As the man moved away from the shadows and stepped beneath the light of the dust-coated chandelier, her jaw dropped. He was not English, which accounted for his accent. His unusual blue clothing was similar to the clothes she’d seen people wear when she and her father had tended some Chinese immigrants who had worked the Limehouse markets in London’s East End. Her gaze switched to the lethal curved blade he held aloft and she swallowed back a gasp. Fear gripped her, but now was not the time for histrionics. “What do you want?”
“Tell him it’s time to deliver.”
Bravado or stupidity, she continued down the stairs. Not once did she let go of the handrail, her fingernails biting into the wood. “Since he’s not here, how about you tell me what it is you want.”
“He promised deliver tiger eyes. Tell him time up.” He lunged toward her, jabbing the blade between them.
Maggie stifled a scream and pressed herself up against the wall.
He kept coming. There was no escape.
“You tell him, tiger eyes, or else.” He drew the knife theatrically across her throat, the tip of the blade scratching at her skin. “You understand?”
Too scared to scream, to cry, to move, or even breathe, Maggie remained mute, eyes so wide she felt they would pop out of their sockets, aware of the trickle of blood already trailing down her neck.
“Make sure he understand, otherwise you pay the price.”
She struggled for coherence. “Me? But I don’t...”
He pressed toward her, the knife nicking her for a second time. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please. Please.”
“No more time. You live today, but maybe not tomorrow.”
Maggie’s yes flashed open as he spun away, tucking the blade into the thick leather belt holding up his trousers. With one last look at her over his shoulder he walked as bold as brass out the front door, not even bothering to close it behind him.
Move Maggie! Move!
Terrified he might come back; she tried to do what her subconscious demanded. And failed. She couldn’t take a step, let alone breathe, and instead sank down onto the step, hugging her knees to her chest. Something sticky trickled down her throat. She rubbed at it, and then drawing her hand back spied the thick coating of blood.
A blood-curdling scream rent the silence. Her scream. Uncut. Unbroken.
“Maggie? Maggie?”
Footsteps pounded and Maggie hugged the wall, too scared to close her eyes, too scared to keep them open. Clayton burst around the corner, horror written across his face the moment he saw her.
He fell to his knees at her side. “Sweet Jesus! What’s happened?”
The tears started, a torrent in seconds. “A man...He came.”
“Who? Where? Edward?” Clayton’s curses rent the air.
Maggie shook her head, a hiccup bursting from her chest, and then pointed towards the open door. “Not...Edward. Someone. Gone now.”
Clayton pulled away a fraction and then spied the blood. “Good Lord! You’re bleeding.”
She nodded, squeezing her eyes closed for a moment as the fear reignited, the feel of the ice-cold blade against her skin revisiting. “He had a knife.”
Clayton pulled out a snowy handkerchief from his trouser pocket and dabbed at the nick to her skin. “It’s only small, thank God.” He pressed the wound firmly for a few moments and then checked it to see if the blood still ran. He exhaled a relieved sigh. “It seems to have stopped. What did he want?”
“He wants the tiger’s eyes?”
“What?”
“That’s what he said. He is like the men in the Chinatown markets in Limehouse.”
Clayton’s brows shot up. “He’s Chinese?”
“I’m not sure but...he wants payment and said that time was up. I presume he thought I was Edward’s wife or something. He warned that if Edward didn’t pay up, he would slit my...” The tears erupted again, the memory so vivid and real.
Clayton wrapped her in his arms and she held on tight, burying her head in his shoulder. She didn’t want to let go.
But finally, as her sobs lessened to soft hiccups, she knew she had to release her hold on him. She dropped her hands from his chest and pulled back.
Worried eyes stared down at her. “Are you okay?”
She lifted tear-tipped lashes to him, voice trembling. “I think so. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For comforting me.” She leaned up to him then, an instinct without thought and kissed his cheek, her lips staying on his scarred flesh for several heartbeats. “You’re a good man, Clayton Abbott.”
But the moment didn’t last and with a stiff growl he stood abruptly and she felt the loss of his closeness immediately.
He tugged his scarf tighter across his scars, a wash of disquiet in his gaze. “I think it’s time we made tracks in case that Chinese thug comes back.”
Fear reignited and Maggie scrambled to her feet, following Clayton out the way they’d come. With an exhausted sigh he pulled the door closed. “Time, I think, to head home.”
They made the journey to his pied-à-terre in silence and with leaden feet Maggie took the stairs to the third floor. “While I think this is rather a nice building, Clayton, I do wish you’d bought somewhere that is more twentieth century, with one of those rather wonderful lifts.”
“Think of it as a way to keep fit.”
She shot him a glare. “After gallivanting around London, I’d rather be lifted majestically to your third floor flat.”
He pulled her after him up the last flight of stairs.
Suddenly, he came to an abrupt standstill, shoved her behind him, and held a finger up to his mouth. He nodded toward the open door to his flat.
Instinct to escape took over, but his hold on her hand prevented her from charging back down the stairs.
He leaned into her and whispered in her ear. “Wait here.”
