by Rue Allyn
As if by magic the blanket settled across her back and shoulders. She clutched the edges and drew them closed in front of her. Cool, dry fingers touched her chin and lifted gently upward. Edith found herself looking into the black-on-black eyes of the strangest female human being she had ever seen.
The woman was oddly beautiful, small and round with upward tilting black eyes and smiling generous lips in a heart-shaped face. Her skin was fine-grained, and she had a smooth, golden complexion. A long, black braid hung down her back, reaching past her knees.
“Tsung so sorry Missee hurt. Bring you food and water. You feel good-good soon.”
Amazement kept Edith silent. Her broken head kept her docile as the woman brought forward a basin and began to tend Edith’s injuries.
When the basin was removed and her head was re-bandaged, the woman brought a tray that held a covered bowl, a tall glass of orange juice, a napkin, and a spoon.
“Who are you?” Edith asked as she removed the cover from the bowl. A stench similar to soured laundry beat at her nostrils. She re-covered the bowl before her stomach could betray her disgust. “Where am I?”
“I Tsung, and you in Mista Dutch house.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No need beg pardon. Mista Dutch bring you. Is okay you be here.”
Edith shook her head, then wished she hadn’t. The oddly named Tsung obviously did not understand. “I need to get back to Madame Duval’s bordello. And,” she cast a glance at her blanket covered form, “I need my clothes.”
“Missee, you got all clothes you come with. Mista Dutch say Missee Duval bad. You no go there.”
“I don’t believe you understand. I must get to Madame Duval’s. Please take me there this instant.”
“Oh no,” said Tsung Tsang, backing away with tray in hand. “I not have Mista Dutch throw temper. You stay. I lock you in.” Tsung reached inside her voluminous blouse and drew out a long chain with a key dangling on its end.
“No. Don’t lock that door.” In her lifetime, Edith had been locked into too many rooms.
“You promise no go to Missee Duval.”
Edith considered her opponent. Tsung’s narrowed eyes and jutting chin dared defiance.
“I promise.” Edith swallowed. “But, please, I need something to wear. Can you go to Madame Duval’s and get my trunks?”
Tsung shook her head. “I stay here. Promise Mista Dutch I look after you.”
Edith frowned. “I don’t call letting me sit around with only a blanket to cover me looking after me very well, and so I shall tell Mista Dutch when I see him.”
Tsung’s golden skin paled. “You make Mista Dutch angry. He throw temper. Break Tsung head. Who look after you then?”
Edith didn’t much care if Mista Dutch threw the world’s worst tantrum. Frustration would serve him right. She fully intended to give him a healthy piece of her mind the moment she saw him. And the slap of her hand on his handsome, devious face. She’d probably leave the servant out of it, but Edith didn’t need to tell the woman that. Not as long as Mista Dutch and his temper could be used to get what Edith wanted most immediately — clothing that covered her. “I can, when necessary, take care of myself,” she said evenly. “Can you?”
Having backed all the way to the door, Tsung swallowed. “I get clothes. You wait.”
Before Edith could protest, Tsung disappeared through the door. The lock clicked, and Edith was alone. Alone with a throbbing head, a dress she wouldn’t wish on a prostitute, and no way to change her circumstances until a debaucher with a temper descended on her.
• • •
Dutch paused outside his front door. He dreaded going home at night. Not because he’d be alone, but because Tsung — the Chinese woman who less than four days ago had attached herself to him and insisted on taking care of him — was a terrible cook. The only consolation was that her cooking was better than his.
Tonight he had additional reasons for not wanting to cross his threshold. The judge remained in San Francisco but hadn’t shown up for their meeting. So Dutch didn’t know for certain if his younger brother was being coerced into working for the Chinaman or if Trey — for some unknown reason — had turned willingly to a life of crime. Was he really in danger, or was that simply the excuse the judge had cooked up to get his eldest son to cross Duval’s threshold? Somehow going home before he ensured his brother’s welfare and innocence felt like admitting defeat. Until Dutch got food and rest the most he could do was send Father Lucas Conroy a note asking for help locating and protecting Trey.
Then there was the problem of his unwanted guest. Father Conroy’s response to the plea for help reached Dutch at his business office and assured him of assistance looking for Trey, but the priest had also expressed concern about rumors that Dutch was keeping company with whores. The padre questioned Dutch’s dedication to the cause of cleaning up the Barbary Coast. He sent a reply assuring his friend and mentor that the rumors were false but hadn’t been able to reach Conroy to explain thoroughly. What explanation could he offer when his spare room housed a woman he’d taken from a whorehouse? Although that problem would be solved as soon as his business partner returned from visiting his in-laws. The woman Dutch rescued could go live with Smiley and his wife until more satisfactory arrangements were made.
Dutch opened his front door and paused. Strange scents assailed his nostrils. Pleasant scents. Odors redolent with spices and herbs. Oddly absent was the stench of charred meat.
He shut the front door and strode for the kitchen. Tsung met him at the swinging panel that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house.
“Mista Dutch. Good-good, you home. Go sit in dining room. You have dinner now.”
