Jo Goodman (21 page)

Grey held Berkeley beside him while he directed the men to take Mike upstairs. He dispatched Sam to find a doctor and when Annie Jack pounded out of the kitchen demanding to know what was going on, he sent her back to make poultices and cut bandages. Berkeley tried twice more to wrest free of Grey, but he held her fast. The imprint of his fingers bruised her fair skin and made her arm tingle and finally go numb. In spite of her desire to remain stoic, she heard herself whimper pitifully.

Grey didn't ease his grip on her arm. He steered her up the steps after the others had gone. At the top he turned them toward his suite and away from Mike's room.

Berkeley dug in her heels when she realized where she was going. Her resistance meant only that Grey had to pull her harder. Her heels bumped along the floor until she stumbled forward and her feet caught up with the rest of her. She accompanied him quietly after that.

At the entrance to his suite Grey trapped her between outstretched arms while he opened the door. He placed one hand squarely on the center of her back and pushed, easily sending her far enough in the room for him to close the door and lock it before she understood his intention. He was moving down the hall before he heard her twist the handle and make her first demand to be let out. He was out of earshot when she asked again.

Berkeley did not repeat herself a third time. She slumped against the door and remained there the better part of half an hour. She scrambled to her feet and moved quickly to the green-velvet settee when she recognized Annie Jack's heavy tread in the hallway. The door was unlocked and thrust open. Annie carried a tray in front of her, and for a moment her wide shoulders filled the frame as she hesitated on the threshold.

"Don't be tryin' to sneak out while Annie's hands are busy," she said. It was Annie's peculiarity to always refer to herself in the third person. "Mista Janeway will take a pound of flesh from you and more than twice that from Annie Jack. He says Annie's supposed to bring you breakfast, and that's what she's doin'."

Berkeley stood, but her movement immediately made the cook wary. She sat down slowly. "I meant to help you, Miss Jack."

Annie bristled. Her coffee-colored complexion darkened a shade as her brow furrowed. "Now don't give me your airs. No one calls Annie Miss Jack, and no one's startin' now." She placed the tray on the pie table just inside the door. "There's eggs and tomatoes and Annie's spicy hash. Don't expect you'll be gettin' this personal service again. Never had to serve no man's mistress at the El Dorado, and this is the last time here. Mista Janeway's got another think comin' if he expects Annie's goin' to be his house nigra."

Annie's plain speaking simply took Berkeley's breath away. She nodded slowly.

"Now what's wrong with you?" Annie demanded. "It's a fact you're lookin' sadder than a wet puppy. You just realizin' now how upsettin' your voodoo is to some people?"

"Voodoo?" Berkeley's head came up. She frowned. "I don't know anything about that."

Annie shrugged. "You cast a spell on Mike, sure enough. Got him followin' you around like he was a pup himself. Near to got himself killed, that's what the doctor says. Annie says it's your spirit that almost done him in. Mista Janeway's done the right thing, keepin' you here. Safer for everyone if you can't get to your charms and powders."

Agitated, but not wanting to frighten Annie off, Berkeley slid forward to the edge of the settee. "What are you talking about, Miss... Annie? What charms and powders?"

"Annie knows what a spirit woman needs to make her magic." Her tone clearly indicated she would hear nothing to the contrary. "She's seen your amulet."

"My amulet? I have none."

Annie stared her down, her eyes very nearly black in her dark face. "Annie's seen it, she's tellin' you. With these eyes. A pearl, it is. In a crown setting. A teardrop of pure gold hangs from it."

Berkeley's face cleared. "You mean the earring," she said.

"Earrings come in twos, same as your ears. You only have one of these. It's a charm, plain and simple."

