Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  Hannah’s anger bubbled up. She fought it, knowing he was deliberately provoking her. She couldn’t care less what these people thought of her. But how dare this murdering snake even speak of her father?

  Feeling cold inside, unable to move or to look away, she didn’t even flinch when he reached up to smooth back an escaped ringlet of hair at her temple. “This little game we’re playing, Hannah … I hope you’re good at it. Because I sure as hell am. And there can only be one winner.”

  A game? He thought of his actions as a game? Feeling suddenly disconnected from this room, from her body, Hannah stared at Slade Garrett. She wondered how he could be so handsome and so evil. And for four days, he’d been pushing her, baiting her, taunting her.

  During that same time—even in the space of the same day, he’d do a complete turnaround and hold her and comfort her and lavish gifts on her. She knew why he did all that—his revenge. She could fight that. But what she couldn’t fight was his exciting her, his awakening in her the feelings and desires she did not want to feel. Not for him. One look, one touch … and she was lost.

  Slade suddenly pulled back from her, raising his eyebrows. “Such a face, Hannah. So forlorn. Don’t tell me I’ve already won. If so, I’m disappointed. I expected more of a fight from the daughter of J. C. Lawless.”

  That was twice he’d said her father’s name. So it was a fight he wanted? Then a fight he would get. Hannah exploded. Lost to reason, she jumped up, knocking her chair over backward and startling everyone in the room into stunned attention. She slammed her hands onto the table, rattling china and crystal stemware. Her wine overturned, spilling a crimson puddle across the white tablecloth.

  The sight, so reminiscent of blood, incited her further. Screwing her face up into a tortured mask of hatred, she glared at a wide-eyed Slade Garrett. “You … murdering … bastard. This is not a game. Not to me. Can you not understand that? My parents are dead.”

  She curled a hand into a fist and slammed it down onto the table. “Dead. My sisters and I returned home to find your handiwork”—she stabbed her finger at him—“and yours”—she pointed in turn at her aunt and uncle, seated at opposite ends of the table. “Mama and Papa. Their murdered bodies. Their blood everywhere. Was that a game to you?”

  Hot, salty tears rolled unheeded down her face. She dragged in a labored breath, noting the disbelieving expression on Slade’s face. Into the crushing silence, she spoke softly, wrenchingly. “How could you? Why did you? What could it matter now?”

  Then, she straightened up, reveling in the sneer forming on her face as she gazed at her aunt and uncle. A part of her brain registered their expressions for her. Pale, hating, blank masks. But they no longer scared her. Hannah shook her head, not even recognizing the hoarse, unholy voice that issued from her. She pronounced each word with deadly emphasis. “Did you think”—she swallowed hard—“we wouldn’t know who killed them? Did you think … we wouldn’t care?”

  Knowing she’d get no more of an answer from them than she’d gotten from Slade Garrett, she nevertheless turned back to him. And saw him, with deadly calm motions, put his napkin on the table, push his chair back, and slowly rise to his feet. Hannah followed his movements with her gaze and her words. “What made you think … we wouldn’t come after you?”

  Towering over her now, Slade took hold of her arm. “That’s quite enough, Hannah. Don’t say another word.”

  She jerked her arm, meaning to break his hold, but his strength was too much for her. “You take your hand off me, you murderer.”

  “I murdered no one!” His bellowing response caused everyone to jump and gasp. For her part, Hannah shrank down nearly into a crouch. But still he didn’t release her, not even when he pounded his other fisted hand on the blameless table, sending a tall flower arrangement to its death. “I had nothing to do with your parents’ deaths. Nothing! And I will not sit here and be accused of such treachery.”

  He glared at her until she looked down. When Slade moved, turning more to his right, Hannah looked up at him. And jerked in a ragged breath. The enraged glare he focused on the other end of the table would make Satan tuck in his pointed tail and run. Hannah’s gaze followed his, sighting on Cyrus Wilton-Humes.

  Following their lead, the Wilton-Humeses’ dinner guests, mere innocents trapped in this remarkable tableau, also focused on their host. Cyrus, his face no more than a death mask, gripped the table with both hands. But he said nothing. Neither did anyone else. They all waited. For Slade Garrett.

