Deadly Vows (31 page)

“No, I did not.” Rourke was surprised. “I do not know Leigh Anne well. She did walk out on you shortly after you were married. No one can blame you for your anger. But she did return, and she returned to fight Francesca for you.”

Rick stared. “That is unfortunate.”

Rourke said gently, “What are you going to do?”

“I don't know.” Rick drained the rest of his glass and set it down hard on his desk. “Do you want to know the worst part?”

“Yes, I do,” Rourke said seriously.

“Sometimes, when I look at her, I feel nothing but guilt.”

“Why on earth would you feel guilty?”

It was a long moment before he spoke. “I was furious that she had returned. I was cruel. I tried to chase her away. I knew exactly what I was doing. In a way, I am responsible for her accident.”

Rourke gasped. “She was run over by a coach! You were hardly involved, much less responsible. My God, you are the most rational man I know, yet logic has completely escaped you.”

“Has it?” Rick turned away. A long silence fell.

Rourke's mind raced. How could this impasse be solved? If Rick was right, Leigh Anne would remain a changed woman, for the worse. He was afraid she did not have the strength to fight for her marriage now. He was even more afraid of where that left his brother.

“None of it matters, though, does it?” Rick interrupted his thoughts. “I am her husband, until death do us part, whether I hate her, love her, desire her or dread looking
at her…it doesn't matter. I have to take care of her. If I don't, who will?”

Rourke was grim. “Could I suggest a stay in a sanitarium or hospital? If Leigh Anne is becoming dependent on alcohol and laudanum, she needs medical attention. And she can hardly be a proper mother under such circumstances.”

Rick started. “I could never do such a thing.”

“Hospitalization might be in her best interests,” Rourke tried, meaning it. “And I suggest that you seriously consider it, at least as an option.”

Abruptly Rick stood. “I could never live with such a decision.”

Rourke was grim. “Then you are stuck.”

“Yes, I am.”

Rourke wanted to tell him that no man could live this way, in such a state of distress and conflict. But he knew his brother would not listen. His brother's next words confirmed it.

“There is no point in dwelling on what might have been. There is no point in bemoaning the present. We are married, and she isn't well. We are fostering two little girls. I have a family to provide for, and I intend to do just that.”

 

F
RANCESCA FELT
H
ART'S
heart pounding beneath her hand, its beat becoming more rapid. He finally said, “Forever is a long time.”

“Yes, it is.”

His heated gaze held hers. A pulse throbbed in his throat. “You are very sure of yourself tonight.”

She smiled, briefly. “Yes, I am.”

“I openly confess that I was terrified for you.”

“I know,” she whispered, thrilling. She slid her hand
across the rock-hard slabs of his chest, across his taut nipples.

He seized her wrist. “I should send you home.”

Although he held her hand still, she rubbed her thumb across his warm skin. “Why?”

He inhaled. “Because Julia will murder me, Francesca. Because…we are estranged.”

“No, she won't. She adores you, and she will be thrilled if we spend the evening together.” She added, “And are we truly estranged?”

His face hardened. “Did it ever cross your mind that you might die tonight?”

“Of course it did. I was terribly frightened—and I was so relieved when I saw you behind Mary.” She meant her every word. “I am not a foolish woman, Hart. I am well aware of my mortality.”

“Damn it,” he whispered, leaning closer to her. “You are so damn reckless!”

Inches separated their lips. Francesca lifted her face and feathered his hard mouth with her softer one. He did not move. “I almost died tonight,” she whispered, aware of exactly what she was doing.

“Now you play me?” He was incredulous, but his tone was thick and he did not move away.

“But you love me,” she said. “So, yes, I dare to play you a bit.”

He stared, breathing hard. “Yes, Francesca, if it makes you happy to hear my ultimate confession, I do love you. But that doesn't mean we are suited—”

Even though it hurt to use her left hand, she caught his face with both her hands and kissed him deeply. He opened immediately, kissing her back while pushing her down on the sofa. His huge body settled atop her as their mouths fused. He was already aroused; she thrilled. And then he broke the kiss.

“Am I hurting you?” he demanded.

She caught his nape. “You can't hurt me, not like this. I want you, Hart.”

