But she had to be regretting things by now, things done in the heat of the moment that had carried her away. That sweet rosebud of a mouth on him…she never would have done that if she’d been able to see him. Thank God for the darkness.
He shifted on the balls of his feet, and Tate glared at him.
“LaPlatte visited your family home, Miss Delaney, in hopes of delivering a message to your mother or sister. The bad news is your sister, Becky, was no longer there.”
“Snatched just the day before I got there,” LaPlatte confirmed in his heavily accented English.
“Snatched?” Catherine faltered, and the color drained from her face.
“Taken by Boyd’s agents, without question. Once I identified myself I was able to speak with your stepfather as well as your mother. He—your stepfather—recognized one of the men as being in Monsieur Boyd’s pay.”
“Where have they taken her?”
LaPlatte shrugged. “They bundled her into a steamcab. One of them said something about an airship.”
“She’ll already be here in the city, then,” James said.
“No doubt. They will have beat me back by at least two days.”
“She’s been taken across an international border against her will. That’s engaging in the flesh trade, that is. I’ll go at once and speak with Brendan Fagan, see what can be done.”
“That will take too long. It may already be too late,” Catherine protested.
“Any other ideas, Miss Delaney?”
“Yes. We go to his house and get her. You know as well as I do she’s probably there.”
Tate asked almost kindly, “And have you an army to take at your back? Have you legal permission to go inside? Brendan will, and those automatons backing him, as well. Let me talk to him.”
Catherine twisted her fingers together. “How long will that take?”
“I’m not sure, lass.”
“She’ll be alone and frightened. She’s little more than a child. Boyd may—he may—”
“That’s why I’m leaving at once. I want you to stay here while I’m gone, mind, and under Jamie’s care.”
Catherine exchanged a look with James. She said nothing.
Tate, who it seemed had begun to learn about her, shook his finger in her face. “I’ll have your promise.”
“I won’t give you a promise I can’t keep, Mr. Murphy. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Becky. I have to help her now. It’s possible he’ll trade her for me.”
“No,” James and Tate said at the same time.
Tate added, “Do you want him to have hold of the both of you?”
“At least then she wouldn’t be alone.”
“Foolish lass. We might need that bargaining chip before we’re done, but don’t toss it away now.”
James gave him a sharp look Tate ignored.
“I promise you, Miss Delaney, we’ll not leave your wee sister in his hands long. Trust me?”
Catherine nodded.
“Then stay here safe while I talk to my good friend Brendan. Jamie, lad, you keep her close, hear?”
Tate would not have to tell him twice.
Murphy went out; LaPlatte grunted and followed him. James and Catherine, left alone, stole looks at one another.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “I hoped for better news.”
“It’s all my fault,” she lamented. “I should have protected her and stayed with Boyd. But I simply couldn’t have done…well, what we did, with him.”
James’ face flamed. “No.”
She shot him a deliberate look. “Not with him or anyone else.”
Hope stirred in his heart. There she sat, looking at him as if he weren’t hideous, even though she must have seen him all too clearly this morning.
But this made no fit time to speak of it, with her worried and frantic.
“Come on, Albert,” he said. “Let’s get some breakfast, and then you can help me with the dogs while we wait.”
They spent the next hours in the yard, cleaning up, feeding, watering, and exercising the animals, most of which accepted Cat well. One, named Ginger, even crawled into her lap. Only Greta growled and barked whenever Catherine went near James.
Greta still wouldn’t allow James to touch her, though, not quite. Despite edging forward in her kennel when he approached, she ducked away from his hand. When he let her out into the walled yard, she did her business and then slunk back in, grumbling.
“You must really love animals, to take her on,” Catherine observed.
Before James could answer, Drappot strode into the yard. “He training you up to look after these curs, whelp?” he asked Catherine. “Better be. I’m sick to death of their racket at night.”
Catherine, who wore her cap pulled well down over her face, gave him an insolent look. “Are you still complaining about that? If you don’t like the noise, why don’t you move out?”
“I’ve as much a right to be here as he does, or these mutts or you, for that matter, even if he is Murphy’s pet.”
“Gee, Mr. Drappot, is it? You can’t be long out of the schoolyard, whining like that.”
“You’ve a smart mouth on you.” Drappot’s face darkened.
“And you sound like a brat.” Cat pushed the cap back on her head and James stiffened. She looked so feminine to him he could scarcely believe even someone so stupid as Drappot could believe her a lad.
“You need to be taught respect for your elders,” Drappot growled. “Didn’t get beat enough as a sprog, is that it? Not like your friend, here. His ma hated him so much she beat him every day, so the story goes.”
“You take that back.” Cat stepped up to him. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“And I suppose you do?”
“Leave it alone, Albert,” James said hastily. “He’s not worth the breath.”
“Don’t want the little lad fighting your battles for you? Then step up and fight me yourself,” Drappot challenged. “You know it’ll happen someday.”
“Why?” Catherine planted herself between them. “What do you have against him?”
“Plenty. It hurts my eyes to look at him.”
