by BJ Hoff
Samantha. Samantha would know what to do.
But almost as quickly as she considered it, Terese dismissed the possibility. There was something in Samantha’s eyes when she looked at Jack Kane, something in her tone of voice when she spoke about him, that left little doubt as to her feelings for him. Terese had seen it more than once and puzzled over it, wondering how a woman as fine and good as Samantha Harte could be taken with the likes of Jack Kane.
But that she was taken with him, Terese had no doubt.
Come to think of it, Kane’s grim features seemed to soften when he was with Samantha. He became—less forbidding. Perhaps he fancied her, too. Perhaps they even had an understanding.
No, she couldn’t tell Samantha either. It seemed she couldn’t tell anyone.
Throughout the rest of the evening, Terese went back and forth with her suspicions, struggling to convince herself that she was wrong, that she was being foolish and had only imagined any covert threat in Jack Kane’s demeanor.
But her alarm only grew, so much so that by the time David Leslie returned from vespers she was too distracted and tense to enjoy his company.
If Jack felt a nagging uneasiness, even a measure of self-disgust, after his visit with Terese Sheridan, he quickly brushed it aside as he rode home. He was too gripped by his plan, too stirred by the possibilities and what they might mean to his relationship with Samantha to allow any misplaced sense of guilt to spoil his mood.
Clearly, the girl had been shaken. If nothing else, he had set her to thinking. And his instincts told him that Terese Sheridan was smart enough and enough of a survivor to reason things out to her own benefit.
Also, it was evident that she cared deeply for her brother. She wasn’t likely to do anything that might go against Cavan.
He would give her a few days—three or four at the most—then pay her another call. This time he would put his offer on the table.
Unless he had misjudged the girl entirely, by then she would have seen the logic in his idea and would be ready, even eager, to accept.
Only once before he reached home did he fully consider the enormity of what he was about to set in motion. He actually had to bite down hard on the sudden surge of guilt and self-reproach that rose up in him, bringing with it the temptation to abandon the idea altogether. But the thought of Samantha and what he held in his power to give her was all he needed to suppress any doubts he might have had.
Samantha was worth any price he had to pay, certainly worth more than Terese Sheridan’s foolish notion of raising a child on her own.
31
BEFORE THE STORM
I it is who shall depart,
Though I leave with heavy heart.
GEORGE SIGERSON
By the time Samantha and Jack left Maura Shanahan’s flat, evening had drawn around the city, wrapping it in the deep, gray iron of a lowering sky and a bitterly cold wind that held the threat of snow.
Their breath misted the air inside the cab, and Samantha tugged the fur lap robe more snugly about her. It had been a good day, she thought with satisfaction as the cab neared her apartment. Earlier in the afternoon, Jack had sent a message with the news that the case against Maura Shanahan had been dropped, and would Samantha like to be at the jail when she was released? They would then see the woman safely home.
After leaving Maura—still slightly dazed by her good fortune but vastly relieved to be reunited with her children—Samantha had spent most of the ride back trying to thank Jack for his intervention. Although he pretended to dismiss her effusive gratitude as excessive and unnecessary, Samantha was convinced she was right: Maura Shanahan would never have gained her freedom if Jack hadn’t taken a personal interest in her case. Instead, she might well have been swallowed up in a justice system that was at best unpredictable and often corrupt.
He had gone out of his way to help a woman he scarcely knew, and if Samantha wasn’t mistaken, he had done it, not so much for Maura Shanahan, but for her—because of her own personal desire to help the unfortunate woman. Admittedly, Jack seemed to have a genuine fondness for Maura’s son, Willie, whom he insisted was one of his “spunkiest” newsboys. But there was no denying the fact that he’d first become involved in the Shanahan case primarily because of Samantha. How, then, could she not be grateful?
“I think perhaps I may start calling you ‘Sir Jack,’” she said teasingly.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Well, now, I’ve been called many things, Samantha, but certainly that’s a new one. To what do I owe such a radically inappropriate moniker?”
“It seems that you’ve been spending rather a lot of your time lately rescuing damsels in distress.”
“Ah, I see. A knight in tarnished armor.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Badly tarnished, Samantha. Take my word for it.”
Samantha studied him, thinking he did indeed wear a kind of “armor” much of the time. His way, she had learned, of keeping others at a safe distance.
“I can’t help but wonder,” she said, “why you are so intent on making yourself out to be such a blackguard.”
One corner of his mouth quirked, but his expression was without humor. “Just living up to my reputation, Samantha. I have a certain image to protect, you know.”
“Not with me, you don’t. And I’m not sure I give much credence to your so-called reputation anyway. I’m beginning to think you may just perpetuate the myth so people won’t know that you’re actually a very decent man.”
He gave a small whoop of amusement. “Now there’s an original thought! I declare, Samantha, you ought to try your hand at writing. With your imagination, you’d trounce my other reporters.”
