Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  The breath caught in her throat. “I own no one.”

  He tipped his head. “Then I would be free to leave here if I choose?”

  “That would be most foolish.” She waved a hand at his attire.

  “Fair enough. But I—”

  The door flew open and two children ran in. One was white and one was brown, nearly of an age and both male, clad in nightshirts with their thin legs bare. What in hell? Perhaps this truly was all a mad dream.

  “Miss Clara, Miss Clara, we can’t—” They stopped abruptly, both of them, as if connected by a string, and stared at him, wonder in their eyes.

  Clara took advantage of their sudden silence to say, “Jimmie, Roscoe, what are you doing out of bed? You should be fast asleep.”

  “Couldn’t sleep, miss,” the brown lad replied. He had the face of an imp, all mischief, and at second glance looked healthier than his companion, whose skinny limbs appeared pasty and wizened. “Who’s he?”

  Clara laid a hand on each of their shoulders. “Never mind now. Go back to bed.”

  The pale boy asked, “But what’s he doing here, miss, in the middle of the night and dressed like that?”

  The thoughts moved visibly in Clara’s eyes, her mind ticking over like a well-maintained steam engine. “This is a good friend of mine, come to help us save the house.”

  The brown lad gave a sudden, wide smile. Charm fairly danced off him. “That’s a good thing.” He thrust out a small and not overly clean hand in introduction. “Roscoe Jefferson. Pleased to meet you.”

  The lad’s hand felt tiny in his when he shook it. Courtesy demanded he introduce himself in turn. He shot Clara a look.

  She said, “This is Mr. William Fitzgerald. Mr. Fitzgerald, Roscoe and Jimmie.”

  The second lad, clearly wanting no part of introductions, scowled and put his hands behind his back.

  “Miss, why is he in his night robe?”

  “Had a mishap with me clothes, didn’t I? Out in the rain.”

  Jimmie’s pale eyes widened. “And what’s wrong with his throat?”

  “Part of the mishap, isn’t it?” he answered before Clara could. “Accident with a carriage.” Clearly neither lad believed him, so he added, “Miss Clara’s right, you should be in your beds. Run along now.”

  Jimmie looked at Clara, a protective glance betraying his doubt as to whether he should stay and defend her.

  Were these two lads servants? And what sort of servants ran about the house like heathens in the middle of the night? It was a strange household, sure.

  He clapped his hands. “Off with you, back where you belong. Or do I need to put you there meself?”

  Jimmie backed up a step. Roscoe’s grin widened. A kindred spirit, Roscoe might well be, and cute as sin.

  “Go back to bed like good lads,” Clara put in. “I will explain everything in the morning.”

  They went, Jimmie tugged by Roscoe’s insistent hand. He could hear them nattering together all the way back up the stairs.

  He straightened and raised his eyebrows at Clara. “‘William Fitzgerald’?”

  “I had to tell them something.”

  “I will not be called Fitzgerald!”

  “Why?”

  “I do not like the name.”

  “Why?” she asked again.

  Damned if he knew. Damned if he knew anything at this point, save he wanted to kiss her.

  “It has bad connotations for me.” He waved an arm in a helpless gesture. “I cannot say why. Who are those lads? Servants?”

  “No, members of the household. They, and some others, have found refuge here.”

  “What sort of refuge?”

  “Buffalo can be a hard city for those who get tossed out of their master’s house or flee abuse, especially children. My father was a doctor, and when he treated someone in need, he also offered them a place to heal.” She shrugged delicately. “Some never leave.”

  “A queen of mercy, are you?” He heard the sneer in his own voice.

  “Hardly that. But those children, and others, now consider this place their home. That is why you are here—to help me keep a roof over their heads. That’s why you need to cooperate with me.”