“Why, you—”
Catherine spoke a word James couldn’t believe she knew and launched herself at Drappot like a terrier at a bulldog. The suddenness of the attack knocked Drappot over backward, and she fell on top of him, kicking and flailing.
James leaped and caught her back almost before either of them hit the ground, but not before she landed a blow to Drappot’s throat and laid three scratches on his face. The last thing he needed was for Drappot to feel what lay beneath her clothes. He might trust LaPlatte with that knowledge; Drappot? Never.
Drappot sat up even as Catherine, in James’ grasp, windmilled her arms and legs, desperate to get back at him.
“Damn brat’s mad as that dog you got there!” Drappot cried.
“Apologize to Jamie at once!”
“Jamie, is it? I don’t frigging think so. You’d better get out of my sight, Albert. And watch out when your big ugly friend’s not close by. Two on one aren’t odds I like.”
“And you’d better watch out,” Catherine spat, “when you’re walking down dark alleys or hallways. Someone just might plant a knife in your back.”
“Is that a threat?” Drappot’s dark eyes blazed.
“No.” James lifted Catherine higher off her feet. “Take a walk now, Drappot, and let tempers cool.”
Drappot got up and stomped off, Greta barking at him all the way.
James set Catherine on her feet and she turned on him. “Why didn’t you let me at him?”
“Because the man’s a snake and we have enough trouble as it is. Have you forgotten your sister?”
“No.” Catherine’s eyes still blazed. “But he insulted you. No one insults you in my hearing, Jamie Kilter, and gets away with it.”
James’ heart promptly melted in his chest. “I appreciate that,” he said, his emotions nearly choking
him. Fierce and loyal, she shared some characteristics with the dogs in his care.
And he’d never imagined loving anyone so well.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“I want to go with you,” Cat beseeched the two big men who stood before her, shoulder to shoulder.
“Out of the question, Miss Delaney,” said the one with the beautiful blue eyes, who’d been introduced to her as Brendan Fagan.
“But she’s my sister.”
“And we’ll do everything in our power to recover her safely. I’ll be taking side arms—steam cannon—and will have the Irish squad at my back.”
The Irish squad, as Cat had already learned, was Fagan’s name for the automatons.
“Look, lass,” Tate Murphy appealed to her, “the last thing we’ll be needing to do is worry about you during the recovery.”
“That makes sense, Catherine,” James told her. “Let them do their work.”
“But she’ll need me,” Cat fretted.
“And that’s why we’ll take you straight to the station as soon as we get her there.”
“Do you mean to arrest Boyd?”
“We may have no cause to arrest him,” Fagan said.
“Trading in flesh, Mr. Murphy said.”
“You came here with him of your own free will, and your sister was brought by an agent, not Boyd. We may be able to cite him as an accessory, but I’m sure his lawyers are very good.”
“He needs to be put away. What if he does this to other women?”
“One thing at a time, Miss Delaney. You wait here with Mr. Kilter, and we’ll send a message as soon as the operation’s completed.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you.”
The two big Irishmen went out. James caught Cat’s wrist. “Come on. It won’t be easy, waiting, but we’ll play cards or something.”
“Play cards?” Instead she came and pressed herself into his arms. Here in the privacy of Tate’s office no one could see them. “Just hold me, Jamie, please.”
The sound of his name on her lips persuaded him. He slid his hands down her narrow back and cradled her gently.
“When do you think they’ll go?”
“Straight away, I should think. They’ll collect the automaton squad and their weapons, and go over.”
“I hope someone hits Boyd with a cannon bolt. I wish I could see.”
“You want to see the man torn up by a cannon bolt? You know what one of those can do on full blast? Stop his heart.”
“Good,” Cat said. “That’s just what he deserves.”
****
It wasn’t till they’d played three hands of rummy that James excused himself for the bog and came back to find Catherine missing. At first he thought her restlessness had driven her out into the yard, but it stood empty save for the kennels. He went next to her room and then his own. His heart began to pound with panic when he found both empty.
He encountered Bill Latham outside Tate’s office and asked, “You seen Albert, by any chance?”
“You mean the squirt? He ran off.”
“Ran off where?”
“Looked like he was on an errand. I thought you sent him.”
“No.”
“Headed north up Niagara. You can probably catch him if you hurry.”
James probably could; his legs were twice as long. He had absolutely no doubt where Cat had gone, the little fool; Boyd’s house lay in that direction.
He broke into a cold sweat when he reached the street and failed to see her anywhere. It didn’t help that the neighborhood teemed with boys, most clad in clothing similar to hers. He cursed under his breath and pelted off at a determined run.
Up Niagara and then right onto the west end of Virginia Street, his eyes searching all the while. Charlie Crowter and his gang stood on the corner of Virginia and Prospect, but he barely heard their catcalls as he dashed past.
He should have known better than to leave Catherine alone even for a minute. He’d seen how determined she could be, that she wanted her way—even in the bedroom. He thought of how precious she’d felt in his arms, the way the tight prison of his heart opened to accept her. He’d never known anyone like Catherine Delaney. If he—a protector by trade—failed to safeguard her now, he’d never forgive himself.
