasses make at this point? Ah, well, the human animal was incomprehensible sometimes, even when it was housed in the body of the ever-so-rational Loretta Linden. “Yeff, pease.”
“I’ll wait until Miss MacTavish gets back with your ice pack. Do you know which book you want?”
Hmm. Under ordinary circumstances, Loretta would probably mention an outlandish book title. Sister Carrie was always good, since it was widely considered to be a shocking book. But Loretta had already read that one. Besides, if she was going to be laid up here for several days, she’d really rather read something entertaining and leave her further social education for another day, when she was feeling stronger.
On the other hand, she didn’t want the captain to believe her to be a frivolous female. On the other other hand, she might be stuck with what he brought her, so she’d best choose one she’d be happy with. Loretta didn�
�t like the idea of having to trot down to her library to root around in the books. She didn’t like the idea of having to trot anywhere, actually. The mere thought of negotiating the stairs made her bruises throb.
She guessed she’d better ask for the two books she’d been meaning to read for a couple of months and that were downstairs, waiting for her on her library desk: A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs; and Riders of the Purple Sage, by Zane Grey. The only problem remaining, therefore, was how to pronounce the titles.
“Well?” said Malachai impatiently.
Loretta tried to glower at him. “I’m finking.”
“Fine.” Still looming, Malachai reached behind him, grabbed the tiny vanity chair, drew it close to the head of the bed, and sat. “Think away.” He waved one of those massive hands in a careless gesture.
Loretta held her breath, but the chair didn’t crumple under the captain’s weight. Deciding upon the course of least resistance, she said, “Burroughth book an’ Grey book. On wibrary tayboo.”
A slow grin spread over Malachai’s face. Loretta didn’t like that look. “Do you mean to tell me you want to read a book by Edgar Rice Burroughs and a book by Zane Grey?”
“Whazzamah wiff ‘at?”
“Not a single thing.”
Loretta nearly jumped out of her skin when a large, brown hand lifted from where it had been resting on Malachai’s lap and reached for her. She drew back a little, although she didn’t mean to. She was no coward, dash it!
When his finger smoothed her swollen cheek, she blinked, astonished.
“Poor Miss Linden.” His hand cupped her cheek. Loretta would have fallen over had she been standing. “You really should be more careful. I know you were trying to help Peavey, but that man was big. Rushing headlong isn’t always the best way to deal with problems.”
Curse the man. Not only was he right, but if he kept up being tender and solicitous, she might just start purring.
“You could have set up a screech, you know, and startled the fellow. Or even summoned a policeman. If my men and I hadn’t been nearby, the man would probably not merely have pounded you and Peavey into the pavement, but gotten away with it, as well.”
“Fooh.” His touch was making her mind wander. At the moment, it was wandering hand-in-hand with Malachai through a grassy field full of buttercups and daisies. And birds. And sheep grazing in the distance. And with a blue, blue sky decorated with puffy white clouds overhead.
“You’ll be better soon,” Malachai said, scattering her thoughts. “You’re young. You’ll heal fast.” His gaze drifted from her face to her gently swelling bosom and, while Loretta felt vindicated, she also wished she hadn’t been quite so generous in exposing it. “I hate to see you like this, all bruised up.”
She badly wanted him to kiss her. It would hurt, but she still wanted it. His next question drove thoughts of a kiss out of her mind.
“How old are you, Miss Linden?”
She jerked, startled, sending her bruised muscles into a spasm. “Wha?”
His smile was still tender. Loretta couldn’t reconcile his smile with that question. “It’s not polite, I know, but I’m curious,” explained Malachai. “I’ll tell you how old I am if you tell me how old you are.”
Childish nonsense, Loretta fumed silently. Age was only a number. Loretta Linden didn’t give a hang if everyone in San Francisco considered her an over-the-hill rabble-rouser. She’d even heard some people say that she roused rabble because she was getting old and was trying to make up for the lack of masculine attention in her life, which was utter foolishness. She didn’t consider herself too old for anything. She didn’t think a woman was a failure if she wasn’t married by the time she reached her age. Anyhow, it was ridiculous to be ashamed of one’s age.
Who was she trying to fool? Herself, no doubt. Loretta didn’t hold with that, either, curse it. Unwilling, but following her principles, she muttered, “Twenny-aigh.”
“Twenty-eight?”
Did he appear disappointed? Loretta, furrowing her brow for all she was worth, tried to focus more clearly on Malachai’s face. It was no use. Her poor eyelids were too swollen.
“Wew?” she demanded.
“Well what?” he asked mildly.
“Wew, izzat too ode for you?”
“Too old? For me?” Malachai was clearly taken aback. “You’re a child, Loretta Linden. A mere child.”
Her nose wrinkled as she tried to reconcile his words with her own beliefs. A child? A twenty-eight-year-old, unmarried, unwanted-by-a-man feminist female agitator? “Huh.” It was probably a good thing she couldn’t speak clearly, since she didn’t know what to say.
