Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Lovely. She plucked the cloth off her eyes, rolled onto her side, and plopped the rag onto the rosewood nightstand beside her. Sweeping her hair to one side, she resettled herself on her back and laced her fingers over her abdomen. Staring into the gray thickness of the darkened room, she reminded herself that doubts and sudden attacks of timidity would be her downfall.

  And somehow she didn’t see Jacey being so afflicted. Lucky for Cyrus and Patience that her younger sister hadn’t made this trip with her. Because Jacey would come in shooting and ask questions later. Picturing Jacey bursting into the refined drawing room, her six-shooter blazing, brought a smile to Hannah’s face. What she wouldn’t give for an ounce of Jacey’s spirit and grit.

  Then, her eyelids drooped. Hannah rubbed at them. No wonder she was exhausted. She hadn’t slept well since she’d left home. The nights on the train were a numbing blur. Then last night at Slade Garrett’s, worrying if he would return to her room, was a nightmare. But now? And here? How was it that she could feel comfortable enough in this house to doze off? Especially not knowing if she was safe.

  No, she’d better get up, better remain alert. But lying there in the quiet made her lethargic. She turned on her side, nestling her hands under her cheek. Get up, Hannah. Her eyelids drooping again, she fussed that she would in a moment. Surely a little nap wouldn’t kill her.

  Maybe only moments elapsed. Maybe hours. She had no way of knowing which when she first realized she was awake. The why of that brought a frown to her face. What had awakened her? She blinked, trying to adjust to the dimness. A shadow moved at the foot of the bed. Hannah caught her breath and clutched at the quilted counterpane under her. Slowly exhaling, she asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The shadow’s answer was to grab her ankles and wrench her roughly to the side of the bed. Shocked into breathlessness, Hannah tried but couldn’t scream. Time slowed to a nightmarish, molasseslike sludge. Still clutching frantically at the bedcovers under her, fighting for her life, she twisted and jerked her legs. But to no avail. Her assailant’s grip tightened. The covers obligingly slid right along with her.

  When her ankles were abruptly released, causing her legs to flop limply over the side of the high bed, Hannah tried again to twist away. But she was immediately gripped about the waist and hauled up hard against a warm granite wall—a man’s chest. Pushing against him, a yelp of terror escaped her. Did they mean to kill her so soon?

  As if answering her terrified thought, he flexed his arm, tightening his iron grip about her back. The air whooshed out of Hannah’s lungs. Her feet barely touched the carpeted floor. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her next scream died as a hollow echo inside her head. The man’s other hand closed tightly over her mouth. Dragging in precious, shallow breaths through her nose, she fought the paralyzing fear that seeped through her limbs.

  “Make one sound, and I’ll snap your neck. Do you understand me?”

  The rough, whispering voice, warm against her ear, chilled her to the bone. Reflexively gripping the man’s shirt with fisted hands, she managed to nod her understanding. But even through the thick haze of terror, she recognized the voice. Slade Garrett.

  “Good. I’m going to let you go. And you’re going to sit right there on the bed while I let in the light. And you’re not going to move. Understand?”

  She nodded again, half afraid she’d lose consciousness before he released her. For an interminable second, he didn’t respond. He just held her. Hannah could only blink and wait, and try not to smell the acrid scent of her own fear … and his ruthlessness.

  “Make sure you understand, Hannah Lawless.”

  His voice was no more than a growl when he said her name—her full name. Hannah stiffened, became even more still in his arms. But it was only when she finally slumped against him, defeated, that he released her, loosing her with no more regard than a child showed for a broken, unwanted toy.

  She fell in a heap onto the bed’s softness. Unhurt but momentarily stunned, she didn’t move. Then, a sound caught her attention. As wary as any prairie dog peeking out of its burrow, she raised her head, pricking the dark with her need to hear. There. Again. Footsteps. His. Moving away from her. Toward the window.

  Realizing this was her chance, reduced to whimpering yelps of relief, she finally thought to scrabble and scramble across the bed’s length. On her hands and knees now, she prayed for just one more moment of darkness to reach the nightstand. She’d put her pistol in the drawer before lying down—just in case something like this happened. If she could just get to it.