  And he didn’t disappoint them. “I had nothing to do with these murders. And I will prove it. But I don’t for one minute doubt that you and your lovely wife had everything to do with Catherine’s death. And we know why, don’t we?”

  Hannah jerked upright. He knew why? How? And if he knew, but wasn’t involved, as he’d just said, why hadn’t he done anything to stop them? What sort of man did that make him? She put her free hand to her heart, even though the questions beat painfully at her temples.

  After a tense silence, Cyrus became the third person to rise from the table. “How dare you! You—of all people. You have more reason than we do to hate what she stands for.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the room’s wide entrance. “Leave, both of you. This is my home. Mine. I will not listen to such outrageous lies, especially from”—he now pointed an accusing finger at Hannah—“you—an outlaw’s bastard. You came to us seeking shelter—all lies! You’re no better than your mother. We never wanted you here to begin with. You weren’t invited. And now? You’re not welcome. Leave!”

  Hannah jerked against Slade’s hold on her, wanting to be free to scratch her great-uncle’s eyes out. By God, she’d not listen to this man’s name-calling! But Slade wrenched her back to him, forcing her to meet his eyes. “No, Hannah. You’ve said enough.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but her words withered into silence when she realized there was a pleading, almost fearful glint in his so-black eyes. Not expecting either emotion from him, and now more confused than ever, Hannah stilled in his arms.

  Registering her compliance with only the barest of nods, Slade turned his sober attention once again on his hostile host. “We’re going, Wilton-Humes. But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot. My man will be along tomorrow for her belongings. See that they’re ready. But you be warned—she’s under my protection now. And I will be seeing personally to her well-being.”

  He paused, letting that sink in. His final words, as much to Hannah as to Cyrus, were, “We’ll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”

  Hannah stared up at him in surprise. The man was more of an enigma than ever. Watching his every movement, forced by his hold on her arm to turn with him, she saw him make a slight gesture at Dudley Ames across the table from them. Needing no further prompting, that large, ruddy-complected man pushed himself up out of his chair, slapping his napkin onto the table.

  Slade once again turned to the numbed gathering, bowing slightly. “Ladies. Gentlemen. We’ll say good-night now. I trust the evening’s entertainment from this point forward will prove more … mundane.”

  Then, with the room’s charged silence as background, and still gripping Hannah’s arm, Slade kicked his chair and hers back against the wall, clearing a walking space for them. Her heart pounding, her limbs weak, she gathered up her skirt. Slade finally released her arm, but only to put his hand at the small of her back. With Dudley joining them as they reached his side of the table, Hannah marched out of the room, followed closely by her entourage.

  With renewed murmurings and the clatter and tinkling of resumed activity at their backs, down the wide hallway the threesome strode, past portraits of generations of Hannah’s disapproving ancestors. She ignored them, focusing instead on the men’s footfalls. Their heavy tread sounded a certain finality on the polished wood floor.

  Deposited between the two men, and pushed along by Slade’s hand at her back, Hannah spoke as rapidly as she walked. “I do not intend to place myself under
your protection, Mr. Garrett. I’d be a fool. Because, by your own words, and by the evidence I brought with me, I have more than enough reason to doubt your sincerity when you say you’ll get to the bottom of this. My fear is that the bottom you refer to will be the harbor. And I’ll be in it—dead.”

  “What the devil? Dead?” That came from Dudley, but Hannah ignored his outburst.

  As did Slade. “I’ve said it before, Hannah—if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I will tell you this—in this house, you’re already as good as buried in the ground. That much is certain.”

  She shot him a look. “I never said I intend to stay here after this. I can take care of myself. After all, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

  He never looked down at her. “By the grace of God and my continued presence here over the past four days.”

  Hannah snapped her gaze up to him. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stared straight ahead. Her steps faltered. He pushed her along. But Hannah couldn’t believe her ears. “Your presence? Do you expect me to believe that you’ve been protecting me?”

  “I do. You serve my purpose, remember?”

  “Ahh. Your revenge. So you’ve said. But tell me, revenge for what?”