  Chapter Six

  He slept like the dead and awoke with no concept of where he was. He lay for a moment, eyes stretched wide open, and took in the place where he was: fine, high-ceilinged room, burgundy-colored draperies at the window and heavy, dark furniture. Faint sunlight seeped in from outside, showing him he lay in a bed that had four high posters, finer than any where he’d ever laid his head.

  Panic clawed at his belly, like the band of pain that encircled his throat. He didn’t know this place or how he came here. He didn’t know his name.

  Clara.

  He sat up so abruptly his stomach lurched and he had to fight down the urge to vomit. For an instant he thought his brain would explode. Beneath the satin-edged covers he was naked. A robe—brocade, gold and red—lay across the foot of the bed.

  Did he remember the robe?

  God, but his throat hurt. He put up an exploratory hand and encountered a wide abrasion. It hurt both in and outside. What did he recall?

  A slip of a lass. Gray-green eyes. She’d kissed him.

  His panic calmed somewhat but didn’t dissipate. He fought his way out of the covers and went to the window. Below lay a street, an ordinary street with houses—fine, big ones. The street lay wet, though it wasn’t raining now. Dimly he remembered it had rained. Now light bled from his left. Morning.

  The house directly across, built of red brick, had a steamcarriage out front. Two lads tossed a ball back and forth.

  Two lads.

  Did he know them?

  As he watched, a lass came out of the house door directly below and called to them, a tiny, brown beauty.

  His belabored brain supplied a name: Georgina.

  The lads followed her into the house.

  Why was he here? Why couldn’t he remember? By God, he needed a drink.

  The room door behind him whispered open. He caught a glimpse of an elfin face before it shut again, abruptly.

  He snatched up the robe, shrugged into it, and yanked the door open, catching her with wide, startled eyes.

  Her gaze skittered from his face to his throat, down across the muscles of his chest and, as if she could not prevent it, lower still.

  Clara.

  Deliberately, he left the robe hanging open. Want some of that, do you? Come on in—the bed’s just there.

  “How do you feel this morning?” she asked politely.

  Better, for seeing you. “Well enough, except for my throat.” The pain there burned, worse than it had last night, and soreness radiated across his shoulders and down his back.

  “I may be able to do something for that. Come to my father’s surgery for a moment.”

  With a crooked smile, he tied the robe closed, then followed her down the main stairs and through the door on the left.

  Aye, and he had been in places such as this before, though he did not know where or when. A high couch covered in leather occupied the center of the room, and a strong smell of cleaning solution stung his nose. A desk stood in the far corner and shelves filled every other available space.

  Clara turned immediately to one of these and nodded at the couch. “Sit there, please.”

  “You know what you’re after doing with all these vials and implements?”

  “I frequently assisted my father here.” She turned about to face him, and he found himself struck again by the impact of her presence. Bright light flooded through the front windows, making her eyes look more green than gray. Her light brown hair gathered like a cap of feathers around her head, and she looked fragile as a bird. A fey creature, sure.

  She approached him, a jar and a bundle of cloth in her hands.

  “I will just bathe and soothe these abrasions, and wrap your throat to keep you from frightening any more children.”

  She meant to t
ouch him. Glory be to God.

  She poured clear liquid from the jar onto a folded cloth.

  “What is that, then?”

  “Witch hazel.”

  “Good name for you, that.”

  “I am not a witch, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Don’t call me that. ’Tisn’t my name.”

  “What else am I to call you?”

  “What was that first name you gave me last night?”

  “William.”

  “Liam, then. Call me Liam.”

  Her eyes met his for a brief instant that rendered him breathless. She stood, now, virtually within his arms, and him wearing almost nothing.

  “I hope this will ease the pain of those abrasions; I will also apply some of my father’s special unguent. He left a small quantity upon his death.”

  “How long’s he been gone, then?” He fought against the sensation her hands made against the skin of his throat. She had better not look down, for he was hard again. Christ, sure and only green lads were constantly in this condition.

