Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 05]

by Deadly Caress

  “Don’t sit there,” Hart said, reaching for Francesca’s arm. “She may be diseased, for God’s sake! And the lice! She hasn’t had a bath in a year, I think.”

  “Hart,” Francesca protested. “Give me a moment.”

  The woman looked up suddenly. “Bugger off, asshole,” she said directly to Hart.

  He froze.

  So did Francesca.

  The woman grumbled, “Had a bath mebbe a month ago. Willits Bath House.” She started singing again.

  Francesca took her arm, ignoring Hart’s disapproving groan. “What is your name? I am Francesca Cahill, and I do wish to speak with you!”

  “Rockabye baby, rockabye baby, ha ha ha!” she crowed.

  “This is a waste of time.”

  Francesca glared at Hart. “You have become a sulky child! Next time, I will not bring you along!”

  He glared in return. “I cannot believe my brother allows you to participate in these investigations.”

  She sighed, ignoring him. “Miss, please! I do need your help! Please tell me your name,” Francesca begged now.

  The woman did not look at her. It was as if she had not heard her, but Francesca knew now that she had. She started to mumble to herself. “Why don’t they help? What did I do! Oh, God, It’s cold tonight! Damn leatherheads! Not fair . . . Not fair at all. I want it back, I do! My good Sunday dress, that pretty blue hat . . .”

  “She’s mad,” Hart said, quietly now.

  Francesca stood, hoping that was not the case. “I need to clean her up, get coffee and food into her.”

  His eyes popped. Hart was a master of self-control, and she had never seen him so unmasked and so stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Please give us a ride home.”

  “You . . . and her?” He was disbelieving, his eyes wide. Then, “Absolutely not!”

  “What if the killer comes back for Sarah?” Francesca cried, grabbing his arm. Their gazes locked. “I know she is drunk and unclean, but I suspect she sees and knows more than she lets on. And we do not know that she is mad! I also suspect she is here frequently. Please, Hart! All I ask is that you help me get her into your coach and that you drop us at my home.”

  “Your mother will murder you—and never allow me in your door again,” he said darkly.

  “Mama adores you and you know it. She will be thrilled if you ever tell her you seek to marry me. Now do help.” She turned and began to lift the old woman to her feet, slinging one arm over her shoulder and heaving her bulk up with all of her might.

  The woman cried out. Then, “Help me! Help me! Agh, help me! Murders and monsters!” she screamed.

  The woman sagged, resisting and almost bringing Francesca down to the ground. Francesca stared at her. “Murders and monsters?” she cried.

  “Helppp!” the woman screamed.

  “Oh, God,” Hart snapped. He effortlessly heaved the screaming old woman over his shoulder, upside down, much to Francesca’s amazement. Not looking at her, he started for the gleaming elegant barouche parked with his driver, Raoul, standing by the first of the six horses. The blacks in the traces were magnificent, the entire rig as out of place in the neighborhood as Calder Hart himself. “You can clean her up in my kitchen,” he said, sounding furious. “But do not tell your mother that I have participated in this madness.”

  Francesca grinned. Calder was afraid of Julia, too, and she intended not to forget it. The knowledge would most definitely come in handy one day.

  And then the woman who was screaming, “Help! Murder! Monsters!” as she was toted to Hart’s coach on his shoulder, ceased her noise. She looked up from her contorted position, met Francesca’s gaze, grinned, and winked.

  Francesca blinked.

  A crowd had gathered in Calder Hart’s enormous kitchen.

  The woman sat at the table where the servants dined, now completely bathed, her hair washed and pinned up, and wearing one of the housemaid’s uniforms—a plain black dress with a starched white collar. She was drinking her third cup of coffee and eating from her second plate of beef and potatoes. She was ravenous, and now that she was clean and clothed, she looked like anyone’s kindhearted, chubby-cheeked grandmother.

