Perfect Romance

by Duncan, Alice

  “Fine,” she said, feeling disgruntled as she noticed a good six inches of the pea-coat’s sleeves flapping in the breeze after her hands ended. She had to raise her arm and shake one sleeve down before her fingers appeared and she could try to roll the other sleeve up. The fabric was thick wool, however, and didn’t want to roll. “Curse it,” she muttered, and resigned herself to flapping sleeves.

  “Fine?” Malachai stopped in the process of putting on his own coat and stared at her, incredulous. “You mean you agree with me?”

  She gave him a withering frown. “Of course, I don’t agree with you. However, if you don’t want to go to the police, that’s fine with me. I’ll go myself. I’m the one who discovered Mr. Jones, after all. I should be the one to take the credit.”

  “Credit? What credit?” He reached out, grabbed one of her sleeves and rolled it up as if the fabric were as sheer as linen and not as thick as a log. Loretta watched him do it and felt inadequate.

  “I didn’t mean credit, exactly. What I meant was that since I’m the one who discovered Mr. Tillinghurst to be a kidnapper and thief, I’m the one who should report it.”

  Taking her by the hand and exiting the room, making her trot to keep up with him, Malachai muttered, “You see? That’s just what I mean. You’re assuming that since you found somebody who calls himself Jones at Tillinghurst’s place, you’ve solved the entire problem of the missing artifacts. But you don’t know that, and I don’t know that. You didn’t actually see anything at all, much less Jones or any artifacts. If you send the police out to Tillinghurst’s place and they discover there’s a reasonable explanation for somebody named Jones being there and don’t discover the missing treasure, you’re going to feel like a fool. And a good thing, too.”

  “That’s not fair! What was Mr. Jones doing there, being held captive, if he hadn’t been kidnapped? He said that’s what happened. So did Mr. Peavey.”

  Malachai grunted. “That’s what you think happened. For all you know, Jones is there because he wants to be, and you must have figured out by this time that nothing Peavey says can be taken at face value.”

  Curse it. Loretta hated it when people got sensible on her. After trying to think about it—the captain was setting a very rapid pace, and most of her concentration was centered on keeping her feet pumping as Malachai sped her across the lobby carpet—she said, “Well . . . I suppose you may have a point, although I know I’m right.”

  “Huh.”

  A sleepy-looking doorman in a natty uniform saw them coming and, without acknowledging the state of Loretta’s person by so much as a raised eyebrow, he opened the door. The damp, heavy fog of November smote her in the face as soon as she stepped out of the hotel. The air smelled of damp and salt and creosote.

  There was something eerie about this time of day, Loretta thought. She’d only been awake at three or four o’clock in the morning a few times in her life, but those few times had struck her as spooky. This time did, too. She scurried a trifle closer to Malachai’s comforting bulk.

  Fog swirled around their feet, and street lamps shone through it in weird smudges of dirty yellow, providing very little actual light. She heard footsteps heading their way and her heart sped up, her imagination instantly featuring armed thugs bent upon mayhem.

  A policeman, swinging his nightstick, gradually appeared from out of the fog. He nodded and smiled at them, and Loretta silently called herself a fool. And there was the cab looming in the mist and looking like something from out of a Gothic romance. It was a horse-drawn number for a change. Most of the daytime cabs were motorized these days, she supposed because during the day people were in a hurry to take care of their business, whatever it was. She guessed all the old cart horses had been relegated to night-time service.

  Malachai nodded at the policeman, gave Loretta’s address to the cabbie, and opened the cab door. Reaching inside, he flipped down the stairs for Loretta to climb. “I’ll ride with you and see you safely home.”

  She was about to say she didn’t need an escort when a brilliant thought occurred to her, and she swallowed her protest. It wouldn’t have done her any good to voice it anyway. As she slid onto the seat she cried, “I have it!”

  Climbing in after her, Malachai sat with a grunt and said, “You have what?”

  It didn’t sound to Loretta as if he gave a hang, but she answered him anyway. “I know what we should do.”

  “About what?”

