Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  “Do not snivel. What woman cries over beautiful clothes? And what did you expect when your father sold you to me?”

  “Stepfather.” The word was barely a whisper. The maid, whom James could see, moved forward, and James lost sight of her. But he could still see Boyd from behind, arms crossed as Miss Delaney presumably removed her nightgown in the morning light.

  “The lavender gown,” Boyd snapped at the maid. “Help her with it. No—no undergarments.”

  Why not? James broke out in a sweat all over his body. What did the man intend to do with her, and why insist on such indecency?

  He stood like a rock, aching, while rustling sounds ensued. Then Boyd said, “Now try the green.”

  The procedure continued. Boyd stepped forward, presumably to inspect his prize, and James lost sight of him in turn. He debated what to do. Should he make a scene? He had no right. And many people would insist there was no real hurt in this, beyond the humiliation.

  He, James, had suffered great humiliation in his life. Bruising as it might be, he knew a person could survive it.

  “Adjust that neckline,” Boyd snapped at the maid. “Lower. Hmm. Now the blue gown.”

  Catherine’s voice came, quavering. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Boat races on the river, but not just for enjoyment. I expect to conduct a great deal of business today. And I expect you to assist me in that, do you understand? You will be accommodating to the men you meet. None of your sullen pouting. Smile at them, and if they touch you, act like you enjoy it.”

  “Touch me!”

  “Don’t worry, nothing will get out of hand. The green, I think,” Boyd went on, presumably to the maid. “Do something with her hair; I want it to look elegant. And give her a bath first. I want her at her most tantalizing.”

  He turned away then, and his arm came into James’ view, but the man hesitated and said, “Oh, and Catherine—you can prepare to make yourself welcoming to me later tonight.”

  He stalked from the bedroom then, moving with disdainful confidence. Puffed with his own importance the man might be, but James knew it wouldn’t take much for him to break Boyd in his hands. He needed, though, to school that impulse just as he must school the emotions inside.

  Boyd never looked at him as he swept by to the door. “I won’t need you today after all,” he told James as he passed. “Be back tomorrow morning, instead.”

  Tomorrow morning, James thought even as he nodded. And what might befall his charge before then? He didn’t want to leave her; it felt wrong. But he knew orders when he heard them. He longed to walk to the door of the bedroom, not to see his charge stripped bare but to lend her some shred of reassurance. Yet he had none to lend and, like an enraged shadow, he slipped out the door.

  What to do? James’ every instinct bade him protect Catherine, and as he left the grand house, passing steam servants and human ones alike, he thrashed out ways and means in his mind. He could attend these boat races on the river, let Catherine see him and know someone who supported her was near at hand. But would she want him to witness her further humiliation?

  Yet if Boyd meant her some actual harm, if he traded her off, say, to one of his cronies as part of a business deal…

  Yes, and what could James do then? Even if Boyd didn’t trade her like any other asset, if he brought her back home, there was still what might happen later tonight. He, James, had no hope of preventing that.

  He should have asked her just how she had come into this predicament, why she hadn’t run but had let her stepfather trade her away. For, beneath it all, she carried the resolution of a martyr. He’d been too busy banging on about himself, trying to give her a lesson in endurance.

  Fat lot of good that would do her now.

  Moving like a thundercloud, he stalked off into the beautiful morning. May in Buffalo usually claimed his heart with its blooming trees and soft breezes following the harsh winter, but now he wondered why it didn’t rain, to cancel the boat races and whatever devilment Boyd had planned.

  He caught himself and his thoughts only when he nearly stepped off a curb into the path of a steamcab. The driver shrilled the whistle at him and cursed loudly before blowing by in a cloud of hot vapor.

  Careful, lad, James told himself. You’ll do Catherine no good dead.

  Ah, but he could do her no good anyway.

  Like a homing pigeon, he made for Tate’s place. On the way he passed people starting their day: workmen on their way to jobs, housemaids shaking out rugs, crowds of children. Most looked away hastily as soon as they saw him, his countenance revealed mercilessly in the clear morning light. Some of the children followed him for a block or two, hurling insults like stones, until he turned and glared at them and they fled.

