Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  For one moment, Francesca glanced wildly past Mary for Bill. But her brother was not present. Mary laughed with real delight. She was a thin, dark-haired woman. Malice danced in her eyes. “He’s not here. It’s just you and me—you bitch.” And Mary pointed a tiny derringer at her heart.

  Francesca did not move, shocked.

  “Have I stunned you into speechlessness?” Mary laughed again.

  Francesca recovered. She considered a way to escape. There were customers moving about the fountain and the store’s various aisles, but if she screamed, she had no doubt that Mary would shoot her in the heart. Mary’s wide grin spoke volumes, as did the fervor in her eyes. Somehow, when she spoke, she kept her tone calm. “Mary, I would like to talk to you. But you must put the gun away. We will attract attention.”

  Mary was mocking. “I may be mad, but I am very, very clever, Francesca. I am not putting the gun away. We will certainly attract attention when I kill you, you lying, scheming, immoral bitch. You know I am capable of it.”

  Francesca knew that she must not discuss their past. Mary had been put behind bars because of Francesca’s success in solving Paul Randall’s murder. Fighting for calm, she said, “How on earth did you know to reach me with such a ruse?”

  “I have learned to be adept at bribery, Francesca. How do you think I got out of Bellevue? You have destroyed my family, but Bill still has means—and he would never leave me to rot in an asylum!”

  “He loves you very much,” she said. Her heart was hammering with terrific force. Perspiration trickled from her temple, but she did not attempt to wipe it away.

  “Oh, stop patronizing me! You have been pursuing Bill. Apparently you have also been after Solange Marceaux. We can sleuth just as you do, Francesca.” Her eyes held a brilliant, fanatical light. She added softly, with a grin, “I think you have met your match.”

  Francesca wet her lips. “I have just seen your brother. He is very angry, and I don’t blame him. But more violence doesn’t solve anything. I am very sorry about your mother, but you do know she will be released in the fall?”

  “Shut up!” Mary jammed the gun into her breast and Francesca heard the trigger click. Her heart stopped—but no shot sounded.

  Francesca thought she might faint. Sweat poured down her body.

  “It’s called Russian roulette, Francesca. Even I don’t know which chamber my bullet is in.” She laughed. “You should see your face!”

  She was dizzy and ready to faint. Mary only had one bullet, but was it in the next chamber? It was clear she didn’t care if she killed Francesca. “Mary! The police will be here at any moment. Put the gun away!”

  “I don’t believe you—and if they show up, so what? I will simply pull the trigger—and pull the trigger—and pull the trigger—until you are dead.” She spat.

  The spittle struck on Francesca’s cheek, but she didn’t dare wipe it. She clutched the penknife more tightly, yet how could she go up against this madwoman, who had a pistol pressed into her heart? “Why do you hate me so?” she cried unthinkingly.

  “Because of you, I have no family! And you love that bastard who destroyed my mother! The two of you deserve one another.”

  She knew that pleading with an insane woman was a lost cause. But she said, “Hart is your brother. Nothing that has happened is his fault!”

  “Hart is a bastard!” Mary screamed, flushing red.

  A movement caught her eye and her gaze went from Mary’s rabid grin to Hart’s fierce expression.

  Hart had come! Her relief was consuming, but it vanished as instantly as it had come. He stood several feet behind Mary, near some potted palms. He had obviously seen Mary pull the trigger—he was as white as a ghost. She felt certain he had also overheard them. He shook his head immediately at her. His warning was clear—engaging Mary was a mistake. She could not be reasoned with.

  Francesca looked back at Mary, so she would not comprehend what was happening, but not before she thought she saw Hart produce his own gun.

  If Hart shot Mary from behind, Mary would shoot her, because Francesca felt certain her finger was on the trigger, unless his aim was perfect, killing her instantly. She doubted he was such a marksman—he had never mentioned being adept as a sniper. “Why don’t you take your finger off the trigger, Mary?” Francesca asked loudly. It was so hard to breathe.

  She didn’t dare look Hart’s way again. She prayed he had heard her.

