“Slade Franklin Garrett,” the boss’s lady cussed through gritted teeth, smacking him soundly on his arm with her fisted hand. “You scared me out of ten years’ growth. What are you doing lurking about in the bushes?”
Every fiber of his being screamed at him to cover her in kisses, to never, ever again let her sweet little body get more than a foot from him. However, he remained aloof and dignified. Except for the belligerent set to his frowning mouth. “I don’t lurk, madam.”
Hannah wrenched her arm free of his grasp and set about straightening her cloak and hood. “Call it what you want—you were lurking. What’re you doing here?”
“That is my question to you. What are you doing here—outside, in a public park, leaving yourself open to intrigue?”
Watching her pucker up her winsome face into a petulant frown, Slade called himself a besotted fool. He locked his knees before he could slip to a kneel, wrap his arms around her waist, and beg her forgiveness. In broad daylight, in Public Garden.
“What am I doing out here?” Jerking her thumb back over her shoulder, indicating the three men behind her, she sassed, “I’m airing out the Yankees.”
“The—? You’re what?” Slade bit the inside of his cheek until his eyes watered. Under no circumstances would he laugh at her antics.
“Walking the dogs. The boys were getting quarrelsome inside. Rex snatched King’s toy, and the fight was on. Then that stinker Prince, the biggest one, piddled on the carpet.” She sighed a long-suffering sound. “It was this or take the newspaper to ’em.”
Slade raised his eyebrows at her words and then his gaze to the three silent, competent, seasoned men behind her. And broke his own vow. He burst out laughing. Just threw his head back, hands to his waist, and howled out his high emotion. God, how he loved this woman.
That unguarded revelation broke Slade’s hilarity off in mid-guffaw. He jerked upright, quickly sobering. He sought Hannah’s face, saw her sun-sparkled blue-green eyes and lopsided grin. And knew it was true. God, how he loved this woman. And he just didn’t have the heart to be grim and forbidding with her right this moment.
So, he shook his head and wiped at his eyes, seeing now the curious, bemused stares of passing Bostonians. As well as the over-the-shoulder, concerned looks cast his way from Rex, King, and—no. Temple, Cates, and Hardy. Another rumbling jolt of laughter shook Slade. Would he ever be able to look at these men again without laughing?
He lowered his gaze to a very smug Hannah. Shaking his head at this irreverent, curly-haired, gun-toting wife of his, he wondered how he’d survived the last five days without her. And admitted that he hadn’t—he’d simply existed. And in such a bearish mood that he was no longer welcome at Woodbridge Pond. Well, no more would he be without her.
Taking her arm, he turned her and set them back on the path, striding briskly along and feigning unconcern for her squawks of protest and her hurrying feet. He didn’t have to look to know that her trio of guards were on their heels.
“What are you doing?”
He spared a glance down at his wife. “I’m taking you home.”
“To Woodbridge Pond?”
“No.” His heart flip-flopped at the hopeful note in her voice. “Back to your brownstone, madam.”
“Oh.” She sniffed, turned petulant. “I don’t want to go. I like it out here.”
“You’re sounding very childish, my sweet.”
“I’m not your sweet.”
Slade glanced down at her, at her poked-out bottom lip. His own lips twitched in amusement. “Yes you are.”
“Like hell I am.”
Slade stopped so suddenly, the three guards were forced to keep on walking past them a pace or two before they could adjust. Slade narrowed his eyes at Hannah’s mutinous expression. “I’ll thank you not to hurl obscenities in public.”
Oh, no. He knew he was done for before she ever opened her mouth. Why hadn’t he listened to Isabel years ago and married some well-behaved, timid little Brahmin girl? No, he had to join his life with the most belligerent, outspoken, independent Westerner this side of the Mississippi.
Whose leering grin right now belonged on the face of one of Satan’s minions. “Take your hand off me, Garrett. Or I’ll change the weather with my language. And you know I can do it.”
Thus dared, Slade gripped her other arm and turned her to face him. He then pointedly looked around him, enjoining her to do the same, forcing her to realize her stranger-crowded surroundings. Then he leaned over her, almost touching the tip of her nose with the tip of his. “Go ahead. I dare you.”
