Hannah's Promise

by Cheryl Anne Porter

  His slanted gaze caused a black lock of hair to fall across his forehead. “No. You’re afraid of me. That one isn’t afraid of anyone … except Esmerelda.”

  Hannah sat up straighter, and felt a sudden airiness in the vicinity of her breasts. A sneaking glance downward confirmed her worst fear. Beyond mortified, she clutched his shirt to her chest. And froze. His shirt? With one hand, she promptly flung it away from her, sending it puffing out and sailing to the floor, right at his booted feet. Clutching the aquamarine bodice with both hands, she held it against herself like armor. “I’m not the least bit afraid of you. And who’s Esmerelda?”

  “Yes you are.” Without so much as a moment of hesitation, he bent over, retrieved his shirt and handed it to her. “Here. Put it on to cover yourself. And yes, I undid your fastenings. I wasn’t sure you could breathe otherwise.”

  He then nonchalantly sat, perching a hip on the mattress, and unabashedly watched her struggle to hold her own garments in place while still trying to don his shirt. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember Essie? Well, you’ll become reacquainted soon enough.” And then he smiled at her in a wide, white, dazzling display of male self-assuredness.

  Hannah refused to return his good humor. Too much was wrong here. Like this shirt, which smelled so enticingly of his own particular musk. She gamely pulled it on and, with fumbling fingers, buttoned it over her exposed flesh. “Was there something you wished to tell me? Something extremely important—such as the house is on fire—that would give you the right to be in here while I’m still in—”

  “My bed? No, there isn’t. I just like seeing you in my bed.”

  Her fingers stilled as a rising heat flamed over her cheeks. “Please don’t say things like that.”

  Black eyes glittering, he shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. “As you wish.”

  Finding she couldn’t sustain eye contact with him, Hannah looked down at the buttons and realized she could not fasten more of them over her voluminous skirt. So, abandoning her efforts, she looked everywhere but at him. “I know, Mr. Garrett, that—”

  “Slade. Under the circumstances.”

  Sparing him a fleeting glance, she immediately looked away again. “Then, Slade … I know that I owe you a huge debt for your help. And I do thank you—”

  “But?”

  “Must you always interrupt me? But I find I’m … not comfortable here—”

  “In my bed? Or my grandmother’s home? Would you perhaps be happier in my brownstone? If you think Pemberton is a howl, wait until you meet Hammonds. He thinks I’m a reprobate.”

  Hannah stared at him. “I can understand why he would. Now, let me finish. I find I’m not comfortable here or anywhere else where I might be putting your family and staff in danger. Aunt Patience and Uncle Cyrus are—”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Gone. They were closing up Cloister Point this morning when I sent for your belongings. No doubt, in light of last night’s developments, they’ve left to lick their wounds and refigure their strategy at their Nahant retreat. I find that appropriate, don’t you? Them in retreat?”

  Distracted, Hannah nodded her agreement. They were gone. That meant that she was free. In a sense. Free to move around, to leave the confines of a house. Explore. Stretch her legs. Smell fresh air. Breathe easily.

  Great good humor suddenly boiled up inside her. Without a warning or an explanation, she slipped her legs over the far side of the bed and, tugging his shirt down at least to her waist, she very nearly skipped to the drapery-covered windows. Ripping aside the heavy damask, she … slumped her shoulders in dejection. Rain. Sheets of it. And wind. Gales of it.

  She didn’t realize that Slade had joined her there until he spoke at her side. “Disappointing, isn’t it? I was dressed for a ride and came to see if you’d care to join me. No sooner did I change than it began to rain. Unfortunately for us, I don’t think it’ll let up anytime soon.”

  Hannah looked up at him, gazing at his strong, handsome profile. He’d wanted her to join him? Her—his pawn? His means to an end? His accuser of foul deeds? One minute he wanted to kill her. Another he wanted to marry her. Then another he held her in his arms while she wept. And the next he said he’d snap her neck. Which one was truly him? Or were they all him?

  He looked down at her, catching her staring. She quickly turned her head to focus on the wet and windy sight outdoors.

  “I suppose we could saddle Esmerelda and take turns riding her around in this drafty old house. What do you say?”