  Two blocks from Tate’s, he happened upon two older lads, their faces twisted in ugly glee, tying a can to the tail of a small mongrel dog.

  James knew the drill. The cur would flee for some distance, trying to outpace the clattering racket that pursued it, until it fell in exhaustion, all for the amusement of these oafs.

  The anger that simmered in him, already nearly at boiling point, seethed up and ran over. In truth, he lost control of his emotions but rarely; when he did, darkness possessed his mind. He recalled little of what took place during the intervening span of time.

  That darkness now rose and gripped him, unstoppable as the blood in his veins. He seized one of the young ruffians and thrust him against the nearest wall. The thin drip squeaked at him while his fellow called, “Monster, monster!”

  James knew little more until he came to himself in the center of a circle of police officers, two of whom hauled on his arms while a third informed him he was under arrest.

  Shit, he thought. How will I get back to Catherine?

  He looked down at the two lads who now lay at his feet like bundles of broken sticks. His fists hurt as they always did after he went off kilter.

  “Did I kill anyone?” he asked.

  The policeman he addressed didn’t bother to answer, merely saying to his fellows who pinned James’ arms, “Bring him in, lads, and have a care—this one’s an ugly brute.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Well, then, you’re a sorry sight, and no mistake.” Brendan Fagan, one of the lights of the Buffalo police force, stopped in front of James’ cell and glared at him. “Tate’s not going to be happy about this, is he? Don’t you already have a court date next week for the last assault?”

  James shook his head. Truth be told, he wasn’t happy with himself either. Losing control only felt good while it lasted, never afterwards.

  He looked up and engaged Fagan’s gaze. Fagan and Tate had a close friendship, as he knew very well. But Fagan, a tough cookie, couldn’t always be gauged. He’d attained a measure of fame two years ago in the automaton affair and now had the reputation of a hard nose in the force.

  Seriously, James asked again, “Did I kill anyone?”

  “No, but it’s a wonder, with those big fists of yours. What’s a man your size thinking, taking on two puny lads?”

  James tried to remember. “There was a dog. What happened to it?”

  “Our men saw no dog.”

  “Those two boys were tormenting it. I wanted to make them stop.”

  “Then you tell them to stop, threaten them if you have to. You don’t put your hands on them.”

  “I know.” James felt sick to his heart. How could he explain to Fagan that everything else had built up and contributed to him going off his head? How could James admit to Tate, when he came—and he would come—he’d got so personally involved he’d let himself become unprofessional?

  He couldn’t. Tate would pull him off the job and he’d never see Catherine again.

  “Those lads going to press charges?” he asked Fagan.

  “Don’t know. One’s still unconscious and the other has a broken jaw and can’t say much. Can’t write, either, the ignoramus. So we’ll have to wait on that.”

  “They in ho
spital?”

  “Charity ward for now. But I don’t see how it’s fair for the good people of this city to pay for the effects of your temper. Do you?”

  “I’ll pay,” James said miserably.

  “Damn right you will.” Fagan hesitated a moment and then asked in a slightly different tone, “You all right?”

  James looked down at his hands. They showed spatters of blood and all the knuckles were split. “Fine.”

  “Is it true you don’t know what you’re after doing when one of these fits comes over you?”

  “It is.”

  Fagan shook his head. “You’re lucky you didn’t kill one or both of them, then. Tate better take care—you do something like that in his employ, he could be held responsible.”

  “The dog…” James began.

  Fagan’s blue eyes flashed. “Let me tell you something, Kilter. It’s a damn shame what happens to dogs in this city—also cats, children, women…anybody too weak to stand up for him or herself. That’s part of the reason I’m on the force. And I guess I can see why you’d want to step in, in the face of cruelty. You’re a thoughtful man. But it’s time to give some thought to the fellow who took you in when you needed it and did so much for you. You want to ruin Tate Murphy?”

