The Northern Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  She shot a quick glance at the nearest door. He stood between her and it, closing off her best chance for escape. Oh God…

  “Don’t think of running. Or screaming,” he added, setting down the empty decanter. “The guards are all Father’s men. They’ve been well paid to ignore anything that goes on in here.”

  She swallowed hard. Not that she’d truly believed those thugs might become her allies but, still, to know that they’d ignore a woman’s screams was a most horrifying thought. She fought back the voice that whispered run! and tried again for logic.

  “If you force me into marriage,” she tried again to reach him using a firmer tone, “that’s cause for a divorce.”

  He snickered at her. “Only if you tell somebody—which you won’t, because you’ll be locked up, waiting for me.”

  She froze. Waiting for him? Dear God, that tiny island and Mercy screaming as she ran from him, blood pouring down her throat from where he’d ripped her earring out…

  He chuckled, a happy sound of purely wicked intent. “I thought that would catch your attention. You’ll live on Collins’s Ledge year round, alone except for the servants and whatever brat is in your belly at the moment.”

  No, never. Please, God, not him and that prison… “Maitland, the other trustees—”

  He smiled all too sweetly—and poisonously—at her. “Will believe you have firmed your preference for the pure ocean air. As you must remember, it’s a difficult place to reach, given the Atlantic’s currents, and the ferry only runs four months a year.” He filled his glass with more brandy.

  Dear heavens, the last time she’d stood in that closet which passed for a cellar, she’d sworn the walls were falling in on her every time a wave crashed onto the beach. If she had to go back? Her pulse was racing and her skin cold and wet under her once-warm dress.

  Bear his child in that cage? She’d fight to the death to avoid it. “No,” she said hoarsely. “No, and no, and no.”

  Maitland looked up from the sideboard, where he was inspecting decanter labels, and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t be absurd, Rachel, I’m going to have you tonight. So just be quiet and maybe you’ll get pregnant quickly, simplifying matters for both of us.”

  She shook her head emphatically. “Never.”

  “You’re being a fool.”

  She shook her head again, keeping her head high with an effort. “No matter what happens, I will never, ever, marry you.”

  Maitland stared at her, anger building behind his eyes. “Dammit, bitch, what the hell do you mean, saying no? You will do exactly what I say. Otherwise—”

  He swung the carved crystal decanter up by its neck and smashed it down onto the table edge. It shattered, sending glittering shards across the Brussels carpet.

  Rachel shrieked and jumped back, her pulse pounding. She almost tripped on her train, but managed to save herself, holding her skirt out of the way with one hand.

  “Defy me and I’ll break you like that crystal, you understand?” He took a step forward, and another, and another, his expression menacing.

  She stepped back, trying not to look at the carpet. Her skin seemed to have completely separated from her body.

  He snatched up the great vase from the center table, with its massive floral arrangement, and dashed it onto the carpet. “You disobey me and I’ll turn you into dust, bitch!” he shouted, grinding his boot heel into the tumbled roses and chrysanthemums.

  She threw a handful of nuts at him, fighting for time and space.

  He came after her one step after another, like a hyena closing in for the kill.

  Her brain raced into action, like a mill wheel spinning a river’s clear waters. There were three exits in all, one of them beyond the latched kitchen door. To reach any of them, Maitland would have to be either compliant—hah!—or unconscious. She needed a weapon to defend herself with, although she had no idea where to find one or how to use it.

  Her hips came up against something solid, the dessert sideboard with its full tea and coffee service. Automatically her hands went back to brace herself and discovered plates and cutlery. She groped, looking for something to defend herself with. Anything long and narrow. Her fingers scrabbled amongst the items, finding custard bowls, cake plates, dessert forks, sugar tongs, lemon fork…

  Maitland loomed over her. He grabbed her, his fingers digging cruelly deep into her hips. “You goddamn bitch, I’ll teach you who’s master here!”

  He tugged at her skirts, arching her backward.

  She was all but light-headed, not entirely sure which thought was instinct or reason. Terror ran hot and fast through her veins, while ice was freezing her skin. Her right hand closed over the lemon fork.

