The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (28 page)

This close, he could smell the faint perfume she still wore, and her sweat, and the lingering scent of her coat. Through the thin camisole, the fresh bruises across her back showed. Cian swallowed. His hands ached, and he realized they were clenched. He uncurled his fingers and took Irene’s arms the way he might have handled a sparrow with a broken wing.

The bruises covered the inside of her arms. She had tried to defend herself.

He had to take slow breathes to keep his grip light.

“You need a warm bath,” he said. His voice was coming from somewhere far away, from someone calm, someone who wasn’t boiling over with rage. “And aspirin. And something to sleep.”

“Cian, I want you to go.”

“Sit down, Irene,” he said, guiding her to a chair. “I’ll start the water.”

She slapped his hands away. For a moment, her breath was furious. And then she slapped him. Twice, both times hard enough to spark stars in his vision. When she brought her hand up again, he caught her wrist.

Like catching a falling leaf.

“Please go,” she said. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

And then she started sobbing.

He didn’t dare embrace her. Not with all those marks to her body. But he wanted to. Every inch of him wanted to fold her in his arms, to wipe away her tears, to protect her.

Instead, her rubbed the sting from his cheeks. In a voice that was practically a growl he said, “Damn it, Irene. I know you’re strong. And I know you’re smart, and independent, and all that. But just let me take care of you once. Tonight.”

He didn’t know if she heard him, but she didn’t resist as he helped her to the chair. He got the bath as hot as it went. Then he helped her to the bathroom.

His fingers were shaking as he took the hem of the camisole.

With a trace of her old spirit, Irene said, “I can undress myself, thank you very much, Cian Shea.”

He laughed. It came out raw and wrong, but at least it was a laugh. “I’ll run to the pharmacy.”

“There’s money in my clutch.”

And that was a kick to a man’s balls. So much for taking care of her.

He left her in the bathroom. He took money from her clutch. There was plenty of it. More than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. He ran to the pharmacy and got what he needed, and then he ran back to the hotel. In spite of the cold, he was hot and sweating by the time he reached Irene’s room. He let himself back in and locked the door.

The gaslights had been lowered again, and the room was almost pitch black. It took him a minute for his eyes to adjust, and then he went into the set of rooms, moving carefully through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Irene lay on her stomach on the bed, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. Her camisole lay on the floor like a flag of surrender.

He found a glass, mixed up the sleeping powder, and carried it to the bed with the aspirin.

Irene looked up at him. Her eyes were wet and shining in the ambient light. Damp hair clung to her neck and cheek. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Cian brushed a curl of hair behind her ear and proffered the glass.

With Cian’s help, Irene managed to sit up long enough to drink the mixture and swallowed the aspirin. Then she lay down again, still on her stomach, her head turned away from Cian.

“Thank you,” she said. The words were so quiet they might have come from the moon.

“I’ll be in the other room,” Cian said. “If you need anything.”

She nodded.

There should have been something else he could do. Something to take the pain away, something to pour life and light back into her face, something that would make everything right again.

Helplessness sat in Cian’s stomach like a knife.

When her breathing evened out into sleep, Cian moved back towards the sitting room. On his way, in the dark, he caught the corner of a tower of boxes. He fumbled with them, trying to catch them before they fell. They were all flat, rectangular boxes—the kind he’d seen in the windows of stores like Famous-Barr and Stix.

She’d been shopping.

He managed to quench a smile before he made it out of the room.

In the sitting room, Cian kicked off his boots, took off his coat, and stretched out on the sofa in his shirtsleeves and trousers. One big toe stared back at him from a hole in his sock.

The sofa was too small. That was starting to become a pattern in Cian’s life.

It took a long time before Cian could sleep. When his eyes finally shut, though, he had decided—in perfect detail—what he was going to do to whoever had hurt Irene.

The next morning, Cian woke to the smell of coffee. And bacon. And something warm and buttery. He heard muffled voices at the door, and his eyes popped open. It took him a moment to orient himself: the gold leaf decorations, the dark wood, the elaborate ironwork.

The Louisiana Grand. Irene.

Cramped and aching from sleeping on the too-small couch, Cian tried to stand up, only to have pins and needles sweep out his legs. He ended up lying on the floor next to the sofa, groaning and trying to work feeling back into his lower quarters.

With a rattle of china, Irene pushed a cart into the room. She still wore the bathrobe, but there was color in her face again, and she had taken time to comb her hair. The cart itself was almost as interesting as Irene. It held several covered trays which were giving off the most wonderful smells.

When she saw Cian on the floor, Irene smiled, and Cian almost forgot the bruises.

“I would have sworn you were on the sofa a moment ago,” she said.

“I’m built a bit big for your furniture. I thought I’d try something else.”

Irene raised an eyebrow. “It didn’t keep you from sleeping, if the snoring last night was any evidence.”

Cian flushed and got to his feet. He fought the urge to cover the bare toe and the hole in his sock. In any event, it was too late—Irene would have already noticed.

Her eyebrow quirked again, and Cian thought he saw her struggling with a smile, but all she said was, “Hungry?”

They ate sitting on the sofa. Irene had outdone herself—pancakes and bacon and eggs with runny yolks and crisp toast with butter. Real butter. The last time Cian had had that was in France. There was even a carafe of milk, beaded with moisture.

When they’d finished—which was to say, when there was nothing left but crumbs and a smear of yolk on the plates—Cian settled back into the sofa and let out a contented breath.

“Full?” Irene said.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? I just asked if you were full.”

“Yes, but the way you said it—” He cut off when he saw her smile. “Thank you for breakfast,” he said.

“Thank you. For last night.”