“Oh, do stop it, Jack!” she scolded him. “You don’t fool me anymore. Just look what you’ve done for Maura Shanahan. Going to the trouble of hiring your own attorney for her, accompanying me to the jail and the meetings with Avery Foxworth—even driving her home after she was released today. And what about Terese Sheridan?” she went on. “Your protection of that poor girl hardly qualifies you as a scoundrel. Not to mention little Shona Madden. The child thinks you’re ten feet tall!”
He didn’t smile as she’d expected, instead sat tapping his fingers on the handle of the door. “That woebegone wee tyke would no doubt adore anyone who happened to throw a crumb of attention her way. Samantha—”
He stopped, his expression turning even more solemn as he faced her. “Samantha, I only wish you were right. I wish I were a better man than I appear to be, better than I’m presumed to be. I’d like nothing more than to be the kind of man you might wish me to be. But the truth is, I’m not, and you mustn’t delude yourself into thinking otherwise.”
He waved off her attempted objection. “Don’t try to paint me as something other than what I am, Samantha. We both know I’m on my best behavior with you because I’m set on making you my wife. And I meant what I told you the night I first asked you to marry me: I’ll devote myself to winning your trust and to being a good husband. But I’ll not attempt to deceive you nor allow you to deceive yourself.”
Samantha sensed that this declaration was absolutely sincere. And doubtless she ought to heed it, word for word. But it wasn’t quite that easy, given the fact that she had come to love Jack Kane—loved him in spite of his questionable past, in spite of his less than admirable qualities, and in spite of his harsh opinion of himself. It was too late to go back, now that she knew—and loved—not the facade he presented to the world, the man he was presumed to be, but rather the heart he had opened to her, the man he was.
“Samantha?”
She tried not to look at him, for he would surely see more in her eyes than she wanted him to. But he was not to be put off. With one hand, he gently but firmly turned her about to face him. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Something flickered in his eyes, and Samantha saw again that he was altogether serious and, moreover, that he was determined to make her accept this uncompr
omising depiction of himself.
“You won’t permit me to even give you the benefit of the doubt?” she said, trying for a lighter tone.
His eyes searched hers, and for a moment Samantha thought there was something more he wanted to say to her. But then he blinked, and his features cleared.
“Not a bit of it,” he said, matching her tone. “Though if you’re inclined to show me a measure of mercy now and then, I wouldn’t be too proud to accept it.”
He released her, and a heavy silence hung between them for several minutes, with nothing to be heard except the jangle of harness and the clop of the horse’s hooves on the street.
“Here we are,” he said, rousing Samantha from her thoughts as they pulled up in front of her apartment building. “I don’t suppose you’re going to invite me in,” he said.
“You know very well I won’t, so why do you always ask?”
“My image, remember?” He grinned at her, a return to his earlier sardonic humor. “Outrageous womanizer that I am, I have certain standards to maintain.”
“Yes, well, not with me, you don’t.”
“Very well,” he said. He gave a long, dramatic sigh—known as an “Irish sigh,” according to Jack, because “didn’t we perfect the art?”
His gaze went over her face with such a depth of tenderness and unmistakable longing that Samantha thought he would surely kiss her. Instead, he merely lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her gloved fingers.
Samantha didn’t know whether she was relieved or disappointed. Perhaps a little of both.
He left her at the door, again lifting her hand to his lips before making his quick little bow and returning to the cab.
Samantha stood and watched the cab until it disappeared into the night. Was he right? Was he really the awful man he made himself out to be, the infidel others rumored him to be? Was she merely blinded by her love for him, too foolish, too stubborn to get away from him while she still could?
Oh, Lord, she prayed silently, you told me I should pray for him and trust you…and I have…but nothing’s changed—no matter how much I pray, nothing seems to change—including my feelings for him. What am I to do, Lord? What am I to do?
She stood there for a long time, praying for Jack and about what she was to do, but the night—and her spirit—refused to give up the silence. Finally, chilled and heavyhearted, she went inside.
For the first time since their arrival, Terese had been able to talk Shona into playing with some of the other children at the mission house. She stood watching them now, a small circle of little girls, all as thin as Shona and just as shabbily dressed, moving the wooden pieces of a puzzle around the floor of the hallway downstairs.
Even in play, Terese observed, the girl’s face was solemn and intent, as if set firmly on some grave purpose. But she was a generous and good-natured child, if unnaturally quiet, and seemed to be getting on well with the others.
When the front door opened, the children scarcely noticed. But Terese felt her heart give a small leap as David Leslie walked in.
His doctor’s bag in hand, his sand-colored hair ruffled by the wind, he smiled at Terese and came directly to her. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you and Shona downstairs!”
Terese felt her face flush at the way he was looking at her—as if he truly was glad to see her. Quickly, she reminded herself that he was her doctor, after all. It was only natural he would be gratified to see any improvement.
Yet at times she sensed it was more than that, that his interest in her perhaps went beyond that of a physician for his patient. Why that would be so, however, eluded her. By now she was heavy with the child; she could not possibly be attractive to him or any other man. Still, the way his eyes seemed to brighten when he looked at her, and the way he could not seem to drag his gaze away from her, made her wonder.