  His leg slammed between hers. He was roaring something profane and horribly explicit about her immediate future servicing him.

  Rachel swung the lemon fork—as long as her hand and narrow as her thumb, its two tines sharp as an ice pick—and slashed Maitland’s face down the temple and cheek to the bone, barely missing his eye.

  He screamed and jerked away, clapping his hands to his face. Blood spurted out, quickly covering his face, and streaming over his neck and cheek. “Damn you, what the hell have you done?”

  She flung the dripping fork away, shuddering at how living flesh had felt under her weapon.

  He spun and grabbed for her again.

  She jerked away and he fell onto his knees, slipping on the slimy, pulped flowers he’d destroyed.

  He lunged for her ankle, his face a crimson mask. “Damn you to hell, Rachel, you’ll wish you’d never been born for slashing me like this!”

  Dear God in heaven, would nothing stop him?

  She grabbed the nearest heavy object, the massive silver coffeepot, just as Maitland’s fingers closed around her ankle. “By God, I’ll take my horsewhip to you!” he vowed and started to come up on his knees.

  She smashed the coffeepot down on his head. He crumpled onto the floor, his blood soaking the Brussels carpet in an obscene blossom.

  Chills swept rapidly over Rachel’s entire body and she backed slowly away from him. She stuffed her knuckles into her mouth and tried very, very hard not to faint.

  A fist rapped at the rear door, beyond the kitchen. “Mr. Maitland, sir?”

  Maitland’s thugs had finally come to investigate.

  Rachel gathered up her skirts and turned to run for the far door and her compartment, her heart drumming against her ribs. Oh, dear God in heaven, please let me slip out of this Pullman unnoticed and into Omaha. No matter what it takes, let me escape into the city, where I can find someone—anyone—to help me…

  Lucas turned away from the depot and considered the tracks leading into the freight yard. A chill was running down his spine, sharper and deeper than the air sinking into his lungs.

  Collins’s private Pullman had supposedly been parked on the freight yard’s edge, near the worst of the red-light district which fed on the railroad men’s pay. But no one knew exactly where, since the men responsible had been so well paid that they’d immediately imbibed their wages in the closest saloon.

  According to the stationmaster, Collins had half a dozen thugs with him. But a mob could rise out of Omaha’s slums and overwhelm them in minutes, then loot the Pullman—and kill Mrs. Davis.

  Lucas could either try to find the Pullman in the freight yard’s maze of tracks, currently obscured by night and heavy fog, or go to the saloon where the men had passed out, and find the closest piece of track.

  He drew his Colts and loaded another bullet into each one. They were now fully loaded, with six shots rather than the safer five. If the hammer fell for any reason, the gun would go off immediately. He needed every advantage he could get, even if it risked his life.

  He headed south, moving like a prowling predator the supple wariness that his oldest friend, a half-breed Indian scout, had taught him years ago. It was a deliberate warning to all comers—and most of those watching recognized it as such.

  Rache
l leaned against the frozen, grimy brick wall and fought to catch her breath, the air so cold that it seemed laced with icy blades. Thanks to the low lying smoke from the railroad workshops and the commotion in the dining salon over Maitland’s prone body, she’d managed to escape the private Pullman, dodging the few remaining sentries.

  She panted softly, fighting to listen for pursuers—heavy boots pounding down the railroad tracks, flat Bostonian accents muttering to each other…

  She heard nothing like that. But they could be muffled by the fog.

  Foul language about card games and women poured from the buildings ahead. A woman in the shack next to her was entertaining a man carnally, obviously for money: She was insisting that he either hurry up or pay more.

  Rachel shuddered, pressing her hand to her stomach, her fingertip catching on one of the jewels sewn into her corset. Nothing Charles Dickens had ever written had prepared her for the harsh, deadly reality of this slum. She needed to escape quickly or be condemned to the same fate as that woman. Or worse.