  “Because I want to watch you at my feet, bleeding to death and begging for mercy!” Mary’s eyes bulged. “You have destroyed my entire life! Because of you, I am locked up and called insane! You are the insane one, Francesca, to pose naked for a painting, for the entire world to see!”

  Mary knew about the nude portrait. In that moment, she didn’t care. She only wanted to get away from the barrel of Mary’s gun, which continued to press into her breast. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said desperately. “Your father was dead. I wanted to help!”

  “You wanted to help Hart!” Mary accused.

  Mary was right. Francesca just stood there, sweating and panting.

  Then Mary smiled slyly. “I must admit, you are a very beautiful woman, Francesca.”

  Francesca licked her lips. Mary had seen the portrait. She and Bill had to be the thieves. “Where is the portrait?”

  “As if I’d tell you!” she crowed.

  “You locked me in the gallery, Mary, didn’t you? You and your brother lured me there on my wedding day.”

  “Oh, poor Francesca, she missed her wedding!” Mary laughed. Then she jammed the gun deeper into Francesca’s bosom. “Let’s go. If I have to, I’ll kill you here, but I prefer to do so in an alley. I don’t like Bellevue, Francesca. I am not going back. I’d rather die.”

  “If you murder me, you will never be free again,” Francesca tried desperately.

  “But you will be dead and I will be overjoyed. And I am not going back to jail. Let’s go. Turn around, bitch. And if you scream, I will shoot you.”

  Francesca looked into her wild eyes and knew there was no reasoning with her. As she turned, Mary kept the gun pressed against the side of her breast. How was she going to get away?

  She glimpsed Bragg on the fountain’s other side, crouched down by a counter, a gun in his hand. He nodded his head once, hard.

  He wanted her to leave the emporium, or at least move for ward.

  Did he have officers outside? Or did he intend to take a shot at Mary once he had a better angle?

  She wanted to glance backward over her shoulder at Hart to see what he wanted her to do, but she didn’t dare.

  “Move!” Mary screamed.

  Francesca’s heart lurched with dread as several women with shopping bags turned to glance at them. A pair of shopgirls was passing by, as well. One turned to look at them. “Are you all right, miss?” the dark-haired girl asked with concern.

  “Mind your own business,” Mary spat. “Move, Francesca, now!”

  Francesca saw the dark-haired girl pale; she thought she had seen the gun. “I am fine,” she tried.

  Both shopgirls ran away from the fountain, and Francesca heard one scream, “She has a gun! The lady has a gun!”

  And suddenly, she heard a gunshot from her right. Women ran past the fountain and through the aisles, some screaming. Shopping bags went flying. Instantly Francesca realized that Bragg had fired his gun to create pandemonium. Mary hesitated, her eyes wide with surprise. Francesca saw Hart standing ten or twelve feet behind them. He was aiming his revolver at the back of Mary’s head.

  His expression was twisted, and she knew why. If he missed Mary, he could hit her.

  It was time to do something. Francesca still held the penknife in her right hand. She clicked it open and jammed it upward into Mary’s ribs, then tried to twist away from Mary and the gun she was holding.

  Mary’s eyes widened as she was stabbed and she cried out, “Bitch!”

  Two shots sounded. Francesca felt the impact and she stumbled, go
ing to her knees. The burning pain was along the side of her shoulder. Mary gasped and her gun clattered to the floor. She took off at a run.

  Francesca tried to hold herself up on her hands and knees, but it was too painful and she fell onto the floor.

  “Francesca!”

  Hart steadied her, pulling her against his chest. She cried out, his touch on her right arm causing so much pain. “You will be all right,” he said roughly.

  She somehow opened her eyes to look up at him, wanting to smile and tell him she was fine. But his image was hazy, swimming oddly, and she couldn’t seem to smile at all. “Mary?”

  Bragg appeared in her distorted line of vision. His expression was incredibly concerned as he ripped her sleeve open. She fought not to weep. “It’s a graze, Francesca.” To Hart, he said, “Put pressure on it. I’m going after Mary.” He leaped up and ran off.

  The burning was unbearable. She wanted to whimper; she refused. Somehow, she looked up at Hart.

  “I shot you,” he said, his eyes stark.

