Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 06] (25 page)

“I don’t have time to look at her face, Brad, get me that number-three scissor.”

She swallowed, trying to speak. Mrs. Mrs. I am Mrs. Mrs. Mrs. Rick Bragg
.

“Doctor, she’s conscious.” A woman now spoke, briskly, surprised. “She’s trying to speak.”

“Give her more laudanum. I want her out. Shit. Look at this.”

A silence fell.

What was he looking at? The fear was explosive, begging to become terror. Everyone sounded so serious, so worried. How badly was she hurt? Surely she wasn’t going to die!

But she had been run over by two carriage wheels. She remembered every moment, every detail. She remembered the incredible pain
.

“Is she going to make it?”

Leigh Anne strained to hear
.

“I don’t know. She’s in shock. She’s got at least two broken ribs and I think a ruptured spleen. It’s the spleen I’m worried about—Oh, Christ. I take that back.”

“Oh, God,” Brad said.

The pain was lessening slightly, becoming tolerable, and she was beginning to float. What were they talking about? What was happening? How badly was she hurt? Why did they sound so dismayed? She tried to listen, but it was so hard, because their voices were fading, because she was fading, quickly now
.

The pain was almost gone. She was floating, comfortable now. Cocooned in fuzzy warmth, in blackness. Was she dying? Was this what dying was like? Because it was so peaceful . . .
.

“Jesus, look at that leg. Jesus, Doc.”

“Oh, Christ. I need an identification on this woman! I need it now, because from the look of it, this leg is coming off, and I’d really like to speak with her family first.”

“What a goddamned shame.”

What? What had he said? Were they amputating her leg? It was so hard to think now, so hard to feel, so hard to
be.
The sensation of floating increased, She was weightless,
drifting, high. God, she could even see the doctor and his nurses; how odd. She was in a hospital room after all, lying naked on the table, covered with a sheet. Blood was everywhere. Then she saw the doctor adjusting the sheet and she saw the bloody pulp that was her left leg and she stared
.

“She’s going into shock! We’re losing her.”

She closed her eyes
.

Rick, please, come, please, Rick, please
.

I want to say good-bye
.

S
ATURDAY
, M
ARCH
29, 1902—7:00
P.M
.

“H
E’S HERE
,” J
ULIA ANNOUNCED
, standing on the threshold of Francesca’s bedroom. She was beaming.

Francesca felt ill. She couldn’t stop thinking about her interview with Grace Bragg, and now there was no denying that marrying Calder Hart was very wrong. She slowly faced her mother, clad in a pale dove-gray gown that was high-necked and more appropriate for day than night. “I have such a headache, Mama.”

Julia started. “What is this?! Don’t tell me you are thinking of standing Calder up! He’s downstairs, Francesca. And why are you wearing that dismal dress?”

Francesca was in despair, and worse, she was also miserable. She so wanted to fly downstairs and into Hart’s arms. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Not to him and not to herself.

“Francesca, you are not going to back out now,” her mother said, as if reading her thoughts.

“What are you talking about?” Francesca feigned innocence. “Mama, I am on a terribly grim case. I am worried about the missing girls. Worse, I didn’t have a chance to visit the cemetery where John Cooper claims Bonnie is buried. I am exhausted, really.”

Julia always knew everything that went on in her household, and she clearly knew all about Francesca’s latest investigation, because she did not blink. Instead, she came forward, seized Francesca’s arm, and started her out the door. “I can see right through you, my dear. I know you are having second thoughts. Well, have them tomorrow! Besides”—she smiled as they went downstairs—“Andrew and I saw this production last week and it is magnificent. You will truly enjoy yourself.”

Francesca doubted that. The reception room came into view, the entry hall beyond that. The floors were wide slabs of black and white marble, and plaster columns supported the ceiling. Francesca only saw Hart, clad in a black tuxedo, impossibly seductive, impossibly handsome. His back was to her—he was speaking with Andrew. Then he heard her and he turned.

Her heart turned over hard. He held a bouquet of red and white roses in his hand. He smiled slowly at her.

“My daughter, at long last. You will have to get used to it, Calder, but Francesca is so busy with her various affairs that she is always late.”

