"Get back before you're hit, Keely," she warned.
"Fight?" Keely glanced from her husband to the group of sailors moving slowly in through the tavern door. "They're going to fight?"
Jenna laughed, propelling Keely to the rear of the public room as the first punches flew. "Down on the floor," she ordered, dropping on all fours.
Craning her neck to see Brock's fist connect with her attacker's jaw, Keely ducked just in time to miss being struck by an airborne chair.
"Get down!" Jenna shouted, pulling Keely beneath a table.
Crawling on the floor, Keely positioned herself beneath a battered trestle table, where she had a good view of the pandemonium above. Men stumbled back under the impact of smashing fists as shrill shouts of encouragement came from two barmaids standing on a table near the rear of the smoke-filled room.
"Crack 'em!" a coarse feminine voice shouted. "Give 'em hell, Georgie!"
Keely cringed as Brock took a punch to his midsection, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream.
"Keep quiet," Jenna ordered. "You'll distract him!"
"But he's going to get hurt!"
Jenna gripped Keely's arm. "I can guarantee you this isn't the first fight Brock Bartholomew's been in, nor will it be the last, now shut up!"
Caught between horror and fascination, Keely watched her first brawl. Fists flew and men shouted as glass bottles shattered and bodies hit the floor with a resounding bang. One sailor lay motionless, slumped over a table, while the other men still threw punches, falling over chairs and slamming each other against the tavern's rough-hewn walls.
Joshua Kane stumbled forward, hitting the table Keely and Jenna had taken refuge under, his arms locked around a bearded sailor. On impulse, Keely grabbed a pewter tankard from the floor and struck the sailor hard on the foot. The man yelped in pain, releasing Joshua long enough for the patriot to sink his fist into the sailor's stomach and watch him fall. One by one the sailors went down, or retreated out the door until only the leader remained. Brock circled him slowly.
Keely caught the glimmer of a steel blade as the burly sailor slipped a knife from his stocking and her breath caught in her throat. The only thing that kept Keely beneath the table was Jenna's bulldog grip on her arm.
Brock moved in silence, his breath even, his obsidian eyes boring into his attacker.
"Come on, you red-skinned bastard!" the sailor sneered. "Take me, if you can . . ."
Without warning, Brock leaped forward, catching the sailor in the side of the head with his fist. The man lashed out, slicing Brock's forearm with the tip of the knife, staining the sleeve of Brock's muslin shirt crimson.
Brock never flinched, sidestepping the sailor's next onslaught to knock him soundly on the back of the neck. The gang leader went down on one knee to the cheers of the barmaids. In one fluid movement Brock kicked the knife from the sailor's wrist and shoved him facedown on the floor.
"Do you go in peace or do I slit your throat?" Brock bellowed.
"Broke my wrist," the gang leader moaned. "Stinkin' Indian, you broke my goddamned wrist!"
Brock yanked the man up by the collar of his coat and dragged him to the door of the tavern. "I don't want to see your face in Dover again! You understand me?"
Swearing beneath his breath, the leader staggered off into the darkness.
Brock turned to spot the remaining sailor, sprawled senseless across a table. Heaving him on his shoulder, Brock carried him across the public room and dumped him onto the walkway just outside the door. "Take this with you," he shouted after the fleeing sailors.
The moment Brock shut the door, Keely scrambled out from under the table. "Brock! Are you all right?" Cheeks flushed with excitement, she hurled herself against her husband.
"What are you doing here?" Brock demanded. "Look at you! You could have been killed!"
Keely glanced down at her gown in shame, realizing for the first time that the front panel of her brocade gown was missing, revealing the soft curves of her breasts beneath her wispy-thin ivory shift. Instinctively her hands went up to cover her breasts. Not knowing what to say, she remained silent.
Brock snatched his coat up off the floor and held it up for her to slip her arms into. "Put this on. Christ, Keely, what are you doing in this place? Is something wrong at home? If you needed me, you should have sent Blackie."
Keely's lower lip began to tremble. Brock had put his life in danger to save her from that bunch of ruffians! Shame brightened her cheeks as she blinked back salty tears. Were her suspicions concerning Uncle Lloyd's death unfounded? Would a man like Brock commit that kind of murder?