  “Now’s not the time. Not in this house.”

  Hannah stopped abruptly, forcing the two men to do likewise. “I’ll know this minute.”

  Over her head, Slade exchanged a look with Dudley, one she couldn’t interpret. A quick glance at Dudley revealed he stared hard right back at his friend. Hannah turned again to Slade. And waited.

  Finally, he refocused on her. “With no more evidence than my name scrawled on a piece of paper, you show up in Boston and publicly accuse me of murdering your parents. By doing so, you’ve slandered my name and my reputation. And that of my family. We are now—all of us—in danger, and in line to be the next victims.

  “Therefore, Miss Lawless, you’ll make no demands on me for explanations. And know this, I’ll answer no questions until I’m ready. Nor will I be subjected to your protests. My personal plans for you aside, I now intend to keep you close to me—the better to draw out the Wilton-Humeses. Nothing more. You’re a pawn. A means to an end. But you will consider yourself under my protection.”

  It was a good thing for him that he finished right then, because Hannah was close to exploding again and couldn’t wait to get her words out. “Protection? Ha! You mean to have me close by so you can have your revenge.”

  In sudden angry and ugly reaction, he grabbed her arms and jerked her to him. From behind her, she heard Dudley Ames say, “Easy now, Garrett.” But as before, he was ignored.

  Hannah had eyes only for the rigid emotion shaping Slade Garrett’s features into planes and angles, and making his voice a low growl. “I am not the one you need to fear. The Wilton-Humeses are as much my enemies as they are yours. You have no idea, Hannah, of who and what you’re up against. But I do. Whether you trust me or not, it doesn’t matter. You involved me. So now, you have to deal with me. And like it or not, you have to trust someone. And it will have to be me.”

  In the following silence, with his black eyes boring into hers, Hannah digested his words. And realized the futility in making her situation worse. “I see.” When his grip on her eased the slightest bit, she forced a calm control to her features and asked, “Where are you taking me now?”

  “That’s better, Hannah. Much smarter.” He looked deep and hard into her eyes, as if trying to gauge her meek acceptance against what he knew of her defiant spirit. Hannah remained absolutely still. Then, a frown flitted over his strong features, creasing his forehead. Abruptly he released her arms. But made no apology for his rough treatment as he straightened up and put his hand to the small of her back, once again directing her steps. “I’m taking you to my grandmother’s estate. You’ll be safe there. Isabel is the one person in the world the Wilton-Humeses fear.”

  Hannah glanced up at him. This was his first mention of family. Somehow, she’d never thought of him as connected to loved ones. He seemed so unattached to other people. With the possible exception of Dudley Ames. “And will you be staying there, too?”

  “Afraid so.” He eyed her briefly and then cut his gaze to Dudley.

  Lost in the deepening heat on her face, Hannah chewed on her bottom lip. She hadn’t meant it as it sounded, as if she wanted to him to stay there, for heaven’s sake. Would she never win with words tonight?

  Mercifully, they rounded into the foyer just then. Hannah stood quietly as Slade signaled to three servants. In a voice that reeked of authority, he barked out, “You there, Mr. Ames and I desire our hats and coats. And you, have my brougham brought around. That leaves you to send word upstairs that Miss Lawless will need her cloak—the lined one with the hood.”

  The first two men bowed, departing immediately to carry out their orders. The third nodded, began his bow, but then pulled up short when Hannah added, “I also need Olivia.” She stubbornly looked from Slade to Dudley and back to Slade. “My lady’s maid—Olivia O’Toole. I won’t leave her in this house.”

  Slade took a deep breath and thinned his mouth. But finally said, “As you wish.” He turned to the waiting man. “And the girl. That will be all.”

  “No it won’t.” Feeling Slade and Dudley slide their attention back to her, Hannah ignored them, speaking instead to the liveried servant. “Tell Olivia to gather up for herself what she’ll need for tonight. Also tell her to bring me my handbag, a decent bedgown … and the gun in the nightstand drawer.”

  The servant, as unknown to Hannah as the bevy of others in attendance tonight, dropped his starchy pose to stare open-mouthed at her. He recovered somewhat, bowed again, and then turned around, practically running to the grand sweep of the central stairway.

