by Jo Goodman
“No.” The single word was drawn out, more of a protest than a flat refusal. “Please let me pass.”
“Ahh,” he said gently, as if making a discovery. “The lady pleads prettily.”
Lydia’s chin came up. The brim of the slouch hat shaded her face. “I’m not pleading. I’m merely being polite.” She was standing toe-to-toe with him, and inside her pockets her hands were curled into fists. The knuckles of one hand brushed the derringer, the knuckles of the other, the check. She was frightened of Brig, of the anger that more closely resembled a young boy’s petulance and peevish willfulness than a rational man’s temper. When he would not move aside she asked, “Do you know why I’m here?”
“Of course. Nathan told me what he had planned.”
“Really, Lydia, hasn’t experience taught you that we don’t have many secrets? Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about it?”
Lydia finally accepted Brig was not going to let her back in the sitting room until it served his purpose. She sat heavily, hoping to jog Nathan into wakefulness though she had no clear idea what she expected from him. He flopped onto his belly and lay motionless. Lydia withdrew the check. “I haven’t filled in an amount,” she said, smoothing the paper over her knee. “Here, take it. Fill in any amount you like.”
Brig kicked the bedroom door closed with the heel of his shoe. Leaning back against it, he crossed his arms. “You must have a great deal of money to make an offer like that. How do you know I won’t bankrupt you?”
“I’m hoping you’ll be reasonable about this.”
“Yes, of course. Reasonable.” His lips flattened and one corner of his mouth lifted in disgust. “You forced me out a window, remember? I was up to my ankles in manure. Was that reasonable?”
Lydia held out the check. “Here. Take it.”
Brig reached for it, caught it in his fingertips, and resumed his position at the door. “You’ve made it out to Nathan,” he said. He folded it neatly into quarters, creasing each fold with his fingernails to make the lines sharp and clean. He fiddled with the paper absently, studying Lydia with a remote, impartial gaze.
Unable to help it, Lydia shivered, and looked away from what he was doing. The sound of his nails skimming across the paper may as well have been a cat scratching a slate—her reaction was the same. Her skin prickled and she gritted her teeth. She didn’t look at him again until he finished. “What are you going to do with it?” she asked as he dropped it into his vest pocket and smoothed the slight bulge with the flat of his hand.
“It’s no good to me, is it? You’ve made it out to Nathan.”
“That’s because I didn’t know you were his partner in this as well,” she said. “I’d have made it out to you both otherwise.”
“Are you really so naive?” he asked. “Do you think either one of us can simply take this to your bank and get the money? You’re likely to have all manner of police waiting for us in that event, to say nothing of that fellow who follows you everywhere. Nath and I won’t be taken in so easily. We have too much to lose—Nathan especially.”
“Then you’ll want cash.” She should have realized they wouldn’t trust her. She didn’t trust them.
Brigham shrugged.
“I want the gown,” Lydia went on. “All of it. Every scrap and furbelow. I don’t want to be at your beck and call the rest of my life.”
“Quite understandable. But we’re at an impasse, don’t you think? The gown’s here, but your money isn’t.” He went to Nathan’s wardrobe, opened it, and showed her the yellow gown hanging on the inside of the door. “See? The way Nathan tells it, this gown puts you in Miss Bailey’s brothel the night two women died. Not the sort of thing you’d want common knowledge.” He took the gown off its hook, fingered the fabric idly, and then tossed it under the bed. “Your parents would be horrified. Nob Hill would be talking about it for years.”
“That’s why I’ve come,” she said quietly, then added more forcefully, “But don’t think I care overmuch for my reputation. My conscience is clear. I did nothing to cause the deaths of either Charlotte or Ginny.”
“You didn’t? I understand you threw the doctor out when Charlotte was giving birth.”
Lydia gasped softly. “Nathan told you that?”
Brigham smiled. “I told you there weren’t many secrets.” He struck a casual pose, resting his arm against the mantel. There was a decanter of liquor and a tumbler half filled with the same liquid near his fingertips. He circled the rim of the tumbler with his forefinger. “Anyway, it’s Nathan’s reputation I’m more concerned about than yours. He’s the one in need of protection. This is not the first time he’s been involved in a murder like this.”