“But … ”
“No buts.” The diminutive housemaid pushed Dutch toward the dining room table. Despite his every protest, the woman had taken over his life until she could save his as she said he’d saved hers. “You eat. Talk later.”
Unwilling to physically threaten the loyal woman, Dutch sat at the table.
Tsung disappeared.
Dutch waited.
Hushed voices drifted from the kitchen, but he couldn’t discern the words.
He ran a hand through his hair and began to drum his fingers on the table top.
The voices grew louder.
“I will not.”
“Missee please. You all bony skin. You go eat with Mista Dutch. Tsung serve.”
Low muttering followed Tsung’s impassioned plea. Dutch had to wonder about the identity of the Missee was who was all bony skin? Mrs. Smithfeld — surely that wasn’t her real name — was slim, not skinny, but who else could it be?
The kitchen door swung open, and Tsung entered, carrying a platter of crisp, golden fried chicken, followed by the Missee, who carried bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans.
Dutch gaped. “What are you doing out of bed? And why are you wearing those? Don’t you have any decent clothes?”
He pointed at the high-necked blouse and baggy black trousers that exposed very shapely calves. The clothing had obviously been borrowed from Tsung. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he was tired and hadn’t expected to face the Smithfeld woman tonight.
With a sniff, she sat.
Tsung all but threw the platter onto the table, making Dutch start.
“Watch out, Tsung. You nearly scalded me with hot chicken.”
The tiny Oriental woman fisted one hand on her hip and shook the other fist at Dutch’s face. “You watch tongue, Mista Dutch. Missee wear Tsung clothes. Tsung clothes decent.”
Ashamed that he’d lashed out and keenly aware that the true target of his temper sat watching at the opposite end of the table, Dutch mumbled an apology.
“Good-good. Now eat. Ring bell when want desert.”
“Desert?”
“Chocolate cake,” Tsung announced with a knowing grin. “Missee bake.”
Dutch felt surprise jolt through him, again. He supposed he should be used to the feeling by now. From the moment he’d stepped over Duval’s threshold nothing had unfolded as expected. To keep from running to the kitchen for the treat, he gripped his knife and fork and began to cut through a chicken breast that needed little encouragement to fall off the bone.
He placed a forkful of chicken in his mouth and waited for hell to break loose on his taste buds. Paradise alighted instead. A groan of pleasure broke through his already weak restraint. When he finished chewing, he looked down the table at the woman seated there.
Well scrubbed and dressed in Tsung’s spare clothing, she didn’t look much like a whore. At least not the kind to be found at Cerise Duval’s high class bordello. Nor did she resemble the proper matron he’d encountered at the railway depot. No, today the woman before him looked more like a lost child. That caused him to feel no end of guilt and confusion, since his weary body had come to attention at the sight of her. As for his mind? That was an entirely different matter. He’d swear on a stack of Bibles that he wasn’t interested, except that she could bake chocolate cake. “You cooked this?”
“Tsung seemed to be having some trouble with the stove, so I lent a hand.”
Her modesty surprised him. It shouldn’t have. Whores weren’t usually so humble or truthful, and as he’d discovered the previous night, this woman was no whore. So what and who was she?
“Lending a hand is a considerate way of putting it.”
She gave him a wide-eyed stare.
“A little thoughtfulness goes a long way.” Then she bent to her meal.
Dutch watched her as they ate. He didn’t know what to say to a woman so full of contradictions. He was inclined to believe her claims of innocence, though he couldn’t explain why. She dressed like a whore and lived with a whore, but didn’t behave like a whore. She could cook, didn’t complain — though she must be confused and angry. She gave thought to the feelings and reputation of others, and dangit, she had good table manners.
“You got a name? I assume Mrs. Smithfeld is an alias.”
Her hand paused midway between her plate and her mouth as she lifted her head. “Edith.”
“That’s it? Edith? No family name?”
“That’s sufficient for your needs, Mr. Trahern. My name hardly matters, since I’ll be leaving as soon as possible.” She popped a bite of chicken into her mouth.
“Where do you plan on going? Back to Duval’s? I doubt you know anyone else in San Francisco or you’d never have been in that brothel in the first place. I’m sure she’d welcome you with open arms.”
“Where I go and what I do is none of your concern.”
“Hmmm.” He studied his plate then looked at her. She was wrong, but he’d save that argument for later. “Where are you from?”
“Not around here.” Another piece of chicken filled her mouth.
Obviously she didn’t want to talk or answer questions about herself. Dutch shrugged. He could understand. He had a few things he didn’t want to discuss with anyone. Rather than force the issue, he let it drop. They ate in silence.
When her plate was clean, she folded her napkin and placed it on the table. She lifted her water glass and sipped. He watched the delicate muscles of her neck and jaw work. She replaced the glass and cleared her throat. “I must insist that you restore me to Madame Duval’s bordello.”
“Huh?” He’d saved her from a lifetime of slaving beneath sweaty men, and she wanted to go back. “Are you out of your mind?”