For one moment he stared, desire searing his eyes, but she saw despair and anguish, too. He had been so afraid for her! And she saw the moment the internal battle was won. Hart claimed her mouth, hard.

The possession was absolute—and it told her everything she needed to know. But his urgency stunned her. Francesca opened and their tongues mated greedily. She reached for his shirt; he reached for hers. And as he rained hot, wet kisses and bites down her bare breasts and torso, she lay back, writhing and incoherent now, her nails raking his back. One thing was clear: Hart wanted her as never before.

On the floor now, he reared up over her. Their gazes met. Francesca reached up to touch his face. She desperately wanted him to say those three magical words again.

“Don't speak,” he said harshly. “I am never giving you up.”

Thursday, July 3, 1902
5:30 a.m.

T
HE MOMENT HE
stepped inside the small, dark front hall of his home, he knew that the children were asleep. The Victorian house was achingly silent. Or was it his heart that ached?

Rick Bragg walked quietly inside, shutting the front door, as some birds began their morning songs outside. He had actually caught a few hours of sleep in his office, in his desk chair. He supposed that, if his marital situation did not improve, he should get a sofa for his office.

He felt old beyond his years as he slowly went upstairs, trying not to awaken anyone, feeling like an intruder. Who was he fooling? He and Leigh Anne were at an impasse. She did not want to fight for their marriage, and he was losing interest in waging the battle by himself.

But he had meant his every word when he had shared that bottle of scotch with Rourke last night. He would never abandon Leigh Anne, not in any way. He wouldn't give her a divorce, and he would never send her to an institution. This was her home.

No, he corrected silently, it was their home. And his heart ached even more strongly.

The door to their bedroom was on his left; he ignored it. The door to the girls' room was on his right. It was open, and he paused on the threshold there.

He stared at the sleeping children, his heart swelling with affection. He had become so fond of them, and they deserved a good home.

Leigh Anne was desperate to adopt the girls. He was grim. How could they go forward and adopt the girls when their marriage was in such a shambles? Katie and Dot deserved a mother who was not stricken with self-pity and prone to taking brandy in her morning tea. They needed a mother capable of nurturing them in every possible way. Every time he saw Katie, she was filled with anxiety and tension. She worried day in and day out about Leigh Anne. No child should have to bear such a burden.

But his wife's intentions were the very best. She doted on the girls and she needed them.

He would never send them to another foster home. But it didn't seem right to continue with the adoption. He stared at the girls, simply not knowing what to do, feeling utterly helpless—the way he felt about his wife.

He walked into the bedroom then. He kissed Dot, who was smiling in her sleep. He hoped she was dreaming about fat ponies, happy clowns and red-and-white candy canes. Katie was moving about restlessly, her small face set in frown lines. He sighed and kissed her, too, stroking her dark hair. Instantly, her eyes opened and she was wide-awake.

“Everything will be all right,” he said in his most reassuring voice.

She smiled sleepily at him.

Katie was fond of him now, too, and she loved Leigh Anne. At least he could put a roof over their heads, food on the table and some security into their lives. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered.

Her eyes drifted closed, and he saw that the frown was gone from her expression. Maybe he could somehow make the girls comfortable, secure and happy, in spite
of the discord in his marriage. Maybe it was best that he was absent from the house as much as possible, since that satisfied Leigh Anne.

Tension stiffened every fiber of his being as he entered the master suite. He tried not to look at Leigh Anne as he walked past her as she slept, taking off his shirt as he did so. But twisted images flashed, mocking him—haunting him. Would he always remember the first time they had met—when she was so breathtakingly beautiful? Did he have to remember the first time they had danced—the first time they had kissed? Did he have to recall his most wild, youthful yearnings? She had destroyed far more than their marriage when she had fled to Europe; she had destroyed his hopes and dreams.

More memories came, recent ones—of their intense, fiercely sexual battles, and then her withdrawal, her drinking, her sorrow.

He looked at her. The woman he had fallen in love with had never existed. What had existed were his hopes and dreams and the utter naiveté of a young, optimistic man.

Sex had been the foundation of their reconciliation. There had never been love, affection, shared interests and values. So when tragedy finally struck, it meant that they were left with nothing.

