Forever a Lady

by Delilah Marvelle

  He had to wait for the boys.

  He scanned the crowd around him, but didn’t see a single face from the group. Not a single one. Where the hell were they? Some of them should have been here by now.

  He paused. What if they were all in on this with Cassidy?

  Bernadette staggered, almost falling off the barrel. She caught herself against the bar, her gaze drifting toward the faces beyond. “Someone help me,” she wavered and slurred. “I may be British, but that...that doesn’t make this...right.”

  Matthew’s eyes burned. He glanced toward the men around him, knowing he couldn’t wait or trust that his men weren’t in on this. He had to help Bernadette now. Even if it meant his throat was going to get ripped open by the crowds. Which it would be.

  “Psst. Milton!”

  Matthew glanced toward a wall of men that now surrounded him in the crowd. His breath hitched seeing Kerner, Andrews, Murphy, Plunkett, Lamb, Bryson, Chase and a few others.

  He wasn’t alone in this, after all. Thank God.

  Barrel-chested Andrews wedged his way closer to him and leaned in, lowering his voice. “If you haven’t already noticed, Cassidy has up and drawn lines. None of us even knew about it until half a breath ago, when Smock skidded by, telling us. So what’s the plan? If I had my way, I’d just shoot him.”

  Matthew hissed out a breath, thankful he was going to get Bernadette out. “He’s got a pistol. So I need you to listen up.”

  Andrews and his fifteen other men all leaned in, wordlessly offering up support and waiting for orders.

  Matthew bent toward them, ensuring he was hidden from Cassidy’s sight, and lowered his voice. “I want all of you to stay right where you are. I don’t want anyone dead and I don’t want this turning into a riot. But if the crowd does join in, that’s when I’ll need you all to jump in and keep every last man off me so I can get her out. Because I only have two shots and a razor.”

  Andrews lowered his voice. “I’ve got me a razor.”

  “As do I,” Bryson added.

  “And I,” Chase added.

  “Whilst I’ve bloody got two hands,” Kerner ground out, “and I’m not afraid to use them to rip apart Cassidy’s throat for this.”

  “Good. Stand by.” Gripping both handles of his pistols, Matthew slid them out of his belt and headed through the crowd, toward the opening of where Cassidy and Bernadette were. Perhaps surprisingly, he’d only ever killed one man since becoming a Five Pointer. It had been a six-and-thirty-year-old man who’d been raping a four-year-old screaming child in a back alley. He’d accidentally snapped the bastard’s neck trying to get him off the child. He didn’t regret it and the marshals never charged him for murder, given what the man had been doing. The only good to have come of it was that it had made the entire ward realize not only was he capable of killing a man but that he would never turn away from doing the right thing.

  Matthew stepped out of the crowd and leveled each pistol at Cassidy’s head. With the flick of his thumbs, he cocked both weapons.

  Bernadette staggered her hazed gaze toward him. Her eyes widened and a sob escaped her. “Matthew!”

  A growing silence penetrated the expanse of the tavern.

  Cassidy set his shoulders and gestured toward Bernadette with the tip of his pistol. “Is this what you were busy fecking over in London whilst we boys were sweating blood on your behalf to eliminate that swipe? A maggot is what you are, Milton. You’ve got no loyalty to your own.”

  Matthew’s breaths came in disbelieving takes. Cassidy had gotten hold of London newspapers. Keeping both pistols leveled at that head, Matthew tried to remain calm. “This ends. And it ends now. You’ve got no right bringing her into this.”

  Cassidy’s features hardened. “You bloody sold yourself out and sliced off what little respect I had for you. Not that there was much left, given that no matter what I did, I was never good enough for you, never honorable enough for you, never chaste enough for you. I was never nothing enough for you, Milton, though I was bleeding out of my nose in honor of you. I was damn well tired of your shite even before I ever knew of this, but this is what broke me as a man. Because Ireland is me and I am Ireland, and you knew that. And yet that didn’t bloody stop you from stabbing me, did it?”