Not likely.
Instead, she kept close to him, refusing to be left behind. As they reached the doorway, a fission of uncertainty slithered down her spine and the hairs on her neck stood upright.
Clayton nudged the door open a few more inches, and waited. Then waited some more.
No sounds echoed from within. Nothing.
Elbowing it open fully he stepped into the vestibule of the small flat. Maggie stepped in right behind him.
“Shit!”
The beautifully appointed lounge with its bay window overlooking the square had been decimated, and the luxurious wood paneling ripped from the wall. Everything brutalized. The two sofas and leather chairs had been knifed. Stuffing oozed out and lay scattered across the floor. Books with their pages ripped out and covers torn off accompanied the sofas.
Maggie clasped a hand across her mouth as another bout of tears threatened. “Who did this?”
Clayton kicked a trail through the debris. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
In a daze, Maggie followed him into the dining room only to view the same scenario. Everything destroyed, ripped to shreds, shards of broken china littering the entire floor. “Oh my God.”
“Someone, it seems, decided to see if I have anything worth stealing.”
As she walked room to room—through the kitchen, into Clayton’s bedroom, and finally to her bedroom, a frozen numbness seeped into her bones and she began to shake. She turned on him. “The opium?”
“Is not here.”
“But you’ve hidden it away from them and they want it back. They did this.” She stared at the complete disarray and destruction of what had only hours ago been a beautiful and cozy home.
“They’re trying to frighten me, that’s all.”
“All! Isn’t that enough? Give it back to them.”
“No.”
“Clayton, for God’s sake, someone has already threatened me tonight, and now this.” Her heart ached, fear spiraling out of control. She didn’t know what to think anymore. A hiccup fluttered from her lips and the tears overflowed. Suddenly Clayton was sta
nding so close she could smell his now-familiar cologne and automatically the fragrance relaxed her.
He reached out and brushed the tears from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “If you cry any more you’ll add flooding to the damage here.”
Another hiccup, and another, but this time accompanied by a tiny smile.
“That’s better. I know it’s a shock.”
Her eyelashes, the tips leaden with teardrops, fluttered wide and she stared up at him. She turned towards her bedroom door, scanning the shambles that had once been her belongings. Ruined. All gone.
As she went to turn back, something sparkled in one corner of the room. She bent to retrieve it, realizing the moment her fingers touched the sliver of mirror what it was. “Oh no, No. No. They’ve...”
“Maggie, what is it?”
She held out the piece of broken mirror. “They destroyed it. The only thing I had that had belonged to my mother.”
Clayton took the shattered piece of mirror from her shaking fingertips and began to search the floor, finding a piece beneath the bed, another under an upturned table. The twisted carved silver frame he found beneath the mattress. It had been a present from her father to her mother on their wedding day. Now it was unusable. Unfixable. Destroyed.
“How could they? How could they do this?” Her tear-filled gaze shifted around the room, a sad sigh slipping from her chest. “Such wanton annihilation.”
“People like that don’t care who they hurt.”
“But I don’t even know them. They don’t know me. Everything is torn apart. Where will we stay, sleep?”
Clayton drew her to him then, her body racked with sobs.
He held her close and Maggie savoredthat closeness, drawing from his warmth more than just heat, but a sense of not being alone. His hand caressed her scalp, tangling in her hair, while his other circled the small of her back.
Instinctively, she snuggled against him, resting her head on his chest as her tears slowly abated. Even then she didn’t move, wanting to stay enveloped in this warmth and comfort.
“Maggie.” The timbre in his voice had altered; the rat-tat of his heartbeat beneath hers danced. With a deep reluctance she drew back a fraction and fixed her gaze with his, witnessing something different, something exciting.
Her mouth parted, but she uttered no words.
And then his mouth covered hers.
Chapter Eleven
Until that very moment Clayton hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to kiss Maggie.
Oh yes you had. You’ve wanted this from the very moment she crossed the threshold.
He wanted her, but shouldn’t. What was the point?
Did there have to be a point?
Clayton shoved all the questions aside. He didn’t want to think. Now was definitely the time for kissing her.
She tasted sweet and delicate, a rose petal about to bloom. He reveled in the taste of her lips beneath his and took succor in the joy that she had not pulled back, nor had she slapped his face.
Drawing a hand from her nape across the curve of her neck, he tilted her head just that bit closer.
As her body connected with his, she shivered beneath his touch. Hip to hip, his arousal thrust between them, her breasts pressed against his chest.
Her lips parted and he slaked his tongue over their rim, sliding into her moist recess. A soft sigh escaped and she reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair.
Hell! Heaven!
Clayton’s body kicked into over drive.
It had been so long since he had allowed such closeness. Desired it. He deepened their kiss, and the desire grew.
Warm fingers drew across his forehead in a butterfly-soft caress and down his ragged cheek.
A guttural gasp purged from his windpipe and he stilled.
Shit! He was a fool.