"Well?" Brock demanded impatiently. "What did you need of me so badly that you'd risk your virtue to reach me?"
The sound of men's laughter in the public room seeped into her thoughts and she glanced up at Brock. "I don't think you want to know . . ."
"What?" he bellowed.
She dashed at her eyes with the back of her dirty hand. "I said I'd rather not tell you here . . . rather not tell you at all."
Jenna came up behind Keely, her dark eyes dancing mischievously. "You ought to be proud of this little English wife of yours, Brock. She saved Joshua from a good licking. I'll warrant you there's a sailor limping home with a broken foot tonight." She laughed. "I take it the meeting is over?"
Brock heaved a sigh of exasperation. "We had more to discuss, but I suppose I've got to take her home now else she'll be stopping at every taproom on the road."
"Don't let this brute keep you shut away in the house. Come have tea with my mother and me tomorrow, will you, Keely?"
"I'll try," she answered quietly.
Brock moved away to locate his hat and Jenna leaned to whisper in Keely's ear. "I'm sure you had good reason to come; don't let him bully you. He has no patience for people who can't stand up for themselves." She smiled. "I'm counting on you for tomorrow."
"Shall we go?" Brock asked Keely with mock politeness. Together they walked to the door as he waved a hand over his head, bidding the men in his group farewell. "I'll get back to you, tomorrow on that issue, Manessah," he called.
"No hurry, Brock," Jenna's brother answered jovially. "I can see you've your hands full right now."
There was laughter as Brock ushered Keely out of the tavern and closed the door behind them.
"Well, did you bring a carriage or did you walk?" Brock asked angrily. He gripped her elbow none-too-gently.
"Of course I brought the carriage. It's in the back."
"Good place on a dark night on this side of town," he responded sarcastically.
"I'm sorry," Keely muttered as they came to the place where the sailor had tackled her.
"What?" Brock swept her cloak off the ground and continued walking. The reticule was gone.
She raised her voice. "I said I'm sorry."
"And what good would sorries have been after the bunch of them had raped you?"
Reaching the carriage, Keely climbed up onto the seat, refusing Brock's assistance. "I didn't think . . ."
"Do you ever think?" he demanded, taking a seat beside her. "Now tell me, little cousin, what the hell did you want?"
She gripped the lapels of his coat she wore, inhaling the heavenly masculine scent that clung to it. "I wasn't actually looking for you."
He clicked to the old mare and she moved forward. "What?"
Keely kept her eyes focused in the darkness on the mare's ears which twitched as she walked. "I went to investigate."
"You're making no sense, wife. Now out with it." Brock demanded hotly.
Struggling against tears that threatened to flow, words spilled from Keely's mouth in rapid fire. "I was investigating Uncle Lloyd's murder. I went to the sheriff and then I came to the tavern to see what I could find out about you." She turned to him, her gaze settling on his angry face. "I thought . . . I thought maybe you killed my uncle."
He gripped the reins so tightly that the leather bit into the flesh of his hands. "You what!"
Keely cringed.
"Why in the—" Brock cut himself off, looking away as he shook his head. "How could you be so—"
For several minutes Brock was silent. The sound of the horse's feet hitting the hard dirt echoed in Keely's ear, mixing with the soft even rhythm of her husband's breathing.
When Brock finally spoke again, his anger was checked, but the rage lurking beneath the surface gave his voice a razor edge. "What the hell made you think I would do such a thing?"
She shrugged. "Who else would do it? I thought you needed the money."
"I already had the money."
"Maybe you wanted him out of the way." Keely swallowed hard. "Then you could get rid of me."
"Why would I want to get rid of you? I need you," Brock responded unemotionally.
Keely's heart skipped a beat. "You what?" she asked with surprise.
"I need you. The war is going so poorly that Lloyd may have been right. I may need you and your English loyalties."
For an instant Keely felt a strange sense of regret, though she didn't know why. What else could he have meant? "Well, I don't need you," she managed through clenched teeth.
"According to you uncle, you did, now stop avoiding the subject. You had no right to accuse me of murder, wife."
The manner in which he said the word wife made Keely tremble. "I said nothing to anyone."