  Matthew’s throat tightened. He’d rounded up this wild stallion for a saddle and broke him in an effort to mold him for a larger cause, only to find he’d instilled too much passion in him and in the wrong direction. He’d broken the man beyond his soul. He’d done this. And now Bernadette was paying the price. But this is where it ended. With him.

  Darting in fast, Matthew shoved both barrels savagely into each side of that thick throat below Cassidy’s chin. “For God’s sake, Cassidy, my involvement with her had nothing to do with you or Ireland.”

  Cassidy raised his own pistol to Matthew’s head, pressing it hard against his forehead. He cocked it. “Are we playing Who Pulls First? You know I’m in. By the by, your little black dog, who went about wagging his tongue to gather the boys for you, as he always does, ain’t standing with your boys in the crowd, is he?”

  Gritting his teeth, Matthew dug his pistols harder into Cassidy’s rigid neck until he felt the man’s pulse against his fingertips through the metal he was holding. He leaned in against the pistol and seethed out, “Where is he? Where’s Smock?”

  Cassidy pressed his own pistol harder to Matthew’s head, the metal now digging uncomfortably into skin and skull. “He’s about to get himself shipped South is where. I ain’t giving him up and I ain’t letting you lead our Irish boys after this. I ain’t.”

  Matthew always knew Cassidy to be an Irish patriot, but he never thought it would come to this. “Who taught you to read those papers you’re now using against me, you Irish feck? Who!”

  A snort escaped that nose. “I didn’t get it from Brit papers. I’d never touch that shite. I got it from a friend of yours.”

  Matthew’s eyes widened. “I don’t know who you’re—”

  “Lord Dunmore sends his regards. In fact, he’s requesting you visit him tomorrow night over on the hill. You know, Kill Hill. Be there at nine.”

  Matthew almost pulled both triggers. “That you would...that you would let your hatred for a nation come before your morals is beyond disgusting. The only thing stopping me from pulling both of these triggers is knowing that half the ward is watching. Because I still have a name to uphold. A name no one is going to take down by turning me into a murderer.”

  Cassidy glanced toward the gathered faces that were not only watching but listening with a rare devotion that usually only a priest gave the cross. “They’re all with me on this, Milton. And the boys sure as hell can’t take on the entire ward. Because the truth be this—we Irish don’t hobnob with aristo Brits who, as you know, rape our people and our land. ’Tis a dishonor to everything we represent and why we’re about to return the favor. These Brits be the reason why every last one of us are here, an ocean away from everything we love, standing in our own piss and spit with nothing to show but sweat!”

  Street sweeper Joseph Moran strode out toward them from the crowd. “That be where you’re wrong, Cassidy. Unlike my Ireland, I’ve earned the freedom to piss and spit wherever the hell I please. And that be why I’m with Milton in this. Sniff the air, boy. You’re not in Ireland anymore and this here girl belongs to Milton. Be she a Brit or not, she’s one of us because of it. And damn you into hell for not letting us know!”

  Others joined in. “Aye! Go back to Cork with this!”

  “Shoot the piss pot, Milton. Your da was a true Irishman!”

  “May Raymond rest in peace,” murmurs swept across the room.

  “If you shoot Milton, Cassidy,” someone gruffly added, “you might as well shoot yourself. Because we’ll bloody you up for this in the name of Milton’s da alone. Don’t think we won’t!”

  As more and more riled shouts reverberated throughout the tavern, Matthew was filled with a sense of pride, knowing that
although he’d acquired many enemies throughout the years, he’d also acquired many, many friends. Friends who still remembered his father and everything the man had done for the Irish community whilst he was alive.

  Shifting his jaw, Matthew grazed the pistols down the sides of that throat and positioned his head against Cassidy’s pistol by leaning into it. “Now what, Cassidy? It seems like you’re the one that’s outnumbered, not I.”

  Those brows flickered with uncertainty.

  Matthew coolly held his gaze. “You thought you’d take me out by dragging this before the entire ward, did you? Guess you didn’t expect to meet with that one Irish trait you never did inherit—loyalty. Now, step the hell down and lower your pistol. One last time. Where the hell is Smock?”