  “No.”

  “Then for God’s sake smarten up.”

  “What’s all this, then?” James knew that voice without looking up, but he did anyway and saw Tate join Fagan outside the bars. “You reading my lad the riot act, Brendan?”

  “He’s a riot all on his own when he goes off his head, Tate. You straighten him out, or he’s going to be in here permanently.”

  Fagan stalked off, and Tate stood gazing at James, his hands deep in the pockets of his rough, brown wool suit. “Well now,” he said after a moment, “I don’t doubt my friend Brendan is right.”

  James nodded numbly, tried to get a read on Tate’s expression, and failed. “You mean to bail me out?”

  “I should let you sit there and stew.”

  James swallowed a sudden great lump of distress. What would happen to Catherine then? “I need to get back to my assignment, Tate.”

  “Funny time for you to think of it.”

  “I know. Fagan’s right; I already owe you so much.”

  “Och, do not get maudlin on me, lad. You’ll make me weep. I’ve paid your fine, but it’s to be the last time, do you hear me? Next time you’ll be on your own.”

  An officer came and unlocked the cell, and James followed Tate from the place in silence. Outside he saw evening had fallen. Where was Catherine now? Back from her day at the river? In her rose bower—alone? Or was Boyd with her?

  He shuddered, and Tate gave him a close look. “When you due back on the job?”

  “Not till morning.”

  “Ah. Boyd must be having his way with the little piece, then.” Tate’s gaze sharpened. “You going to be all right with that? Only you said she’s in a spot, and I know how protective you can get. That have anything to do with you beating the snot out of those two lads?”

  Too perceptive by half, James thought ruefully. But he said, “I came upon them tormenting a little dog. You know how I feel about that. I snapped. I don’t remember much of it.”

  “You never do. But what if you kill somebody someday, Jamie lad, when you’re in that place of not-remembering? What then?”

  James had no answer for that, so he said, “I’ll pay you back, Tate, for the bail and whatever those boys’ care costs, as well.”

  And Tate replied, “Feckin’ right you will.”

  ****

  “Well my dear, I hope you had a pleasant day and evening,” Boyd said in a smooth, oily voice as the extended steamcab drew up in front of the house.

  Cat did not bother to reply. He knew she had not, for he’d set out to deliberately make sure of it. This day, supposedly an opportunity for him to hobnob with his cronies and do deals on the side, had in truth been an exercise in her abasement and humiliation.

  He had showed her off like a new toy, bragged covertly about attaining her, and implied her favors might be available as an enhancement to any deals he made. The implications had been veiled, but not even Cat could claim enough naiveté to misunderstand.

  “A pretty little thing, isn’t she? A side benefit of a deal in which I did manage to get the upper hand. We all enjoy gaining side benefits, don’t we, gentlemen?”

  And, “You see there are many ways to sweeten a deal. Miss Delaney comprehends that, don’t you, my dear? And she’s very obedient.”

  His associates, not mistaking his point, had looked at her the way they might any other tidbit on offer, with bold, calculating stares that measured the span of her waist, the length of her legs, and the size of her breasts, almost totally exposed by the green gown. They eyed her as they would no decent woman, and Cat realized she had left any claim to decency behind and become a woman who now warranted neither decent respect nor consideration.

  Only one man had dared touch her—an aging businessman with a stogie in his mouth, who leaned so close Cat feared the hot ash would fall onto her bosom. Instead, his fingers had found their way there, and had given a hard squeeze before he backed off with a lascivious grin.

  Boyd, who observed it all, made no objection, and Cat wondered then if she stared into her fate. After Boyd tired of her, would she pass into the hands of one or all of these men?

  Her embarrassment translated to anger as the day went along, and then into an intense hatred for Boyd. Though she had long detested her stepfather and despised her mother for failing to stand up to him, hate made a new emotion for her. It lent the strength needed to keep her chin high even as her cheeks flamed with mortification and even though, as the only woman in the party, there could be no question she was on display.