  Francesca was the only one seated at the table, just opposite her. Grace Bragg, stepmother to Rick and foster mother to Calder, stood beside her, as did her daughter, Lucy Savage. Both women were beautiful, tall and voluptuous with slender waists and brilliant red hair. Grace was dressed for an evening out—she wore a green evening gown with diamond jewelry. Lucy wore a blue day dress. The only difference between mother and daughter other than their years and the length of their hair—as Lucy’s was very long—was the fact that Grace wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that kept slipping down her nose.

  Rourke and his father, Grace’s husband, Rathe, stood in the doorway, arms folded across their chests. Both men were dressed for an evening on the town as well. As they thoroughly resembled one another, being golden-eyed, dark blond, and very handsome, any observer would instantly realize that they were father and son.

  A dozen servants observed the interloper from their respective stations in the huge kitchen, which boasted several ovens and three stoves, two fireplaces, and two long work tables.

  “I would have never believed it,” Lucy said. “You have done an admirable job, Francesca. She could be in Hart’s employ.”

  Before Francesca could respond, the woman paused with fork lifted and said, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to talk about a soul when she can hear?”

  Lucy flushed, coming forward. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  Francesca leaned toward the woman. “Can we start over?” She smiled. “I am Francesca Cahill. The gentleman who brought us here is Calder Hart, and this is his home. Do you have a name?”

  “Your gentleman friend is as rich as Hades,” the woman said, “and a jackass.”

  Lucy tittered.

  Francesca smiled and said, “He can be a thorough pain, but he has his redeeming moments. This is his family. His parents, Rathe and Grace Bragg, his sister and brother, Lucy and Rourke.” There was no point in explaining that Hart wasn’t actually related to any of the Braggs at all.

  The woman sat up straighter. “Braggs? Braggs are in the room?”

  Francesca nodded curiously. “Indeed they are. So you know of the family?”

  “There was a lawyer named Bragg. In Boston. He took care of my son.”

  A hush fell upon the room. Francesca’s heart beat hard. She heard someone enter but did not look away. “That would be Rick Bragg. He is the commissioner of police in the city here.”

  “My son was innocent. But everyone said he killed his wife.” Tears moistened her eyes but did not fall. “Bragg believed him. He was the only one who believed him, the only one who would take his case.”

  Francesca’s heart swelled with what felt like love and with real pride. Spending the afternoon with Hart had almost made her forget the traits she truly admired in a man—selfless charity and the strongest sense of justice, both personal and otherwise. She smiled. “He is a good friend of mine.”

  “My name is Ellie,” the woman said suddenly, and she gazed now coldly across the room. “An’ I don’t like bein’ manhandled by a man, not even one as handsome as the Devil.”

  Francesca turned and saw that Hart had entered the room, also in his tuxedo. Her heart stopped. He was going out. That was not unusual; still, she was dismayed, when she should not care. She told herself that he was probably going out with his family. She didn’t really believe it. He was going out with a beautiful woman; of that she had no doubt.

  “I apologize,” Hart said, coming forward to stand with his hand on the back of Francesca’s chair. Her nape prickled in response to his nearness. “But I do think the bath and good meal have done wonders for you.”

  Ellie’s eyes moistened precariously now, and she nodded, looking down. “Thank you for the hot bath and hot food,” she whispered roughly. “An’ the clean c
lothes.”

  Francesca could not help herself—she reached out and covered Ellie’s hand. “You may keep the dress.” She didn’t hesitate. “I have need of a housemaid. Would you like to be employed at my home? We live a few blocks downtown.” She smiled warmly.

  Ellie stared.

  Hart said warningly, “Do you think that is a good idea, Francesca?”

  Francesca ignored him.

  “You really need a maid? I could do it—I worked in a factory, but I could learn. I’m smart, I am,” Ellie cried eagerly.

  Francesca smiled. “You are now employed.”

  “God bless you,” Ellie gasped. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Francesca? May I have a word with you . . . privately? Now,” Hart said. There was nothing about his tone that indicated he was asking her a question. He was very grim.

  Francesca stood and said to Ellie, “Eat up. When you’re done, we will take a hansom home.”

  Ellie wiped her eyes, nodding. And then, “Miss Cahill?”