“I don’t mind,” Hart said softly, his gaze never leaving Francesca. And briefly, the way he gazed at her was as if she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Which was absurd. “Are those for me?” she managed, tearing her gaze away.

“Yes.”

“Red and white roses. They’re lovely, thank you.” She accepted the bouquet, still avoiding his eyes, terribly uneasy now as well as dismayed.

He murmured, “Red seemed terribly clichéd, if not appropriate. Passion and innocence. That’s you, Francesca.”

She had to look up.

He started, clearly seeing the despair in her eyes.

She turned away, handing the bouquet to her mother. “Can you put those in my rooms?”

“Of course.” Julia smiled. “Are you going to have supper after the opera?”

“Yes,” Hart said, before Francesca could answer. “But I will have her home around midnight.”

Francesca accepted her coat from a valet.

“Enjoy yourself,” Julia said happily.

Francesca nodded, kissed her father’s cheek, and walked out with Hart. The moment the front door was closed behind them, he said, “What is wrong?”

Her heart lurched with dread. It was a moment before she could answer, and when she did so, it was as he helped her into his brougham. “Bonnie Cooper may be dead. That is what her father claims.”

Hart settled on the seat beside her, reaching for her hand. Without thinking, Francesca pulled her palm away. She felt him stiffen; she turned to look at him. He stared, his expression impossible now to read.

“Where is Rourke?” she managed too brightly.

“He is meeting us at the opera. What is it, Francesca? Why are you behaving as if you are frightened of me?”

She swallowed. “I am not afraid of you, Hart. That is one thing I have never been where you are concerned.”

“Really? Then why are you flustered, uneasy? You only call me Hart when you are upset.”

“The case,” she began.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, hard.

She stiffened. “I’m sorry.”

He studied her as the coach rolled off. “Something has happened. I want to know what.”

She didn’t want to lie to him. Lying to him felt wrong; it made her ill. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh ho.” His words were tight, his tone unpleasant. He sat back, watching her closely now. “Let me guess. You are having second thoughts about us?”

She nodded miserably.

“Now I wonder why,” he said softly, dangerously.

She shrugged. “It’s just wrong, I think, to marry simply so we can jump into bed. It’s—”

“Stop the nonsense, Francesca,” he warned.

She tensed, her gaze meeting his.

“First of all, you may be marrying so you can enjoy my favors, but that is not why I am marrying and you damn well know it.” He was angry but controlling it. “Who has been whispering in your ear? Oh—let me guess. My dear half brother!”

“No.” She shook her head, swallowing again, terribly nervous. “Grace.”

He stiffened as if shot. “I beg your pardon?”

“We had lunch,” she whispered, feeling close to tears.

“I do not believe this. Grace advised you not to marry me?”

“No! Calder, she is worried that we are marrying for all the wrong reasons and she said so. She made me think. She asked me to think about rushing into this!”

She saw him tremble. She became alarmed—he was livid. “Calder, this is not what you think! She has your—our—best interests at heart!”

“How dare she interfere in my personal life,” he said dangerously.

Oh, God, she shouldn’t have said anything. She reached for his arm—it was like touching a steel piston. “Calder, she loves you, it is so obvious, and—”

“She thinks you should be with Rick. Doesn’t she?” he demanded.

“No! She thinks Rick and Leigh Anne should remain married. But she is worried that I will hurt you!” Francesca cried.

He stared, his eyes widening. It was a long moment before he moved, and then he looked away. “That is absurd.”

“I think so, too. But what isn’t absurd is that marriage should be securely based on a foundation of love.”

He didn’t answer, staring out the carriage window. They were traveling swiftly down Fifth Avenue now. Traffic was
heavy, as it was a Saturday night. But it was moving at a handsome clip. Finally he looked at her. “I am hardly an expert on marriage, Francesca. But I have lived a good twenty-six years, and I have seen one or two good marriages in my entire life. A good marriage is based on many things, and from what I have seen, respect, friendship, and affection are far more important than ‘love.’ ”

“I happen to disagree,” she said softly.

“You are still wearing my ring,” he said flatly.

She clutched her hand. It was impossible to speak; eternity seemed to pass. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that I am afraid, too?”

