Hero Wanted

by Betina Krahn

  “I take it you would like my father and aunt to stay . . . along with their sizable contributions to the church coffers. Well, I believe I can speak for them when I say, ‘Take the beam from your own eye,’ Mrs. Buffington. The ugly thoughts that lurk in your mind are worse than anything I have done. And you, Reverend, I believe you have just failed our Lord’s greatest commandment . . . to do unto others as you would have others do unto you. Heaven help you if someday you are treated as you have just treated me.”

  She strode out through the sacristy and then the side doors, pounding her heels against the stone floor with every step. Her hands were clenched, her jaw clamped tight. She pulled in ragged breaths, feeling that if she didn’t scream she would burst. But some vestige of self-control channeled that hurt and fury into energy that propelled her through the garden and she began to run. Out on the pavement beside the street she ran—literally—into Rafe.

  * * *

  “Lauren!” Rafe caught and righted her, and saw she was breathing fast and her face was red. “What’s wrong?” She resisted being held at first, but he said her name until it penetrated her anger and she calmed. He held her by her shoulders, looking her over, and was shocked by the fierce emotion radiating from her. She turned her head to avoid his gaze, but he could feel her trembling. “I just called to you three times.”

  She looked up as the fact of his presence penetrated. “You came?”

  “What happened?” he asked again.

  “I–I have been suspended”—the words seemed to stick in her throat—“booted out of the school and the church. The committee had a meeting and Marigold Buffington produced those articles that were written about me.” Each word came faster and her voice grew louder. “The committee read them and declared I am an unfit example for the children . . . a blasphemer who calls herself an angel . . . a stain on the church and the school’s good name.”

  He realized a couple of people had stopped on the pavement to stare at them. With one arm around her, he turned to flag a nearby cab with the other.

  She allowed herself to be bundled into the cab and sat, spine rigid, hands trembling, as he gave the driver instructions to “just drive.” He took both of her hands and seized her gaze with his. “Tell me. All of it.”

  “Mrs. Buffington . . . the woman from the dinner party . . . went out and collected every penny paper she could find with an article about me and took them to the rector, Father Nickerson. They called a meeting of the school committee and surprised me when I came for story hour this afternoon. They accused me of dallying with a man—you—in an ‘unconsecrated union’ while on the Clarion. And they said some awful things . . . that I’m tainting the school, and even that I’m claiming to be an angel. They said I stripped off my clothes and was naked that day at the river just to go swimming. They said that even you condemned me for my wicked behavior and that I called you a coward.”

  “Well, to be fair, you did use that word.” He hoped to lighten her mood. It didn’t.

  “Then consider this your final apology: I’m sorry I said that and I wish with all my heart I could take it back . . . and avoid all of this . . . this . . .” She pulled one hand from his and made an encompassing circle with it before dropping it into her lap. The full weight of the encounter descended on her. “They truly believe I’m a terrible person . . . so vile and wicked that I mustn’t be permitted around the church or the children.”

  Her shoulders drooped and the fight drained from her. Her face paled and her eyes grew luminous. He lifted her chin to catch her gaze in his.

  “Surely that’s not what they said.”

  “Oh, but it was. They were quite specific.” She swallowed hard. “I am a bad influence on the children, and my infamous behavior is already bringing shame to the congregation. There was another article . . . one I haven’t seen . . . about me returning home after our stay on the Clarion. I have no idea what it said, but it had to be horrible for them to pass judgment on me and turn me out.”

  Rafe watched her sinking deeper into despair and felt helpless to counter it. When she looked up at him tears had formed and she blinked repeatedly, trying not to let them fall. Time and gravity had their way, though, and as they slid down her cheeks, something in his chest began to sink along with them. There was such misery in her face, such pain in her voice and in her earnest heart . . .

  God Almighty, he was a sinner plain and true, for at that moment he wanted to thrash a minister of the Church of England within an inch of his hypocritical life!