"I'm no murderer of innocent men and certainly not Lloyd's murderer. I loved that man as much as I could have loved my own father." He turned to her, the anger in his voice subsiding slightly. "But I'm glad you acted on your suspicions, however silly they might have been."
She looked up at him beside her on the carriage seat. "I don't understand."
"It was stupid. Your conclusions were without basis, but"—he held up a finger—"you acted on your conjecture. You didn't just sit like a useless female and worry yourself into a spell."
"But I was wrong."
Brock chuckled dryly, taking her hand in his. "You were wrong, quite wrong, my dear." He lifted her hand to brush his lips against the back of it.
Keely tried to ignore the shiver of pleasure Brock's touch created. "But if you didn't do it, who did?"
He laid her hand on his thigh, patting it gingerly. "While you were off investigating, I was checking into a few things myself."
"And?" Keely asked, removing her hand from his leg.
"Wait until we get home. I'll show you."
Half an hour later Brock helped Keely down from the carriage and escorted her in their home through the back kitchen door. "Go on upstairs and change your dress. No sense in giving Lucy anything more to gossip about. Then meet me in Lloyd's office; I'll get Mother."
When Keely came downstairs a few minutes later, the office door was open. Inside she found Brock pacing the floor and Aunt Gwen and the housekeeper, Matilda, seated in two high-back chairs.
Brock glanced up at Keely, flashing her a hint of a smile before he turned to the servant. "Matilda, tell me what you know of Lloyd Bartholomew's death."
The white-haired woman looked up. "What, the sheriff don't know who did it yet?"
"No arrests have been made. Right now we're just talking to everyone who knew him. I know you two talked, what do you think?" he asked solemnly.
Matilda's eyes darted to Gwenevere. "There's evil in this house, I can tell you that, Master Brock. Evil just come of late, but been here before."
Gwenevere's eyes met Matilda's but she kept silent as Brock had instructed her.
Brock crossed his arms over his chest. He still wore the shirt with a torn and bloodstained sleeve. "Evil? What kind of evil? Tell me, Matilda."
The old woman worried at her bony hands. "Devil spawned, what other kind is there?" She licked her dry lips. "I warned Lloyd, I told him there was evil about, but he was in so much pain that he didn't understand."
"Lloyd was in pain?" Brock probed.
She nodded vigorously. "Didn't you see him always rubbing at his chest? And then when she came it got worse, only he couldn't see it because he was under her spell."
"Whose spell?"
Matilda rocked her frail body in the chair. "You know—her." She lifted her chin, motioning toward Gwenevere.
"His wife?" Brock asked. "His wife was the evil?"
"Hmph! Wife! She tweren't no wife . . . not the kind of wife he deserved, not what he needed." She rocked faster. "I offered. I'd of made a good wife to him, I'd have never traipsed off across the oceans. Me and Lloyd we knew each other as children. Then she came and he married her and then she went."
"Matilda," Brock said softly. "What's that got to do with Lloyd's death?"
The old maidservant looked up at him. "Don't you see? You were caught right betwixt it! First she brought back the girl and told Lloyd to marry the two of you off. I heard them whispering in his bedchamber, head him laughin' under her spell. And then when it was legal, she kilt him so that her son might have it all!"
Brock studied the old maidservant's translucent blue eyes. "Gwenevere? You think Gwenevere did it?"
Distressed, Keely looked up at Brock. He shook his head ever so slightly, lifting his finger to signal for her to hold her tongue.
"And how did she do it, Matilda? Can you tell me that?"
" 'Twas simple enough. Laudanum." Matilda's eyes grew round and glazed as she began to rock back and forth again. "A little slipped into that sleeping tincture Blackie took him. He'd been drinkin' the stuff for years, a bitter awful potion . . . to make him sleep, he said." 'Twas enough for that old heart of his to give in. He's gone now, bless his soul, gone to a better place far from the evils and pains of this wretched world."
Brock laid a hand gently on Matilda's thin, ragged shoulder. "Why did you do it, Matilda? He was always good to you."
Crystalline tears ran down her wrinkled cheeks. "I sent him on without me, sent him far from her evil hand. He's in peace now." She looked up at Brock. "Don't you think he's in peace?"