  Hannah snapped her gaze back to him. “Saddle Esmerelda? Then … she’s not a person?”

  “No. But don’t tell her that. Or Isabel. They both think she is.”

  “But … she’s not a horse, either?” Hannah looked askance at him. “You wouldn’t keep a horse in the house, would you?”

  He chuckled. “No, she’s not a horse. Just the size of one.” Then, his eyes took on a sparkling, assessing quality as he looked down at her. “You think me capable of most anything, don’t you, Hannah?”

  Hannah was happy to affirm his suspicion for him. “No, I know you to be capable of most anything. Like actually riding this Esmerelda, who’s not a person or a horse.”

  Now he laughed out loud at her. And then completely disarmed her by pulling her to him and planting a friendly, smacking kiss on her forehead. Releasing her just as abruptly, he set her aside and, with her turning to keep him in her sights, he strolled to the same door by which he’d entered.

  “I’ll send Olivia in. By the way“—he pointed to the closed door—“on the other side of this door is your room. All your things are unpacked, so it’s too late to protest. Get dressed and come downstairs. And I was joking about Esmerelda. I’d stand as much chance of saddling her as I would you. Come to the family drawing room—the first one on the right downstairs, where we’ll have tea with Isabel. That should cheer you up.”

  Having said all that, he proceeded across the room to the hallway door, opened it, stepped through, and closed it after himself. Without so much as a glance back at her. Hannah stared blankly at the door. Who in truth was this man, that he would feel the need to cheer her up on a rainy afternoon?

  * * *

  “Well? Is the Lawless girl dead from the shock of waking in a Garrett bed?”

  In the staggeringly opulent drawing room downstairs, blazing hot from the roaring fire in the grate, Slade bent over his grandmother to kiss her wrinkled brow. “No. She’s alive and well.”

  Once she’d patted his cheek, Slade moved to the hearth rug, squatted in front of the sleeping Esmerelda, and knowing full well she hated it, rubbed her ears vigorously. Lying on her side, the mastiff lazily opened an eye and shoved him away with one swipe of her mighty paw.

  “She’s going to bite you in half one day.”

  Slade snorted his opinion of that as he pushed himself upright. He flopped down in a half-reclining posture on an overstuffed and tasseled rose brocade sofa. “There’s as much chance of Essie doing that as there is of me becoming a fishmonger.”

  “It’s good, honest work. You ought to try it.”

  “I will—if you’ll push the cart. Especially in that red dress.” Slade grinned over at his frowning grandmother. Tiny, wizened, ornery, and even with her legs covered by a blanket, she was the most formidable person he’d ever met.

  Apparently feeling she’d lost that round, Isabel resorted to her ace in the hole, her favorite subject of late—Slade’s unmatrimonied state. “You’d best be careful with these maidens in your bed. In my day, you’d have to marry her for compromising her reputation so—even if she is a Lawless.”

  “Ahh, we’re back to my being a bachelor, I see.” Propping a shoulder against the well-padded armrest, Slade grinned hugely. “If it makes you feel any better, you’d have to marry her in my day, too.”

  She waved a hand in irritation. “Not me. You. But you’ll never marry. Like as not, the Garrett line will die out for all your rak
ish carryings-on.”

  Chuckling at her, Slade contemplated his father’s mother. And decided to broach the subject on both their minds. “Tell me, Isabel, what do you think about having a Wilton Lawless in our midst?”

  Isabel pinned him with a shrewd stare. “Hmph. The walls haven’t come tumbling down yet. But I’m more concerned with what you were doing with a Wilton Lawless in your arms last evening—as well as in your bed.”

  This long pause, Slade knew, was intended as a space for him to comment. He wisely said not a word, offering her only a wide grin and arched brows, completely subject to any interpretation she chose to give them.

  “Just as I thought. Well then, where is she? It’s very nearly mid-afternoon.”

  Never tiring of baiting her, Slade adopted a serious expression. “No, it isn’t. You and Esmerelda napped past mid-afternoon. It’s more nearly candle-lighting time.”

  Isabel pinched her face up into a prune. “It’s nowhere near dusk. We haven’t even had tea yet. Don’t think that because I’m old, I don’t know what’s what. Now, answer my question, boy. And stop all that infernal grinning at me. Makes you look like a jackass.”