  Even more, he wanted to take the pain of that betrayal from her. He would have given anything to bring her back to that stubborn, caring, impetuous spirit he had seen rescuing drowning women, dirty street urchins, and arrogant fiancés who tried to insist she stay in her place.

  She was that one-in-a-million who didn’t faint or weep or shrink when things got difficult. The one who demanded decency and fairness and wanted all children to be able to read and think for themselves, and wanted their lives to be the better for it.

  It was in that moment he realized he—

  Aww, hell, he was falling in love with her.

  He sank his arms around her, pulled her against him, and melted internally when her arms clamped desperately around him in return. When he felt her sob he held her even tighter.

  This feeling, he realized, was the thing poets were obsessed with and ancient Trojans went to war over. It was taking him over, invading and hulling out his reason, filling him instead with a need to remake the world, to right wrongs, to eliminate injustices. Noble impulses were pouring out of the marrow of his bones. Because of her. For her.

  In an instant he glimpsed just how narrow his world had been before she strode into his life. It was all business deals and hard-fought negotiations, whiskey and cigars over decks of cards, and rowing at a punishing pace to burn off the aftereffects of tension and the sense that there wasn’t much left of the man he had started out to be. There was a whole world out there that he’d forgotten until she put her foot down and made him see it.

  He felt the tremors that went through her as he cradled her head against him. He wanted to do battle for her, wanted to rescue her heart and her hopes. But just now all he had to give her were words.

  “Lauren, sweetness, you’re not wicked or depraved or a bad influence on anybody—much less the children at that blasted school.” He stroked her hair. “In the last few weeks I’ve seen you rescue drowning women, feed starving children, give books to urchins and one disdainful bounder, nurse an arrogant cad back to health, and figure out a way to free captives and salvage overtaxed cargo. You’re nothing short of amazing.”

  She pushed back in his arms and wiped her face with her hands before looking up at him with a tentative expression . . . as if she didn’t believe what she was hearing. How could she see the good in others so clearly but doubt the goodness in herself?

  He released her just long enough to capture her face between his hands. Gently, he stroked her damp cheeks with his thumbs, hoping for the first time that his feelings were showing in his eyes.

  “Even in those first days, when you were annoying the thunder out of me, I knew you were remarkable. You surprised me at every turn and I had no idea how to make you and me fit together.”

  “I was willful and far too outspoken,” she said, lowering her eyes. “The things I said to you—”

  “I deserved.” He spoke from his heart in a way he hadn’t in years.

  “I was stubborn and arrogant and opinionated . . . still am, I’m afraid. You, on the other hand, think of others constantly and go out of your way to help them . . . people you don’t know, people who can’t possibly repay or benefit you in any way.” He lifted her chin so she would meet his gaze and see that he was utterly sincere.

  Her eyes were red, her nose a little swollen, and her face blotchy. He couldn’t resist pressing a soft kiss on her lips.

  “You stand up for what’s right and good, and you expect the best of people. It neve
r ceases to amaze me, the way you bring out the good in others.”

  “Today I didn’t,” she protested. “I brought out venom and judgment.”

  “That was theirs, Lauren, not yours. You didn’t cause it, any more than you caused Juster Morgan to seize us and throw us in the belly of his ship. People have their own good and bad parts . . . like Fosse and Gus and Little Rob . . . one minute they’re clapping you in a cold cell . . . but the next the warmth and goodness in you is drawing out the good in them. Bringing out the best in others is a rare quality.

  “Don’t let those jealous, small-minded idiots at St Ambrose convince you that you have sullied their sanctimonious company and damaged their precious church. You haven’t. They are much poorer for your absence. God knows it, and someday they will, too.”

  Eighteen

  In the silence that fell Lauren reached up to stroke the plane of his cheek and trail her fingers along the edge of his hair. Who was this man picking up the pieces of her broken heart and putting them back together with perfect words and a touch as gentle as spring rain? Minutes ago she was drowning in despair and he took her into his arms, sheltered her wounded spirit, and repaired her heart with pieces of his own.

