Off Kilter

by Laura Strickland

  Catherine, he wanted to say, but there were no words, only the way she trembled and pressed tight against him so he could feel her breasts beneath her shirt, as surely she must be able to feel the strength of his arousal. Did she know what that meant? Would she realize a monster desired her and back away?

  For an instant he felt certain she must, for she broke the kiss and said unsteadily, “I was so worried for you. And Mr. Murphy said you might not want to see me.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” He unlinked his hands from where they’d settled at the small of her back, just above her delightful bottom, and gestured wildly to the side of his face. “This.”

  “Fool!” Emotion flared in her eyes, and she pressed herself still closer, parts of her cradling pertinent parts of him. “When I look at you I don’t see…” Again she caressed his face, touched his hair. “Jamie, people are part good and part bad, light and darkness. Can’t you see that? But inside, you’re all light.”

  He hung his head. “I’m not, Catherine. I beat a man in the street.”

  “I see—”

  “Hush.” He raised his hands also to cup her face, silken soft and all perfection. He wanted this moment, wanted to pretend when he looked at her that the impossible might be true.

  But Catherine said stubbornly, “I see you as you are, not as you appear.”

  Impossible. A wonderful, beautiful thing for her to say, but beyond what he could believe. If he couldn’t ignore his face, how could she? And he got reminded of how he looked every time he gazed into someone else’s eyes.

  Except now, gazing into hers.

  Emotion exploded through him, lifted his heart. He trembled where he stood.

  “So,” she spoke softly, with that teasing note back in her voice, “are you going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to kiss me again?”

  Kiss her? He wanted to go down on his knees, throw himself at her feet, worship her from her toes to the top of her shorn head slowly and deliberately, taking extra time over certain places between. Yet she raised that challenging gaze to him, lifted that sweet bud of a mouth, and he fell into her, lost like a man overboard at sea with no hope of land.

  The door to the dining room snicked open as someone peered in. He heard Roselyn’s voice exclaim before the door shut again. He didn’t care, he didn’t, he didn’t. He was far too busy feeling complete.

  Chapter Twenty

  Morning sun beat insistently on the tiny window of Cat’s room and quickly heated the air. She opened her eyes, wondering why she felt so marvelously different, and then remembered what had happened in the kitchen last night.

  Jamie.

  Ah, Jamie. A smile curled her lips and she stretched in the narrow cot, testing a body that seemed to have awakened aroused. She’d dreamed of him most the night. Curiously, in the dreams she’d seen him as he might have been, should have been, his face unmarked, one side reflecting the handsomeness of the other—the way she saw him in her heart. She’d kissed him in her dreams too, again and again.

  No wonder she awoke on fire for him. The taste of him still seemed to fill her, and the elusive, beguiling scent that went straight to her head. The feel of his big, warm hands seemed to have imprinted itself all over her body, wherever he’d touched her last night. She loved the way he touched her with careful gentleness that made her feel priceless. She closed her eyes and remembered how the damp from his clothes had soaked through hers to the skin, how she’d ripened and peaked for him, how the weight of him, pressing against her, made her long to offer him anything and everything. She’d never yet lain with any man, but she’d wanted to beg him to stay the night, had longed to bring him up here with her, fuse her body with his, and own him completely.

  But she’d seen the look in his eyes just before passion filled them. She knew he failed to believe she desired him.

  Oh Jamie, Jamie.

  How to convince him that what she felt, she felt true? How to convey that she’d hungered for the feel of his mouth—misshapen or not—on hers? That ever since he’d held her in comfort, back in her room at the vile Boyd’s, she’d craved the feeling of being safe in his arms?

  Not half of what she craved now…

  She should be shocked by herself, but she wanted James Kilter between her legs where no man had been, wanted him badly. She rarely gave in to desiring anything for herself. Oh, she’d had clothes and hats, even jewelry. But her real desires had been for others—her mother and Becky. She wanted them safe and happy, and still did.