  Desperation, as much as having to grope blindly, made her clumsy, robbed her of coordination. Her searching, fumbling fingers knocked a china knickknack to the floor, but finally her hand closed around the knob on the—

  Light flooded the room, washing away her element of surprise. With a cry, Hannah jerked around, half sitting, half lying across the bed. Through the tangle of her hair, she saw him standing at the window. He faced her, his tall, muscular outline filling the narrow opening.

  “Hannah, you disappoint me. You said you wouldn’t move.” Hands to his waist, his feet apart, and with sunlight filtering in behind him, his face remained in shadows. But not so dark that she couldn’t see the glitter of his eyes.

  Hannah’d seen wolves with similar expressions … as they closed in for the kill. She knew better than to show fear to a wolf. “I guess I lied.”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I guess you did.” He then paused, as if allowing for a change in subject. “You should never have come to Boston.”

  When he started toward her, when he steadily advanced with a measured tread, slowly closing the gap between them, Hannah’s heart lodged in her throat. He’s not going to let me leave this room alive. Having no more than thought it, she sat up straighter. That simple revelation had the amazing effect of calming her. She had nothing left to lose then, did she?

  He stopped beside the bed, running his gaze over her as if her death were already a done deed. She looked up into his black eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I should.” He then reached out, capturing a lock of her hair. Hannah flinched at the contact, turning her head away from his steely gaze. “But I’ve decided not to. You should know one thing, though—if I wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

  Hannah’s heart leapt at his words. She didn’t doubt him for a moment. The bastard. Hating him for making her feel helpless, she raised her chin and forced herself to meet his unnerving stare. “Your … mercy just might prove to be your first mistake, Garrett.”

  He quirked up a corner of his mouth. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

  Hannah abruptly reached up to slide her curl out of his grasp. She watched him watch it slip through his fingers. Only when he raised his head and settled his gaze on her did she question him. “Did you ride all this way just to tell me you’re not going to kill me?”

  “Are you daring me to try, Hannah?” Sounding threatening and incredulous all at once, he leaned over her, forcing her back … back … back onto the bed until she was lying prone under him, her hands clasped at her bosom, her legs trapped between his. He rested his big fists to either side of her shoulders.

  Looming above her, pinning her in place, he raised the ante with an ice-cold stare. She tried to match his unblinking expression, but fear penetrated to her very soul. Her resolve crumbling, she jerked her head to the side, closing her eyes.

  The increasing pressure on the bed told her he was leaning ever closer to her. Indeed, when he spoke—in a slow, drawling threat—his breath brushed over her temple. “Know this—I don’t make mistakes. So consider this a social call. You’re still alive, Hannah Lawless, because that serves my purpose. You’re no good to me dead. No, I want you to live a good, long time … so you can regret—every day of your life—having ever crossed my path.”

  Chills of dread claimed every inch of her skin. He wanted her alive? Why? But no sooner were his wor
ds a memory than the bed shifted under her again. He gripped her chin, forcing her to turn her head back to him. “Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Hannah opened her eyes, only to see him running his gaze over her prone figure, as if he hadn’t noticed until this moment that she was practically naked. And lying under him. For a moment, he settled his gaze on her nearly exposed breasts. Hannah was sure her heart would pound right out of her chest. But then he swung his gaze back to her face. “I’m going to let you play out your little game with your kin, Hannah. But you play it, sweetheart, knowing that I know why you’re here, thanks to that little lace hanky of yours.”

  “No!” She raised her fisted hands to him. But he was quicker. He grabbed her wrists and forced her arms to the bed, where he held them pinioned above her head.

  “I’m watching you. And I can get to you whenever I want—just like this. There’s nowhere you can run. And no one who’ll help you.”

  A ragged sob tore from Hannah. Tears blurred her vision. Thinking of her parents’ senseless deaths, and this man’s part in them, she cried, “Why are you doing this? Why?”

