“Our father—”
“
My
father, little Miss Gutless Wonder. Not our father.
Mine
.
My
father. And everything he had was left to me.”
Cecelia was retreating to a room at her back. What she called her office, apparently. As if that would save her! Instantly, Noah followed and shoved his way inside before she could close the door and lock it against him.
“There, now, isn’t this pleasant?” he said silkily, pulling out a white painted chair, uninvited, to plop down upon its seat.
“Please—leave,” she managed, trembling. Yet ready to stand and confront him, to fight for what she wanted. Brassy; he’d give her that much. Probably just like her mother, the old soiled dove herself. “You have no—no right to be here. This academy belongs to me!”
He leaned back, perfectly at ease and in command of the situation. “Sit down, Cecelia. I may call you Cecelia, may I not, since we are related? Under the blanket, so to speak.”
Pale as she was, a splash of rose hue painted her cheekbones. With that, and the splendid piercing blue of her eyes, Noah was beginning to feel slightly as if he had been shoved beneath some giant microscope, for examination.
“I want you to go. I want you out of my building; I want you out of my town. Go back to Boston.”
“Oh, now, sister dear, there’s no need to be nasty about this.” He would know about nastiness; his smile was full of it.
“Mr. Townsend will be here any minute,” she pointed out. “I’ve been expecting to meet with him for a conference about his daughter. You won’t want to be sitting in my office when he arrives.”
Unperturbed, Noah cast a slow glance about. “Been waiting long, have you? I’d say you’ve been stood up for today. We’re all alone here, so we can settle this like the gentleman I am and the—lady—you are not.”
Cecelia gasped. “Get out, you miserable worm!”
“Oh, it’s name-calling we are, now?” Furiously, he surged out of his chair, lunging across the desk to grab her left arm in a killer clinch. “Understand this, you floozy who’s the daughter of a floozy, I want those shares. I want control of the Catherine handed back over to me. Immediately. That mine should have come to me, along with everything else. You will return any interest you have, or I will by God have you run out of town on a rail with your reputation in tatters!”
Too proud to jerk free, she halfway dangled from his grip to glare at him. “I shall not! Father meant for me to have financial security, and that was his way of ensuring it. And, seeing your behavior here, today, I begin to understand why he hated your mother!”
“Bitch!”
Incensed, he swung at her, slapping her across that brightly tinted cheekbone with the back of one hand. Cecelia let out a cry and crumpled.
“There’s more where that came from,” Noah snarled, panting with exertion. “Give it up, do you hear me? I’ll have those shares, or I’ll see you in jail for theft. This town will hear all about how the high-and-mighty Miss Powell was born a bastard in the upstairs room of her mother’s brothel. As will your so-called betrothed!”
Cecelia stirred, moaning in pain and horror. “Josiah,” she whispered. “Josiah. You can’t—”
“Oh, I assure you, I can. All the power lies with me, Cecelia. Learn that, and learn the lesson well.”
The release of his crushing hold flung her aside like a heap of used laundry. He straightened, smoothing his gray silk vest and navy frock coat into immaculate lines. At the threshold he paused, to add one more warning.
“I’m a fair man, Cecelia. I am willing to wait briefly, for you to see the error of your ways, and to come to terms with what must be done. As I say, I am a fair man. But I am not a patient man. Pray, do not test me.”
A slam of the door behind him, and he was, thankfully, gone.
He had left behind a mess. Nauseated by the violence of the encounter, shaken and sickened and tumbled like a rag doll emptied of stuffing, Cecelia pulled herself upright enough to collapse in her chair.
Dear God in heaven! Who would have expected Paul Harper, that dear, good man, to beget such a monster? Evil had appeared in her office today: the devil personified by a half-brother she had no desire to claim. As vile and vicious as his abuse had been, she had truly feared, seeing the light of madness in his eyes, that he might kill her.
The sound of the outer door opening and closing once more sent her heart racing like a steam engine. No! Surely he hadn’t returned!
She had half-risen from her desk in panic, frantically questing as to where she might hide from another onslaught, when a slight knock came on the doorframe.
“Mr.—Mr. Townsend—?” she quavered.
“No, ma’am,” said someone in a southern drawl, entering the room. “It’s me, John Yancey. I stopped by, b’cause—good almighty God!” he jerked out.