His eyes flashed open and he gripped Maggie’s shoulders, staring straight ahead...waiting for imminent rejection, knowing it would come. He stemmed his want. Why ask for more pain? More rejection. Better to keep everyone away—even Maggie. Especially Maggie.
“Clayton. Clayton, you’re hurting me.”
Her plea snapped through his miasma and he thrust her away from him.
Confusion colored her eyes. “What is it?”
Fighting for control he stepped back. He fought himself. “You do not have to offer me pity, Miss Francis.”
It was as if he had slapped her. “I beg your pardon. It was you who kissed me.” She blushed as she spoke, her cheeks a delicate shade of pink.
He rather liked it.
No you don’t. You don’t get the chance to like or love. Rejection will only come of it. Again. Stay the hell away from her.
Guilt gentled his tone. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. You seemed so sad.”
Her brows rose. “And is it your habit to kiss all the sad women you meet?”
Clayton walked over to the sideboard, only to realize that the decanter of port had been upended by whoever had vandalized his home. What the hell they were looking for in his port he did not know. But Maggie was right. He didn’t kiss everyone. He’d tried to kiss his ex-fiancé when he had disembarked off the train, only for her to reel away, witnessing her horror at his cruelly disfigured face. That had been the last hope he had of a normal life.
Until now. Until Maggie.
Dare he?
No he didn’t dare. He couldn’t risk it.
He turned back to her, uncertainty churning in his gut. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
She offered him a hint of a smile. “Why not?”
Inside, Clayton melted.
“It was comforting.”
Her words forced his wry smile. “I don’t think that was a comforting kind of kiss.”
Maggie glanced away for a moment. He wished she hadn’t because he really wanted to see what was in her eyes. He hoped...prayed it was not pity.
God he was a damned fool for wanting. For wanting more.
Then, that same modicum of stiff control she’d used the first day she’d bundled up to his house and had demanded to be let in returned as she held herself aloof, and faced him. “You are right. This was a mistake. You are my employer and I am your employee. It should not have happened. I trust it will not happen again.” She wrapped her arms across her middle which he guessed she didn’t realize only emphasized her rather delightful endowment.
Clayton stamped such thoughts down. It wouldn’t work. She may have kissed him for comfort, out of sympathy even, but sympathy would run dry eventually and then what? Then she would realize she was left with a man whose face would scare even the most garish of ghosts on All Hallows Eve. Best he kept his distance.
“Agreed. Now, I suggest we turn around and walk out of here since we cannot stay.”
“Why not? I could tidy it up.”
He couldn’t help but smile at that. “You always want to fix things, Maggie Francis.”
She rounded on him, hands on her hips. “And what’s wrong with that?”
He fingered his scarf. “Some things are not quite fixable.”
She went to speak, but changed her mind and her lips pursed instead, leaving Clayton to refocus on those lips—and wishing for another kiss.
But wishing was for others, not scarred fools like him.
Is that scarred or scared, Abbott?
Shut the hell up!
“Gather what you can and I will arrange alternative accommodation.”
“But you said your house was not useable.”
“That’s true. It’ll be weeks before repairs are complete. We’ll go to the Savoy.”
Her eyes widened. “The Savoy.”
“It’ll become our temporary home until we can sort out this mess.” He passed her a small tin box. “Put your broken mirror in there.”
“Why?”
“Just do it, Maggie. Please.”
He didn’t know why he felt it so important she not leave it be
hind, for the handmirror with its finely engraved silver backing truly seemed beyond repair, but it was something from her past and while he wanted to forget his past, perhaps having something once treasured would ease her sadness.
But what about his sadness? What about…?
No. It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter, because once this bloody business was sorted he would head home and not venture out into the world again. He could not inflict himself on others, or bear the sight of their pity, or horror. Or Maggie’s. That would be too much to bear.
***
Neither said a word during their taxi journey and Maggie found herself sitting as far away from Clayton as she could, staring out the window at the city now coated in darkness. The few streetlights were relit, a stark difference from the ghostly city she’d walked through during wartime.
The West End was crowded, partygoers and ex soldiers, with a girl on each arm, waltzed down the street. Everyone was so happy and full of life and the future, especially as reports of the dreaded Spanish influenza that had killed millions had withered to nothing.
More, it was said, had died of the sickness than in the war.
She shook her head. How could that be? It seemed impossible.
But now, with London over its ails, and everyone seemingly intent on catching up on the life they had missed, a new problem arose as they arrived at the Savoy.
“What do you mean you only have one room?” Clayton slapped a hand on the reception desk. “That’s totally unsuitable. I need two rooms. Who is your manager?"
The very rigid-backed man behind the counter stifled a cough and stared down his aquiline nose. “I am the manager, sir, and as I have said already, because the seasonal parties have recommenced, we are nearly at capacity. There is one room available. Your choice, sir.” His tone was crisp and unyielding.
Clayton stepped back. “We cannot stay here.”
Disappointment stirred. She’d heard of the hotel’s wonderful lifts. Just once it would be nice to see what the new modern conveniences were like. “Why?”
“Because there’s only one room.”
Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Page 12