She snapped her head and shoulders backward as if slapped, tucked her chin down, and glared at him. “One might better ask if you, sir, are out of yours. Everything I own remains at Madame Duval’s. Though you claim otherwise, Madame arranged for you to provide services to me for an extended period. Nothing in that arrangement called for me to leave the bordello. I was a stranger to you, and you abducted me. Since your actions could gain you nothing, I have every reason to doubt your sanity.”
“Doubt all you like, but I made no such arrangement. And I will not return you to that cathouse or any other.”
“I’ve no wish to go anywhere but Madame Duval’s. Since you do not have the courtesy to right the wrong you’ve done, I see no reason to remain.” She stood and walked to the door.
“I agree.”
She stopped with her hand on the latch.
He continued, “You most certainly should not remain here. This is a bachelor household and no place for a respectable woman.”
“So you admit that I am right.” She shifted to face him, folding her arms across her middle.
“I admit nothing of the kind.” He threw his napkin on the table and stood, speaking as he walked. “Cerise Duval is a devious, conniving, black-hearted witch who would sell her own mother for a plug nickel. Even a bachelor household is a better place than Duval’s crib, for innocents like you.” He stood toe to toe with her. “Hell, woman, she sold you to the highest bidder.”
No doubt intimidated by his size and closeness as much as his demeanor, she took a step backward. “And if there was any auction, which I doubt, you, sir, were that bidder, so you’ve no call to act superior. Or are you a hypocrite?”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “She tricked me into that.”
Edith’s lips twisted. “How like a man to blame a woman for trouble of his own making.”
He paced forward. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“If the shoe fits.”
• • •
Too stubborn to admit, even to herself, that she’d ignored her own internal warnings about Cerise Duval, Edith retreated. She lifted her head defiantly at the same time that she came up against the door. “Madame Duval and I had a business arrangement, while you have abused and abducted me without so much as a by-your-leave. Whom should I chose to be with — a wild-tempered kidnapper or a brothel madam who at least discussed options with me?”
“You little fool.” He reached for her, lifting her off her feet so they were eye to eye. “I’ve never laid a hand on you. So don’t try to accuse me of abuse. If anyone is guilty it’s Cerise Duval who has abused your trust, and I’ll prove it to you.”
She gave a startled squeak as he dropped her to her feet, turned, and shouted for Tsung.
With his back to her was the best time to escape. She lifted the latch on the dining room door and crept forward.
His hard hand on her shoulder jerked her backward. Before she could protest, he scooped her into his arms.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Tsung!” he shouted again.
The tiny woman came running. “Mista Dutch, what you do with Missee?”
“Get my horse,” Dutch ordered. “Before I’m done with you, Edith No Name, you’ll admit your mistake and apologize for calling me a liar.”
Temper had replaced his obvious weariness.
“You no hurt Missee.” Arms akimbo, Tsung glared at her employer.
“I no hurt Missee,” he growled. “Now get that horse, pronto.”
Edith squirmed, thrashed and beat on his shoulders trying to get him to release her.
“Stop!” he bellowed.
“Put me down,” she screeched back.
“No.”
“You blackguard.”
He smiled. “You just keep on calling me names. I’m not putting you down until you admit that I’m right, that Cerise Duval is about as honest as the sea is dry.”
“Never!” Yes, the assertion was unreasonable, but Edith didn’t care. For her Duval’s dishonesty was not at issue, rather the need to find Kiera was paramount. Grandfather would not live forever. It might already be too late.
“Never is a lot
closer to hand than you think, Sugar. But don’t worry. You’ll change your mind before never can come around. Now lift that latch and open the door. We’re going to pay Madame Duval a visit.”
Edith was so stunned by his statement that she lifted the latch without resisting. “A moment ago you wouldn’t go near the place. Are you finally seeing reason?”
“Not if reason means leaving you with that she-devil. I want to hear you tell me how wrong you are.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Perhaps.”
“You made all that up about the auction. No one gets tricked in to bidding.”
“You won’t be able to believe that for much longer.” He dumped her onto the horse just behind the pommel and mounted behind her in one swift motion. She started to slide down the opposite side of the animal, but Trahern’s arm caught her beneath her breasts, jerking her to a halt. “Oh no you don’t. Nobody calls me a liar, especially a fool too innocent to know a Madame and a whorehouse when she sees one.”
“I knew it was a whorehouse.” She beat on his arm. “Let go of me, you lout.”
“Not on your life, Miss No Name.” He hauled her onto his thighs and imprisoned her there with his arm.
Gathering the reins into one hand, he kneed the horse into motion.
Edith squirmed backward, trying to escape the steely heat of his arm. The motion only served to remind her that her bottom, clad in very thin Chinese pants, was intimately pressed against his hips.
“Stop that.”
She froze, hating that he must think she’d actually obeyed him. Let him. She shrugged and leaned into the security of his chest, bracing herself against that solid warmth. If he chose to think her obedient, too bad — she would disillusion him fast enough. She would take any risk to find Kiera and escape the fate dictated by that odious will and her grandfather’s domination. She wasn’t about to allow another man that kind of power over their lives even for a short while.