She did, however, want to know how old he was. If he considered a twenty-eight-year-old spinster a child, he must be older than Loretta had guessed.
Actually, she hadn’t guessed. She’d only judged him to be the right age for her.
Whatever was she thinking? She didn’t mean that. Or . . . well, she did mean it, but not exactly in the way she’d thought it.
Bother. There she went again, trying to deceive herself. Frustrated, both with herself and with Malachai for not instantly keeping his bargain, he said, “Wew? How ode are you?”
His hand, which had by this time strayed to her neck and was fiddling with a stay lock of her hair, was sending her innards into a frenzy. If he didn’t stop that, she might just have to take action, although precisely which action was unclear to her at the moment. Everything was unclear to her, actually, and she knew her state of confusion was only dimly related to her battered body. It was Malachai Quarles and his massive presence who was the problem here, curse it. Well, and her own treacherous body. Curse it, too.
“I’m thirty-nine. More than ten years your senior, my dear.”
I’m not your dear, thought Loretta, although she wasn’t sure she meant it. Or, rather, she did mean it, but wished it weren’t so and that she really was his dear. Which was absolutely pathetic. Loretta was ashamed of her weakness.
Thirty-nine sounded like a rather nice age to her, too, which was unfortunate, because it was her emotions judging and not her intellect. Her intellect knew that age was not important. Her emotions told her that Malachai Quarles was old enough to be a gallant protector and lover. Loretta Linden had lived her life since her sixteenth birthday on the premise that a woman needed neither gallantry nor protection. Love was something else entirely, but she was too weak to contemplate it at the moment.
Fiddlesticks. The man drove her absolutely loony. When she recovered, she’d be able to engage her intellect more fully. Right now, her emotions were basking in his touch, drat them.
Malachai’s sigh blended with hers. “Too old for a lovely young lady like you.”
Loretta only realized that she had closed her eyes when they popped open. Perhaps popped was too lively a word to describe the slits that appeared between her swollen lids. “Too ode?” What was the man talking about?
He seemed to summon his thoughts back from wherever they’d wandered. “What? Oh, I . . . never mind.” His hand left off petting her and returned to his lap. Loretta was terribly disappointed. “Why in God’s name are we talking about age?” He asked the question sharply, as if it had been Loretta who’d brought up the age issue. “Damned fool thing to talk about. I don’t know why women are always so worried about their damned ages.”
Indignant, Loretta said, “Fooh!”
Chapter Twelve
Malachai decided to walk to the Fairfield from Loretta’s house. He needed to get there quickly and see to Peavey, but he also had to calm himself. After seeing Loretta in her big, lonely bed, he was too wrought up to deal with anything at all, much less poor addled Peavey.
What the devil was the matter with him? He’d seen women before. Lots of them. He’d never been tempted to crawl in bed beside one of them and hold her and comfort her and tell her everything was going to be all right and that he’d take care of her and she didn’t have to worry about anything, eve
r, again in her life.
But Loretta was such an annoyingly independent female. And she was usually so lively and vivacious as she interfered with other people and lectured him about the evils of the world. And she’d looked so pathetic in that big bed, all by herself, and so bruised and battered. When he’d looked down on her, something in his chest region had ached severely for several seconds and then snapped. Obviously, whatever it was had affected his brain.
“Damned fool,” he muttered at himself as he clattered down the twisty brick steps lining Lombard Street. A young Chinese man skipped out of his way with a frightened gasp. Malachai glared at him, wondering what his problem was.
When he reached the bottom of the hill and wheeled to his right onto Leavenworth, a plump matron carrying a frivolous parasol squealed like a piglet and jumped right into the street. Malachai reached out, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her back up onto the sidewalk before she could be hit by an automobile, wondering what had possessed her.
Loretta’s poor face. Lord, he hoped she’d be all right. And her lovely bosom. He wished like thunder he hadn’t been allowed to view her bosom. Obviously, she was in worse shape than even he’d imagined, or she’d never have exposed so much of her succulent flesh.
Why had he stayed in her room so long? Stupid question. He’s stayed because he couldn’t make himself leave.
“Idiot,” he snarled. A newspaper boy who had been set to offer him a Chronicle, darted into a doorway and covered his head until Malachai passed. Malachai squinted at the boy, and thought it was a damned shame that so shy a child should be forced to hawk newspapers on street corners.
When he reached the Fairfield, he stomped into the lobby and up to the desk and demanded his key. The desk clerk, turning pale, stuttered out a “Y-yes, sir,” fumbled with the keys on the rack behind him, dropped Malachai’s room key twice, and slammed it onto the counter as if he couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. It didn’t seem right that so clumsy a fellow should be in charge of so fancy a hotel’s guest keys.
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