by Brenda Joyce
He trembled. "I know you. I know you better than you know yourself, and I know you would never do to me what I have done to you. So I am at a loss. Is this your way of hurting me? Because if it is, it has worked. I am insanely jealous, and I will not allow you to see him again."
He was insanely jealous. Connie stared at him, feeling as if she were outside her own body, objectively observing the marital argument below. Shouldn't she be pleased that he was jealous? She felt so odd now, as if she were floating. "I am a grown woman," she said calmly, stunned by her detached tone. "I surely can choose my own friends."
He gripped her by her shoulders. "I will kill Hart if he has touched you."
"Release me, Neil."
He stared, and slowly, he dropped his hands. "What are you doing? Wait; I know what you are doing—you are thinking to hurt me, to punish me, for what I have done. But I have never regretted anything more! My guilt and my regrets are punishment enough. I love you, Connie. Did you hear me? I love you and I want our marriage back."
It was so odd, for she did hear him; but once, when he had said those words before, on their wedding night, she had been thrilled. Now, she felt nothing except confusion. "I love you, too, Neil," she heard herself say, and it was automatic and said coolly, by rote.
Something was happening here, Connie thought with a fluttering of new panic. And she did not know what it was.
He stared. It was a moment before he spoke. "I don't think you do," he said, and he turned abruptly and walked out.
The woman drifting above the room suddenly rushed back inside her body; Connie could almost feel her return, and as Connie saw him disappearing through her doorway, real fear seized her. But she did love Neil! She loved him with all of her heart and all of her soul; she did not want to lose him, and she did not even know what had just happened now! She desperately wanted to call him back, but now, when she had to speak, her mouth would not move; her tongue would not form the words.
Panic consumed her.
It was as if there were another woman inside her, one determined to destroy them all.
His wife was in the country.
She was a mere half-day away by rail.
Francesca could think of little else now that Bragg was driving her home.
"Francesca? You have not said a word since we left the restaurant."
She slowly turned to face him, somehow smiling. "It is late and I am tired. It was a nice night." Her smile was carved in stone upon her face. The evening hadn't been nice at all; it had been fraught with tension, most of it thanks to Hart. But Bartolla's flirtatious presence hadn't helped, either. Evan had been too charming around her.
"Why are you dissembling now?" he asked softly. They sat in the two front seats of the Daimler, which purred softly as it idled in front of her house.
Francesca did not know what to say. She tried to smile again. "Bragg, thank you so much for the evening. I lost our little wager, but you took me to the theater anyway. It means so much to me." She pulled her hand away from his, and the refrain continued in her mind: Leigh Anne was in Boston. Would he see her now?
She was more upset now than ever. And she was frightened. Nor did she understand her own feelings. "I had better go in," she managed harshly.
"Francesca? Please. You are so upset. I suspect this is about my wife."
She whirled. "Yes, it is." Then, "You didn't tell me!"
"I didn't tell you what?" He seemed bewildered.
"That she is here—a half a day away!"
His eyes widened. "Her father is ailing. Her mother is a cold, shallow woman, her sister a serious problem, and apparently she has returned to Boston to be with her father. I only learned yesterday that she was nearby, in a letter she sent when disembarking from France." He kept his tone calm. "Francesca?" He tried to touch her, but she pulled away.
And she felt like crying. In a way, his wife had seemed unreal—or surreal. She was certainly a woman Francesca never wished to meet. Now, she had a horrid feeling that their paths would indeed cross. How could they not? She was a mere few hours away, and Bragg was her lawful husband.
A small voice suddenly piped up inside her head: This is the price one pays for loving a man who is married.
"Francesca?"
She met his amber gaze. Even now, when she was upset, with his unusually high cheekbones, his straight nose, his swarthy skin and golden hair, he stole her breath. Even now, upset and frightened as she was, she only had to glance at his mouth to recall his kiss, and the urge to move closer flared.
"Were you ever going to tell me that Leigh Anne was in Boston?" she asked stiffly.
"It hadn't even crossed my mind. Frankly, between Katie and Dot and the two Cross Murders, I haven't spared my wife a thought." He was genuinely surprised. "What difference does it make where she is?"
"She is a half a day away from here by rail," Francesca said. "A half a day separates you and her—not an entire ocean!"
He sat up straighter, for she had been shouting.
"I am sorry," she whispered, feeling frightened and miserable and finding her own behavior inexcusable. "I am truly sorry. Bragg, my feelings haven't changed. They seem to grow stronger every day. Now, I am miserable."