There was no point in arguing with Annie's reasoning, but the fact that the cook had seen the earring was worth discussing. "It would seem you've been searching through my room," Berkeley said. "I know where I keep that earring, and it's not in plain view. You couldn't have seen it unless—"

Annie's substantial girth shook a moment as she set her shoulders rigidly. That she had just been offended was made abundantly clear. "Unless Annie had been chasin' down that cat of yours with her broom and the evil thing hightailed it straight to your rooms lookin' for a safe place to hide her sorry self. And Annie, thinkin' she'll save herself another chase later in the day, lets the cat into your sittin' space all quiet like so you ain't disturbed a lick in your bedchamber. The cat takes herself right up that high-backed wing chair you got by the fireplace and jumps on the mantel, where she knocks over a little treasure box that's sitting right there on the edge, so precious and unassumin' it makes a body forget what kind of magic might be inside. So Annie picks up the box and sees the charm, and the cat pounces straight away on Annie's arm, scratchin' fierce." The cook thrust her arm forward and rolled up the sleeve to her elbow. Two raised welts almost four inches long were plainly visible. "Annie pushes the charm back in the box with the point of her broom and puts the box back on the mantel. That's when the cat lets go, but before Annie can swat her good she's run off." Annie pointed her thick index finger in Berkeley's direction and waggled it hard. "Now you can believe Annie's searchin' your rooms or you can believe the truth. It's no account unless you're fixin' to put a spell on Annie."

Berkeley sighed. "I'm not going to put a spell on you," she said tiredly. "I believe you." Yesterday morning the cat had bounded into her room and taken refuge under the covers. Berkeley had a dim memory of something crashing to the floor in her sitting room, but when she got up later there was nothing out of order. She had dismissed it as part of a dream and never given it another thought—until now. "I'm sorry, Annie. I didn't know about Pandora's trip to your kitchen. I try to keep her in at night."

Annie gave no indication that she was appeased. "Pandora," she said under her breath. "That's a spirit woman's cat if ever there was one." She was still muttering as she let herself out. The door was locked again and given a shake for good measure. Annie's footsteps quieted gradually, like thunder rolling in the distance.

Berkeley picked up the tray and moved it to Grey's dining table. She was not hungry but she went through the motions of fixing a plate with small portions. She ate a little and pushed more around. The tea was hot and soothing. She drank it without milk or sugar and was pouring herself a second cup when Grey's return drew her attention to the door.

She put down the teapot. Her cup clattered in the saucer as she laid them on the table. Berkeley's eyes searched his features for some sign that would answer the question uppermost in her mind. His gunmetal glance was shuttered. There were small lines etched at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Everywhere else his skin was pulled taut over the bones of his face. A muscle worked in his jaw. He leaned against the door, not looking at Berkeley, but looking right through her. It was tension that kept him upright, nothing else.

Berkeley could not assign meaning to anything she observed. She did not know if she was looking at anger or the last tenuous hold Grey had on his emotions. She remained silent, her eyes following him warily as he finally pushed away from the door and crossed the room.

Grey pulled out a chair, but he didn't sit down on it. Instead, he sat on the table and used the chair as a stool for his feet. His position was no accident, but a compromise of sorts, better than towering over her, but still with the advantage of the high ground.

"The doctor thinks Mike will survive," he said, watching Berkeley carefully. He saw no relief in her pale features. The words didn't comfort her because there was no assurance in them. "His shoulder's been set, and the cuts are all stitched. There's bruising on his belly and back that might mean he's bleeding on the inside." Her head bowed but she accepted the news calmly. Her hands folded in her lap and remained still. "If he makes it through the night, he'll probably recover fully."

Berkeley nodded once. It would be a long night. "May I sit with him?"

"Look at me, Berkeley." Her head came up, but she stared at a point past his shoulder. Tears hovered on the rim of her lashes. "You expect him to die, don't you?"

She nodded. The movement was enough to make the tears fall. She knuckled them away impatiently. "I... I know..." She stopped and tried to gather her thoughts. Finally she said, "Yes, I expect Mike to die."

Grey waited for her to say something else. When she didn't he made his appeal in a tone that was meant to be answered. "Talk to me, Berkeley. Tell me the whole of it."

She bit her lower lip and said nothing. Grey's own silence didn't prompt her to speak any more than his command had.