“The newspapers say Ginny’s death was a suicide,” she said, struggling for calm.
“Nathan says he knows differently. He says it was murder. You can forgive him for tying one on tonight, can’t you? He’s been afraid for weeks that you’d go to the police. That’s why we decided it was necessary to confront you with the gown. Nathan wants to be certain you’ll maintain your silence.”
“Then you don’t want money for the gown.”
Brigham shook his head. “No, I’m afraid the gown was merely the bait to get you here, Lydia, and get you here alone. We can’t give it up, or what’s to keep you silent then?”
“My word.”
“Not good enough. But I’ve thought of something.”
Lydia knew what was coming, had suspected it all along. The only surprise was that it was coming from Brigham and not Nathan. She stood. “You’ll have to believe I’m not going to say anything.” She started to go, dodging Brig’s arm as he stuck it out to stop her. He caught her easily, drawing her arm up and behind her. Her struggle was brief, and when it was over Brigham was holding her derringer. She hadn’t even felt his hand inside her pocket.
He let her go and examined the gun. “You should have used this immediately. Else why carry it?” He aimed it at her. “There’s only one agreeable solution short of killing you,” he said. “And that’s to take you out of the country. It wouldn’t be abduction, not in the strictest sense, not if you were my wife.”
“Your wife?” she asked. “Not Nathan’s?”
“I’m not that concerned about his protection. I still want you for myself.”
Lydia glanced toward the bed again. “He didn’t pass out, did he? You drugged him.” She called herself all manner of fool for not realizing it immediately. “You two have a peculiar sort of partnership. Each with your eye toward the main chance. You’ll work together when it suits you, work alone when it suits you more.”
“That’s always been our nature. We’ve been friends for a long time, Lydia. This won’t change anything.”
“Why am I so important to either one of you?” she demanded. Her voice broke and she fought back agitation and fear in order to have control again. “Is it all for the sake of some ridiculous wager set between you?”
Brigham didn’t answer her question. He asked one of his own instead. “Are you in agreement, Lydia? Will you freely marry me?”
“Not you. Not Nathan. You’re insane to think I would.”
He sighed, dropped the derringer in his pocket, and backed Lydia against the bed. The mattress caught her knees and she sat down abruptly. “You’re going to make things difficult, aren’t you?”
She stared at him, unable to look away.
Brigham took off her hat and tossed it aside. “Undo your hair,” he said flatly. She shied away when his fingertips brushed her cheek. “Don’t do that again.” Lydia opened her mouth to scream, but the hand he clamped across her lips cut off the sound. “That’s something else you should have done right away. It’s too late for that now.” Hauling her up in his arms, Brig pushed her toward the mantel. He lifted the tumbler of liquor he had fiddled with earlier and didn’t waste a moment telling her what he expected her to do, or ask her permission. The hand that covered her mouth shifted quickly to pinch off her nose. It didn’t matter if Lydia’s l
ips parted to scream or draw a breath, the end was the same. Brig poured the liquor down her throat. She coughed and sputtered, tried to spit it out, but was forced to swallow most of it. “It will take a little while to feel the full effects,” he told her, easing his grip slightly. “Nathan fought it, but you can see that it did no good. And he had even less of the stuff than you.” The hand at her waist slipped under her baggy flannel shirt and cotton camisole and slid upward to her breast. Her skin was cool to the touch. “What we do until you pass out is up to you. Afterward, it will be up to me. You could take down your hair now and save me the trouble later.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, pressing the barrel of her derringer against his ribs. “Feel that? You’re not the only one with light fingers.”
Brig’s eyes widened slightly but he didn’t remove his hand from her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple, raising it to pearl-like hardness. There was amusement in his voice, not anger, not fear. “You don’t think much of my marriage proposal, do you?”
“And you don’t think much of my threat.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” His smile faded slowly. “Put the gun away, Lydia. I plan to do the honorable thing by you. Does it matter so much if I have you now or after the wedding?”