He stared. She looked away. Wasn't he going to say anything?
She glanced at him. "I had better go."
"Wait. No." As she reached for her door, he restrained her.
She really didn't want to go, because they had to somehow resolve this, even though there was, in a way, nothing to resolve but her inexplicable fear. For it felt as if she had just found Bragg, only to lose him now, so soon.
His gaze moved over her face. "Our friendship is a struggle, isn't it?"
She stiffened. "What?"
"You are being hurt because of it, and frankly, so am I. Every day becomes harder, not easier; I know I am a man of honor, but around you, my thoughts are not honorable or honest at all."
"No," she said gripping his arm. "What are you saying?"
"We have begun to spend a lot of time together. And it is testing both of us in our resolve to remain mere friends. I, for one, see my resolve faltering."
She could hardly breathe. Was he also thinking, as she had so recently done, that a miserable, cruel, and calculating woman stood in the way of their happiness? That Leigh Anne did not need to stand in their way? That they might find happiness in spite of her existence? How quickly her fear vanished; how quickly excitement fluttered in her breast. "But we are friends. And nothing more." Her tone was strangled with her excitement.
He shook his head, then gripped the wheel with both gloved hands, staring straight ahead. "We are far more than friends and you know it. The tension between us, the tension that never dissipates, is that of a man and a woman, Francesca. It is a struggle being around you when we are alone. It is painful not being able to court you. Worse, it is more than painful knowing that one day you shall blithely move on, to marriage with a man who is worthy of you. Marriage and more. Love." He turned his head and stared unblinkingly at her.
It was hard to breathe now. "Don't even begin to say that we must not be friends now! I have treasured our friendship the way I have never treasured anything or anyone before! And I shall not blithely move on! I have never given my love to any man before, Bragg. I am the kind of woman who gives her love only once in a lifetime." A tear fell down her cheek. But it did not surprise her.
"Now you are frightening me, because you should not love me this way. It is wrong. And our friendship has encouraged it."
"No!" She grabbed his wrist hard. He was not going to declare that their friendship must end—for that was impossibility. "I am strong enough to manage this; I swear I am, Bragg."
"I am already hurting you!" he exclaimed. "And it hurts me, being with you like this, with my hands manacled behind my back. Preventing me from acting the way I really want to."
"You are not the one hurting me. We are friends—and we will always be friends. I know you know that, Bragg.
I know this may sound terribly romantic, but it sometimes feels as if we are destined to be together. It is so right. We understand each other so completely. Our souls are in unity, I think."
For a long moment he simply stared at her, his eyes agonized, but moving over her face. Her heart raced. "Yes, I have felt that, too," he said after a pause. "You don't have to be afraid, Francesca. Not of Leigh Anne. She will not come to New York. In fact, because I am here, she will avoid the city at all costs."
Some of her tension drained away. "See? You knew the reason I am afraid, without my even telling you," she whispered.
He smiled a little, but the sadness did not leave his eyes. "Even if she came to New York, you need never be frightened of her. You know how I feel about her—and you know how I feel about you."
She could not look away. She wondered if he could hear her heart now, as it was drumming wildly in her chest. "Bragg?" It was a soft-spoken plea.
But he shook his head, ignoring the dangerous desire that seemed to sizzle between them. Still, as he spoke, his eyes were on her mouth. "Damn Calder. He always finds a way to overturn every single boat in his path. He hasn't changed—he was a dangerous boy, and now he is a dangerous man."
For once, Francesca did not feel like defending him. "You wait until I get a chance to tell him what I think of his behavior," she said.
"Do not bother, as it will go in one ear and out the other," he replied. He wore gloves, but they were made specifically for drivers, and through the cut-out portion she saw his knuckles were white with tension as he gripped the leather-braided steering wheel.
She could not think about Hart now. Her heart jumped. The very dangerous thoughts she had had yesterday returned in full force. Why should Leigh Anne be able to stand there as a barrier between them, denying them love and happiness?
Was she, Francesca, brave enough to ignore societal mores and find the love and happiness she knew she could have with Bragg, in spite of his wife?
Did she dare?
She shivered uncontrollably.
"What is it?" he asked harshly. Then, because he had to know, he said, "You should go."
She couldn't smile, but she managed to swallow. These thoughts could not even be discussed with Bragg. But she would spend hours making what could be the most life-transforming decision of her life.
"Something is going on in that clever mind of yours. But you look frightened—and determined—all at once," he whispered.