Her blue-green eyes blinked. And crossed. He was too close, he knew, for her to properly focus, much less to drag in the air she’d need to bellow. Nevertheless, she surprised him by opening her mouth and flaring her nostrils, all preparatory to an outburst. Jumping into the breach, Slade promised, “If you do, I’ll kiss you so soundly that you’ll faint right here.”
She stiffened, closing her mouth and whuffing her air out her nose.
Slade straightened up and let go of her. “That’s more like it.”
“Go to hell, Slade Garrett.”
He smiled his triumph. She’d no more than whispered it. “Want me to save you a brimstone? I have a feeling I’ll see you there, hellcat.”
In less than a moment’s time, Hannah’s expression crumpled. She stared silently up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of hers as fat tears began to stream down her cheeks. People passing by looked their way and stopped, murmured, and commented to companions about this silently crying woman—in public. Desperately, Slade sought out his men’s eyes. They backed off immediately. Intrigue and death were one thing. A woman’s tears were another.
A sneaking suspicion assailed Slade. Was she really crying? His face contorting to one of cautious doubt, he leaned down just enough to be at her eye level. Her face was red. Her nose was running. Her shoulders heaved with her effort. She was really crying. Aware of the gathering crowd and their murmurs asking what was wrong, Slade thought it best if he hurried her away. Turning to the people massed around them, he smiled and assured, “Nothing’s wrong. She’s a new bride. Nerves, you know.”
With sympathetic understanding, the people smiled and nudged each other, patted at the shoulder of a wife, turned to pass the word through the crowd. Relieved, Slade put his arm around Hannah’s shoulder.
She elbowed him in the gut, doubling him over. Then, edging her way through the gasping crowd, she took off in a run down the pathway. All talking at once, the highly entertained crowd, which had parted for Hannah, now closed in gaping curiosity around Slade. And Hannah’s guards.
The three Yankees shouldered their way to Slade, who was just then trying to twist his way to an erect posture. Blinking, gasping, he pointed after his wife. “Hannah. Go … after Hannah.”
Like three hunting dogs catching the scent, the men jerked their heads in her direction. And melted back through the crowd. Some kindly person in the gathering took Slade by the arm, holding him up. Slade managed to nod thankfully at his Good Samaritan, a nattily dressed older man with graying mutton-chop whiskers and a stout woman on his right.
“That’s quite a right hook your bride’s nerves have there, son.”
Able to breathe and talk at the same time now, Slade nodded. “You ought to see her nerves with a Smith and Wesson in her hand.”
Amid much male laughter and female tsk-tsking, Slade elbowed his way free and took off, in a sideways, lurching gait. He found running easier if he pressed a hand against his contracted stomach muscles. Sighting on the damned Yankees, as Hannah called them, since she was too far ahead for him to see her, Slade limped along. No one challenged him for space on the path, having been cleared to the side by the spectacle of the four running figures who’d preceded him.
Rounding a curve, closer now to the street that edged the park, Slade caught sight of Hannah’s billowing cloak. Her hood hung down her back. What in the hell had he said to make her cry? Cursing, he
knew that in only a moment, she’d be across the street and in the house. His entire fortune said she’d lock it against him. Slade decided he couldn’t let that happen.
His stitch gone, he straightened up, smoothing out his pace and picking up his speed. In the next moment, he saw her run through the opening in the wrought-iron fence that marked the park’s boundaries. Right there, she jerked up short, whipping around as if someone had grabbed her cloak. Slade’s heart skipped a beat. Then he saw her desperately tugging on her heavy garment. A grin spread over his lips. A spike on the fence held her firmly in place.
She’d better hope she got free before he got there, because if he had any strength left, he was going to turn her over his knee. Nearing her now, able to see her contorted, reddened face, and feeling Fate was holding her for him, Slade slowed down. He caught sight of the three winded Yankees doing the same thing.
Damned woman could run like a greyhound. Slade no more than thought it before his ears were assaulted by a clanging, clattering commotion out in the street. Looking to his left, he jerked to a stop, breathing hard, hands to his waist.