  He wasn’t a man to flatter or curry favor. He believed in straight talk and rational discourse. Even now he cited evidence for the conclusions he had drawn about her . . . offering her his confidence and clarity until she could find her own.

  He was caring for her.

  He cared for her.

  The idea sent a wave of much-needed warmth through her. There was hope for her and for them . . . for a marriage that was more than contracts and bank balances. The softness in his eyes—she had never seen them like this . . . open and warm . . . giving. The longer she looked into them the more she understood that this closeness, this revelation of his thoughts and feelings was new to him as well. And welcome.

  He didn’t try to pretend it wasn’t happening or wasn’t important to him. In his eyes there was an invitation to more, an expectation that made her heart rise and filled her with a much-needed sense of possibility.

  She laid her head against his chest again with a sigh that expressed the release of the tangle of thoughts and purpose inside her. Her feelings were still bruised and would take some time to heal, but she understood now that she would survive. And she prayed that he would be with her as she did.

  When he called up to the driver to give him an address, she didn’t recognize it but wasn’t concerned. She sensed now that whatever he did would consider her and whatever was growing between them. It made another pair of tears slip down her cheeks. Hearts were very strange things, she thought, able to be so content in the face of such uncertainty.

  After a while the cab slowed to a deliberate pace and Rafe stirred and leaned to peer at their surroundings. She looked around as he released her to give the driver further directions. Aged wooden buildings with padlocked doors crowded the streets and there was a change in the air—smells of salt, rusty iron, and damp wood. They had to be somewhere near the docks. He called out to have the driver stop in the middle of an intersection of the street and an alley. She sat straighter as she realized there were children in the street kicking a ball around.

  Rafe bounded out of the cab with a “Stay here” and headed for one of the boys. The others saw him coming and scattered, but his target had picked up the ball, turned, and stared wide-eyed at approaching doom.

  Lauren gasped at the sight of Rafe barreling down on the boy and scrambled for the cab’s steps.

  Rafe grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and dragged him on tiptoes to the doorway of a nearby building. There he leaned down into the boy’s face. Lauren arrived in time to grab Rafe’s arm and try to pull it away from—Jims!

  “What are you’re doing?” she said frantically.

  The boy grinned at her. “Hey, miz.” Then he looked up at Rafe. “Ain’t nothin’ stirrin’ here, guv.”

  “Good.” Rafe responded with a smile. “And the others?”

  “All quiet. We’re keepin’ a good lookout.”

  Lauren’s jaw dropped and she looked at Rafe. “They’re . . . you’re having them . . .”

  “Watch the warehouses,” Rafe responded. “I meant to tell you. Jims here recruited a few lads to keep an eye on our wooden warehouses.”

  “He give us a ball to play with,” Jims said, proudly showing the rubber ball as he pushed sweaty hair from his face. “We get box dinners t’carry home. An’ we get a whole shillin’ a day.”

  “It looked like you were about to beat him black and blue,” Lauren said to Rafe, pressing a hand to her heart.

  “It was supposed to,” Rafe said, grinning at Jims. “If anyone is lurking around our warehouses, we need them to think the boys are just playing. Who better to keep an eye on the warehouses than children no one would suspect?”

  “Yeah, like us,” Jims said. “We’re always in th’ street. Like the guv said, nobody looks twice at us.”

  Tears came to her eyes as she looked at Jims’s grin and Rafe’s mischievous smile. She kissed Jims and then Rafe on the cheek.

  Rafe smiled as he turned to look up at the roofs and the gray, smoky sky. “It’ll be getting dark in a little while. When you see the night men climb up on the roofs, head to the side door of the Seven Sisters for your boxed dinners and then go straight home.”

  “Aye, aye, guv.”

  When they were settled in the cab once more she turned to him.