  Cassidy paused, his features and stance tensing as he scanned the crowd that was now edging in around them. After a long moment of silence, he grudgingly drew away the pistol from Matthew’s head and stepped back. “We tied the dog up and delivered him to Rosanna Peers.”

  Rosanna Bawd Peers. A bitch known for trading and dealing with Southern plantation owners despite the state of New York being free. “Who’s holding him? How many?”

  “Patrick and four others.”

  He’d never once sniffed that five of his own were out. Matthew turned and yelled out to his boys, who were already standing behind him, “Get Smock out of there before he’s shipped south.”

  He handed off one of the pistols to Andrews. “Have Smock call on my tenement in an hour, or I’m bloody ripping apart this ward.” Matthew swung back to Cassidy and gritted out, “Expect the marshals to descend, arsehole.”

  Cassidy smirked. “Oh, I’d worry more about yourself over on Kill Hill tomorrow night. This Brit who calls himself Dunmore is a crazy one, he is. And he’s got irons for you.”

  Matthew yanked the pistol out of Cassidy’s hand, handing it off to another one of his men. “Both you and he will be sitting on the same floor in manacles surrounded by marshals who will ensure you never walk again.”

  Several jumped toward Cassidy and grabbed him. Andrews set the pistol to the man’s head as they all wedged their way through the crowd, disappearing.

  Matthew pushed out a long breath and uncocked his remaining pistol, shoving it into his leather belt.

  Jogging over to where Bernadette quietly sat on that cask, he grabbed her chilled hands and squeezed them hard, trying to quell the trembling in his own hands, knowing he—and he alone—was responsible for this. “Come. I’ll take you home.”

  A half-choked sob escaped her, She grabbed his hands and shook them as if meaning to never let go.

  He smiled for her, in a mustered effort to offer up whatever assurance he could and glanced toward her cloak on the floor. Releasing her hands, he swept it up and draped it around her shoulders, adjusting it to ensure she was covered.

  She froze and jerked herself and her head away, gagging. A gurgled groan escaped her as she sprayed a mass of vomit that splattered across the uneven floor.

  Matthew winced as others scrambled back.

  She gagged again and sprayed another mass of vomit. Gasping for breath, she leaned back toward him with a groan and stumbled off the cask.

  He caught Bernadette by the waist and swept her up and into his arms with a toss, her gown bundling against him.

  Murmurs and conversations rippled through the crowd as she stared up at him through hazy, tear-streaked dark eyes.

  “Where do you live?” he whispered.

  Her head swayed, as if she were having trouble remembering and keeping her head up together. Her eyes suddenly rolled and she slumped against him.

  So much for taking her home.

  The rumbling voices in the tavern vanished as Matthew pressed her softness tighter against himself. It was a softness he thought he’d never hold again.

  He stalked toward the crowd, staring past them. “Someone hunt Marshal Royce down and let him know about Cassidy. I want that bastard in custody by morning for this.”

  “I’ll tell Royce,” a familiar voice called out.

  Matthew jerked to a halt and swung toward that voice, drawing Bernadette tighter against himself. “Ronan. What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Kerner said I could come.” Ronan adjusted his cap and peered in on Bernadette, whose head was tucked against him. “Is she yours?”

  Matthew glanced down at her and tucked her better into the crook of his arms. “Hasn’t been for some time. And after tonight, I don’t think she ever will be.”

  Ronan smirked, pushing back his cap. “Ah, you’ll win her over. Just tell her you love her. Women are easy like that.” He thumbed toward the crowd. “I’ll dash over to Royce and let him know about Cassidy.” He darted, shoving his way past people. Matthew paused, realizing the men around him were also angling and peering in on Bernadette. Clearing his throat, Matthew slanted away. “Excuse me, gents. I need to get through.”

  Although there was little space to give, every man hop-footed away, some of them reaching out and patting him on the shoulder as he made his way through and out the narrow door.

  Matthew strode out into the night and through the muddy, main street. He didn’t dare look down at Bernadette. He didn’t want to remind himself of what had once been. He simply walked on, a part of him numb knowing that the wretched misery she had endured tonight was because of her association with him.

