Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  “Never say he’s in there still? I’ll get him out.”

  “Nay—” Liam tried to seize the arm of the man at his side, someone dear to him, he felt sure, but missed as his companion raced toward the flames, nothing but a dark silhouette bent upon sacrifice.

  And a woman stood there also—his flailing mind supplied a name, Nancy. She waved her arms as Liam’s companion pelted past her into the fire.

  Leaden steps took Liam forward to where the woman stood and the impossible heat beat at him.

  “Nancy,” he said.

  She looked at him. Her wide eyes reflected the madness of the flames, and dark patches marred her milk-white skin. He realized, with a sick twist of his stomach, those marks were burns.

  “Tommy’s inside?” he barked. Tommy, no more than six months old, the smallest McMahon.

  “In his cot.”

  The child would never survive.

  No sooner did that thought possess Liam’s mind than Nancy clutched his arm with both hands. “’Twas an accident,” she wept. “I was angry, but I never meant—”

  “Never mind that now.” Liam denied the rage that flared inside him, hotter than the flames. Foolish woman! Could she not be trusted to watch her own child and keep him safe? But nay, all that mattered now was the child inside and the heroism of the man who’d run in after him.

  If only Liam could remember his name.

  He came awake even as the black wall crashed down in his mind, shutting away the bright and terrible scene. He lay in the quiet of his bedroom, flat on his back, like a dead man, and concentrated on just breathing. What had that been? A scene from his past, unquestionably—a memory. A communication from beyond the barrier death had left in his mind.

  A woman called Nancy. His wife? And an infant son.

  He drew another shuddering breath, this one deep. But then who was the man who had run into that conflagration? And had he come out again with the child, alive or dead?

  The child must have survived, if the manifest old man Van Hamelin’s lawyers had turned up contained any veracity. They said he had traveled with his wife and infant son.

  From Dublin, via Galway.

  Yet he knew to his heart the scene he had just witnessed had taken place somewhere out in the countryside, at a place he both knew and loved.

  No matter, he told himself sternly. If this memory had returned to him, surely more would come.

  And that meant he had to tell Clara.

  At the thought of her he reached out in the bed, but encountered only empty bedclothes. He started up, a sick feeling gripping him.

  He saw her at once. She stood at the bedroom window gazing out, motionless as a woman carved from alabaster. Only the faintest radiance filtered in, making a soft nimbus of her ruffled hair and rendering opaque the simple white nightgown she wore.

  Liam’s heart clenched. What if it all proved true? What if he had a wife, a son, other claims upon him? He believed Clara when she said she would end it with him. But if she did, he would never survive.

  He rose softly and went to her where she stood, enveloped her body with his from behind, and looked where she did. Outside, dawn filtered over the streets and rooftops from the east, flowing toward the river. All lay gray and quiet, nearly formless save for roof slopes and chimney pots, the lines that denoted streets. For what could she possibly look?

  He wrapped his arms tight around her and she tensed for a moment before relaxing against him. She felt so small and fragile to contain his whole world. He bent his head and nuzzled her ear, just for the way it made him feel.

  “What are you doing up? You’re chilled to the bone. Here, let me warm you.”

  She said nothing, merely continued to gaze at whatever she saw. But he could feel the discord inside her, like lead in her heart.

  The light outside strengthened, fluid as music. A figure appeared in Virginia Street, a hawker with a cart.

  “Come back to bed,” Liam persuaded. “’Tis no good standing here in your bare feet.”

  “Did you ever wonder if any of it is real?” she asked, and her voice traveled through him the way pleasure did when he loved her. “Maybe it’s all just a dream.”

  Dream. The word echoed in Liam’s mind. Did he even have to tell her? Did she somehow know?

  “If I’m to live a dream,” he told her, heartfelt, “I want it to be this one, with you.” He ran the palms of his hands up her body, felt easily through the thin material of her gown. Her emotions kicked through him, and when he reached her breasts he paused to cup them. She leaned back into him then, but didn’t stop gazing.

  “Blarney,” she said.