  “I’m sorry, Rafe. I honestly thought you . . . you . . .”

  “I know what you thought. I meant to tell you about the boys, but I thought it might help you to see them at work.” He covered her hand with his. “We settled on it yesterday afternoon and it seems to be working out. We have to put on a show. The boys understand . . . even kind of enjoy it.”

  “Still, after the way you . . .” She was disappointed in her own reaction. “I should have had more faith in you.”

  He laughed. “Crazy woman. You’re going to have to start believing the evidence of your own two eyes.” He leaned closer to her. “I was pretending, but I was still acting like a horse’s arse. You had every right to think I’d lost control.”

  She punched him in the arm and he feigned hurt with an “Owww!”

  “Are you pretending now?” she demanded, narrowing her eyes.

  “Mostly,” he said, breaking into a smile.

  A moment later he put an arm around her and drew her against his side. During the ride to Alcott House, he explained that some of their dock workers would be watching the older warehouses at night. They were armed with bells to sound an alarm if it appeared someone intended mischief. He bemoaned the lack of streetlamps in the area but was grateful that their main warehouse was well-lighted at night.

  He called for the cab to stop when they came to an intersection with newsies on every corner calling out the headlines of the day. He left the cab to inquire at a newsstand and returned with copies of the most recent Examiner and Evening Post. She scanned the first paper over his arm as he searched its contents. Her eyes widened on a cartoon drawing of an angel descending on great wings from a ship festooned with garlands and hearts... with a handsome fellow in her arms.

  She choked on a gasp.

  The pair in the drawing were kissing.

  “This must be what the committee saw,” she groaned.

  He read aloud the flowery prose that insisted the Angel and her fiancé had rekindled their amour after a stay on a ship in London’s harbor. “‘Reliable sources tell us that Miss Alcott’s fiancé, Rafe Townsend, was gravely injured in the tariff riot and was recognized and carried to a ship called the Clarion by some of the ship’s crewmen. London’s blessed Angel went with them to nurse her handsome intended, and by all accounts spent day and night at his bedside. What more might have occurred between the pair at that bedside is anyone’s guess. But their affection and familiarity were clear to all and sundry as they arrived on the dock to face a barrage
of questions . . . especially about what had started a fire on that ship that morning. Those watching the pair of lovebirds speculated that it might have been their blazing passions. Does this mean the wedding is finally in the offing?’”

  “Blazing?” She looked at him. “They think we set the ship on fire?”

  “Well, actually, we did,” he said with a wry expression.

  “But not with our . . . you know . . .”

  “Passions?”

  “Kisses,” she said, embarrassed to sound so missish.

  “I bet we could light up Trafalgar Square if we tried,” he said, lowering the paper and his eyelids in speculation. She could almost see the heat building in him. He traced the edge of his teeth with his tongue and her pulse jumped.

  “Holy buckets,” she muttered and grabbed his face between her hands. Her lips were suddenly hot and she could have sworn she heard a hiss of steam when they met his. It was pure heaven, feeling his lips massaging, teasing, sometimes commanding hers. He tasted a little salty, a little tangy—like every savory flavor she had ever enjoyed rolled into one sensation. It was male and strong and gave her gooseflesh in the most extraordinary places.

  She parted her lips and ran her tongue over those handsome teeth of his, exploring their sharp edges and finding it deliciously stimulating. Arousal seared its way from her lips to her breasts to her sex. Her whole body was aquiver as he pulled her onto his lap and wrapped his arms tightly around her. She reveled in the sensation of being held. She wanted to move, to explore his strong, hard body and revel in the weight of it against hers. For the first time she realized how much more there must be to the pleasure and completion of passion between a man and a woman. Sweet Temptation—she could see why there were so many sinners in the world!

  “You could be right,” she murmured breathlessly when he finally released her lips. “About Trafalgar Square.” He was as out of breath as she was, but he managed a few words as he nuzzled the hollow of her throat.