  “Eight months. We were not in particularly good straits even then. My father tended to donate his services to those in need more often than he charged for them.” Her touch felt far too gentle and careful to affect him this way. He was about ready to burst into flame.

  She laid aside the cloth and left him, to search for a second jar on one of the shelves. Devastation assailed him until she returned.

  “So,” he said, striving mightily to sound sane, “you’ve no finances, then?”

  “There is some money tied to the house, and various small amounts coming in, barely enough to feed all the mouths we have at present.”

  She dipped her fingers into the jar and then ran them over the skin of his throat. He nearly came off the couch, the pleasure felt so intense.

  “Ah!”

  “I’m sorry, does that sting?”

  He wouldn’t be able to tell if it did. His blood roared in his ears and obliterated any pain.

  She continued calmly, “And even that funding will end, and we will lose the house very soon, when I turn twenty-one.”

  “How is that, then?”

  “It’s a complicated matter, Mr.—Liam. This house never actually belonged to my father but has been in trust to me since my mother died. It was settled upon my mother by her father, a wealthy man in this city. He never approved of my father, you see, but granted Mother’s request by including a proviso allowing him to remain here throughout his life with a small, extremely stingy income. And I am to inherit it after, provided I’m married by the age of twenty-one.”

  “That seems a strange set of circumstances.”

  “My grandfather is a very strange man.” She sighed, a small sound he felt all through his body. “He came to Buffalo as a youngster, when the Erie Canal opened, and made his fortune shipping lumber back east. The wealth he made he invested in the city, buying a great deal of property. He has a good eye and managed to snatch up and build on parcels that later proved valuable. He has become one of the richest men on the Niagara Frontier.”

  “Aren’t you a lucky girl, then?”

  “No, Liam, I’m not.”

  “But the old bugger will kick off one day, and you’re bound to inherit, right?”

  Her gaze met his in a long look. “No, I will not. My grandfather had other children, who did not defy him and marry outside what he considered their station. I have many cousins of whom he approves. He settled this house on my mother as a dowry, but I expect nothing else from him. And I highly suspect he would enjoy nothing more than snatching this place away from me.”

  “Aye, well, you are in a bit of a fix.”

  “I am.” She finished fastening the cloth bandage around his throat. Her fingers stilled, but she didn’t withdraw them. He remained all too aware of them resting lightly against his skin.

  And, sweet Jesus, he could catch her scent, an enticing fragrance like herbs and pure woman. “Can you no’ break the terms of this will?”

  “We’ve tried. Out of concern for me, my father attempted just that before his death. And I have spoken with a lawyer, a friend of mine, since. No hope, I’m afraid. As I have said, my concern is not so much for me but all those dependent on me—Georgina and the children.”

  “So, then, you’ve only to get married.” It should be easy enough for her, uncannily lovely as she was, and with a property promised to her.

  “I intend to.”

  His stomach dropped. Before he could speak, she continued, “But I will tolerate no traditional marriage. No man will ever tell me what to do, nor make me vow to obey him. Just so you know that. And you should also know that the money attached to the house—that I’ll come into when I turn twenty-one, provided I’m married—should be enough to keep us all, I hope, at least modestly.”

  He lifted a brow. “Why do I need to know that?”

  Her gaze seared him, burning green. “Because you are my intended husband.”

  Chapter Seven

  “You’ve told him everything?” Georgina whispered, while Clara and she stood examining the clothing she’d purchased for Liam. Clara would be much happier if he allowed himself to be called William, a dignified name that, in her opinion, carried some gravitas and implied, well, less Irishness. But she would be much happier were any number of things different.

  The situation—which she had planned out so long and carefully—was very nearly out of her control. She had never bargained on the subject retaining a personality after his resurrection. She had expected him to be a clean slate upon which she, and she alone, could write. A puppet husband, not to put too fine a point on it. A convenience.

