Bedford Street Brigade 02 - Love Unbidden (16 page)

“Eventually, Father lost interest in everything except searching for Phoebe. He no longer cared for his business. Or Nick. Or me. He was obsessed with finding Phoebe.”

“So you believe your sister’s still there? Somewhere in London’s East End?”

Betsy sank down into the chair by the window. “I have to. To think she’s no longer there means she’s no longer alive.”

Betsy carried a tray loaded with food to Harry’s room. It had been a week since he’d regained consciousness. A week since they’d first spoken. And during that week she felt as if she’d gotten to know him better than she knew anyone.

There was something unique about developing a friendship with a person without a past he could remember. Nothing influenced the way he thought, or the assumptions he drew. None of his thoughts or opinions were tarnished by past experiences. Every one of his comments was honest and objective.

She gave a quick rap on the door and entered. “I’ve brought you a light lunch,” she said carrying the tray across the room. “Mrs. Beasley said she was preparing something special for dinner tonight.”

“Your Mrs. Beasley has done nothing since you brought me here except prepare something special for me each evening. Be sure to tell her I think I’m in love with her.”

Betsy couldn’t help but laugh. The man they called Harry had a wonderful sense of humor. Even though she knew he was in pain a great deal of the time, he put on a brave face and suffered in silence.

“Would you like to sit up and eat in bed, or make your way to the chair like you did yesterday?”

“I’d like to move to the chair. I need to build my strength.”

“Dr. Raines said not to do too much.”

“He said to do as much as my body would allow. And my body is telling me to get out of this bed and walk.”

“Very well.” She placed the tray of food on the table close to the chair, then went back to help him to his feet. She pulled back his covers and helped him sit with his feet hanging over the side of the bed.

“Take your time,” she said when he gasped in pain. “Your ribs are far from healed yet.”

“I’d really…like to know what I did…to make the fellows who beat me up…do such a thorough job,” he said between gasps.

Betsy grabbed a damp cloth and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “They were hired to kill you,” she said, rinsing the cloth in fresh water and turning back to wipe his cheeks and neck. Before she could lift the cloth, he reached out and clamped his fingers around her wrist.

“What did you say?”

The expression on his face was deadly. The tone of his voice was harsher than any tone she’d heard him use. She thought she should be afraid, but of course she wasn’t.

“How do you know they were hired to kill me?”

“Because they said so. They said they were paid to kill you and they wanted to get out of there before anyone recognized them. They didn’t want your friends coming after them.”

“My friends? Did they say who my friends were?”

Betsy shook her head. “But it sounded like they were afraid of your friends.” She paused. “As if they were dangerous.”

The man squeezed his eyes shut tight. “Maybe you would have been wiser to leave me on Old Nichol, Betsy. It’s possible I’m not a very nice man.”

Betsy was at a loss for words. Even more at a loss when he released her wrist and dropped his hand to his side. When she looked at him, he was watching her.

“Are you afraid of me, Betsy?”

She considered his words. Was she? Finally, she knew what her answer was. “No, I’m not afraid of you. I have no reason to be.”

“But—”

She held out her hand to stop his words. “You’re a good man, Harry.” She smiled. “Although Harry’s not your name. I know it’s not. I don’t know what kind of man you were before I found you, but the man I’ve come to know is kind, and brave, and intelligent, and…gentle. You’ve been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”

He smiled. “That’s because I’m not strong enough to do anything but lie here and allow you to wait on me.”

“Yes,” she said on a chuckle. “There is that.” She patted the top of his hand, and he turned his hand over so his palm met hers. He didn’t release her but linked his fingers with hers. Fiery flames of desire raged through her and she lowered her gaze to where their flesh met. She didn’t understand this. She didn’t understand anything that was happening to her. “We need to move you to the chair so you can eat lunch before it gets cold,” she said when she could speak.

He didn’t move, but looked her in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for everything. But especially for helping me when you had
no reason to think I was good enough to save, and every reason to think I wasn’t.”

Betsy tried to lower her gaze, but couldn’t. She found it impossible to shift away from him. For that instant in time, she felt connected to him in a way she’d never been connected to anyone else in her life. Not even Phoebe.

For this one second in time, it was as if she understood someone more completely than she thought it was possible to understand anyone. And that they had discovered a part of her she didn’t even know was there. And that they liked what they found. That they liked her.

He kept hold of her hand and gently squeezed her fingers. She didn’t try to pull out of his grasp.

She didn’t want anything except to be connected to him.

. . .

Another week went by, and Harry continued to grow stronger. He was able to stand on his feet, and even take a few steps by himself. And Betsy continued to care for him, although Nick warned her that for propriety’s sake, it would be wise not to become overly friendly with him. They didn’t know anything about him, after all.

But Betsy knew all she needed to know. The man they still referred to as Harry was a perfect gentleman.

“I brought you a surprise,” she said, entering his room.

He sat on the edge of the bed as if he was waiting for her to help him walk to the chair. Or, as if he was getting ready to attempt the feat by himself.

She set the tray on the table by his chair near the window, and went back to him to help him to his feet.

He got up slowly, although with seemingly less pain than yesterday. His first step seemed steadier.

“Mrs. Beasley made a blueberry cobbler this morning and I’ve brought us each a piece. It’s still warm.”

“Wonderful,” he said with a brilliant smile on his face. “I love blueberry cobbler. Cora made it quite often because it’s my favorite. She made peach pie for Quinn, and—”

He stopped talking and clasped his hands to either side of his head.

“How do you know blueberries are your favorite?” she said, stepping in front of him. “Who is Cora? And who is Quinn?”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“What else do you remember, Harry?”