  “Because you’re a Lawless. Catherine’s child. For me, that’s reason enough.” He punctuated his words with a glare. But then, slowly, the angry light in his eyes dimmed … and then died. A new emotion, a new expression claimed his features and rendered his voice hoarse. “A Lawless. Goddamn you. Since I first saw you, I’ve felt things I—” After drawing in a tortured breath, he went on. “I will never forgive you for making me feel them. Never. I should want you dead. But you know what, sweet Hannah? I can’t think of a more perfect revenge than making you a Garrett. Only then can you know what hell is.”

  With that, he pushed himself up and away from the bed. He stared down at her for another agonizing moment and then turned away from her. When he skirted the bed, she lost sight of him, but heard his retreating footfalls, muffled by the carpet. She heard the door open and then close … softly.

  Struck dumb, as much by his words as by his attack, Hannah lay still as a stone and stared up at the ceiling. Unthinking, unfeeling. For a long time.

  * * *

  Two days later, late on a bright and windy afternoon, Cloister Point’s first floor stood in polished readiness. In the warm kitchen, a wealth of foods that hadn’t been seen here in countless months were being joyfully prepared. Soups and sauces simmered. Fish and fowl roasted. Breads baked, and fruits and cakes were glazed invitingly. Tonight’s event, a formal dinner and entertainment to welcome Miss Hannah Wilton Lawless to Boston promised a fabulous feast, tantalizing conversation, and polite entertainments.

  Maybe for the ranks of the Brahmin, but not for the guest of honor.

  She was supposed to be resting in anticipation of the long night ahead. But Slade Garrett’s … social call two days ago during that one nap of hers had cured her of that particular pastime. Napping all afternoon. She shook her head. The wealthy sure were a peculiar lot. What she couldn’t figure was—with everyone lying about, how’d they ever get anything done? Well, let them waste the best part of the day. Not her. So, more bored than tired, more driven than cautious, Hannah took advantage of the quiet for a stealthy mission.

  In her stocking feet, she slipped out of her room and tiptoed past closed doors, aiming for the upper hallway’s far end. As she passed her great-grandmother’s portrait about halfway down, she transferred a kiss from her fingers to Ardis McAllister Wilton-Humes’s face. With tears misting her eyes as she stood there taking in the kind, strong face and black velvet dress of the only Wilton-Humes her mother had loved, Hannah let out a sigh and hurried along with her task.

  Two days of peeking in doors had revealed that all the bedrooms were empty. And she didn’t just mean of people. She meant of furniture. Except for hers and—she assumed, since she hadn’t been in them—for Uncle Cyrus’s and Aunt Patience’s. Another peculiarity of the rich, she supposed, giving the thought a dismissive shrug.

  No time to ponder on it now. Using great care, and stealing glances all around her, she opened the unpretentious door that hid the servants’ stairwell. Narrow and dim, the shaftlike descent also proved deserted. She figured the odds of that were good, seeing as how there were curiously few servants ever around, for a spread this big.

  Biting at her bottom lip, she gripped the handrail and cautiously padded down to the first floor. Her other hand clutched her blue wool skirt’s pocket. Under her fingers, her first letter back home to Jacey and Glory formed a thick packet. Hannah couldn’t say why, but seeing the original, full-sized portrait of Ardis yesterday in her snoopings had triggered a memory that had grown into a suspicion, which had caused her to write home.

  Perhaps it was nothing, or perhaps it was everything, but where was the miniature of that exact portrait now? It was the one thing Mama’d kept from her life at Cloister Point. Her most treasured memento, meant for Jacey after her death. She knew Jacey wouldn’t move it from Mama’s room without saying something. And now that she thought about it, Hannah certainly didn’t remember seeing it after … well, afterward. So, in her letter she asked her sisters to look for it. Because the tiny oil likeness kept calling to her, kept hounding her thoughts. It had to mean something. And, if it was missing, who had it? And why? What could it possibly mean to anyone outside their family?