  He didn’t like that response. “You think that all it is?”

  “You have a magic tongue and magic hands—whoever you are.”

  Ah, so that was what rode her, was it?

  He found her nipples with his thumbs and stroked them. Into her ear he crooned, “I am the man who needs you in order to live. You didn’t bargain on that when you brought me back to life, did you? That it wouldn’t be enough to breathe the revival into me—you’d have to keep feeding it to me with your presence.”

  “I did not.”

  “Do you want shed of me, Clara? Do you?”

  She sighed. Both her nipples now stood at attention, ripe for plucking. For him, only for him.

  “No, I don’t want rid of you. But I’m wondering just how selfish I can be.”

  “Selfish?”

  “As you just pointed out, I barely considered you before I began this. I thought it nothing to use you—a man with a blank slate for a mind—as I needed. Except you weren’t blank, were you? Not quite. And now you have a past following you, and I—”

  “You?” he prompted.

  She began to tremble. “I want you so very badly. What a tangle.”

  It was, that.

  She said abruptly, “Ruella thinks I should send you away before you’re arrested for bigamy or fraud.”

  “Damn Ruella.” He pressed his warm mouth to the cool skin of her neck, just the place he knew she liked. God, but he needed the taste of her. “I’m going nowhere.”

  “I should perhaps cut my losses before it all comes crashing down. Vacate the house before we’re thrown out, find smaller quarters. The lads are earning a fair wage. Georgina and I could go out to work also.”

  “Doing what?” He stiffened indignantly.

  She told him almost dreamily, “Doing as other women in this city do, earning their way. Georgina is a fine seamstress. I could take on manual work.”

  “Where? At one of the laundries, like Cassie’s ma? Working yourself to sickness or worse? What about me?”

  “You, Liam McMahon, are dangerous. I should have seen that at the outset. I never should have started all this.”

  He ignored those words. “You think I would see you ruining yourself at labor when I’ve two hands and a strong back? I’ll work for you, Clara. I’ll—”

  “You’ll be gone. I think Ruella and Theodore are right. Boston’s the place. I can borrow the money from Theodore for your fare.”

  Liam had no doubt Collwys would contribute the funds, just to be rid of him. But he said, stubbornly now, “I’m going nowhere.”

  “It’s best.”

  “No. Listen to me.” He turned her about to face him and got a glimpse of the troubled look in her eyes. “You just got done saying you were wrong not to have considered my feelings. Yet you want to do it all over again and send me away like a servant?”

  “Because”—disconcertingly, her lip trembled and her eyes filled with anguished tears—“because I care.”

  Liam’s heart melted in his chest.

  “I can’t see you taken into custody, perhaps back in Maynard’s hands, at the very least facing prosecution. My grandfather won’t make any mistakes with it, Liam. Then we’ll be torn apart anyway. It is more,” she concluded with dignity, “than I think I can stand.”

  “Och, darling.” He caught her up in his arms, ligh
t as a child, and carried her back to the bed. “Nor will you need to,” he promised rashly. “We’ll find a way.”

  “How? It’s hopeless.”

  He held her close while she wept against him, a veritable storm that left his chest sodden. Ah, how could he tell her now what he’d dreamed, and add to her distress? Instead, he kissed her all over her face, blessing away the tears, and then fixed his mouth to hers. She clung to him, trembling badly now, while he ran his hands up under the thin fabric of the gown and brought her alight. He already stood for her, helpless and utterly unable to prevent it.

  “Please,” he begged into her open mouth, “let me take the hurt away. And the fear, let me take that also.”

  “It is no answer,” she protested. “Just a temporary—”

  He silenced her with his tongue in her mouth, stroking wildly. He let his love and need pour into her. He let his hands do the wooing and his fingers, between her thighs.

  When she next broke the kiss, gasping, it was to beg in turn, “Liam, please.”

  “Trust me,” he bade even as he surged into her. “Trust me to take care of you.”