  She saw his eyes watching her keenly, and realized he was thinking about the supposed wedding problem. Since she didn’t want to argue with him anymore about that, she hurried to explain. “About Mr. Tillinghurst and Mr. Jones and Mr. Peavey.”

  After expelling an exaggerated sigh, Malachai said, “All right, go on. I suppose you’re going to tell me even if I don’t want you to.”

  “Indeed, I am,” said Loretta, offended. “I thought you cared about your men, Malachai Quarles.”

  “I do.” She saw him cast an obviously patient glance at the tattered ceiling of the cab, and ire swelled within her.

  “All right, then. Since you don’t believe me, we’ll just take Mr. Peavey out to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate and let him tell us if that’s the place.”

  “Huh. And how do you propose to get this scheme to fulfillment. Ask Tillinghurst if we can bring a crazy man into his home to prove that he’s a thief?”

  “Of course not! But you’ve been taking Mr. Peavey all over San Francisco. Why not take him out of town to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate? He might recognize something.”

  “We’re talking about Peavey here, remember.” Malachai tapped his forehead with a gloved finger.

  “He’s not that bad off.”

  “Yes, he is. I doubt that he’d recognize his so-called castle even if he suddenly turned clear-headed. He’s been bashed around a lot lately, remember.”

  Loretta fingered her cheek, where traces of her own injury remained. “Well, it’s worth a try.”

  “Maybe.”

  Feeling defiant, Loretta added, “And if you won’t agree at least to test my theory, I’ll have no choice but to go to the police and let them sort things out.”

  “For God’s . . . All right. If it will shut you up and keep you from making a damned fool of yourself, we can take Peavey to Tillinghurst’s place.”

  “Good.” A huge yawn caught Loretta by surprise.

  “You need to get some sleep. You’ve had a busy night, and you haven’t fully recovered from your injuries yet.”

  Was that worry in Malachai’s voice? Loretta couldn’t credit her ears.

  “Only you would do such a damn-fool thing as climb over somebody’s iron gate in the middle of the night and search for stolen treasure on private property. It’s a damned good thing you didn’t get mauled by those dogs.”

  Any hint of pleasure at the notion that he might care about her vanished like smoke. “At least I did something! That’s more than you’ve done so far. And I, don’t forget, found Mr. Jones.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “You’re impossible, Malachai Quarles, did you know that?”

  He snorted. “I guess that means we’re well matched, then, since you’re the most impossible female it’s ever been my misfortune to meet up with.”

  Deciding silence would be her best friend at the moment, Loretta opted to keep mute. His words—about them being well matched, not the ones about her presumed impossibility—had thrilled her, though.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Malachai sprawled on one of Loretta’s back-porch chairs and eyed her fading autumn garden with an eye to the future. He really liked her house. And this garden, even in its present condition as winter loomed, touched something in his soul that he’d thought dead long since.

  But it hadn’t died during those hard years, it had only been hibernating. It was ready to crawl out of its cave and perk to life here, right here. In Loretta Linden’s garden. Since he didn’t have anything else to do, he puzzled over this phenomenon f
or several moments.

  It was a little early in the day to come calling, since Malachai knew for a fact that Loretta hadn’t gotten to bed until after four in the morning, but since he’d been too keyed up to sleep, he figured he might as well tackle the stubborn woman again about marrying him. Maybe lack of sleep would have lowered her resistance, and she’d agree that marriage was their only option now that they’d done the deed.

  And if they could get hitched today, so much the better. He wouldn’t have to worry about it any longer. Not that he was worried, precisely.

  Oh, hell, who was he trying to fool? He was, so, worried. If Loretta continued to refuse him, he really didn’t know what he was going to do. He should celebrate. That’s what any sane man would do, but Malachai guessed he was no longer sane. His association with Loretta had addled his wits, and he also feared that if she couldn’t be made to marry him, he might just . . . well . . . suffer. A lot.

  Revolting thought.