She was stunned. “But . . . you seem so certain!”

“I am certain . . . that I cannot lose you to another man. I am not letting you go, Francesca.”

She thrilled, even though she did not want to. “I can’t imagine life without you,” she whispered. “The thought makes me sick. I don’t want to lose you, either. But marriage . . . ” She hesitated. “You see, Grace is right—but she is also wrong. You aren’t the one who is going to be hurt.” She felt a tear forming then. Her whisper became rough, hoarse. “I am the one who is going to care too much. I am the one who is going to be hurt.”

Their gazes locked. A long and pregnant pause ensued. And then he was pulling her into his arms. “No.”

She closed her eyes as her cheek touched his chest, as his arms gripped her tightly, as their bodies firmed, the one against the other. Pleasure warmed her. Being in his arms was like being in a safe and protected harbor, a harbor, though, surrounded by dangerously violent seas. As he held her, as she breathed deeply against his chest, she felt the new urgency begin, the new yet old desire.

He kissed the side of her head, near her temple. “I am not going to hurt you. I would hate myself too much,” he said roughly.

“I’m afraid, afraid of what I might feel for you if I let myself,” she heard herself whisper.

He hesitated, his embrace tightening. “Then let us stay
friends, good friends, and we will have a marriage of friendship and passion. What could be wrong with that?” He kissed her temple now.

Her body warmed, melting at the same time. Could she somehow keep her emotions at bay? If only he were not so fascinating. If only he did not have the ability to mesmerize her the way sorcerers might.

She looked up. “I don’t know. I can never think clearly in your arms.”

He smiled a little. “Have I ever told you that I find you adorable?”

Her heart turned over with joy. “No. I like that, Calder.”

His gaze was turning gray, into smoke. “I like you,” he said roughly.

She waited, yearning now.

He smiled a little again, then lowered his mouth to hers. The first touch of his lips was exquisite, hot and wet at once. She moaned softly, opening, but he merely brushed her lips teasingly, softly, repeatedly, until she could not stand it. Whimpering, she caught some short strands of hair at his nape, pulling, and he smiled against her mouth, murmuring her name. He tugged on her lower lip and, finally, claimed her fully for a kiss.

The carriage darkened into shadow and heat.

Francesca knew one thing. She wasn’t ready to give this man up.

She just couldn’t.

The intermission was spent by most of the opera-goers in the lobby, sipping champagne and sherry. Julia had been right, the production was fabulous, and Francesca had quickly been swept away into a story she knew by heart. Stepping into the lobby with Hart and Rourke was as odd as traveling through place and time. She shook her head to clear it as they paused in the midst of the glittering crowd.

Hart held her hand. His mouth brushed her ear. “Champagne?”

She scanned the faces surrounding them. “That would be nice.”

“Who are you looking for, Francesca?” he asked.

She didn’t look at him. “Sarah. I have been a terrible friend, Calder, as I told Mrs. Channing that we would be here and that Sarah intended to paint on all night instead of joining us.” Francesca’s heart skipped as she spotted Sarah and Mrs. Channing entering the lobby from another exit, clearly just leaving their box. Sarah was wearing a vivid red dress, one too gaudy for her tiny frame and small face, but Francesca didn’t wince—she was used to Sarah being the victim of her mother’s taste in fashion. “They’re here.” She waved.

“What are you up to?” he breathed, laughter in his tone.

“Go get champagne,” she ordered, poking him with her elbow.

He bowed, his eyes oddly smoky, and he slipped off into the crowd.

“Sarah! Sarah! Mrs. Channing!” Francesca waved frantically.

Rourke, who stood behind her, came abreast. “The Channings are here,” he said, not sounding surprised.

She glanced at him. He was amazingly handsome in his tuxedo, and a woman would have to be blind not to think so. “Isn’t that a surprise?”

His amber gaze slid over her, and he smiled, clearly suspicious but not annoyed. “Truly.” Then he added, “My brother is here.”

Francesca started and followed his gaze. Instantly she saw Bragg standing with a group of gentlemen that included Mayor Low. She warmed a little, and as she studied Bragg, she wondered if she would always be happy to see him. Then she wondered where Leigh Anne was.