  Liam Fitzgerald was proving anything but convenient. She had not guessed when Ruella procured him that he was Irish. Ever since the construction of the Erie Canal the Irish had been scorned as brawlers and boozers—if hard workers. Her grandfather most certainly would not approve.

  And Liam definitely did have a personality. Also enough sex appeal to knock down a brick wall. He seemed clever, as well. Should she scuttle the plan? But what to do with him then? He was here, alive and dependent on her. Besides, she had no time to find another potential husband. And if word got out that she could resurrect the dead…

  She scowled, and Georgina said apologetically, “These things were the best Mr. Miller had, for the money. Not exactly a gentleman’s clothing, and I know you will need him to look the gentleman husband.”

  “Do you think him capable of looking the gentleman?” Clara returned. Liam had something basically rough-and-tumble about him—a brawler, no question.

  “He’s very handsome.” Georgina kept her voice low. Liam was safely in the dining room, stuffing his face with breakfast, but this house was filled with small ears.

  “I don’t know what Ruella was thinking.” But Ruella had understood how desperate Clara was—hadn’t Clara said she’d take virtually any male corpse?

  Liam wasn’t just any male.

  “These clothes are fine for now. At least they appear the right size.” And Clara would be relieved to get him into proper clothing. “I suppose we’ll need to dip further into our savings and take him to a tailor, eventually.”

  “I was able to trade in those things of your father’s, so these didn’t cost much.” Georgina gave Clara a wide-eyed look. “So you did tell him? How did he react?”

  “He said very little.” Liam had shot her a shocked look—and she didn’t imagine much shocked him—and buttoned his lip. “He’s dealing with rather a lot right now, on all hands.”

  “You didn’t expect him to be—like this?” Georgina asked.

  She had not. “I thought he’d be meek and biddable. He still has a sense of himself.”

  “But he remembers nothing before being hanged.”

  “It wasn’t this way with any of the animals.”

  Georgina pointed out, “He’s not an animal. Are you going to carry on with the plan?”

  Clara shrugged uncomfortably. “I mus
t. The story is in place, and you know my grandfather is just waiting, poised like a vulture, to ruin me.”

  The workroom door eased open, and Ruella’s face appeared. Clara always thought her friend and former cook looked like one of the personality Toby jugs that also hailed from England, her features slightly overemphasized, with bulging cheeks and a large, protruding proboscis. But Ruella was large overall, a strapping figure of a woman now crammed into a uniform complete with a stained apron, her blue eyes gleaming. She’d come straight from her job at the jail, no doubt ridden by curiosity.

  Her gaze swept the table in the center of the room, now empty, and her face fell.

  “Where is he, then? It didn’t work, eh? Ah, never mind, miss. Wait till dark, and I will cart him to the river for you.”

  “Come in and shut the door, lest someone hear you. You will not cart him to the river.”

  Ruella eased her bulk into the room and shut the door as bidden. “Why not? That’s where the prison sexton would have dropped him, after all.”

  “The procedure was successful.”

  “Blimey!” Ruella eyes glowed. “I’ll confess I didn’t half doubt it. That was a lot of cold man to resurrect.”

  Clara thought again of the feel of his mouth beneath hers, his tongue stirring, and a shot of pure desire arced through her.

  “So where is he?”

  “In the dining room eating breakfast, clad in nothing but my father’s old robe.”

  “This I have to see!”

  Before Clara could protest, Ruella took off. Clara caught up the clothing and followed, with Georgina in her wake.

  Even before they reached the dining room, she heard voices raised in conversation—Liam’s, recognizable by its deep timbre and the gravel lent by his injured throat, and—children?

  “Oh, no,” she breathed, and pushed past Ruella to enter the room first.

  There she stopped like a pole-axed steer. Liam reigned supreme—she had no other term for it—at the head of the table, the lapels of her father’s robe open on his magnificent chest, his attitude that of a beneficent king. His dark hair spilled in a tumble over his forehead, and his bandages made a bright patch against his tanned skin.