Reaching into his breast pocket, he rubbed the red-gold curl he kept there, as if for luck. Then he pelted up Prospect and into the intersection at Hudson, just beginning to strain for breath. Down Hudson, and from the end he could see the circle beyond which stood Boyd’s rented mansion. As he neared, gasping now, he saw that The Avenue beyond the circle was thronged with onlookers. It had plainly become the site of some terrible encounter or standoff.
As he neared, he searched for sight of Catherine’s head. It didn’t help that she stood shorter than many in the crowd or that her cap, a dull gray color, failed to catch the eye. Breathless and frantic, he reached the crowd and began to shoulder his way through, earning glares and curses, his eyes searching all the while.
The door of Boyd’s house stood open, and two paddy wagons were parked at angles in the street. Members of the Irish squad spilled down the steps, standing as still as the machines they mostly were. Narrowing his eyes, James could see that Brendan Fagan stood in the doorway addressing the house in a roar.
“Give yourself up and send out the young woman, Rebecca Delaney, or we will be forced to come in!”
“Want us to come out, do you?” James recognized Boyd’s voice, though he couldn’t tell if it came from the doorway or further in. “Take this!”
Steam cannons appeared in the second-story windows of the house, thrusting out like obscene gestures. The crowd stirred, and James blinked in disbelief. Who turned steam cannon on a crowd of police and civilians? The man must be mad entirely.
Brendan Fagan stiffened and turned back an instant before the steam cannons fired. Hot jets of superheated vapor raked the crowd and hit one of the automatons, which toppled like a tenpin. People screamed, and the onlookers shifted like one big animal.
Brendan Fagan hollered again, but James couldn’t hear what he said over the noise. Great puffs of steam rose from the front windows of the house. How long did it take for steam cannon that size to recharge? Now might be the time to send the Irish squad in.
Fagan must have had the same thought. He called to his men and waved an arm. But no sooner had they begun to move than the windows of the third story opened. More cannon appeared, these pointed straight down.
“Get back, get back!” Reinforcements had arrived in the form of regular police. They began trying to force the crowd back, presumably out of range, though the range of cannon that size had to be enormous. James looked for Catherine again as the onlookers shifted, but he still couldn’t see her.
What if she’d gone inside before he arrived? What if Boyd held her hostage? James’ guts twisted and his heart pounded like a hollow drum. He couldn’t lose her, not before he’d remade himself into the man she deserved him to be.
The automaton hit by the steam cannon lay on its back like a dead insect, arms flung wide. The others stood their ground on the steps.
“Get back,” a police officer told James roughly.
“I think I know somebody in there.”
“Don’t care. We’re clearing the street.”
The third-story cannons fired then, bursts of concentrated heat that seared where they landed. Two more of the Irish squad fell, and James’ throat went dry.
In one of the second-story windows the cannon withdrew and was replaced by Boyd and a young girl, her hair streaming down and her face bone white.
“Is this what you want?” Boyd hollered. “You’ll not have her, copper. I’ll kill her first.”
“Becky!” The cry came from the crowd. Not twenty feet from where James stood, a small form clad in clothing he recognized broke from the throng and darted forward. Catherine tore the cap from her head and the sun found the red-gold of her hair.
“Becky,” she called agai
n.
No need; she had already captured everyone’s attention, including that of her sister and Boyd.
Boyd sneered at her, “You!”
He turned his head and gave an order. A steam cannon reappeared in the opening beside him, shoving him and Becky aside. Time and motion both seemed to slow as the cannon’s operator took aim. James heard Fagan holler. James himself gasped a prayer as he leaped forward, fully prepared to shield Catherine’s small body with his own, willing to accept any pain, even unto death.
He had taken no more than three great steps before the steam cannon fired. With a belch of power, and deadly accurate, it took Catherine in the chest. She was lifted by the impact and hung for an instant before she fell like a leaf in autumn; James saw her head hit the curb with a mighty thump and knew she must be senseless before she went down.
All hell broke loose then. The Irish squad—all but the three wounded or destroyed—rushed into the house, and a small army of regular officers came up behind.
James ignored all of it. He reached Catherine and threw himself down, desperately looking for signs of life. Eyes closed, she lay with the front of her shirt smoking, burned straight through to her chest. He couldn’t see her breathing.
“You trying to get killed?” someone screamed at him, one of the regular police who paused at his side. The steam cannons were firing again, raking the street and sidewalk.
James barely noticed. But the officer gave him a shove and yelled, “Get under cover!” before pelting on.
James ignored the instruction; it didn’t matter what happened to him, not when his whole world lay on the pavement like a bundle of spent, fragile bones. Protest arose in him, more powerful than any rage he’d ever felt when gone off kilter.
“Catherine. Catherine!”
No response. He told himself she wasn’t dead, couldn’t be dead, no matter how she looked. But no, she wasn’t breathing, and her lips, slightly parted, didn’t move.
“Out of the way!”
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