  With her thoughts carrying her to the first-floor landing, Hannah looked both ways down the long stretch of hallway. To her left, she heard noises—pots and pans banging, people laughing, dishes clattering. She paused a moment to sniff the air, so mouthwatering with the mingling aromas of tonight’s supper, and hoped the portions were bigger than what she’d been served here so far. But maybe with all the lying around everyone did, they didn’t need to eat much.

  Crouching furtively, she looked to her right. No one. Good. She’d just have to take her chances in the main rooms. Her mind made up, she immediately went in search of Olivia. The chattery little downstairs maid, whom Hannah had embarrassingly encountered during yesterday’s snooping mission, had at least smiled at her and cheerfully explained the layout of the rooms. Today, Hannah was hoping she could find her and ask her to post her letter. Hopefully, the girl was dusting or polishing something. And was alone.

  Treading lightly, Hannah silently approached and then opened the first door on her right. Cautiously peering inside, she recognized it as Uncle Cyrus’s office. One glance told her there was no Olivia. But happily, there was no Uncle Cyrus, either. Just thinking the man’s name drew her attention to his high-backed leather chair. Hannah poked her tongue out at it and then noiselessly closed the door, edging down the hall to the next room. The solarium. Hannah peeked in. Aunt Patience. She promptly drew back around the corner, her muscles tense, every nerve ending alive.

  But all remained quiet in the bright, fern-bedecked room. Hannah risked another glance inside. Sitting in profile to the door, and with a tray of tea and cakes at her side, the older woman was innocently absorbed in writing in some sort of journal she balanced on her lap.

  Hannah retreated around the corner again and leaned back against the wall. She must be trapped in an insane asylum. For why else would her aunt and uncle go about the most ordinary of ways, as if nothing were afoot? And include Hannah in every activity? They took their meals with her. They invited her on their rounds of social calls to all the best homes. They chatted amiably enough with her in the evenings. They even included her in their plans for future outings. All as if theirs was one happy family.

  Which it most certainly was not. Hannah absently nibbled at her lower lip as she sought an explanation for their behavior. Well, there was only one—the Wilton-Humeses were evil monsters posing as harmless old folk until she lowered her defenses. All right, then, she wouldn’t lower them. But how was Slade Garrett involved in all this? And why was he? What did he stand to gain?

  An ample dose of angry reaction raced over her nerves at the memory of his … visit to her room. How dare he speak of her mother and then accost her and th
reaten her with … marriage? How, and for what, would making her marry him figure as revenge? Well, if his barging into her room was his proposal, then he’d never see his revenge. Never.

  Leaning her head back against the wall, feeling the weight of her commitment to her family, Hannah made a promise to herself. If she got out of this alive, never again would she take for granted the virtue of honesty, and never again would she think lightly of trust. Because there was not one soul in all of Boston she could trust to be telling her the truth.

  And there’s not one soul in all of Boston you’re telling the truth to. Stung by her own conscience, Hannah grimaced. She hated the polite restraint, the superficial courtesy, and the mild demeanor forced upon her by her own charade. Instead, she yearned to scream and publicly accuse them all and shout and pound her fists, and demand answers and—

  That was it! They were all waiting for her to make a move. What was it that despicable Garrett said … play your little game? She stared at the formal drawing room across from her. Wouldn’t she just love to play her own little game tonight? For the benefit of Boston’s finest. A shrug of guilty glee brought Hannah’s hands to her grinning mouth.

  Did she dare? Think of the scandal. But wait … if her suspicions and accusations were public knowledge, wouldn’t that assure her own well-being? Wide-eyed, she straightened up. Yes, it would. A public accusation would render her untouchable. But how could she accuse them without evidence? That hateful Garrett now possessed the charred letterhead.

  Then she had to find other evidence. As her mind raced with possibilities, she forgot about finding Olivia to post her letter. This was more important. Perhaps a document of some sort, she mused—a record of payment to the actual murderers? She slumped her shoulders. Would they be stupid enough to actually keep a written record of their foul deeds? Into her head popped the vision of their stationery she’d found lying in the fireplace embers at home. Yes, they just might be.