  Now, though, she wanted something solely for herself—Jamie Kilter. She would battle for him if she had to, fight the way she had against Boyd’s advances, like an angry cat. But she knew she’d be battling first against Jamie’s doubt.

  How could she convince him that, to her, he was a whole man and wholly desirable? She could think of one or two ways, and her lips curved again in an anticipatory smile.

  She rose from the cot and went to peer out the window. Last night’s rain had cleared, and the sky looked fresh-washed, the last clouds driven by a breeze from the direction of the river. Where was Jamie now? Mr. Murphy had dragged him away last night, after Roselyn came into the kitchen and declared in a scandalized whisper, “Shameless! What would my guests say if they saw a great lump of a man and a lad kissing?”

  A tap sounded on Cat’s door, and it opened to admit Dottie’s head. The girl, already clad for work, wore a white cap and a look of avid curiosity.

  “Albert, can I come in?”

  Cat crossed her arms over her chest. She wore only undergarments and feared the girl might see too much, but Dottie grinned.

  “Don’t bother. You’re not really Albert, are you?”

  “Come in and shut the door.”

  Dottie obeyed and perched at the end of the cot, a look of wonder on her sharp face. “Who are you, then?”

  Cat gave her a searching look. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I can.”

  “I’m a woman, as you’ve guessed, in a lot of trouble and hiding out here for now. Someone’s looking for me, a terrible man.”

  “I thought it must be something like that. Miss Murphy wouldn’t say a thing when I asked. To tell you the truth, I had my suspicions even before I tried to come into the kitchen last night and saw the two of you. Who’s the terrible man that’s looking for you?”

  “Probably better if you don’t know.”

  “How does Mr. Kilter come into it?” Dottie’s eyes widened. “Why were you kissing him?”

  “Why do you suppose?”

  “Well, I’ve been wondering about that all night. The only person I’ve ever kissed was the butcher’s boy. Did more than kiss him, truth be told.”

  “Dottie!”

  “And the butcher’s boy’s no beauty—looks a bit like the butcher’s bulldog, in fact—but he’s not…” Words failed Dottie. She made a gesture of futility with her hands.

  “He’s not what?” Cat demanded.

  “You know.”

  Cat sincerely liked Dottie, but now protective anger arose in her breast. “Say it. You might as well. Thousands will.”

  “Half a man.”

  Rage ignited. “James Kilter is not half a man.” She had felt all of him, in the kitchen.

  “Half a face, then. And half—”

  “Do you suppose that’s all I’m looking at?”

  “Hard not to look at it, right? I’m only being honest.”

  Honest, appalled, and disbelieving. If Cat couldn’t convince Dottie, who had no dog in the fight, how would she ever convince Jamie?

  “He has beautiful eyes.”

  “Has he? I’ll admit,” Dottie said, “I find it hard to actually look into his face.”

  “More loss for you, then.” The anger inside Cat flared brighter.

  Dottie shrugged. “Each to her own, I guess. But why kiss him?”

  “Because I wanted to. I still do. I can’t wait to kiss him again. I h
ope it’ll be today.”

  Dottie’s shoulders twitched. She got up from the cot. “You’re angry. I’d hoped we could be friends, but—”

  “We can, so long as you never say anything cruel about Jamie Kilter.”

  “You love him.”

  “Eh?”

  Dottie stated it again with the inevitability of fact. “You’re in love with the man.”

  Was she? Cat’s eyes widened. Could it be? She desired him, yes, like a rampant fire burning. She meant to have him by hook or by crook, as soon as she could. But for her, love had always been so elusive, difficult to find and impossible to cultivate. Certainly it never exploded into a woman’s life in the midst of other complications.

  She barely knew Jamie Kilter. A conversation in the dark, a feeling of trust, a couple of kisses. But oh, she could so easily fall for him if she hadn’t already…

  “Dottie!” The cry came from downstairs, saving Cat the necessity of putting her confused feelings into words.