“Hallo! Beware! Runaway team! Runaway team! Save yourselves!” A whip lashed. Screams rent the air. Jangling livery mingled with the guttural snorting and stamping gallop of horses out of control. A huge, weathered-wood carryall careened crazily back and forth in the street. And the driver looked straight at Hannah as he whipped his animals into a frenzy.
For Slade, time slowed to a molasses trickle. He means to kill Hannah. Slade turned his head to her, saw her look directly into his eyes, open her mouth to a surprised O, and then give a fierce tug on her captured cloak. Slade put his hand out, began running, his heart and blood pounding out of proportion with his efforts, and cried, “Hannah, get back. Hannah!”
Hannah’s cloak came free. Her momentum staggered her back into the street, her arms flailing, her eyes wide. Slade thought he heard her cry out his name. One of her damned Yankees made a plunging leap for her. And they both disappeared under the wheels of the wagon. Sickening thumps and screams split the air. Gasps and groans went up from the crowd. Some froze. Some covered their faces with their hands. Still others stood transfixed, jaws slackened, as the team hurtled down the street and around a bend.
“Hannah!” Slade screamed from the bottom of his heart. And all went black.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“It happened so fast. There was nothing we could do.”
“Poor thing. To be trampled like that.”
“Never had a chance. Just fell right under their hooves.”
Slade heard the voices, understood the words, but not their significance to him. He opened his eyes, blinked at the bright sun overhead, at the wavering, distorted faces bent over him, and his head lolled to the side. He swallowed and closed his eyes. World spinning. Can’t … remember. Got to get … Hannah.
“Here now, make room. Mr. Garrett’s coming around.”
That was Hammonds’s voice. Slade opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground, surrounded by a crowd of strangers. When hands reached under his shoulders to sit him up, Slade looked up to see Jones behind him. What was going on? What had happened? Other hands brushed him off, patted him consolingly. He turned his head, surprised that he could control it, and saw Mrs. Stanley on her knees beside him. Tears streamed down her face. Why?
“Get me up, Jones.” Was that his voice? It must have been, because Jones again put his hands under Slade’s shoulders, pulling him up to a wobbly stand. Slade leaned against the man until he could gain his equilibrium. Just as suddenly, he remembered it all. The horses. Hannah. The screaming. He turned to Jones. “Take me to Hannah.”
As Jones nodded and put a steadying hand on Slade’s arm, Mrs. Stanley broke into a fresh round of tears and mumbled about the poor, young missus and so much blood. Hammonds shushed her with a sharp noise and then stepped in front of the two men. “This way, sir. We carried her bod—her into the house. Follow me. I’ll move these street types out of the way.” With that, he went ahead, yelling and clearing a path.
Slade stared after the man. Her body? Is that what he almost said? With his mind shying away from that harsh truth, Slade simply followed in his butler’s wake. Slade had Jones stop when they reached the street. Feeling stronger now, he pulled away from the silent guard, who immediately stepped back, his hands crossed in front of him. Slade looked down, and took in a deep breath through his pinched nostrils. He went down on one knee and bent over the man lying bloodied and broken in the street.
Cates. It was Cates. Slade put his hand on the man’s chest and closed his eyes for a moment. The man died trying to protect Hannah. Opening his eyes, Slade turned to Jones, who hadn’t moved, whose face was pale but immobile. “Get him out of the street.”
Slade stood up as Jones and Temple stepped forward to do his bidding. Numb to the core, Slade watched them. If Cates—a big man—looked like this, what must Hannah look like? Right then, Slade knew his worst terror. He looked up at the brownstone landing, saw Mrs. Stanley already there, her sons Jacko and Edgar hanging on to her skirts.
He couldn’t go in there. He couldn’t face what he’d see. To see Hannah torn and broken, like a lifeless baby bird, would make him lose his mind. He’d lost family—both parents and his grandfather Herbert, and it had been awful. But this was Hannah, the only woman he would ever love. And he’d never told her.
Someone put a hand on Slade’s shoulder. He looked down. It was Hammonds, looking fierce and protective. “Come on, sir. Let’s get you inside.”