“You’re not going to have me at all. Take your hand away.”
His fingers merely tightened, and he caught her nipple between his knuckles. “Makes you want to scream, doesn’t it?” he asked softly, bending his head a fraction. “I could make you like it, Lydia. You know that? I could make you want me, want more. Put the gun away. Let me show you what I mean. Go on, Lydia…do it...”
Lydia reared back as the pressure of his hand became unbearably painful. Her breath caught on a sob and a gasp. Tears came to her eyes and Brigham’s features dissolved in a blur. Her finger convulsed on the trigger of the derringer, more in reaction to the pain than out of an intentional desire to hurt him.
The gun went off between them. The report was surprisingly quiet, muffled in part by Brigham’s flesh pressed against the barrel. Lydia jumped back and this time Brig let her go. Blood flowered on his vest, and when he covered the wound with his palm it stained his fingers. He looked, first at his bloody hand, then at Lydia, and his eyes were glassy, dazed. He meant to go forward; he wanted nothing so much as to wrest the gun from her hand and shove the barrel in the soft hollow of her throat. His feet carried him sideways and he stumbled, falling against the mantelpiece and striking it with his shoulder, then his head. His body folded unevenly, at the ankles, the knees, finally at the hips and waist, and Lydia watched, thinking of how he had folded her check earlier, and how he would not be pleased that his dying was not so crisp and clean.
The gun slipped through Lydia’s nerveless fingers and fell to the floor at the same time Brigham did. “Oh, God,” she whispered, dropping to her knees beside him. She felt for a pulse in his neck and found a faint one. His hand had fallen away from the wound and blood covered his shirt and vest in an ever widening circle. Lydia stood on trembling legs and pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think clearly in the face of a raging headache. The tears had long since dried from her eyes, but her vision was still hazy, her sense of balance uneven. She made it to the bed and sat down hard.
“Nathan.” Lydia leaned toward him and shook his shoulder. If only she could rest, she thought. If only she could close her eyes for a few minutes, give herself time to think about what she should do. It was impossible, of course. She had as good as killed Brigham Moore if she didn’t get help. “Nathan. Wake up. I need you.” Lydia started to cry. She crawled toward him and shook him this time with both her hands placed firmly on either side of his neck. “Damn you, Nathan. You’ve got to w-wake up. I don’t know what to d-do.” Tears dripped over her cheeks and splashed on Nathan’s back. Her entreaties met with no response. “Please, Nathan. I’d marry you…I would. I’d do whatever you wanted. Don’t let me be a murderer. H-help me.”
He lay there unmoving, oblivious to Lydia’s fear, to Brig’s danger, to the small hands that pounded his back. Lydia slid off the bed again and directly onto the floor. She fought waves of dizziness and nausea and, after what seemed an eternity to her but was nothing longer than a few seconds, she reached Brigham. She searched his pockets and found the key that would get her out of the suite. She’d have to get help, she thought, even if it meant incriminating herself. It was self-defense after all. The authorities would understand that. “Wouldn’t they?” she asked aloud, stumbling forward into the sitting room. She braced herself against the outer door with her shoulder and fumbled for the knob with her hand. Unable to make the key fit the lock after several tries, Lydia tiredly slipped down the length of the door and met the keyhole at eye level. She raised the key and made a stabbing motion with it at the lock.
Her eyes closed.
Her head sagged.
Lydia crumpled and the key fell out of her outstretched and upturned palm.
Part II
Pacific Interlude
Chapter 7
Nathan nudged open the cabin door with the toe of his shoe. He dropped the valises he held in each hand and behind him he heard the captain’s men set down the trunk they were carrying. He turned to Lydia and lifted his hands slightly, palms upward and asked, “Shall I carry you across the threshold, Mrs. Hunter?”
Lydia’s smile was shy, her nod barely perceptible. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the two crewmen exchange knowing glances and grin widely. She realized she didn’t care. Holding out her arms, she slid them naturally around Nathan’s neck as he scooped her off the deck and carried her into their cabin. The crewmen followed with the trunk, then the valises, and left with hardly a snicker between them, shutting the door as they went.