  Francesca paused. “Yes?”

  “Why did you do this? Why did you seek me out?”

  Francesca hesitated. “A very popular actress lived in Number Two-oh-two, the building next door to where I found you. She was murdered this last Monday. I had wondered if you might have seen something odd or unusual.”

  Ellie paled. “I seen plenty,” she murmured.

  Francesca rushed forward. “Did you know Miss Conway? Surely you don’t mean that you saw her murdered!”

  “I knew her. How could I not? She was a beautiful redhead, like that lady over there.” She nodded at Lucy. “She always gave me a half dollar when she saw me. She was so kind. Everyone knew she was a real stage actress.”

  Francesca grabbed her hands. “What did you see?”

  “A monster,” Ellie whispered.

  For one moment Francesca did not understand. And then she was disappointed, thoroughly so. “A monster?”

  Ellie nodded, her eyes wide—frightened. “A big man with no eyes and no mouth,” she said.

  “What?” Francesca gasped.

  “I saw a monster. I saw him go into her building, I did. I don’t remember when, but he was a monster, no eyes, no mouth—I ain’t never seen anything like it!”

  A silence fell over the room.

  Francesca did not believe in monsters. She could only assume Ellie had been terribly drunk and hallucinating—or perhaps the monster she spoke of had been a result of a drunken dream.

  “Francesca?” Hart grasped her elbow, his tone firm.

  She met his gaze and tried to smile, so he would not know how absurdly disappointed she was, and followed him from the kitchen. In the hallway, her smile faded as she recalled that he had undoubtedly drawn her aside to chastise her for hiring Ellie. She prepared for an unpleasant battle.

  But he smiled at her, a vast affection in his eyes. “I suppose I shall have to get used to you adopting stray souls,” he said, his smile achingly tender.

  Her heart stopped. “She isn’t quite mad after all, Calder,” she began. “I mean, that talk of monsters—”

  “Hush.” He touched her mouth with his finger. “I am not asking you to change, darling.”

  She did not move. She simply couldn’t.

  Their gazes locked.

  She simply could not bear it. She breathed, her lips parting beneath his fingertip, and his smile faded and she felt the exact moment that his affection changed. Although he wasn’t touching her, except with one fingertip, she felt a new tension begin to radiate from him, as warm as smoke. He leaned slowly toward her, his expression becoming strained. His eyes changed color, smoking. Francesca gazed at his mouth, inches from her own. He dropped his hand.

  Oh, God. Finally, he was going to kiss her.

  His expression changed, tightening. And Francesca saw the battle he was waging with himself as clearly as if she were standing upon an actual battlefield. Her heart lurched—he was going to walk away from her, again! And she took action.

  She leaned forward purposefully, so very frightened now, brushing her mouth against his.

  Finally. Finally she could taste and feel his lips.

  He did not move.

  Francesca breathed, and she had begun to brush her lips over his, repeatedly, softly, when he broke.

  Hart moved. Suddenly, hard, taking over the kiss, controlling it.

  Francesca sank against the wall, her heart racing impossibly, frighteningly, her sex expanding immediately, completely. His lips were firm, at once very demanding yet oddly coaxing, too, feather-light, then changing, becoming insistent, urgent. Her hands found his chest, beneath his jacket, and through the fine cotton of his shirt she felt rock-hard muscles beneath her palms, and his thickly drumming heartbeat. It was racing with alarming speed.

  She needed this man now. And clearly, he needed her, too.

  Her hands closed over his powerful shoulders and she was shocked by the power contained there. For one brief moment, he tested the pressure of her lips, not yet invasive—yet she knew there would be more. For one instant, the tip of his tongue slid slowly, deliberately teasingly along her lips—provocative and inflammatory. Francesca heard herself moan.

  He seized the moment, thrusting deep. She felt him against the back of her throat. She tasted more scotch, and man. She tasted Calder Hart.

  Francesca saw galaxies filled with light, shimmering around her, and she gripped his muscular neck, hanging on tight. Hart was going to take her there. . . .