  “Have to go,” Dottie said. “The boarders want to eat again.” She turned to the door and then hesitated. “You want a word of advice? Keep your cap on. You’re much too pretty without it.”

  ****

  “Did you get any sleep, lad?” Tate’s big body threw a shadow against the bright morning sun. James, who hunkered down in front of Greta’s kennel, cast a look over his shoulder and shook his head.

  “Never went to bed,” he admitted. “Been here all night trying to get Greta to trust me.”

  Tate scowled; his broad face looked homely in the sharp light, but James would take “homely” any day of the week.

  “How’s she doing?”

  Greta, ears flattened, lay half way up the run, her eyes fixed on James. She whimpered but didn’t otherwise protest Tate’s presence.

  “Better, but if I walk away she starts to bark.”

  “Means she’s beginning to accept you. Trust’s a funny thing, isn’t it, lad? My old ma used to say it’s the foundation of any relationship. Without trust, there can’t be anything more.”

  James stayed where he was and said nothing.

  “You want to talk about it?” Tate asked.

  “‘It’?”

  “What I saw going on in Roselyn’s kitchen last night.”

  Talk about it? James barely wanted to think of it, though he seemed incapable of focusing on anything else. The memory of how Catherine felt in his arms, and all the accompanying sensations, had kept him from sleep.

  He got to his feet. Greta flattened herself to the ground but didn’t move away.

  He told Tate, rationalizing Catherine’s actions as he had most the night, “She was just worried about me. That’s all.”

  “Didn’t look like ‘all’ to me. Aye, lad, women do get worried, bless them, but the question is why was she so worried about you?”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Maybe so. But in my experience friends don’t throw themselves into one another’s arms the way she threw herself at you.”

  James grimaced and growled, “Don’t, Tate.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t build up something that’s not there.” He couldn’t handle false hope, couldn’t endure the resultant disappointment.

  “She already trusts you, lad.”

  “Trust’s not the same as…” James couldn’t say the word, couldn’t even let himself think it.

  “You suppose so? I don’t. As I’ve just said, ’tis the foundation for far warmer feelings.”

  “Maybe.” For normal men who looked human.

  Tate made a rough gesture. “That dog there, now, Greta, she’s starting to trust you. You’ll win her acceptance, and next will come love.”

  “That’s the way it is with animals.” And it was the reason he loved them so, the way he’d admit to loving nothing else.

  “No, lad, I think that’s the way it is with everyone. Do you suppose Greta cares how you look? It’s the kind hand that matters to her, the soft voice.”

  James had no reply to that, and Tate just stood there a moment as if letting his words soak in. “When’s your court date?”

  “Three days.”

  “I was thinking it might be a good idea meanwhile to settle you at Roselyn’s, just to keep Miss Delaney safe.”

  “Send someone else.”

  “She’ll not want someone else.”

  “Tate, please.” James drew a breath that shuddered through him.

  “I can’t help believing you’re the man for the job.”

  James shut his eyes against the glare of the morning light and a surge of pain. “It’s impossible.”

  “Is it? I would have said ’twas impossible, when you brought Greta here, that she’d ever let you near her. Now she’s half way to loving you.”

  James opened his eyes and regarded the dog, who had her eyes fixed on him with unswerving attention.

  Softly, Tate said, “Miracles happen every day, lad. You only have to watch for them.”

  James hoped so, for he needed a big, whopping miracle, and he needed it soon.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I wondered if I might see Dr. Roesch.” James stared into the visage of the steam unit that opened the door. An advanced and no doubt very expensive model, it still didn’t match the sophistication of hybrids like Kelly. But it had been fashioned to look like a housemaid or housekeeper, and rather than mere indentations in its metal skin it had glass eyes.

  “Sir, do you have an appointment?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “Then I am afraid Dr. Roesch cannot see you.”