More than once of late, she had caught herself wishing she could have met him at another time…before Brady, before the foolish, sinful dallying that had brought her to her present state.
Her hand instinctively went to her abdomen. But David Leslie seemed not to notice. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from his forehead, still smiling at her. “It’s good to see Shona with the other children. I’ve tried to coax her to join them, but with no success. You’re very good with her.”
“She only agreed because I promised to watch,” Terese told him. “She’s terribly shy and unsure of herself.”
“And reluctant to leave you as well, I’ve noticed. But she looks content enough for now. Why don’t we go to the kitchen and see if there’s any coffee left from supper? I’m chilled through.”
Without waiting for a reply, he went to Shona, leaned down and said something to her, gesturing toward the hallway, then came back to Terese. “We have permission to excuse ourselves,” he said, pressing her arm to turn her toward the doorway.
In the kitchen, they sat across from each other at the table—a large, badly scraped, makeshift affair around which the matrons and volunteers took their meals. David Leslie insisted that Terese have a glass of milk while he drank his coffee. “Only milk for you until the baby is born, young lady,” he said with mock sternness.
Terese made no reply. He seldom mentioned her condition, hardly ever referred to the baby itself, and when he did she felt a wretched sense of shame and embarrassment course through her.
“Terese?”
She looked up to find him watching her.
“I know it’s probably difficult for you, but I think perhaps we ought to talk about the baby. Have you thought about what you’ll want to do after the child is born?”
Terese tried to take a drink of the milk he had set out in front of her, but it stuck in her throat. She set the glass down, avoiding his gaze. “I…don’t know as yet what I’m going to do.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “You’ve been too ill to make any kind of decision. But keep in mind that you’re not alone in this. Since you and Shona are both under the Vanguard’s sponsorship, it’s not as if you’re without means, you know. Samantha Harte will do everything possible to assist you.”
His mention of the Vanguard sent a chill down Terese’s spine. She could still see Jack Kane’s face as it had been when he asked her about her plans.
“Mr. Kane doesn’t think I should keep the baby,” she said bluntly, lifting her face to watch his reaction.
He stared at her, his brows knitting in a frown. “What?”
“Mr. Kane,” Terese repeated, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “He made it perfectly clear he doesn’t think I’m fit to care for a child.”
David Leslie’s lean features tightened still more. “Did he say that?”
Terese shrugged. “Not in so many words, he didn’t. But he made his meaning clear enough all the same.” She paused, the anger and apprehension Kane had evoked in her still all too real. “Do you agree with him? Do you think I ought to give away my baby?”
David Leslie studied her in silence. When he finally replied, his tone was quiet but firm. “What you do about the baby is your decision, Terese, no one else’s. Certainly, given the circumstances, no one would fault you if you decided not to keep the child. But I must say, I’ve had the impression all along that you want to keep it.”
“I do!” she cried. “I wouldn’t be giving it up for anything!” She leaned forward, her hand brushing against the glass of milk. “But Mr. Kane—”
David Leslie reached to steady the glass, then covered her hand with his own. “No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, Terese. I’m sure Jack Kane didn’t mean to insinuate that you should give up your own child. After all, he’s committed the resources of his newspaper to helping you resettle. You must have misunderstood him.”
Terese glanced at his hand covering hers, and he quickly released it.
She had not misunderstood Jack Kane. The more she thought about the encounter, the more certain she was that for whatever reason, the man had been t
elling her not to keep the baby.
“…Kane would have no reason to care one way or the other, after all,” David Leslie was saying.
He went on, but Terese no longer heard him. A sudden jolt of fear sent the blood rushing to her head at a dizzying speed. There was the puzzle, right enough: Why should Jack Kane care what an unmarried Irish immigrant girl decided to do with a child that he doubtless assumed to be unwanted entirely?
More to the point, if Kane thought her unfit to care for the child of an unknown attacker—what would he do if he knew the baby had been sired by his own brother? If he was this dead set on her giving up the child when he knew nothing of its father, then dear Lord have mercy, he would probably take it from her himself if he knew it was of his own bloodline!
Terese almost strangled on the thought. It was as if someone had looped a noose around her neck and suddenly tightened it.
David Leslie was watching her, she realized, his expression questioning. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, drawing away from the table. “I mustn’t leave Shona alone any longer.”
In her haste to get away from the doctor’s searching gaze, she nearly knocked over her chair as she got clumsily to her feet and fled the room.
David stood, watching her go, dismayed that he must have somehow upset her still more when he had only meant to reassure her. For a moment he had actually thought she was about to faint, so quickly had she paled and begun to tremble.
He called out to her once, but if she heard him, she pretended not to. She made her way to the door, swaying a little when she reached it, then steadying herself with one hand on the frame before starting off down the hall.
Obviously, this business with Kane had unsettled her more than he’d realized, though probably for no just reason. Kane surely couldn’t have meant to frighten her.