  He pulled away.

  She gasped but could not speak—protest. Francesca collapsed against the wall, her heart exploding in her chest, her body shuddering on the brink of climax. She wanted to scream and shout and demand he continue. But she couldn’t speak; she couldn’t move.

  He stared harshly at her face. He knew. And his eyes were smoky gray with his own smoldering lust. She had never received such a look from him before; in fact, she had never been the recipient of such an intense look before—not ever. And she knew, she simply knew, that when he strained over her, inside her, he would be looking at her this way—with purpose and resolve, all of it sexual, a warrior claiming his victory on the battlefield that would be their bed.

  His hands fisted on the wall, over each of her shoulders, and he locked her there. “I am not breaking my resolution,” he ground out. But his body shifted, and one touch was enough. His arousal brushed against her belly. Instantly their gazes clashed. As instantly, he shifted back, away.

  “Not fair,” she gasped. “Not fair.” Briefly she thought she felt every inch of him. Throbbing heat, slick power . . .

  “Life is never fair,” he returned harshly.

  Francesca screwed her eyes shut against tears of need.

  He cursed viciously. “I am not corrupting you; I am not treating you the way that Rick has. This will not happen again.” His eyes blazed with anger.

  “No!” The word was out before she could control it. He moved away—she grabbed his lapels. She wasn’t sure what she meant to do—drag him behind closed doors, rip off his clothes, or plead with him to ravish her in precisely the same way. He cut her off.

  “I may be many things, Francesca, but the one thing I am is a man of my word. If I give it.” He was even more furious now than before. She knew he was enraged with himself. “God damn it! We’re not even engaged!”

  “But you want me,” she said pathetically.

  His laughter was harsh. “And I shall have you—properly . . . or not at all.”

  She let him go. She felt tears rising and she could not stop them from falling. Because she knew he meant his every word—and she knew he would remain immovable. “But I can’t marry you,” she whispered, slumping against the wall.

  He did not immediately reply, and she opened her eyes to find him staring. She shivered, aroused so quickly again. It took only a single look.

  His mouth hardened into a line that might have been a mirthless smile. “My poor darling,” he whispered roughly. “Beli
eve me, I know exactly how you are feeling.”

  She shook her head, her cheeks tear-streaked and wet. “Hardly,” she choked. “Because you can go to Daisy, and I have nowhere to go!”

  He stared. And his expression softened—his lips started to turn upward; a twinkle appeared in his eyes.

  “Don’t laugh!” she shouted, striking at his chest.

  He caught her fist and kissed it. “Is this a tantrum, darling? Is this what I shall have to look forward to?” His tone was teasing.

  “I am not a spoiled child who has temper tantrums!” she cried.

  “Hush.” He pulled her close, against his solid, sexy chest, and kissed the top of her head. Unfortunately, his member remained rock-hard, without a doubt as to his feelings. “My entire family will hear you shouting to have sex with me.”

  She landed a useless blow on his chest, as one could not land a punch when pressed against one’s adversary, and then she gave up. Why move? Her cheek solidly planted somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. She could hear its powerful yet ragged beat. She could feel his breath on her hair, and she loved having his arms around her. Almost as much as she loved him pressing and throbbing deeply against her belly. Francesca squeezed her eyes shut. Orgiastic images danced in her head, Hart naked and powerful; herself, naked and submissive.

  “If I didn’t know better,” she whispered, “I would think that you are slowly but surely seducing me to your will.”

  Silence was his reply.

  It suddenly struck her like a bolt of dazzling lightning that this was the case. That this was his plan. To torture her with what might be until she yielded to him. And oh, the plan was a good one! She jerked out of his grasp.

  He wasn’t smiling now. Not really. He was watching her very, very carefully, as if they were opposed to each other and he was waiting to see where and how she would now strike.

  “Is that what you intend? To make me insane with wanting your lovemaking . . . until I give you what you want—marriage?” she asked furiously.

  A long pause ensued. He replied very slowly, “You kissed me, Francesca.”