“Irene—”

“No, Cian. I’m not going to say another word about it.”

She stood up, and the robe slipped, revealing an expanse of her back that was already starting to purple. Cian sucked in a breath, but by the time he had stood up, Irene had pulled the robe back into place. She eyed him with a cool, challenging look.

He held up his hands.

“Just let me dress and then you can have a bath and we’ll—”

“No,” Cian said.

“Fine, you don’t have to bathe.” She wrinkled her nose. “But—”

“I meant no, you aren’t going to get dressed. You’re spending the day here. Resting.”

“Excuse me?”

“Irene, I might be big and dumb, but I’m not that dumb. You can barely walk, even with that cart holding you up.”

“I don’t need you or any man telling me what I can or can’t do, Cian Shea.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go ahead. If you can walk to your room without falling down or clutching at the walls for support, I’ll shut my mouth.”

“If you were wise, you’d shut it anyway.”

He grinned. “No one ever said I was wise.”

Irene muttered something under her breath. If Cian caught it correctly, there were some shockingly vulgar expressions in the mix.

She took two steps, shaking like an old woman in a high wind.

Cian took her arm, one hand cupping her side, and helped her the rest of the way.

“Bed,” he said.

“Perhaps for an hour or two. And if you’re wearing one of those big, dumb smiles, Cian, I’ll—”

“No smiles. Promise.”

When he’d settled her in bed with more aspirin, Irene gestured at the pile of boxes.

“You were busy,” Cian said, stacking the boxes on the bed. “Did you leave anything for anyone else?”

“Very funny.” She peeked in one box, set it aside, and then checked another. When she’d found the ones she wanted, she passed two of them to Cian. “Open them.”

“Why?”

Irene drummed her nails on one of the remaining boxes.

Cian lifted the lid on the top box. He swore when he saw what was inside.

“Before you say anything—” Irene began.

“No.” He set the box back on the bed. “Thank you. Very much. But no.”

“And why not?”

“Because,” Cian fumbled for an explanation. “It’s not—you shouldn’t—”

“Cian Shea. Open that box right now. Unless you’re going to say no to a woman who was beaten within an inch of her life last night.”

When Cian looked at her, he saw that her eyes were wide, her lower lip trembling. His knees crumbled.

“Irene—” It was a weak, ineffectual protest, and it died almost as soon as it began.

Her face transformed into a smile. “Go take a bath and shave. And take these.” She handed him the rest of the boxes. A mountain of boxes.

Cian stood there a moment, juggling the last of his pride with the mountain of boxes.

“Go,” Irene said. “Now.”

So he went and bathed and shaved, and Cian had to admit that he felt a hundred times better afterward. The boxes held clothes. Fine silk shirts as white and soft as a cloud. Crisp collars. Wool trousers thick enough to stop a bullet but that didn’t itch or chafe. Seven shirts. Three suits. Two hats.

Socks.

New shoes.

Twice Cian started taking the new clothes off. It was ridiculous, letting a woman buy clothes for him, as though he were some sort of kept man. It was even more ridiculous letting Irene push him around like that, making him dance just because she had a pretty mouth and those deep, dark eyes.

The clothes Harry had given him were fine. A bit stiff and fragrant from three days’ wear, but perfectly suitable, and they hadn’t come from Irene.

Each time, though, Cian’s resolve crumbled, and when he finally left the bathroom, he was wearing the new clothes.

Irene’s smile could have started a fire.

“Well, well,” she said.

Cian’s cheeks were hot. He cleared his throat. “They fit very well.”

“I can see that.”

“Um, yes. Well. Thank you, again. This was very kind of you. As soon as I—”

“Don’t you dare say you’ll pay me back.”

“Don’t be foolish, Irene. These clothes must have cost a fortune.”

“It’s my money. I’ll spend it however I please. Consider it a thank you for saving my life.”

“If you think I saved your life because I thought you’d give me a few suits—”

“Cian.”

He paused, trying to recover the strand of his tirade. “If you think—”

Irene yawned, and he noticed the empty glass on the nightstand. “I’m a bit sleepy, Cian.” She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the mound of blankets. “Say you’ll stay.”

Cian stared at her for a minute, trying to figure out what had just happened. Her breathing was soft and even. He mentally ran through his argument one last time, telling Irene exactly what she could do with these fancy new clothes and her money.

Then he hung up his new jacket, sat on the bed, and leaned back against the headboard.

Irene shifted and slid her hand under his arm.

They spent the day in the hotel room. Irene slept most of the time. Cian read the newspaper and found time to send a message to Harry, letting him know—without too many details—what had happened. A message came later that day from Harry telling them to stay safe and return when they could.

When Irene wasn’t asleep, though, she was impossible, as always—making ridiculous demands for chocolates and sweets that had Cian running to the pharmacy or the concierge twice an hour. He tried to refuse. Once. It had ended with Cian coming back with a cheap silk rose that he had found in a shop two streets over as an apology.

In the late afternoon, Irene woke, bathed again, and dressed. A lavender dress accented with white flowers and ruff, it was more conservative than some of the dresses Cian had seen Irene wear, but it covered her shoulders and arms and hid the bruises. She didn’t wear any jewelry—that surprised Cian a bit, but he liked it—but at some point she’d put on a spray of perfume, and the scent was enough to make Cian’s blood pound.

“Well?” Irene asked.

He tried to smooth out his voice. “I thought we agreed you were going to rest.”

“Really. That’s all you have to say?”

“What?” Cian said.

“Nothing.”

“No. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Let’s go downstairs and have dinner. I assume that’s not too far. You won’t mind helping me?”

“Are you sure? Maybe we should order up. Or I could bring something back.”