  Her stomach was flopping like a codfish on a fisherman’s hook. If she had seen all of the bloodstains on her clothes, she was afraid she’d disgrace herself.

  Stiffening her spine, she forced herself to move toward the street, carrying her carpetbag. She needed to make her way through this slum and into the main city. After that, she’d have to find someone who could tell her how to find the Donovan & Sons’ depot.

  “What the hell you mean, Annie, by movin’ out on me? You been seein’ somebody else?” The man’s words were slurred with drink, but still vividly laced with anger and violence.

  Rachel froze, barely two steps back from the street corner. Was another woman about to be beaten?

  “No, Billy, I haven’t,” a girl’s voice quavered. “But I couldn’t, I just couldn’t stay, Billy.”

  She shouldn’t help her, she really shouldn’t, not when Maitland’s men had to be following her. Maybe the situation wasn’t really immediately dangerous to the girl. She’d look the situation over quickly, before moving on.

  Rachel crept forward, peering between the rapidly increasing crowd.

  Billy was a narrow-eyed thug, flaunting a pair of six-guns, while Annie sported two black eyes and a face so bruised it would be a wonder if she could eat. He knocked her to the ground with one ham-sized fist. “I told you, you were mine!” he roared, standing over her, and drew back his booted foot for a kick. The reek of rum coming from him was amazing, even at this distance.

  Annie promptly curled herself into an all-too-practiced ball. Rachel edged forward to help her, completely forgetting her own need to escape.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” another man observed, his deep voice slicing through the crowd’s whispers. A very, very beautiful, masculine voice. A commanding voice, one to obey and yet take pleasure in.

  Rachel froze, startled by its familiarity.

  Even Billy was struck by its force. “Who the hell are you to talk to me? Annie’s mine and I’ll deal with her any way I want,” he growled.

  “No lady deserves to be beaten,” the newcomer remarked. Or was it a warning?

  An odd ripple in the throng, of a man half-turning aside to make a bet, propelled Rachel forward like a pea in a peashooter. She started to move back, shy of catching too much attention—and caught sight of the newcomer for the first time.

  He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, who carried himself with a relaxed confidence that screamed of arrogance, of the utter sureness that he could accomplish anything and everything he chose to do. He wore a caped black wool greatcoat, high leather boots, and a broad-brimmed black felt hat, all thickly sparkled now with snow blown from the rooftops.

  His thick, straight black hair just touched the base of his collar. His features were commanding and aristocratic, of the sort meant to be carved into gold coins and marveled at generations later as belonging to a great conqueror. His aquiline nose, strong jaw, and high cheekbones confirmed the impression of strength and power. His incredibly vivid blue-green eyes watched Billy from under the broad-brimmed planter’s hat with the same icy intensity as the Missouri River used to force its way to the ocean. A wide mouth, now firmly compressed, was the only hint of more sensual emotions.

  He seemed the very embodiment of a devil borne on the north wind, with his eyes the color of the light striking fire deep in the heart of an iceberg.

  Rachel gasped, hope starting to warm her bones. She’d first seen him in a daguerreotype with other dashing young cavalry officers, their long, curved sabers held so casually ready at their sides. And he’d been the embodiment of kindness at her wedding, when he’d been the only aristocrat generous to the tradesman’s granddaughter who was marrying the Boston Brahmin.

  Lucas Grainger. Thank God he was here.

  Billy glared at him. “Annie’s mine!” he roared. “An’ I’ll do what I want wit’ her.”

  “No. Because if you harm her, I’ll kill you.” Grainger’s voice was deadly calm, without a hint of bluffing, despite the absence of any apparent weapon.

  Was she about to see violence dealt? A whimper built in the back of her throat but didn’t escape. She forced it back, recognizing Billy’s threat to the broken Annie.

  The crowd shifted backward. Somebody muttered a new, larger wager. Rachel allowed herself to be carried with them.

  Billy stared at Grainger, clearly trying to take his measure. The ex-cavalry officer watched him, as unblinking as a cobra ready to strike. Annie never moved. Rachel held her breath, hoping somebody would show sense.