  “Did she say ‘gun in the nightstand drawer’?” That was Dudley. Hannah looked up to her left at the big man and then turned to her right when Slade answered. The men carried on the conversation, literally over her head and as if she weren’t present.

  “I believe she did, my friend.”

  “I say, Garrett, I don’t believe the lady trusts you.”

  “I believe the lady has reason not to trust me, Mr. Ames.”

  “That’s true. But you’d think after your masterful performance just now that the lady would realize you mean to help her.”

  Slade raised his eyebrows at his friend and then sighted on Hannah while answering him. “Hardly. The lady understands that I am helping myself.”

  Hannah raised her chin a notch, refusing to have further words with him. But as she stood there waiting, her prideful stance relaxed, weakened. Suddenly drained of all emotion and overwrought from her tirade, an inutterable tiredness overtook her. She longed for nothing more than a bed.

  She cut her gaze to Slade Garrett and amended her thought—her own bed. A big, fat, soft one. With lots of covers. And lots of quiet. Blinking rapidly to stave off a case of drooping eyelids, Hannah hoped that Grandmother Isabel’s estate wasn’t too far away.

  * * *

  The sleek brougham turned smoothly into the wide drive. Hannah peeked out the window. Something’s wrong. Wrapped in her cloak, wedged warmly against Slade, she turned to him. “If this is your idea of a joke, then I—”

  “I promise you I’m in no mood for jests. This is my grandmother’s estate—Woodbridge Pond.”

  “He’s telling the truth.” Sitting across from her and Slade, Dudley nodded good-naturedly, perhaps desperately, at her and then down at Olivia, all but lost next to him on the narrow seat. “He is.”

  Wide-eyed, the young girl nodded back at him. “Yes, sir. I know.”

  Hannah stared in disbelief at them all. “But we’ve only just left Cloister Point.” She then looked up at Slade. “That would make your family estate—”

  “The next one over from there. As luck would have it.”

  She swiveled her shoulders until she bodily faced Slade. He sat spread-legged, his arms crossed over his chest. Even in the brougham’s
dim interior, she could see he was grinning at Dudley. She tugged on his sleeve to gain his attention. “‘As luck would have it’?”

  Sobering, he looked from his friend to her. “What would you have me say, Hannah? The Garretts and Wilton-Humeses have a long history together. I assumed your mother would have talked about home. Even under her particular set of circumstances.”

  Hannah noted the sudden thick quality to the air at the mention of her mother. “She did. But apparently she left out a few details—such as who the neighbors were. It’s not that I doubt you. It’s just that—well, I don’t see how I’m any safer here, with only a fence separating the two properties.”

  To her surprise, Slade reached over to take her hand and tug it over to rest on his thigh. Smiling down into her face, and ignoring Dudley’s laughter from across the way, he confided, “Trust me, my dear Miss Lawless. There’s much more than a fence to separate the Wilton-Humeses from the Garretts. As you’re about to see.”

  * * *

  “It’s good to see you up and around, Pemberton.”

  “Thank you, sir. A nasty cold, that was. Still, one is feeling very fit, age being what it is.” The ancient butler, whose round little head was capped by tufts of whitish hair, peered around Slade to squint his watery blue eyes at the two women with him.

  Slade looked at them, too, noting Hannah’s bemused uncertainty as she looked from him to Pemberton. He then turned back to the butler. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, sir. She’s the spitting image of her mother.”

  Slade ignored Hannah’s gasping intake of air to answer the older man. “I thought so, too. Although I didn’t realize it as quickly as you did. I’ve brought her as a surprise for Isabel.”

  “I see. One can only hope that she doesn’t piddle on the carpet, like the last surprise you and Mr. Ames bestowed on your grandmother.”

  Laughing out loud, and wisely ignoring the insulted noises from Hannah, Slade shed his overcoat, feeling happy and alive in the high-ceilinged, richly papered foyer. He tossed his heavy garment to the Garrett institution that was Pemberton. “Speaking of Mr. Ames, you’ve just missed him. I sent him home in my carriage.”