  But Bragg had said it was a graze. She thought she told him that. She wanted to reassure him. But he was spinning now, far more rapidly than before, and she knew she was about to faint. She tried to tell him, but there was only darkness.

  “YOU WILL HARDLY realize you have a wound in a couple of days.” Rourke Bragg smiled cheerfully at her.

  Francesca lay on the sofa in Hart’s most intimate salon, a lavish red-and-gold affair that his extended family tended to gather in. She had been propped up with pillows, and he’d given her a scotch the moment they’d arrived at his home. There was little pain now—just a dull throbbing. She smiled at Rourke, who had cleaned, disinfected and bandaged the wound. As Bragg had said, it was a mere graze. But it was Hart who consumed her attention.

  He stood behind Rourke, having shed both his jacket and vest, his sleeves rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His tie was gone. He held an untouched drink, and she thought it his second. He looked very grim. When she had first glanced at him upon awakening from her faint in Siegel-Cooper, his expression had been ravaged with worry and concern. There was one obvious conclusion to draw—he had been terrified for her.

  He loved her still.

  Francesca smiled at him.

  He did not smile back. He said to Rourke, “Thank God you were home.”

  Hart had taken her into his arms the moment she had awoken and carried her to his coach outside. He hadn’t asked her where she wished to go; he had directed Raoul to his mansion, using his tie to bandage her bleeding wound. She understood. If Rourke were home, she would be treated far more swiftly than if they went to a public emergency room at a nearby hospital. But what truly pleased her was that he hadn’t considered sending her to her home, not for an instant.

  Rourke snapped closed his satchel and stood. “Francesca would have been fine even if you had treated the wound yourself. Now, would you mind telling me what happened?”

  Before she could open her mouth, Hart said, “As always, Francesca rushed off to save the world by herself without a thought of the danger.”

  He was angry with her. She hid a smile and wriggled her toes. “My feet hurt,” she said. “Would you?” She gave Hart a sweet look.

  A cashmere throw was over the lower half of her body. Hart set his drink down somewhat forcefully, and took a single stride to her side. He removed each of her shoes as if it were a huge task, his face very, very grim.

  He still loves me, she thought happily. She realized Rourke was staring and she smiled at him.

  He smiled back. “Feeling better?”

  “It must be the whiskey.”

  “It must be.” He winked at her.

  “I can’t imagine what you both find so amusing.” Hart was cold. “I arrived at an emporium to find Francesca with a gun to her chest and my damn half sister about to kill her.”

  Rourke’s good humor vanished. “I thought Mary Randall was incarcerated in an asylum.”

  “She escaped,” Hart said tersely, “with my brother’s help.”

  “Half brother,” Francesca corrected. “And we are assuming Bill helped her escape. We do not yet know that for a fact.”

  Hart’s look of annoyance increased.

  Rourke glanced at Francesca. She decided now was not the time to mention that Bill had paid her a call—in her very own home. She’d save that for later in the evening. She smiled yet again.

  “You are in exceedingly high spirits, considering that I shot you,” Hart exclaimed angrily.

  “You shot her?” Rourke asked.

  “There were two shots—Bragg might have been the one to graze my shoulder,” Francesca said instantly.

  “No, Francesca.” Hart was adamant—and furious. “For once, your intellect is deserting you. Bragg was standing on your right, at an almost ninety-degree angle. I was standing behind you. I moved slightly left when the chaos began, hoping for a better shot. There is no possible way that Rick shot you in the left shoulder.”

  He was right, she thought. Realizing how upset he was, her heart melted. “It was an accident. Mary wanted to kill me. You had to try to stop her.”

  He picked up his drink and slammed a third of it down.

  Rourke pulled an ottoman over and sat beside her. “I am very sorry, Francesca, for what you have gone through.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced from Rourke to Hart. “They must be the thieves. Did you hear our conversation?”

  “I caught bits and pieces of it.”

  “Mary has seen the portrait. She was bragging about it—and gloating.”

  Hart gave her a dangerous look, but did not move.

  “You cannot possibly blame yourself!” she cried.

  “Why not? We are back to square one. I commissioned the damn portrait. You could have died.” He was final.

  She became uneasy. He loved her. Surely they would reconcile!