  And as he loved her with all his devotion, he thrust the memory of Nancy McMahon from his mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Where is Liam?” Clara demanded of Georgina, even as she denounced herself for fretting. She grew weary of asking the same question over and over again. Keeping track of Liam was like trying to leash a wayward hound.

  Now she stood at the parlor window with Cassie beside her, the child’s hand in hers. Cassie hadn’t been by in several days; her intense need for Clara seemed to be waning as her attachment to her mother reformed. Clara wondered whether it wouldn’t be the same for Liam, if he would eventually be able to move away and separate from her, if the mad rush of physical need would die away.

  The very prospect left her feeling stunned and breathless. He might be able to live without her, but she without him?

  Georgina paused at her shoulder and peered outside. “I’ve not seen him since early this morning when he had his breakfast. Speaking of which, Clara, I need some money for eggs, bread, and sugar—tea, as well, if we can afford it. We’re just about cleaned out of everything.”

  Clara sighed gustily. “I thought we’d be in the money by now. There’s very little left in my purse. Do you think Meyers would give us credit?”

  Georgina shook her head but said, “I don’t know. Maybe if I take Jimmie with me. Mrs. Meyers has a weak spot for him.”

  Clara rubbed at her forehead fitfully. “I’ve not paid for that last load of coal yet, and winter’s breathing down our necks.” And Liam made another mouth to feed, one with a healthy appetite. “See what you can do in the way of credit, Georgina. But get at least a small measure of tea.” Liam did enjoy his tea.

  “I will.” Georgina went out into the hallway, where she called to Jimmie and then took up her hat and coat. Clara accompanied her to the door, still yearning for sight of Liam. Virginia Street bustled with life, horsedrawn wagons and steamcabs both rattling by, and the man who sold fresh vegetables from a barrow on his usual rounds. Children ducked and played; wan, cold sunlight shone down.

  Georgina turned away to help Jimmie don his jacket, and Clara asked Cassie, “What time does your mother leave work today? Is it her half day? You’ll want to run home to her then.”

  When she straightened, her eye became caught by a figure coming along the street at a swagger. Tall and broad, he had a cloth cap pulled well down over his forehead and wore a workman’s clothes the way another man might a finely-tailored suit. Her pulse leaped even before she recognized him.

  “That’s Liam.”

  Georgina and Jimmie looked where indicated. Georgina’s eyes widened. “Is it safe for him to be abroad in daylight?”

  “Most certainly not.” The man whistled as he came, all self-satisfied nonchalance. When he saw her, he stopped whistling and grinned.

  “Good day, ladies,” he bade them when he reached the walk, and doffed his hat. “Lovely weather for the time of year.”

  Georgina rolled her eyes.

  Clara demanded, “Where have you been?”

  He did not answer at once, but stepped up to Clara and gave her a glance, mischief bright in his eyes. “Did you know, Mrs. McMahon, you talk in your sleep?”

  “I do not.”

  “Ah, but you do, most definitely.” He smiled at Jimmie, who beamed back at him. “Perhaps you’ve heard her, lad?”

  Jimmie shook his head, and Clara cried, “What are you on about? What have you done?”

  In answer he dug in one of his front pockets and produced a wad of cash. Jimmie spoke a word that ordinarily would have brought censure down upon his head. Now Clara barely noticed. She stared, blinked, and Liam stuffed the money into her hand.

  “There should be enough for our immediate needs and a good bit toward the bill owing for the coal, as well.” He added to Georgina in a charming aside, “She was after fretting about it last night.”

  “Was I?” All Clara remembered was lying in his arms and waking at dawn to his kisses. When she fell back asleep after, he must have left her.

  She stared from the money overspilling her hands to his eyes.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Found me a job, didn’t I?”

  “What?”

  “Earned that right and proper, and there’ll be more coming.”

  “But you can’t go out to work.”

  “I can’t have my wife worrying in her sleep, either, because I can’t provide. What sort of man would that make me?”

  Hastily, Georgina took Jimmie’s hand and then pried Cassie away from Clara’s side. “Come, Cassie love, I’ll take you to your mother on our way. Let Miss Clara and Mr. Liam talk now.” She shot Clara a meaningful look. “But not here on the doorstep, I would hope.”

