Darby: Bride of Oregon (American Mail-Order Bride 33) (6 page)

Rand’s bones shivered uncontrollably and he
wondered, if he stopped resisting it, if the shaking might stop. But with every
wave that rolled through him, he found it impossible. His muscles tightened on
their own. He was helpless.

“There is infection,” Shadow said, holding his
hand above the wound on Rand’s thigh as if he could sense just how bad the
infection was. His friend always had a sixth sense about things. “The leg is
hot, you fool,” he said.

Rand laughed. “Well, then, cut it off and let me
hold it. I am frozen to the bone.”

“You need a doctor. And as soon as your fever
makes you delirious, I will send Foster to kidnap one.”

“Kidnap a doctor?” Foster frowned from his
position just inside the hideout. Every few minutes, he would slide a knob and
snap open the cover over a tiny window in the metal door. After peering out for
a few seconds, he would slide it back again and the cover would click into
place.

Slide, snap.

Slide, click.

Slide, snap.

Slide, click.

It was like listening to Harrigan limp his way
through the tunnels, searching for him. But at least Rand wasn’t the only man
who had limped away from the fight at
The Port Queen
last night. If
Harrigan hadn’t, again, underestimated the loyalty and resourcefulness of ten
women and one black man, Rand wouldn’t have been able to crawl away.

Slide, snap.

Slide, click.

If the bastard decided to storm the place, there
were plenty of men to stop him. But Rand didn’t want anyone else to be sliced
open by Harrigan’s filthy blade. It might as well have been dipped in poison.

“Poison?” Foster parroted again, and Rand realized
he’d been thinking out loud. The man clicked the cover shut, cocked his gun,
and pulled the door open a crack. He stumbled back as the door opened wider
than he liked, to allow a woman in a floor-length cape inside. Nero followed on
her heels, then the door was secured again.

He knew that purple cape! “Jezebel,” he said,
relieved to see she had recovered enough to be out and about.

“No.” Slender hands rose and pushed back the hood.
“I am not your Jezebel.”

He couldn’t have been more shocked if the bloody
Queen of England were standing before him. His lovely, surprising, misguided
wife stood as easy as you please in the middle of The Phantom’s lair, only
yards from the nearest Shanghai tunnel.

She surprised the chills right out of him.

“Mrs. Beauregard,” he sputtered.

“Lady Beauregard,” she corrected and tossed her
cape over him. It was still warm from her body.

“Thank you,” he whispered. His teeth began to
chatter, so he clamped them shut.

Shadow moved out of her way. She smiled and nodded
at the man, then sat on the edge of the couch next to Rand’s hip. Her cool hand
rested on his forehead for a moment, her brow furrowed in concentration. Then
she met his eye.

“I assume you’re the Phantom.” It wasn’t a
question.

Shadow stepped forward. “Who was fool enough to
say such a thing?”

She rolled her eyes. “No one. But I’m not blind,
am I?” She waved Shadow closer. “Can’t you bring a doctor in the same way I got
here?”

Rand summoned his voice. “No doctor in his right
mind would save the life of the Phantom.” He chuckled. “I’ve done too well, you
see. I’ve painted him to be evil incarnate.”

She nodded. “So I’ve heard. Selling some of your
fellow men into slavery and eating the rest?”

“You make it sound so easy.” Suddenly feeling
talkative, he told her a brief history of the tunnels and Harrigan, and how the
man suspected the judge and the phantom were one and the same. So when he
thought Rand was with his new wife, he went after Jez. “But it was all a trap.
He left the cages empty on purpose, hoping I would have nothing better to do
than check on Jez.”

Her sudden smile was cheerful, though forced. “Well
then, I’d say it was lucky for
her
you weren’t with your wife.”

When she pressed hot cloths into his slashed flesh
to clean out the infection, Rand suspected she might be bitter about the way he’d
spent their wedding night. When she sewed his leg closed before the whisky had
time to numb him, he knew it for a fact.

“It is only my suggestion, of course,” she said to
Shadow, “but if I were you, I would find a wheeled chair, disguise him as an
old man, and get him home. I’ll find a way to lure a doctor up to the house.”
She pointed to the desk. “Can you write?”

Shadow nodded and completely ignored Rand while he
jumped to the woman’s bidding.

“Have someone deliver this to the newspaper right
away,” she said. “Judge Rand Beauregard and Lady Darby McClintock, now Lord and
Lady Beauregard, are pleased to announce their marriage—put yesterday’s date—in
a private ceremony amongst their dearest friends. After the nuptials, they
departed for a traditional honeymoon along the coast. A reception will be held
to introduce the bride to her fellow citizens of Portland soon after their
return.”

Rand summoned the energy to push himself up. “I
cannot leave the city, uh…”

“Darby,” she said.

“I cannot leave the cages, Darby.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Then do not.”