Nathan let Lydia down slowly so that her body slid against his. They stood in the middle of their cabin, the place that would be their home for the next five weeks, and held each other in a loose embrace. Placing the back of his hand against Lydia’s cheek, Nathan rubbed gently, deepening the flush that had come to her face.
“You’re warm,” he said. “Perhaps you should lie down. The doctor said—” He stopped because she was shaking her head, completely uninterested in anything the doctor had recommended.
“I didn’t much care for that doctor,” she said, easing from the circle of Nathan’s arms. “I think he drank. Did you notice?”
“I noticed.” Nathan doubted that Dr. Franklin went anywhere without his flask. Lydia had known that once; now it was a revelation to her. “I should have found a better man to care for you,” he said.
Lydia raised her hand and placed a forefinger on Nathan’s lips to silence him. “I had a better man,” she said softly. He had been at her bedside day and night. “I had you.”
Nathan didn’t say anything. He kissed the tip of her finger, and when it fell away he missed the warmth and gentle pressure. What would she be saying, he wondered, if she could remember the kind of man he was?
Since the night of the shooting nearly a week ago, there was little Lydia recalled. What she knew now consisted primarily of the things Nathan had told her, a mixture of half-truths, slightly skewed stories, and outright lies. There were truths as well, things he realized she had to know because she would find them out when they reached Ballaburn, but he was cautious about sharing them. Nathan found Lydia’s loss of memory both a bane and a blessing. He had rewritten her personal history to suit his needs and now he had the wife he had set out to get months ago. It wouldn’t have been possible if she could remember, and while he marveled at her willingness to accept anything he told her, he also knew the reason. Lydia’s thinking was simple and straightforward. She couldn’t fathom having married someone she didn’t love, and she couldn’t imagine someone she loved lying to her.
When Nathan wasn’t counting his blessings, he was hating himself.
Unaware of the tenor of Nathan’s thoughts, Lydia was blithely investigating the cabin. It was sparsely furnished, with few
amenities beyond the utilitarian. There was a small table for dining and writing, two chairs, an upholstered storage bench below the porthole, a cupboard which held a basin, pitcher, and chamber pot, a small Franklin stove, an armoire firmly bolted to the wall, and finally, a three-quarter bunk covered with a brightly patterned piece quilt.
“Not quite what you’re used to, is it?” he asked. He came up behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders.
Lydia turned her head just enough to show him a cheeky grin. “I don’t remember what I’m used to,” she said. She removed his hands from her shoulders and drew them around her waist. She leaned backward and rested against him. “And I’m thinking this is just fine.”
His chin rested on the silky crown of her hair. His eyes wandered over their room. “You had a fireplace in your bedroom,” he said. “The mantel was cluttered with jade figurines and photographs and a vanity with ivory combs, perfumes, and powder. There were fresh flowers in a cut glass vase by your bed and your rugs were from the Orient. You had an enormous walnut wardrobe, an armchair and a rocker, and a bed that was half again larger than this one.”
It was as if he were talking about another person. Lydia felt no ownership of the things he described. She couldn’t have told him the color of her comforter, the pattern of the rugs, or the kind of flowers that filled the vase. She didn’t even try to remember. Those things seemed of minor importance when she compared them to what Nathan had inadvertently told her.
“You’ve been in my bedroom?” she asked.
“Twice.”
“Oh.”
He gave her a little squeeze and pressed a smile against her hair. Her thoughts were plainly clear to him. “Are you going to ask why I was there, or would you rather assume I’ve already had my evil way with you.”
“Evil way?” she said, realizing she was being teased. She turned in his arms and raised her face to him.
“There’s nothing evil about your way. That’s the problem. Looking at you, I can believe that I might have done anything for you…or to you. That’s the sort of way you have about you.” Dangerous, she wanted to say, but not evil. He was darkly attractive in a manner that captured her attention and her imagination, and even frightened her a little because of her response to it. She was intrigued by the light gray eyes with their dark blue rings, the penetrating predator eyes that often seemed to look through her rather than at her.