  James stood there with the traffic of a busy afternoon on Franklin Street rushing past his back and wondered how to influence the feelings of a creature that had no emotions. Oh, he knew steamies thought after a fashion and developed loyalties. Imagination, however, did not seem their strong suit.

  “Please, it’s important.” Against implacable denial, James persisted, “Is the doctor in?”

  “Dr. Roesch is with a patient.”

  James’ heart leaped. “I can wait till he’s free. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

  The steam unit hesitated and seemed to consider him. It asked, “Is this a very urgent matter?”

  “Yes.” Urgent to him.

  “Dr. Roesch does see emergencies. Come in.”

  The inside of the building sparkled with cleanliness, the floor so highly polished James might have been able to see himself in it, had he wanted to. He didn’t. The steamie led him through an open door on the left into a room empty except for chairs.

  “Please wait here, sir.”

  James did, fidgeting in every limb. The place smelled of disinfectant and floor polish. Ever since his accident the smell of disinfectant turned his stomach, and that did nothing for his current state of mind. The hospital in which he’d recovered had reeked of this; the memories, far from good, included sickness, pain, and terrified loneliness.

  He needed to push all that away from him now. He needed to focus on the miracle Tate had promised.

  He’d expected an endless wait, but all too soon he heard voices from the foyer—two men speaking, one departing. Roesch and his patient.

  Then the mechanical voice of the steam servant reached his ears.

  “A man wanting to see you, Dr. Roesch.”

  “That was my last appointment, Dahlia.”

  “I think you will want to see this man.”

  It thought? Was that a judgment call on the part of the sophisticated unit?

  A man stepped to the door of the waiting room, as much a caricature as the steamie, in his way. Short and barrel-chested, he wore elegant trousers and a waistcoat. His dark hair had grayed like his beard, which made a wiry nest that flowed onto his breast. Fierce eyes the color of ice considered James for a moment before they narrowed in curiosity.

  “I see. Very good, Dahlia. You may leave us.”

  James expected to be called away into an examining room. Instea
d the man entered the reception chamber, shut the door, and extended his hand to James all in one movement.

  “I am Dr. Eberon Roesch. You?”

  “James Kilter.”

  The doctor’s grip felt firm; his gaze engaged James’ fully.

  “Mr. Kilter, no need to ask why you are here.” Roesch released James’ hand and moved around him, inspecting his countenance by the room’s clear light. “Interesting scar patterns. Steam burns or boiling water?”

  “Both.”

  “Taken at close contact, I have no doubt. And sustained.”

  “A boiler exploded in a closet. I wasn’t able to get away.”

  “These are old injuries. How old?”

  “Over ten years.”

  “Ah. If you had come to me at once, I might have been able to do something.”

  James stomach plummeted sickeningly. “You mean you can’t now?”

  “Advances in skin surgery progress on a nearly daily basis. No doubt you heard I am a pioneer in my field. It is why you are here, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet only so much can be done.”

  “I thought—hoped—that is, I heard you’re doing work taking skin from one person and planting it on another like those hybrid steamies in the police force.”

  “From cadavers, you mean? I am making trials with that method, yes—but only trials at this point. The creators of the hybrids, Charles and Mason, may have been madmen; they were also geniuses. Such surgery has not been perfected, and the risks are manifold.”

  “What risks?”

  Roesch’s icy stare considered him. “Mainly failure of the graft to take, severe infection—death.”

  “I’d be willing to take the chance.”

  Roesch waved a hand. “Would you be willing to wear the skin of a dead man, Mr. Kilter?”

  “I believe I would.”

  “Even if it meant you no longer looked like you, and instead looked like the donor?”

  “I don’t look like me now, at least half of me doesn’t.”

  Roesch shook his head. “To even attempt such a surgery I would have to remove all this thickened skin on your face and—where, on your body, do the burns extend? Let me see.”