Slade stared at the man, but didn’t move. “I can’t.”
Hammonds pressed his lips together and gripped Slade around the waist. “Of course you can, sir. You must. For Hannah.”
“For Hannah,” Slade repeated. He put one foot in front of the other and before he knew it, Mrs. Stanley and her boys were moving out of his way and he was inside. He looked around. “Where is she?”
Mrs. Stanley closed the front door behind him and Hammonds, who still held on to his employer. Her lips quivering, she pointed to her right. “We put her in the parlor, sir. On the sofa.”
Slade stared at Mrs. Stanley and then pulled away from Hammonds. “I want to be alone with her.”
Mrs. Stanley and Hammonds nodded silently and turned away, shooing her boys ahead of them. In the silence following their departure, Slade heard the outside noises through the closed door. He heard the hallway clock marking time, time in a world without Hannah. Stiffening against the shudder that ripped through him, he turned woodenly toward the parlor and peered into it. Filtered light from the curtained windows shadowed the room’s interior.
But not enough that he couldn’t see the figure on the sofa. Hannah. So still. Like a painting. Her outflung arm hung limply off the cushions. Her head lolled against her shoulder. He took a deep breath and walked over to sit in a chair someone had already pulled up to her. He sat down and looked her over. Cuts, scrapes, bruises. Smeared and spattered blood on her face and hands and clothes. Enough!
Leaning forward, he gathered her to him as best he could and rested his forehead against her soft hair. She was still so warm. The dam broke and took Slade with it. Washed away into a dry valley of anguish, agonizing shudders shook him, an intense sickness and desolation pounded at his soul. He called her name, rocked her, held her, begged her not to leave him. Finally, he whispered, “I love you, Hannah.”
“I love you, too, Slade.”
Slade jerked upright, wiped at his eyes, and stared down at her. Her eyes were still closed. And she hadn’t moved that he could tell. Was it then some cruel twist of his mind? Testing his mental faculties, he repeated, “I love you, Hannah.”
Her eyelids fluttered, finally opening. Blue-green eyes, the color of his world, stared at him. “I love you, too.”
“Mother of God!” Slade abruptly released her and jerked back, stumbling and overturning his chair as he tried to stand up. He ended up sitting on the floor, a tangled mishmash of limbs and chair
and flowered upholstery. For several seconds he stared at her and blurted out, “I thought you were dead. Son of a bitch! You scared the hell out of me, Hannah.”
Hannah frowned, blinked, and confirmed, “I’m not dead.”
Slade stared at her for a moment. She’s not dead. His heart soaring, the sun coming out again to warm his soul, he thought that maybe once he extricated himself from this chair, he just might kill her for scaring him like this. “But everyone acted as if you were. I didn’t know what to think.”
Hannah smiled and then grimaced with the effort of pulling herself up onto her elbow. “Yes you did. You thought that you loved me.”
If that was her only concern, she couldn’t be too seriously injured. Everything in Slade softened, warmed. He wanted to throw his head back and laugh and take her in his arms to swing her around and never let her go. But being the man that he was, he sat in his tangle, frowned at her, and sparred with her. “I said no such thing. You were hearing things.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Admit it. You said it twice.”
Slade smiled back. Had it meant his entire fortune was forfeit, he couldn’t have looked away from her knowing eyes. The little dickens now had the upper hand. And she knew it.
Frozen in place in a ridiculous tableau, one leg wedged under the chair’s arm and resting on the seat cushion, his other one pinned under the chair’s weight, Slade drank in her bruised and bloodied but so thankfully alive self—and realized he was an inch away from blubbering like a baby. Determined he’d die before he’d do that again, he forced himself to grin. “I never said it.”
* * *
“Slade, please put me down. I can walk. I don’t want to greet our guests like this. I’m in my bedclothes. Just because you gave Olivia another afternoon off doesn’t mean I can’t dress myself. Now, put me down.”
“Not on your life. And have you go headlong down these narrow stairs, kill yourself, and ruin Isabel’s party? I think not. I’d never hear the end of it.”
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