Brock nodded slowly. "He is, Matilda, now go on upstairs and pack your things. Someone will be here for you shortly."
The old maidservant got up slowly, making a semicircle around Gwenevere's chair. She hummed quietly to herself as she walked out the door and down the back hallway.
"She killed Uncle Lloyd?" Keely cried in disbelief. "Matilda did it?"
Brock ran a bronze hand across his forehead. "Her mind was always weak, but I never thought she'd ever do any harm. I blame myself for allowing her to stay."
Gwenevere shook her head. "You were right, Brock. Saints in hell! She was in love with the old goat! She killed for unrequited love!"
"No, Mother, I think she did it because she thought she was helping him. In her own twisted way she was saving him from the pain of life"—his eyes met his mother's—"and from you."
"Save him from me!" She laughed. "Poor soul. Why'd he ever bring her here in the first place?"
Brock perched himself on the arm of a chair. "You know how Lloyd was. He was always taking servants from other people when they didn't work out. When Annie Samkins died a few years back, John dismissed Matilda. He said she made him nervous and now that his wife was gone, he didn't need her. Apparently Lloyd knew her from his childhood, felt sorry for her, and took her in."
"If he'd only known . . ." Gwenevere muttered.
"If he'd known, he'd have hired her anyway," Keely said thoughtfully.
Brock's eyes met his wife's and he nodded, holding her in his gaze. "You're right, Lloyd would have." He smiled sadly. "It was the kind of man he was."
"Well, I hope you called the sheriff to take her right away!" Gwenevere got up with a rustle of silk and taffeta.
"I had to," Brock conceded.
"Well, what's going to happen to her?" Keely dropped a hand on her hip. "You can't hang someone who's sick like that."
"The sheriff wants to speak with her; I saw him this morning and told him of my suspicions."
Keely's eyes widened with surprise. "You mean he had already talked to y
ou when I went to see him?"
Brock nodded. "I asked that he not speak to anyone until I talked to Lucy and confirmed my own beliefs."
"Well, where was Lucy that she wasn't here to talk to you after breakfast?"
"Apparently she was out prowling last night with one of her many gentleman friends and didn't come home. Once Blackie found her, all was settled but Matilda's confession. Lucy knew she'd bought the laudanum and from whom."
"So what's going to happen to Matilda now?"
Gwenevere stopped in the doorway. "Burn her at the stake if you ask me."
Brock scowled. "I've made a special request that she not be charged, but be allowed to go to a niece's near Philadelphia. It's not legal, but I think I've convinced John Clark that she's harmless."
"As harmless as a shark in my mineral bath!" Gwenevere raged.
"Now Mother, do you really think that?"
Gwenevere sighed. "No, I guess not," she said quietly. "I'm just angry at the unjustice. I can't help wondering how many days, weeks, months she robbed him of."
"Maybe just hours." Brock went to his mother, leaning to brush a kiss against her cheek. "It's like you always told me, Onna, everything happens for a reason. Who knows, maybe she saved him from a painful, suffering death."
Gwenevere blinked back the moisture in her eyes, giving her son a pat on the cheek. "You remind me so much of your father sometimes, Brock." Then she was gone.
Keely was overcome by all that she'd just witnessed. Matilda . . . Brock . . . She'd even seen a part of Aunt Gwenevere that she'd never known before. She couldn't help wondering if her aunt still pined for Brock's father after all these years.
Suddenly Brock was before Keely, taking her hand. "I don't know about you, cousin, but I'm ready for bed. It's been a long, eventful day."
Keely's hazel eyes met his dark pools with uncertainty. A truce seemed to have been called between them, at least for tonight. "I'll get something for your arm."
"No. Water will be enough. Come on." He dropped his arm around her shoulder and led her out of the office and up the staircase to their bedchamber.
Once inside their room, Keely moved quietly about, readying herself for bed, unsure of how she was to behave. In the days after their wedding, when he was angry, it had been easy. She just ignored him, but what about now? Though she liked him no better than she had, she was overwhelmed by her desire to have him touch her . . . to make love to her, and that desire scared her.
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 12