“Don’t leave town?” He didn’t understand.

“Do not leave the cages. Are they indestructible?
If you destroy them, will it not buy you some time to get back on your feet?”

He exchanged a look with Shadow. His friend seemed
just as surprised as he that they’d not thought of that delaying tactic. Of
course there would still be victims, but with the cages out of commission, even
for a few days, Harrigan would be seriously inconvenienced. And with his
operations more complicated, the police might have better luck catching the man
red-handed and be able to deal with him legally.

“Don’t just sit there, Shadow. Get my clever wife
a drink.”

“No, but I thank you just the same.” She bent close
to him and lowered her voice. “And let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr.
Beauregard. I’m not your wife just yet.” She wiggled her ring finger—her
empty
ring finger. “Now, who is going to show me how to retrace my steps through this
maze?”

 Darby wished she’d had an audience. Truly.

As Nero led her back out into the wide alley and
through the labyrinth that would lead her back to Jezebel’s brothel, she had to
imagine the applause she would get if her fellow seamstresses from
Massachusetts could have watched her performance. Not only were her accent and
mannerisms spot on, but she’d managed to leave her handsome husband with his
mouth hanging open. It couldn’t have gone better had she planned it.

She was worried about his leg. The wound was
nothing to laugh at. And her heart had nearly stopped when she’d seen how deep
the cut had gone. But luckily, she’d stood at her mother’s shoulder when she’d
cared for wounded miners in Scotland. She knew how to treat infection, and she
knew how to sew flesh without thinking of it as flesh. When she’d sewn up her
first patient, she’d been fifteen years old. And though she’d kept her gullet
from rising, she’d never dreamt she’d be using the experience in America.

Unfortunately, it appeared as though American men
were just as keen on fighting as were Scots. And if her husband was going to
continue to wear two masks, she supposed it wouldn’t be the last of his limbs
she would mend.

They finally stepped out into open air again just
twenty feet from the stairway that led up one side of Jezebel’s establishment.
Nero tipped his hat and stood guard at the bottom stair while she made her way
up the double flight. When she reached the top, she gave the required set of
knocks, then looked back at the lame little man and mouthed the words
thank
you
.

He waited until the door was opened before he
tipped his hat again and disappeared like a cat.

The burly fellow she’d met earlier had nothing but
a scowl for her. Loyal to Jezebel, no doubt, disallowed courtesy to the wife.
But that was best, she reasoned. After all, the wife of the commissioner needn’t
be friends with every brawler she met.

The man led her down two flights of stairs to
Jezebel’s own rooms. Of course she might have walked through the front doors
and saved herself the exertion, but the charade might keep the Phantom’s enemy
from knowing exactly who came and went from his hideout. Besides, she’d
promised Hardy Jacobs she would do as she was told, though he’d never specified
just how very many people would be giving her orders.

The door closed behind her. She opened the clasp
of the pretty purple cape and draped it over the back of a velvet chair that
had been upturned the first time she’d come through. When Beauregard greeted
her as the harlot herself, she’d realized the joke the woman had played,
dressing Darby in her own clothes before sending her to him. She wouldn’t make
that mistake again. The next time she came, she’d bring her own changes of
clothes.

If there were a next time.

The tension between her husband and his men had
been palpable when she’d guessed he was the Phantom. But why else would she
have been required to go through such an extravagant charade otherwise? Though
he’d been all manners with his men looking on, she wouldn’t be surprised if he
had some choice words for her as soon as they were alone again. Most men wouldn’t
welcome their wives sticking their noses in their business, let alone nosing
around in his clandestine affairs.

But even if he were kind about it, she was sure he
would find some way of inviting her to never visit his underground sanctuary
again. Perhaps something along the lines of his advertisement—
wives
need
not apply.

He’d clearly hired her to be his wife—his
showpiece for the pretty house on the hill. He already had his woman for the
seedier side of town. In fact, the other woman was probably a regular visitor
to the dimly lit apartment with the rich velvet cushions and ornately carved
furniture. Were those drapes on the walls meant to keep out the damp? Or did
they hide things a well-bred lass was never meant to see?

She shivered. Had Jezebel decorated the place?

She remembered the look on the woman’s face at the
church, and suddenly, she understood exactly how the woman had felt. They had
much in common.

The devil herself hobbled into the room an instant
later, just as Darby had begun to undress. She noticed the cloak and gave her a
smirk.

No. No matter how much they had in common, the two
of them were never going to be friends. And why should they be? She was the
Queen of England. She needed no friends.

Without shame, Darby stripped to her camisole and
dressed once more in the gentleman’s outfit she’d been given at the last
checkpoint. If she were retracing her steps in reverse, she would be going
outside the front doors of the cathouse and taking a hack away from the docks.
She would be taken to the east side of the river to a meaningless address, walk
a block alone to a small house on a corner, and change into a long black cloak
and her own clothing. A gentleman would walk her in the other direction where
another hack would pick her up and return her to the warehouse by the stock
yard. Once inside, she would give the cloak over to the toothless man in rags.
Then, hopefully, Jacobs would promptly rescue her in Beauregard’s carriage and
take her home again.