“Yes, I—I know I must look—uh…” Cecelia’s trembling hand brushed futilely at the hair once so carefully coiffed, now falling in disarray around her shoulders, and pulled together the fragile butterfly sleeve that had been torn. “For—forgive me, Mr. Yancey. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’m not at—my best—right now…”
Time. She needed time to recover; time to make sense of what had happened.
Please go away
, she wanted to shout at him,
and give me time.
Because in another minute, she’d be blubbering, and she desperately needed to do it in private.
“What went on here, Miss Powell?” His tone was low and quiet, so as not to cause her further upset, but intense.
“Uh…well…”
She dared not meet his commiserating eyes, dared not hope for kindness offered in her jittery state, or she would fall apart.
“Miss Powell?”
Helplessly, she looked up. Tears converged in those blue eyes, pooling around her lashes, and then overflowed. And suddenly, she began to sob.
Just like that, he moved in beside her, took her gently and carefully into his arms, and held her while she wept. For some endless span, while the wall clock ticked quietly away and a bird cooed from its nest in the eaves, he soothed her with soft meaningless words and a light smoothing stroke from the back of her head down to her shoulder blades. Exactly as he might have assuaged the qualms of a restive horse…and probably had.
Eventually, the vehemence of the sobs lessened, easing into only an occasional shudder for a breath or a hiccup. Cecelia’s consciousness surfaced to find herself at rest in a strange man’s embrace—and that man one she didn’t even particularly like. Horrors! What if one of her students had happened by about now, or one of her student’s parents?
“I—I’m so sorry—Mr. Yancey—” she fumbled, in an attempt to extricate. “I seem to have—to have ruined your coat. And you—almost as much…”
Relieved that the lady seemed to be recovering, John flashed her a grin. “I think my coat and I will survive, ma’am. For right now, sit down in that chair and let me look at you. Sure, grab your hanky. Don’t s’pose you got any whiskey around?”
Cecelia managed a wobbly laugh. “You sound like Gabe. No, Mr. Yancey, no whiskey in a schoolroom.”
“Water, then. You hang on a minute. Don’t move, you hear me? Don’t move.”
The door banged behind him, and from outside, she could hear the screech of the pump handle being worked. Almost immediately, he returned, handing her a glass of fresh cold water. That helped. Her insides stopped roiling around, and the gait of her breathing steadied.
But he wasn’t finished. Kneeling before her, he picked up his own wetted handkerchief and began to wash her face with the same gentle, unhurried touch he had used earlier. Was it possible that she had misjudged the man? Under his ministration, she closed her eyes, involuntarily re-living the feel of his tough, staunch chest, the reassurance of being enclosed and sheltered, the scent of leather and pine that clung to his clothing.
“Ouch!”
“Sorry, Miss Powell. That’s gonna be quite some bruise on your cheek. Maybe a shiner, too.”
Finished, John hunkered onto the corner of her desk to survey her. “Looks like you went a few rounds against some damn good prizefighter. I hope you gave him back as good as you got.”
“I—no, I don’t think I did.” Shamed, she looked away from his questioning, speculative gaze.
He bent forward slightly to slip one forefinger under her chin. “You ready now to tell me who did this to you?”
“Mr. Yancey, I don’t know you well enough to tell you anything.” She turned her head slightly.
Spunk. Damn, but she had spunk.
“Huh. All right, then. Reckon all I can do at this point is to walk you home.”
Cecelia drew in a deep breath. “I would appreciate that, Mr. Yancey. But, first, I’d like to find out what you’re doing here.”
“Me? Doin’ here? Well…the truth is…”
She waited. Patient as Job.
So there were his choices. He could confess to his profession. He could confess to the fact that he had been hired by her half-brother to track her down. He could confess to his suspicion that she was a thief, hardened or otherwise. He could even confess to his sending information as to her whereabouts and status to someone who was very likely her arch-enemy.
Good God, what a dilemma.
John slid off the desk to stand beside her, his prey, now a wounded victim, and offered his hand. If not in friendship, then certainly in support. “The truth is, I sorta wanted to lay eyes on you again, after the other day. And here I am. Uh—you goin’ out in public like that, things’re appearin’ a trifle drafty. Got one of them female covers you can wrap around yourself?”