  “She’s right,” Clara told Liam. “Come inside.”

  He strolled behind her, still all confidence. Clara deposited the money on the table in the parlor and struggled to identify her emotions.

  She turned to face her husband. “A job? Why didn’t you tell me? Why go off that way? You know how I worry when I wake and find you gone.”

  “Sorry, darlin’.” He pulled off the cloth cap and tossed it onto the sofa; his dark hair spilled over his brow, giving him a rakish look. “I didn’t think I’d be able to find work so soon.” He measured her with his gaze. “You’re not best pleased.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But, Clara love, you can’t expect me to sit on my arse in this house day after day while I’ve two good hands and can earn a decent wage. I’ll not have you worrying over bills when I can provide.”

  “You can’t provide!”

  “I most certainly can.” He nodded at the table. “I got that in one morning.”

  “How? Where?”

  “Down the waterfront, helping unload a freighter just come across the lake from Fort Erie.”

  “Out in the open? In broad daylight? What if you were seen?” Clara’s voice rose without her permission.

  “I wasn’t. The place is teeming with people. Who’s going to notice one more body at work? Besides, if it’s Maynard you’re worried about—”

  “It is.”

  “He’s not likely to be lounging down on the waterfront looking for me, is he?”

  “Someone else might see you.”

  “Who? The steamies from Sterling House?”

  “Liam, you had a life before you were hauled off to jail. Presumably you had acquaintances. You probably drank at those taverns on the west side. Any number of former acquaintances could see and recognize you.”

  “’Tis a chance I must take,” he said airily.

  “Are you mad?”

  “No, but I thought about it, sure, lying there beside you in the night. This scheme of yours, Clara, it wasn’t best advised. Now, I’m not criticizing you or saying I’m sorry you launched it; I’m that glad to be alive.” His
voice dropped to a throb. “Even gladder I’ve met you. But you will admit you bolloxed the details, and it hasn’t come out the way you hoped.”

  “True.”

  “Part of that’s down to you, and part’s down to me, but the way I see it, we’re together in it now. I have my role to play, and I mean to take it up. If something in my past has spoiled you getting your inheritance, I’ll do what I can toward the keep of this household.”

  Clara drew breath to reply, to protest again. He didn’t give her the chance.

  Still sounding self-satisfied, he went on. “There’s no end of work for a man with a strong back and some skill in his hands. And it seems I’ve talents to spare—some coming back to me.” He gazed at his own palms in calculating wonder. “I can work wood with these. I spoke to a man on me way home—a coffin maker. I believe I could make a very good wage working for him.” He shot her another bright look. “So if you balk at having me out in the open, I’ll take the job he’s offered, instead. No one will see me in the back of his shop, making cradles for the dead. And there’s a certain poetic justice to it, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t want you endangered at all.” She wanted him near her, within reach of her hands and her mouth.

  “Ah, well, Clara, you can’t expect me to idle about when you’re in need. I intend to look after my wife.”

  Clara’s heart clenched in her chest. What if he already had another wife for whom to provide, the mother of his infant son? What had become of her now? Clara’s interference had effectively stolen the woman’s husband from her. Of course it might be argued the warden, Maynard, had stolen him first.

  The parlor door opened, and Dax trundled in. Without taking her eyes from Liam, Clara told the mechanical servant, “Not now, Dax, please.”

  “But, Mrs. McMahon, the tradesman Black is at the door, seeking payment for a coal delivery.”

  Clara’s gaze flicked to the money on the table. Liam drew himself up and asked Dax, “And how much, Dax, would we be owing him?”

  “One dollar ten cents, the man said, sir.”

  Liam gave a low whistle, went to the table, and counted out a sum. “Coal’s as costly as gold, it seems. Here—give him this. Tell him the rest will be paid after the next delivery. Need to keep him coming, sure. We have to make certain all these wee ones stay warm, eh, Dax?”