  Now Boyd climbed out of the cab, expecting her to follow as she had all day long. She did, sick to her stomach and with knees that felt wobbly. She feared the worst part of this intolerable day still lay ahead. Did Boyd mean to stay with her tonight as he’d threatened, strip the revealing gown from her, and stake his personal claim before passing her on?

  She couldn’t bear it, not when she hated him so.

  Yet he tossed his jacket aside to one of the steamies and gestured for Cat to ascend the stairs ahead of him. When she reached her suite she looked for Kilter, even though she knew Boyd had dismissed him till morning.

  “Inside,” Boyd told her brusquely.

  In the sitting room, he shot his cuffs and removed his tie, eyeing Cat all the while. Think of Becky, she bade herself fiercely, who might be here instead of you, a mere child. But it didn’t help much when Boyd eyed her and ordered as he had once before, “Take your hair down.”

  Cat didn’t move, and he approached her the way a tomcat might a wounded bird. “Do as I tell you, God damn it, or do I need to get rough?” A smile twisted his narrow face. “I warn you, I might enjoy that.”

  With fingers that shook violently, Cat took her hair down.

  “You make a valuable asset,” Boyd said then. “That’s plain from today’s reactions among my colleagues. You are beautiful, no question of that, and it matters more than what I can see in your eyes. Clearly you’ll need to be broken, and clearly you’ll need some training before you can provide the kind of pleasure my associates expect.”

  Cat’s knees now shook so hard she feared she might fall down. She no longer wanted to defy him—she wanted to run and hide somewhere, sobbing.

  He unbuttoned his shirt, and bile rose into the back of her throat.

  “Tell me, Miss Delaney, are you a virgin? Your father assured me you were.”

  “Stepfather.” Cat’s lips barely moved.

  “Quite frankly, had I been him, I would have had you. But he’s a stupid man, at best.”

  He stepped toward her; she wondered wildly if she could fight him off. She would use everything at her disposal—nails, feet, elbows. Not a muscular man, he would nevertheless have no mercy.

&nb
sp; “Are you a virgin?” he persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, I won’t want to spoil that. You’ll be worth so much more intact. Take off your gown.”

  “Please, no.”

  “You wish to beg, do you? Oh, I assure you, Miss Delaney, you’ll beg before we’re done. You wish to leave your gown on? That, too, can be titillating. On your knees.”

  “No. I do beg.”

  He reached out and tugged down her bodice—it didn’t need to move far to expose her breasts. He now spilled from the front of his trousers, engorged inside white silk underdrawers.

  “You will accommodate me,” he told her, “and you will accommodate my associates when I tell you—at dinners, at business meetings. Do you understand? So you’d best get used to it.”

  She couldn’t. She’d bite him first, fly at him and rave. No one who knew him, no one in this house, would be surprised at screams coming from this chamber.

  “On your knees. Move, I tell you! Or do I need to call a couple steamies to hold you down?”

  Hate and revulsion filled Cat in equal measures. She moved, but not as bidden. Instead she flew at him, all teeth and claws, like her namesake. He would learn they didn’t call her “Cat” for nothing.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Not here? What do you mean, she’s not here?” James stared at Carter, Boyd’s little toady of a henchman, who had met him at the door of Boyd’s house with the news. The place looked all sixes and sevens, with servants and steamies hurrying in and out in the gray morning light. “What’s happened?”

  “You’re not wanted,” Carter told him. “That’s all you need to know.”

  James’ heart began to beat hard and high in his throat. All night he’d been uneasy about Catherine. Now his worst fears seemed justified. What had Boyd done to her? Raped her? Injured and sent her to the hospital?

  Carter added succinctly, “You will not be needed henceforth.”

  “But where’s Miss Delaney?” James looked past Carter and through the open door as if he might see her. Surely that was a physician there inside, with a black bag. His heart plummeted sickeningly. Did “not here” from Carter translate to “dead”?