  Fancy her refusing to marry him! He scowled at the rose garden, still abloom here and there. That fellow who’d designed it, Fitz-somebody, had done a great job with it. Malachai liked the hedges lining the paths and the trellises, and the way he’d had wood chips put down on the walkways. It was real pretty. Homey. It’s exactly how he’d have done it himself, if he’d ever had a garden. He wanted one badly. This one, in fact, although it was beginning to look as if he might have to plant his own somewhere else. Damn Loretta Linden!

  Women had no business with principles. And to have found one who had principles and actually acted upon them was so unusual in his life that he couldn’t quite believe it. He guessed he liked her for it, in a way, but to refuse marriage after giving up her virginity wasn’t principled. It was nuts. It was also causing him grief, and he didn’t appreciate it one little bit.

  The back door opened, and Loretta, looking like a spring bloom on this gloomy November day, bounced out onto the porch, smiling gaily. Malachai frowned at her, thinking she had no right to be so damned happy.

  She was dressed in yellow today, and her dark brown hair gleamed where the few rays of sunshine that managed to struggle through the clouds and fog touched it. She’d washed her hair, obviously. Malachai wished he could have been there and brushed it out for her.

  Great God in a gun boat, he really had lost his mind!

  “Malachai!” she cried, holding out both hands to him. “How nice of you to call.”

  He took her hands and peered down at her, puzzled. “What the devil’s the matter with you?”

  Her smile vanished. “What do you mean?” She bypassed confusion and went straight to rancor. “Why must you always be so cursed unpleasant, Malachai Quarles? I thought we’d advanced slightly in our relationship.”

  “At least you admit we have a relationship,” Malachai said bitterly.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course we have a relationship!”

  A daffodil. That’s what she looked like. “Nice dress,” he said somewhat stiffly. He wasn’t accustomed to paying women compliments. Realizing he still held her hands, he squeezed them briefly and released them.

  Loretta, shaking out her hands—he hadn’t squeezed them that hard, damn it—said, “Thank you. I like yellow. It’s a cheerful color.” She flounced over to a chair and sat, then looked around her yard as if searching for something. “Where’s Mr. Peavey?”

  Malachai’s brow furrowed. “Peavey? How the hell should I know where he is? At the hotel, I expect.”

  Her eyes were as clear and bright as if she hadn’t been up all night. Malachai thought that if she had any modesty at all, she ought at least to look sleepy. Or blush, for God’s sake. After all, he was the instrument of her ruin. Fool woman. Had no more common sense than a seahorse.

  Those sparkling eyes narrowed now. “I thought we were going to take Mr. Peavey to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate?”

  Oh, hell, he’d forgotten all about that idiotic plan. “Yes, yes,” he said, unwilling to admit his forgetfulness, since Loretta would certainly object. “We’ll do that.”

  “We ought to do it today. There’s no telling what Mr. Tillinghurst might do after last night’s commotion with the dogs. I don’t think he’ll chalk it up to chance.”

  Malachai let out a heavy sigh. “No, he probably won’t. You really fouled everything up, didn’t you?”

  She bridled instantly, and Malachai scolded himself for maladroitness. He was so accustomed to dealing with his sailors, who knew him to be a plain-spoken man and never expected him to coddle them that he’d got out of the habit of placating anyone. Loretta, however, was a special case, and even more prickly than most women.

  Hell, he thought with an internal grin. He never had trouble with most women, because they were stupid and didn’t expect a man to actually talk to them. It was enough for most women if a man was strong and silent. Not Loretta.

  “I did not foul anything up! I discovered your missing sailor, let me remind you, and probably the stolen artifacts, too. That’s not fouling things up!”

  He held his hands up, palms out. “All right, all right. I take it back. You didn’t foul things up. But we have more important things to talk about today. The artifacts will hold. They’ve been around for a thousand years, and I expect they’ll stay around for another thousand.”

  She jumped up from her chair, her fists clenched. “They might remain on this earth, curse you, Malachai Quarles, but where? If you think Mr. Tillinghurst is going to oblige us by keeping everything there after the commotion last night, you’re crazed.”