And in that instant, he realized that nothing could heal their marriage, because she had already decided that it was over. And why was he at all surprised? She had left them when they were newlyweds. Selfishly, she had walked out, making the decision to end things without even a discussion. As selfishly, she had decided now that she would not participate in their marriage anymore.

He felt as if he was having an epiphany as he stood there. It was over—in fact, his marriage had never even begun.

He had never loved her; she had never loved him.

There was only one woman he loved, and she was hell-bent on marrying his brother.

He strode to a bureau and undressed, feeling vicious now. He was strong, he would manage—he would do what was best for everyone—care for everyone—provide for everyone—whether Leigh Anne wanted it or not.

His bedside telephone rang.

Naked, he leaped into his drawers as it rang again. The sound was a loud jangle, yet Leigh Anne never stirred, and he wondered how much laudanum she had taken. When he reached the phone, she hadn't moved. It was the chief.

“We got him, boss,” Farr said, his tone smug. “My boys got Randall as he was trying to get into his house about an hour ago.”

“Perfect,” Bragg said, feeling savage. “I'll be right down.” He hung up, wanting to call Francesca. But it was only six in the morning. Still, servants would be up. He'd leave a message.

Andrew Cahill picked up the phone.

“I'm sorry to bother you at this hour, Andrew,” Bragg said. “But I have news, and I think Francesca will be very pleased to hear it.”

“She isn't here, Rick. Because of her injury, she stayed at Hart's last night.”

Of course she had. It felt as if someone was twisting an ice pick in his chest. “Thank you, Andrew. And again, I am sorry to have bothered you.” He hung up and saw Leigh Anne watching him.

“I have to go,” he said. “It is police business.”

 

“Y
OU HAD A TELEPHONE
call, Francesca.”

Hart's breath feathered her cheek. Francesca slowly awoke, deliciously sated. As she stretched beneath the
covers, catlike, she recalled Hart making love to her numerous times. Eventually she had been put to bed in a guest room. Had he actually pulled the covers up? She grinned, aware that she was deliciously naked.

He was fully dressed in his shirt and trousers, the sleeves uncuffed. As he leaned over her, his expression was wry. “Good morning, Francesca.”

She reached for his jaw, desire causing her to shiver. As she did, she thought about the fact that she had not gone home last night. “I am ruined, Hart.” He'd have to marry her now!

“You're a virgin,” he said calmly. “And a very pleased one, at that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Barely.”

“Barely is enough.” He sat down by her hip, pulled her into his arms and kissed her, very, very thoroughly. Francesca was so surprised by the open display of affection that when he ended the kiss, she blinked speechlessly at him. They were surely reconciled, she thought breathlessly.

“Do not ask,” he said flatly, standing. “Bragg called. Randall is in custody.”

Her mind sprang to life. “I have to go.”

“You had better stop at home first, and soothe your parents. Andrew just called, as well.”

In the act of leaping naked from the bed, she froze.

He smiled rather appreciatively. “I called them last night and explained that your wound made it inconvenient for you to go home. But your father is not very happy with me.”

She threw herself at him and hugged him hard, then kissed him quickly on the lips. “I do love you!” She dived into her drawers. “Mary has seen the portrait—Bill must be the thief.” She found her chemise and shrugged it on.
“Please leave so I can get dressed. Will you meet me downtown? Surely you want to hear Bill confess.”

“If you tell me how long you will be, I will chauffeur you downtown, Francesca.”

She wanted to tell him five minutes, but she sighed. “An hour. I am sure I will be thoroughly grilled by both Andrew and Julia.”

“I'll pick you up then,” Hart said. He touched her chin, his gaze impossibly warm. “Good luck.”

 

I
T TOOK
A
NDREW
only thirty seconds to confront her. Francesca had barely walked through the front door when her father appeared in the entrance hall. He instantly faltered, his gaze going wide at the sight of her bloodstained shirtwaist. Knowing she looked awful in the bloody shirt, and intending to use her brush with danger to her full advantage, Francesca sailed forward and hugged him. “It was only a graze, Papa, but it did hurt, terribly! That must have been the reason I fell asleep on Hart's couch after Rourke treated the wound.”

Andrew's gaze lifted and he said grimly, “It was half past eleven when Hart called me, Francesca. Can you imagine how worried your mother and I were?”