  “You’re only bluffin’,” Billy growled and aimed a kick at Annie.

  A bullet splatted into the mud beside Billy’s foot. He yelped and leaped back. His hand hovered over his gun, but didn’t quite touch it.

  Smoke curled lazily up from Grainger’s Colt’s muzzle. His eyes studied Billy pitilessly. “Ready to reconsider?”

  Billy looked around the throng for supporters but found none. He reluctantly came back to Grainger. “Yeah.”

  “I suggest you take your drinking elsewhere, in that case.” There was no leeway in the offer.

  The crowd almost audibly held their breaths before Billy uttered an even more drawn-out assent.

  “Leave your gun.”

  Sullenly, Billy obeyed and turned to leave.

  Grainger took a step forward toward Annie. Rachel started to draw her first deep breath in far too long.

  Billy whirled and a derringer popped into his hand from his sleeve. He aimed it at Grainger, a much taller—and therefore higher—target than Annie.

  Rachel screamed.

  Tongues of flame stabbed through the falling snow. Billy crumpled onto his face, blood streaming out of his throat.

  Rachel closed her eyes, gagging. It was the first time she’d seen violent death meted out.

  A woman ran out of the crowd to Annie and they clung together, crying. All around them, the crowd departed, blatantly happy at having seen a bloody fight.

  Rachel fought to control herself. She wanted desperately to restore logic to her life, not this insanity. Billy had tried to kill Grainger so the combat veteran had to save himself, since there’d been no police around.

  Grainger couldn’t be a thoughtless barbarian. He couldn’t be, or he wouldn’t have been Elias’s trusted subordinate and dear friend.

  She swallowed hard, wishing once again she’d had the chance to study Latin at Mount Holyoke Seminary. Life was so much simpler in a library.

  “Hey, girlie. Wanna have some fun?” A man, attired in an odd assortment of sweaters, coats, and scarves against the chill and reeking of whisky, reached for her. Just behind him, two more men smirked greedily.

  She flinched but drew herself up, ready to defend herself with words.

  “Get out of here, boys. The night’s young yet.” Grainger’s deep voice sounded behind her, sharp with command. Wonder of wonders in this appalling milieu, he smelled of honest scents, including leather and wood smoke.
/>   The three cringed and edged backward. “Yes. Yes, of course. Sir.”

  An instant later, the only sign of their presence was the sound of their departing footsteps. Everyone else, including Annie and her friend, had also disappeared down an alley or inside a filthy building.

  “Mrs. Davis? Mrs. Elias Davis?” He half-crooned her name, as if he was coaxing a skittish mare.

  Rachel shuddered, facing the limits of her own abilities. If she was to stay alive and free, she needed a man’s help. On this raw frontier, with people like Billy around, she’d probably be safer if Grainger was a killer.

  Something deep inside her, feminine and totally illogical, simply wanted to rest against him.

  She stiffened in surprise, but forced herself to smile up at him. “Mr. Grainger.”

  He offered her his hand, as gallantly as if they stood in the gardens at Anglesey Hall, the Davis estate.

  Rachel ran her tongue over her lips, shaking a little. Cautiously, she laid her hand in his, wary of the slightest attempt to grab her.

  Grainger’s fingers shifted to a protective, light grasp, which barely brushed her glove. He lifted her hand and kissed it. “My pleasure to find you safe at last, Mrs. Davis.”

  Tears of joy touched her eyes, the agonizing relief at being treated like a lady for the first time in so very, very long. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Grainger,” she managed, finding unaccustomed delight in the simple phrase when spoken to a true gentleman.

  Dear heavens, she was so cold from her skin through to her bones that she was shaking suddenly. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, not even a word, and leaned toward him.

  Grainger dropped her hand, she started to protest, and he wrapped his arm around her.

  “I can manage, truly I can.” The words were good enough but their utterance would have been better if she hadn’t been trembling so very much.

  “Of course you can,” he soothed in a deep rumble that seemed to sink into her bones. “Please carry your carpetbag for a little while longer.”