  “Calm down, will you?” Damn the woman. She could go off on tangents better and quicker than anyone else he knew, including Derrick Peavey. “We can pick Peavey up at the hotel and go to Tillinghurst’s place, but first we need to clear up the marriage issue.”

  She sat down again with a plop and looked at him as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. She would. Malachai perceived that he wasn’t going to win this one without a battle. But, since marrying Loretta Linden had become the most important issue in his life, surpassing even the stolen artifacts and the kidnapped Mr. Percival Jones, he was willing if not eager to wage it. He didn’t intend to be defeated, either.

  “There is no marriage issue,” Loretta stated flatly.

  Before Malachai could once more, and with exaggerated patience, explain to her that there was, too, a marriage issue, and that he didn’t intend for it to go away until she bowed to his wishes in the matter, the back door opened. A flushed Marjorie MacTavish and a grinning Jason Abernathy came out onto the porch. Reluctantly, Malachai rose to his feet. Damn it, he hated being interrupted during important arguments.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Quarles,” Jason boomed in his heartiest voice. “How-do, Loretta?”

  “Oh, Jason, how good of you to visit today. We may need you.”

  “Oh?” The doctor’s bushy eyebrows arched over his twinkling blue eyes.

  “I dinna know why,” muttered Marjorie. “He’sna good for naught.”

  “Pooh, Miss MacTavish,” said Jason with a chuckle, and Malachai perceived that the two had been having words. According to Loretta, having words was a normal state of affairs for them.

  Suddenly, Malachai decided to put this interruption to good use. “Good to see you again, Doctor,” he said, shaking Jason’s hand with vigor. “I think Loretta may be right. We probably can use you.”

  “Good, good.” Rubbing his hands, Jason sat between Loretta and Malachai after shoving Marjorie into another chair. She shot him a furious scowl that affected him not. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can accompany us to Mr. Tillinghurst’s estate,” said Loretta.

  “You can stand as a witness to our nuptials,” said Malachai at the same time.

  “Nuptials?” cried Marjorie, having zeroed in on the item that was of interest to females. Most females. Not Loretta.

  “Tillinghurst?” said Jason, clearly puzzled.

  Anticipating Loretta’s angry frown, Malachai met it wi
th a grin. “You know it’s true,” he said.

  “Pooh,” she said.

  “Did you say something about nuptials?” Memory jogged, Jason’s furry eyebrows soared like two rainbows over his blue, blue eyes.

  “Yes,” said Malachai.

  “No,” said Loretta.

  Marjorie, clasping her hands to her bosom, whispered, “Och, my,” and looked as if she might be experiencing an ecstatic vision.

  Not Loretta. Giving her friends—and Malachai—a general, all-purpose glower, she jumped out of her chair, stamped her foot and said, “I will not marry you, Malachai Quarles! I don’t care if we are lovers, I won’t do it.”

  Marjorie’s gasp of horror brought Loretta’s diatribe to an abrupt end. Loretta hurried to her secretary’s side, clasped her hand, and said, “It’s nothing, Marjorie. Don’t fret yourself. You know my feelings on the subject of free love.”

  Marjorie, her green eyes starting out of a face that had gone white as chalk, stammered, “But—but I didna think you meant it.”

  Feeling moderately vindicated—it was good to know a woman didn’t trust her sex to act upon its convictions any more than he did, not that it had any convictions for the most part—said, “She doesn’t.”

  Turning on him in a flash, Loretta shouted, “I do, too!”

  “Oh, brother.” Malachai would have liked to throttle the woman. Again.

  “You mean . . .” Jason, frowning, looked from Loretta to Malachai. “Now see here, Captain Quarles, I know that Loretta is a handful—”

  “I am not!” Loretta slapped Jason’s arm, something she often did in fun. Malachai sensed there was no fun in her at the moment.

  Jason ignored her. “I know she’s a little—oh, very well, more than a little-difficult sometimes, but see here, man, if you think you can come in here and—”

  Malachai held up a hand to stop the good doctor’s protest. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I was a cad. But I’m attempting to rectify the situation now. She claims she won’t marry me.”