  He halted before his tenement, knowing there was no other place he could take her. He had to wait until she gained consciousness to get her address, and only God knew when that would be, considering the amount of gin she’d been forced to guzzle.

  Matthew made his way through the entrance door someone had left open. He paused, glancing toward two men in the shadows who leaned against the wall, smoking home-rolled cheroots.

  The voice of what he knew to be his neighbor, Charlie, called out in his usual dry humor, “Finally found yourself a girl, Milton, did you? About bleeding time. Get her upstairs, right quick, I say, before she takes off.”

  Matthew feigned a not-so-enthused laugh. “Get back to smoking, you rossie. It’s all you’re ever good for.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. See you in the morning?”

  “Aye. Only, do me a favor. If anyone shows up with Smock, yell out so I know.”

  “Will do.”

  Matthew quickly made his way up the narrow and steep wooden staircase. The sooner he got Bernadette out of sight, the better.

  When he managed to unlatch his door with his key, whilst she lay draped against his arm and his propped thigh, Matthew gathered her again and pushed the heavy oak door open. Angling himself into the darkness, he slammed it shut and blew out a breath, trying to release the tension in his body. He instinctively latched all five bolts on the door. Bolts he’d had installed after a man in another ward had broken in trying to kill him. The five bolts didn’t keep people out. They just gave him time to ready himself against an attack.

  Dread clenched his gut as he realized Bernadette had yet to see the worst of him: the way he lived. It had been humiliating enough to wear frayed clothing encrusted with mud in her presence back in London. But this? God.

  He veered away from the door, adjusting her limp weight in his arms. Through the darkness he knew too well, for he never lit candles at night given a quarter of a candle cost a penny apiece, he made his way to the low closet where his straw mattress was. Lowering her to the bed, he laid her gently out.

  Sliding his hands down the length of her bundled gown, he found her feet and removed the slippers and tossed them.

  He strode back to the bolted door and braced it, waiting in the darkness. He waited and waited until—

  A knock came to the door. “Milton?” Smock called out.

  Charlie hadn’t yelled. Which meant Smock was alone.

  He sagged against the door. Unlatching all the bolts, he yanked open the door.

  Smock lingered with a cracked lantern in his black hand, his unshaven jaw set and his da
rk features twisted in a morbidly joyous sort of way. Reaching out his other hand, Smock grabbed Matthew hard by the shoulder, but said nothing.

  Matthew grabbed him and pulled him close and against himself, relieved nothing had happened to him. “I’m so sorry about what Cassidy tried to do.”

  Smock nodded against him, but still said nothing.

  Matthew had no doubt Smock felt even more betrayed in this than he did. Because Cassidy and the other boys who were in on this had gone personal. They had raped the last of Smock by reducing him to mere color. It was heart-wrenchingly monstrous.

  Smock stepped away and sniffed, shifting from boot to boot.

  Matthew sighed. “We’ll have Cassidy in custody by morning. Ronan went straight to Marshal Royce with this.” Pulling out the remaining pistol from his belt, Matthew held it out. “Here. It’s a better pistol than the one you have. And if you need me for anything, let me know.”

  Smock grasped the pistol with his other hand. Melancholy tinged those large dark eyes in the sparse light the lantern emitted. “There’s more to me than black.”

  Tears burned Matthew’s own eyes. “I know.”

  Smock hesitated and gestured toward the stairs. “Got to get back to Mary.”

  Matthew nodded. Having a family was a godsend he so desperately missed. He missed his da. So damn much. “Do you need money? I’ve got a dollar to spare.”

  “Nah.”

  Matthew watched Smock disappear. Stepping back into his tenement, he bolted all the latches on the door and swiped his face with a shaky hand in the darkness. He drifted back into the low closet and lingered beside the straw mattress.

  A groan of discomfort, followed by a long breath and then soft, steady breaths reminded him that Bernadette, his Bernadette, was here...in his bed. And he was so damn grateful for it. Because he needed her to get him through this night.

  Removing his great coat, boots, his patch, then his leather belt and his razor blade, he set them aside on the floor and slowly slid into bed beside her. That soft, heavenly scent of citrus drifted toward him from her skin and clothing, making him inwardly yearn for her.