"This has something to do with what you saw in his palm," Grey said. "Are you telling me you really believe your own parlor tricks?"

"I know what I felt," she said quietly. "I believe I know what it meant."

The heel of Grey's hand struck the edge of the table sharply. Berkeley jumped, darting him an uncertain glance. His hand was steady, not raised, and he was watching narrowly. "Look at me," he said when she would have turned away again. "You're acting as though you knew all along this would happen."

"I didn't know
this
would happen. Only that
something
would. I never felt anything like it before. I didn't understand that Mike's life was somehow caught up in mine. I didn't realize I would have some part in his death."

"You don't," Grey said tightly. "He's not dead."

Berkeley said nothing to that.

"I was there, remember? When you read his palm. You never warned him about any accident. You never told him he had only a short time to live."

"What would you have had me say? He asked about his family, and I told him he'd see them sooner rather than later. I told him to write to them and tell him he loved them. I gave him the answers he wanted to hear because the truth would have served no purpose. If he listened to me, if he did as I suggested, then at least his family will derive some comfort from his words." Her voice had risen slightly then it fell off. Her tone was quiet, deliberate. It felt as if her heart were in her throat. "Not all of us get that same chance."

Berkeley's eyes implored him. "Please, let me go to Mike."

"And do what?" Grey asked. "Do you really think you can give him a measure of peace when you expect him to die?"

She flinched as though he'd struck her. Berkeley thought she finally understood why she had been locked in his suite. "You're afraid I'll hurt him, aren't you? You think I'd actually do Mike some harm to make you believe my prediction." Wounded, she squeezed herself into one corner of the chair.

The distance between her and Grey still wasn't enough. The chair scraped harshly against the floor as she pushed it back.

"I never said that," Grey told her. "I put you in here to keep you from saying something rash in front of the others. No one needs to hear that you hold yourself responsible for Mike's injuries—least of all Mike. And certainly I don't want you telling anyone that you
saw
this in his palm a month ago."

"Don't you believe me?"

"I believe there is no such thing as a foregone conclusion," he said. "I don't want anyone giving up on Mike because you're acting as if he's already dead. That's why you're going to do exactly what I say. You're going to sit with Mike while I'm there to monitor every word, and you're going to thank him for saving you. Then you're going to pick up his hand, and you'll study it, and you're going to tell him that what you see in his future is a long life, a happy marriage, and three towheaded boys all farming in Kentucky. You can elaborate any way you like, but you're going to convince him that his life is all in front of him, not behind him." His eyes were the exact steely color of a razor's edge. Their intensity held Berkeley still. "Now, can you do that?"

She nodded.

"Good," he said. But he wasn't finished. "Afterward you're going to go to your own rooms and begin preparation for this evening. The Phoenix is going to open as scheduled at six o'clock, and you're going to make your first appearance on my arm at seven. You will greet our guests graciously and you'll read the palms of a few I've chosen for you. I've made some notes on these guests, and this afternoon I'll have them delivered to your room. You can study them at your leisure. It's not complicated information, just some basic facts that will embellish your performance and make it more convincing. Are you clear on what I expect?"

She nodded again, more slowly this time, her leaf green eyes a little dazed.

"Tonight I want you to call me Grey, never Mr. Janeway."

A small crease appeared between Berkeley's brows. She worried her lower lip before she spoke. "People will think you and I... that is, they'll probably believe that..." She didn't finish, couldn't really, not when Grey's eyes mocked her.

"That you're my mistress?" he asked. "Is that what you can't quite bring yourself to say?"

"You know it is. I thought that was settled between us."

"It's never been fully
discussed
between us. No, don't start going on about not being my whore. I have no desire to hear all that again. I'm talking about appearance here, not fact. In fact, you have your own rooms. The appearance, however, should be otherwise. It's for your own safety, and when you allow yourself the time to think about it you'll realize I'm right. You'll find that people will believe you're my mistress whether you encourage them to or not. You may as well encourage them. It will afford you considerable protection and leave you free from constant propositions."