She heard her mother's heels rapidly clicking as she approached from the hallway. Lowering his voice, Andrew said, “I did not tell her you were shot. She would have never slept a wink. I said there was an incident that prevented you from coming home, a brush with another criminal element, and that you were unhurt.”

He whirled as Julia appeared. “Julia, I confess to a vast deception last night, but it is only a graze. Francesca is unharmed, so do not worry yourself.”

Julia stumbled, caught herself on the banister and turned white. “I do not believe what I am seeing!” she gasped. “Oh, I cannot abide this sleuthing of yours!”

Francesca rushed forward. “Mama, I will admit that I was shot at, but Hart was there—he rescued me.”

“Frankly, I do not want to know the details, as long as you are safe. Francesca, we are off to the Springs at noon. Your bags have been packed and sent on ahead, dear.”

There was no time to relish having successfully diverted Julia from an attack on her profession. Francesca prepared for battle. “I cannot go to the Springs today, Mama, but I will come very shortly. Our number-one suspect is in custody and I am on my way downtown with Hart.”

Julia's hands fisted on her hips, but before she could speak, Andrew stepped between them. Francesca tensed, because he was very angry. “Papa? Surely you understand that I must go to headquarters today.”

“Oh, I understand. I understand that you are twenty-one years old, and madly in love. Or so you believe! But you are a lady, Francesca. No matter how hurt, you cannot spend the night with a gentleman, let alone a disreputable rake like Calder Hart.”

“Andrew,” Julia began, but he cut her off.

“Francesca cannot run about this city as if she is an amoral socialite.”

Francesca felt color flooding her face. Andrew was never so critical of her! “We are affianced,” she tried to reassure him. “And I was hurt.” She didn't dare try to tell him that they had done nothing wrong.

“Really?” His tone was cold. “I do not see his ring on your finger. Not that that matters! I have come to my final conclusion, Francesca, and that is that your having jilted him at the altar on Saturday was for the best.”

She cried out. “Papa,” she began in horrified protest.

But Julia interrupted. “Andrew, we must prepare to leave the city. Hart is going to join us in the Springs!”

“No.” He did not look at his wife. “I have had enough.
Hart is an unconscionable man. I have never liked him and I have never trusted him—and that will never change. You belong with someone like Rick Bragg. You are a woman of virtue, Francesca, and you deserve a man of great morality! Against my better judgment, I was forced into accepting this marriage. Well, I rule this roost. You are my daughter, Francesca, and while you might think me cruel now, I am looking after your best interests. You are not marrying Hart, not now, not ever.”

Francesca was struck speechless.

Julia said harshly, “And you do not intend to discuss such a monumental decision with me?”

“Hart has played you for a fool,” Andrew said. Then he turned to Francesca. “I suggest you go upstairs and refresh yourself. We are leaving this house at eleven.” He strode down the hall, vanishing into the corridor.

A terrible silence fell.

Julia cried, “You should have come home last night.”

Guilt assailed her. “Mama—I love him.”

Tears filled Julia's eyes. “I know you do, but Francesca…!”

“I am going to marry him eventually. What are we going to do about Papa?” she asked with real concern. She was certain that this was no passing fancy. Andrew had made up his mind and he would not change it, no matter what happened next. But nothing would stop her from marrying Hart, not even her beloved father.

“We have all summer to work on your father. Leave him to me,” Julia said firmly.

Francesca was not relieved, but she nodded. “Mama, don't you want to see the culprit responsible for luring me away from my wedding brought to justice?”

“You know that I do.”

“Hart certainly does. He said he will not leave town until that culprit is in police custody. I can't come to the
Springs today. But as soon as Hart and I attain a confession and the police apprehend everyone involved, we will join you there, for the rest of the summer.” Hart would murder her, she thought. But Julia would certainly give over.

And Julia took the bait. “It might not hurt for your father to see Hart attending you, Francesca, for then, he will surely see what I have seen—that he is smitten with you. Very well. Come as soon as you possibly can. I will leave town, knowing you are in good hands.” She gave her a conspiratorial look.

Francesca kissed her cheek. “I am late. I must change. I will wire you when we know which day we are coming.” And she flew up the stairs. “I love you!”