After all that, her husband probably wouldn’t see
the need to warn her away. He would assume she wouldn’t want to go through the
bother again. And she might not at that. If she were given the choice between
being the wife on the hill, or the harlot near the docks, she’d choose the
house on the hill. Whether or not she would ever choose to perform any wifely
duties remained to be seen.

Heaven help her, she was even thinking with a
British accent.

“Bloody hell,” she murmured.

“Pardon?” The hack driver’s eyes widened.

She shook her derbied head, lowered her voice, and
said, “Never mind.” Then she gave him the address of the next leg of her
excursion using a right heavy brogue just to remind herself who she really was.

~ ~ ~

By the time she was home again, she was exhausted
and determined she would never do that dance again. The next time he got
himself cut open, he could let his
city wife
tend him.

Darby just hoped the woman made ugly stitches.

It took Rand four switches to get Harrigan’s men
off his tail. And they only succeeded the last time because it was so dark. It
had taken an entire day of moving, resting, hiding, and moving again. He
finally grew too tired to care, and apparently, Harrigan’s man must have felt
the same. Otherwise, the slack-jaw would have stopped the meat wagon as it he
rolled out of the alleyway with Rand inside.

When Jacobs finally helped him into the house,
they both smelled rotten.

His pretty wife hardly blinked an eye—until she
got a whiff of his new
Eau de Boeuf
cologne. But instead of making a
face, she pulled out a lacy handkerchief, placed it delicately over her nose,
and ordered a bath for him. A shallow bath, she corrected, because his wound
had to stay out of the water.

“I suppose you’ll have to do the honors, my dear.”
He struggled to keep his eyes open. “To watch after my stitches.”

“Not on your life, Lord Beauregard.” She turned
toward the stairs with her hanky and nose in the air. But after climbing a few
steps, she turned, frowning, and came down again. She strode up to him, pressed
her hand against his head, and looked off into the distance like she had
before, like she was listening.

“Just as hot as you were this morning,” she said
quietly, more to herself than to him. “Jacobs, can you carry him up the stairs?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mabye it was his fever, or his fatigue, but it was
as if the woman standing in front of him was not the same woman who had called
him Lord Beauregard a minute ago.

“Lie him on his bed. There will be no bath
tonight. But Jenny, I’ll still need some buckets of very hot water.”

“Yes’m.”

The mention of hot water made him flinch. He was
afraid he knew exactly what she planned to do with them.

Jacobs bent and pushed his shoulder into Rand’s
middle. The floor came up to greet him as the bigger man pushed him over his
shoulder and lifted him up the stairs. He didn’t have the strength for a bath
anyway. In fact, he had just enough...to fall asleep.

~ ~ ~

Later that night, Rand woke to the sound of
conversation.

“I’m sorry to have brought you here under false
pretenses. But I’m sure you can understand why we must not allow the Phantom to
know how terribly he wounded my husband.”

“Then I take it, madam, you are not suffering from
wedding nerves?”

The woman laughed lightly. “No, doctor. Not
anymore.”

“That’s fine, then. Just fine. May I say I’m
pleased Mr. Beauregard found a lady of quality to take to wife. He’s a fine
man. Good for Portland. Good for Oregon.”

“
Lord
Beauregard,” the woman said.

No. Not a woman.
His
woman.
His
wife…
But who was Lord Beauregard?

A cool, slender hand descended on his forehead
again. It did that a lot, he thought.

Then he didn’t think much at all after that.

~ ~ ~

He woke to pain. His leg was on fire and the
flames reached up through him to stretch up his neck. Someone shouted. Someone
shushed. Someone poured whiskey down his throat. But he didn’t like whisky!

Then the hand was back. Soothing. Shushing. Never
afraid. And if the hand could be brave, he decided he could be brave too.

~ ~ ~

More pain. More pain. There was more pain. Couldn’t
anyone hear him?

Then there was singing. Singing. Less pain, then
only singing.

~ ~ ~

He woke in the darkness. The red glow of the fire
spread out around the wall and spilled onto the cheek of the woman he’d
married. How long ago? A day? A week?

His bride. His. But not his wife.

If he died of a leg wound, he would never really
know her.

She stirred and leaned toward him before her eyes
were even open. She was surprised to find him looking at her.

“Rand?” She spoke to him as if at a distance. “It’s
all right,” she said with a smile. “You’re going to be all right.”

He was?

He frowned. “Someone was here. Singing.” He looked
at his bride. “Bring her back, would you?”

She looked worried. Maybe she thought he was out of
his mind. But he could have sworn there had been singing.