“Hugh’s favorite was Cora’s strawberry-filled pastries. And Roarke—” His eyes opened wide and his gaze locked with hers. “Who are these people, Betsy? I know what their favorite desserts are. Why the hell can’t I remember who they are?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him.

He met her gesture by wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight. Suddenly, he clasped his fingers around her upper arms and held her away from him. “I remember going to Old Nichol Street, Betsy. I was looking for someone.”

“Do you remember who?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “But he wasn’t there. I remember—” He dropped one hand and slapped it against the pocket of the pants he wore. “Where’s my gun? Did I have a gun when you found me?”

Betsy shook her head. Talk of a gun scared her.

“Hold me, Betsy. Please, hold me.”

He pulled her against him and she wrapped her arms around him. She didn’t know what it must be like to remember things that didn’t make sense to you. To remember things that frightened you.

She held him close, and let him hold her tighter. Then, he inched back from her and looked at her. She lifted her head and their gazes met.

“Betsy?”

“Yes,” she whispered in answer to his question. And he brought his mouth down over hers and kissed her.

His kiss was more desperation than the tender meeting of two lovers. His demands were exacting, his wants ultimatums. There wasn’t as much passion in his kiss as agony. Not as much giving as relief from suffering. Not as much hunger as the preparation for battle. Except Betsy wasn’t sure who he was battling—except himself.

He deepened his kiss, searching, seeking, conquering. His mouth angled over hers, positioning himself to claim more of her. His tongue skimmed her lips, then sought entry.

She couldn’t deny him. She didn’t want to deny him. She was as hungry for his kisses as he was eager to offer them. She was as desperate to find a release from the emotions she’d kept under lock and key her whole life. She was as determined to experience what he had to offer.

The thoughts racing through her mind were as rash and impulsive as they were reckless. She knew in a few minutes she would regret her rash behavior, but right now she didn’t regret anything. Especially anything that involved the man holding her in his arms.

He kissed her again and she met his demands with demands of her own. Her hands skimmed up his chest, shoving the material of his shirt to the side so she could feel his warm flesh beneath her palms.

The movement of his hands mirrored hers, traveling over her ribcage, then up until his hand found her breast. He cupped her, then circled his thumb across the peak of her breast.

Betsy moaned as she arched her back. She’d never experienced such turmoil before. Never battled such desire, such desperate yearning. She’d never wanted to give herself to anyone like she wanted to give herself to this man she couldn’t even call by his real name.

A man she knew nothing about.

A man who could be a killer as easily as he could be a saint.

Betsy slowly softened her kisses, then turned her head to break their connection.

Their breathing was ragged and they each gasped for one breath after another. Betsy felt as if her lungs were on fire, and her heart raced as if she’d run from one end of London to the other.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I had no right.”

Betsy shook her head. “You have no more to apologize for than I do.”

He released her and turned to make his way to the chair beneath the window. Betsy grabbed his arm to help him. When he was seated, she poured a fresh glass of water and handed it to him.

“How did you and your brother decide when to go in search of your sister? Were the nights random? Did you choose the areas you searched by chance?”

Betsy picked up one plate of cobbler and handed it to him. “No, we only went in search of Phoebe when we got word that someone matching her description had been spotted.”

“Who did you get your information from?”

“A lad named Willie. We met him when we first began our search and he keeps his eyes open for anyone who resembles our sister.”

“I’d like to speak with this Willie,” the man said. “Would that be possible?”

Betsy nodded, then sat down and silently ate her blueberry cobbler. “Have you remembered anything else?” she finally asked.

“Nothing, except for one thing more.”

“What’s that?”

“My name’s not Harry.”

. . .

Betsy let Willie into the house, then led him to Nick’s study. Harry was waiting for him there, and Nick had stayed home from the tobacco shop to hear anything Willie might have to say. When they reached the door, Betsy rapped twice to let Harry and Nick know they were here, then opened the door and Willie walked in.

“Blarmy,” Willie whispered in awe. His eyes were wide as saucers and his jaw nearly touched his chest as he turned a slow circle in the center of the room. The expression on his face read as if he’d stepped into the pages of a fairytale book. “I ain’t never seen nothing so grand.”

Betsy couldn’t help but smile. She took his arm and led him to a chair near where Harry and Nick sat.

There was a plate with a half dozen different kinds of pastries on it. When Willie saw it, he licked his lips in appreciation.

Betsy picked up a plate and put one of each of Mrs. Beasley’s delicacies on it, then handed him the plate.

“Willie, you already know my brother, Mr. Thomas. I’d like to introduce you to a friend of ours. His name is Harry—”

Betsy glanced at Harry. She was at a loss. They hadn’t made up a last name for him.

“Smith,” Harry provided. “Harry Smith.”

“Glad ta meet ya, Harry,” Willie said with a mouthful of cake.

“My brother and I told Mr. Smith how knowledgeable you are about what transpires in London’s East End.”

“She means what goes on,” Nick explained when Willie’s face wrinkled in a confused look.

“Oh, yah,” Willie said. “I know everythun ’bout what goes on in there.”

“That’s why I’d like to talk to you, Willie,” Harry said. “I need some information.”

“What sorta information?”

“Several weeks ago, perhaps four or so, a man was beaten and left for dead on Old Nichol Street. Do you know anything about that?”

Willie slowly leaned forward and filled his plate with more pastries. He hesitated before he finally answered. “I may,” he said in a drawn out answer.

Nick reached in his pocket and handed Willie a coin. “Might this help you remember?”