  Rourke laid his comforting palm on her good shoulder. “Where is Mary? Did Rick apprehend her?”

  Hart turned away, so Francesca said, “He was chasing after her, Rourke, when I fainted. I don’t know what happened afterward.”

  “I’ll give HQ a call. If he is not there, I’ll call him at home.”

  “He won’t be home, not at this hour,” Francesca said.

  Both men looked at her, Rourke with interest, Hart with moody speculation. Hart said, “Rick is either at headquarters or he is on his way here, to check up on Francesca. You may trust me on that.”

  “I’ll call him right now to let him know that she is all right.” Rourke paused. “Is there anything else that you need, Francesca?”

  “I am fine.”

  “That wound is like a minor burn. Do you want laudanum to help you to sleep?”

  She shook her head. Rourke smiled and left.

  And they were alone.

  Hart was staring. Francesca stared back, wishing he wouldn’t blame himself for her having been shot—and for everything else. “I am fine, Hart, really.”

  “I can’t tolerate your running about town, chasing madwomen and criminals with no one at your side!” he exploded. “I nearly had a stroke when Alfred gave me your message.”

  She tried to get up. “I thought I was meeting Solange, but it was a ruse, obviously. I am so glad Alfred found you.”

  He strode to her and took Rourke’s place on the ottoman. “Don’t you dare. You could faint.” His hand closed over her right arm as he pushed her back onto the couch. “You rushed off to meet Solange, fully aware of how dangerous she is—while not knowing if I would even receive your message.”

  For once in her life, she had no interest in debating the merits of the case. “I think I knew, in my heart, that you would come.”

  “Really?” He made a hard sound and slid his fingers to her neck. “How could you go to meet her alone? Why couldn’t you have waited to locate me? Why do you have to be so impulsive, so impervious to danger? Francesca, you are mortal!”

  “You are so worried about me,
Hart,” she breathed, acutely aware of his large, strong hand as it moved to her nape.

  “Damn it, Francesca,” he breathed. “It is not amusing. Mary almost murdered you tonight—right in front of me—while I watched.”

  She went still. As distraught as he was, his eyes were smoldering. She lifted her hand and clasped his rough jaw. “I love how worried you are. I love how much you care.”

  His gaze moved to her mouth. “Of course you do.”

  “Hart?” she asked softly.

  Slowly, with effort, his gaze lifted to hers.

  She rubbed his jaw, and then slid her hand down his strong throat and into the open V of his shirt. “You will never give me up. You can’t give me up. And I won’t let you, anyway. You are stuck with me—forever.”

  ROURKE PAUSED IN THE lobby of police headquarters. As Francesca had suspected, Rick had been at police headquarters when he had called, approximately an hour ago. But Rick hadn’t given him more than thirty seconds on the telephone. His only interest had been in knowing if Francesca was all right. Then he had told Rourke he had police affairs to attend and that a long night lay ahead. Before Rourke could even ask about Mary, he had told him to wish Francesca well and hung up.

  Rourke loved both his older brothers. He considered Hart a sibling, even if they did not share blood or a name. He was very fond of Francesca, but like everyone in the family, the love triangle that had developed worried him immensely. Because Rick was married, and Hart so shockingly alone, he had concluded that he must root for Hart and Francesca. When he had learned what had happened at the Siegel-Cooper emporium, he had been instantly concerned.

  Tonight had proven one thing: Hart was still, obviously, head over heels for Francesca. He felt certain that, in time, they would work their relationship out. He knew no one as determined and tenacious as Francesca. Not that her work wasn’t cut out for her. Hart was infuriatingly stubborn.

  It was Rick he was concerned about now.

  He held a paper sack that contained a bottle of scotch. It was time to sit down with his brother and have a very long conversation—whether Rick was amenable or not. He had never been to police headquarters, much less Mulberry Street, and he was curious as he glanced around. Several civilians stood at the reception desk, arguing with the officers there. One woman was clearly a prostitute. Two men were in the holding cell, both passed out from an overconsumption of alcohol. He did not know where Rick’s office was, but he doubted it was on the ground floor. There was an elevator and a staircase on his right.