  A snorting guffaw erupted from Slade. “It’s a family trait, dear Isabel. But to answer your question, she’s upstairs dressing. And should be down presently. I promised her we’d saddle Esmerelda and ride her around the house. Do you want a turn?”

  His grandmother stared solemnly at him for a full ten seconds. “Of course I do.”

  “Bully for you. And since this is your house, we’ll even let you go first.”

  Isabel zeroed in on his words. “Yes, this is my house. And like everything else I own, it will be yours one day. I just hope I live long enough to see my great-grandchildren—my legitimate great-grandchildren.”

  “Now, Isabel, you know there are no little Garrett bastards running around. I’m much more careful than that.” He then sobered, readying to test the waters. “But what if I told you … I intend to marry Hannah Wilton Lawless and give you those great-grandchildren?”

  “Pshaw! The devil you say. I don’t know which one this family hates more. A Wilton or a Lawless.”

  A smile to match his calculating heart stole over his features. “And she’s both. Which makes it perfect.”

  “What’s perfect about it? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It does. If you’ll think about it for a moment.”

  “What’s there to think about?” But still, Isabel did just that. Slade knew the exact moment she got his meaning because she sat up rigidly. Her wrinkles even seemed to smooth out as her expression sobered. “Tell me you’re not serious, Slade Franklin Garrett.”

  He had her attention now. She only used all three of his names when he was in dire trouble. “I can’t do that because I am serious. I mean to marry her. Consider it revenge.”

  Isabel’s mouth thinned with displeasure. “Revenge for what?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Isabel gave him a harsh look. “You mean your mother? Ha. That woman caused most of her own unhappiness. Now, you listen to me, Slade. Your father was my son, but he was far from perfect. He wasn’t a good husband to Mariel, heaven knows. But she wasn’t much better, with her continually feigning illnesses to keep him out of her bed. They were both weak people, and they deserved each other. And deserved exactly what they got.”

  Slade didn’t … couldn’t respond for a moment. He’d never heard Isabel talk like this before about his parents. Angered beyond measure, feeling she was being disloyal to their memories, his voice rose in proportion to his high emotion. “Are you excusing Catherine Wilton-Humes’s part in their lives, Grandmother?”

  Not to be outdone, Isabel drew herself forward and in turn bellowed out her opinion. “Catherine had no part in their lives, Slade. And that was your father’s fault. You weren’t even born when she left for Tucson. So all you know is the tripe your mother poisoned you with as a child.”

  Isabel stopped, put a hand to her chest, drew in a long breath, and went on, this time speaking slowly, quietly. “I’m begging you, son, you must let go of this. You are the only worthwhile thing to come of that marriage. And despite your mother and father, you’re a good, strong man. You’re all I have left. Don’t tell me I’ll lose you, too.”

  In a stew of conflicting emotions, Slade tried to brush away her concerns with a laugh. But even to his own ears, the sound was hollow. “You’re not going to lose me, Grandmother. I know what I’m doing.”

  She slumped back, seeming to shrink into her chair’s very fabric. Then, a great sadness claimed her features, emphasizing her advanced age. “No you don’t. Revenge is an acid, Slade. And remember—‘Acid does more damage to the vessel in which it’s kept, than it does to that on which it’s poured.’”

  Huffing out his breath, Slade leaned back, extending his arms along the sofa’s spine. Disgust marked his words. “An old saying, meaning—I suppose—that I’ll hurt myself more than Hannah?”

  Isabel nodded sagely. “You’ll do more than hurt her. You’ll destroy her, most likely. Just like your mother was. Is that what you want?”

  Angry, thwarted, Slade jumped to his feet, pointing down at her. “Eureka! Now you see my plan. Because that is exactly what I want.”

  Isabel threw her hands up. “Then, God help us all!”

  The sleeping mastiff jumped to her feet. Shaking herself mightily, she swung her accusing gaze from one to the other of the combatants. Isabel clapped her hands together. “Come here, dear girl. Did we awaken you?”

  Esmerelda wagged her heavy tail, sweeping everything off a low table behind her. After nosing Slade’s hand and getting only a nominal response, she padded over to Isabel, sat on her haunches, and laid her huge, square head on the old woman’s frail lap.