No, it was not the truth. Cecelia was quick enough, perceptive enough to see that apparently there was no truth in this man. Perhaps he simply couldn’t help lying about everything. Well, all she needed at the moment was an escort home. It wasn’t as if she would need to trust him on any matter, ever again.
“A shawl, you mean?”
“Yeah, that’s it.” Taking the knitted thing, lightweight and glossy as cobwebs, he slipped it over her shoulders and then opened the door. “I grew up in a houseful of boys, Miss Powell. Didn’t have much experience with ladies’ gewgaws till I left home and made my way north.”
Cecelia had attempted to put herself into some kind of order for walking out into the public, keeping her hair loose to conceal the cheek already beginning to discolor, hiding her bruised wrist in the folds of her skirt pocket. Now, pausing while she locked the schoolhouse door, she peered skeptically up at him. “Somehow I doubt that, Mr. Yancey. What about your mother?”
“I was the youngest of ten. My mama died birthin’ me.” A quiet statement of fact, as he kept pace beside her down the paved walk and forward. Or another lie, meant to disarm? “You don’t have far to go, do you?”
“Only a few blocks. Afraid to be seen with me where someone might catch you?”
She must be feeling better, John reflected with a small sigh. The tartness had come back to her tongue. “No, ma’am. Just wonderin’,” and he tried out the warmth of his smile again, “how long I’d be able to have the pleasure of your company.”
“You’re a fine-spoken man, John Yancey,” murmured Cecelia, “even if you did grow up without a mother’s guidance. From the south, I gather?”
“Charleston, ma’am. My paw owns a plantation there. That kinda life wasn’t for me, though. So I wandered around a while, finally settled up in Boston.”
“Boston?” She stopped in surprise. “Why, that’s where I used to live. And so does—uh—”
Noah Harper, he could bet she’d been about to say. Jesus. She had secrets, some of which he knew about. He had secrets, none of which she knew about. What a coil.
“Lotsa people,” he helped her out. “Big town. Ever wanna go back there?”
“No, not really.” She explained about her years at an exclusive Swiss school, and her relocation, along with Gabe and Bridget, to California.
“Looks like we’re both kinda sugarfoots. Here, watch your step.” He took her elbow, guiding her over and past an area dug up by who knew what for who knew what reason.
Beginning with the great 1851 fire that had destroyed some 2500 buildings, San Francisco was a city in a constant state of flux, with changes going on from bay to skyline. Going one day to the next, even streets were shifting position and names, leaving residents occasionally at a loss for direction in their own neighborhoods.
“And what did you do in Boston, Mr. Yancey?” she asked, as they continued on their way.
“Oh, this and that. Had me some—uh—interestin’ learnin’ experiences.”
There, that charming smile again. She hardened her heart and her senses against responding. “Then what brought you to San Francisco?”
Damn, but she was persistent. “Had me some business to attend to. This your place, Miss Powell?”
“It is, indeed. Thank you for seeing me safely home, Mr. Yancey. And for—um—for your assistance, back at the school.”
He waited. Tall and darkly attractive and somewhat taciturn, he, too, could be patient as Job.
“That you, Cecie?” came Gabe’s worried voice from the front porch. “I’m glad you’re back, honey, I was beginnin’ to wonder where you’d got to. And I’ve had some news that—oh. It’s you.”
“Me,” agreed John genially. “Good afternoon, Mr. Finnegan.”
So, in the wake of his unexpected helpfulness, there was nothing else to be done but invite him into the bosom of her family for tea and some of Mrs. Liang’s shortbread.
“Why, yes, ma’am, I’d be delighted to accept.” Appreciating the irony of this whole crazy situation, John climbed up the couple of stairs behind the lady of the house, appreciating also the fascinating sway of her hips in their frilly muslin skirt.
Gabe was standing, as he would be in honor of any guest, invited or not. “Our housekeeper, she’s fixed us somethin’ very ladylike to drink. Me, I’d rather take my bourbon straight. You, too, Mr. Yancey?”
“I would indeed, sir. Thank you.”
“Cecie, you could—” Turning, the lawyer finally got a glimpse of his ward, full on, and nearly dropped the bottle he had picked up. “Great stars above, girl, what’n hell has happened to you?”
“A little accident at the school,” John put in smoothly, lifting his glass to be filled. “I meandered in about the same time and offered to bring the lady home.”