  “Esmerelda, we silly humans are such an awful breed,” Isabel sighed, all the while rubbing the dog’s head. “Just look at me and my grandson. All this fussing. It seems we seek to destroy those we love the most.”

  Staring at the pathetic little figure his grandmother made, and already sorry for their harsh words, Slade mimicked Esmerelda by going to the old woman and squatting beside her chair. The mastiff edged over, making room for him. Taking Isabel’s thin hand in his, Slade spoke softly to her. “Isabel, I don’t mean to hurt you. But you’ve got to understand—I mean to have her.”

  Isabel smiled tenderly at him. But then her eyes widened. “You mean to have her? An interesting choice of words.” A slow smile of pure calculation lit her features. The fire’s reddish reflection on her face made her seem positively devilish. “Perhaps as interesting as my own only a moment ago to Esmerelda. That’s it! All is not lost. I do believe I’ll help you.”

  Slade stood up with a total lack of grace. “Help me what?”

  He knew real fear when Isabel shifted her weight about in her chair and then put a thin, arthritic finger to her lips, tapping at them as she stared fixedly into the fire. Still rubbing the dog’s tan head with her other hand, she nodded several times.

  “Isabel, I don’t like the looks of this. What are you thinking?”

  Isabel broke her reverie to focus on Slade. Narrowing her eyes, she looked him up and down, as if he were a side of beef for sale. She then wagged her finger at him, speaking thoughtfully, as if still hatching a plan even as she spoke. “You’re right, you know—it is perfect. It would bring events full circle. And I like that. Yes, this just might work.”

  Just as he’d feared. A plot. Knowing his goose was cooked, Slade slumped onto the sofa behind him. “No it won’t.”

  “How do you know it won’t? You don’t even know what I’m thinking.”

  “I don’t have to know what you’re thinking. I know you. And I’m about to be sorry I was ever born, aren’t I?”

  Isabel fairly cackled out her glee. Esmerelda caught her mood and turned her great head, grinning hugely and confirming for him that he was indeed in big trouble now. “My dear boy, I do believe I see a way to—
Well, you’ll see. This will work because I know you better than you know yourself.”

  “Impossible,” was Slade’s one-word condemnation of that idea.

  “Ha! I’m willing to bet your inheritance on it.”

  Slade snorted. “My inheritance from you? Or the one from Ardis Wilton-Humes?”

  No sooner were the words out of Slade’s mouth than Esmerelda jumped up and whipped around to face the room’s arched entry. Her ears pricked. The hair on her back stood up. Then, in silent stealth, she moved away, meandering through the shadowed room’s maze of furniture. Slade and Isabel followed the dog’s progress for a moment, but then they both spotted her unwitting prey at the same moment.

  Looking especially beautiful in a simple dress of soft gray cashmere and garnet velvet, and with her dark, waist-length hair tied back at her nape, Hannah Wilton Lawless stood framed in the entry. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and a hesitant smile lit her delicate features.

  Slade tore his gaze from her to exchange a look with Isabel. His grandmother’s frowning face seemed to reflect his own guilty thoughts. As distracted as they’d all been, how long had Hannah been standing there before Esmerelda picked up her scent? And how much had she heard?

  * * *

  “Esmerelda! Come here, you bad girl.”

  Hannah blinked in confusion and looked behind her. No one. Turning again to face her hostess, she confirmed for herself that the lady was indeed looking at her. Had she traded one insane asylum for another?

  Seeking reassurance, she sought out Slade’s eyes. He immediately looked down. Hannah bit at her lip, wishing she could disappear into thin air. She’d heard the raised voices as she entered the room. They’d been arguing, and she’d interrupted. She suspected she or her relatives were at the root of the fuss. After all, she’d heard Slade say Wilton-Humes-something-or-other. What if Mrs. Garrett didn’t want a Wilton in her home?

  Then, she’d leave. It was that simple. She stayed nowhere she wasn’t wanted. But knowing a hasty, unseen retreat was now out of the question, she settled her gaze on the tiny, white-haired woman just then throwing aside a lap blanket and arising from an overstuffed chair. This could only be Isabel Garrett.