She smiled a little and summoned up her courage and resolve. "Don't move," she heard herself say, and when he started, it was too late.
She was leaning toward him, until her mouth was on his.
His response was immediate. Francesca had expected him to pull away; he did not. For one moment, he pulled slightly back and their eyes met and she felt triumph soar in her breast, for the look in his eyes was unmistakable. Then he threw his arms around her, crushing her against his chest, and as she lay back against the seat, their open mouths fused. As he kissed her—as she kissed him back— they explored each other with their hands, and she was exultant.
She knew the passion they felt for one another was extraordinary.
His hands moved to her face, cupping it. She opened her eyes and saw him gazing at her, his breathing harsh and uneven. "You are so beautiful," he whispered. "And the best part is that your beauty comes from within, Francesca. The most beautiful thing about you is your mind."
Tears almost came to her eyes. "Kiss me again, Bragg," she said unevenly.
This time he hesitated. It was at that moment he began to war with himself, the man of honor versus the man of desire. Francesca felt it, knew it, and to forestall his ending the encounter, she kissed him again.
He took control immediately, his tongue deep within her, his hands beneath her coat. Francesca lost her ability to think; there was only sensation, rioting through her veins, pooling in her loins. She did not know how long they kissed, but the heat was blinding. And when he finally moved away from her, she half-lay on her seat.
And her first coherent thought was, of course they must become lovers. There was not even a choice.
He sat up fully, breathing with exertion, and it was a moment before he could speak. "I must be mad. What if Andrew or Julia is upstairs, awake, at a window?"
Fear filled her instantly, and with it came panic.
He helped her to sit up. Their gazes locked. Denying what had just happened would be sheer folly, especially now, after the conversation they had just had.
Francesca did not know what to say. So she said, "Even if they were upstairs, they could not see into the car."
"But they would demand to know what we were doing, sitting in here for so long." He was grim now, and he ran his hand through his thick hair, which in the night appeared far darker than it was. "Damn it." He looked at her. "I lost my head. What am I doing? The last thing I want to do is to encourage our feelings for each other."
She reached for his hand. "But I don't mind."
Startled, he looked at her with wide eyes, and he pulled his hand away. "You had better mind. You had better mind being treated with a complete lack of respect!"
He rarely raised his voice. She was hardly disturbed by what had happened, but she saw how upset he was. "Bragg, I know you respect me."
"No, Francesca. If the day ever came—and it shall not—when I took you to bed, that would mean one thing: I am a selfish man incapable of respecting and deserving a woman like yourself."
Dismay began. It slowly filled her. "Don't say that. We —"
He shook his head. "We are friends. Nothing more." Then he smiled, but it was grim. "And tomorrow we have a bit of sleuthing to do. Remember?"
She could not smile now. "Yes."
"Good." He stepped out of his side of the car, and, not bothering to adjust her clothes or her hair, she watched him walk around the hood to her door. If she decided to go forward with Bragg—if she decided to become his lover, secretly, in defiance of her parents and all of society and the ways he had been raised—it might not be easily done. He might resist her.
The dilemma was almost a laughable one.
Except that loving him so much now was so hurtful, and there was no way she might laugh when thinking of her and Bragg.
He opened her door.
Francesca smiled bravely and he escorted her to the house. At her front door they paused. He pushed some hair out of her face, blown there by an evening breeze. "I will see you tomorrow, then. Is ten too early?"
"No, it is perfect," she said.
He nodded, then his smile faded, and he looked sharply around.
Instantly she tensed. "What is it?"
"I had an odd feeling—that we were being watched."
Instantly she thought of her parents. "I am sure they are asleep, Bragg."
"No, I felt as if we were being watched... in a rather unpleasant way."
"You are almost frightening me."
"I did not mean to do that." He smiled and touched her cheek. "Good night. And, Francesca? Do not forget about the girls."
Her heart sank. "But haven't they adjusted? You did not mention them all night!" She had been afraid to bring up the subject.
"Peter's hands are full. But I am sure you have a foster home lined up for Monday."
"Of course," she said quickly, dismayed. She must check on the girls tomorrow, she thought as she opened the door.
He said, behind her, "It's not locked?"
"There is a houseful of servants, Bragg. And it is not locked as the last one to come in locks it, and tonight that is me."
He glanced around, toward the lawns on either side of the house, then said, "Very well. But next time, take a key."
He was making her nervous. She slipped inside, but kept the door cracked open. "Sweet dreams," she whispered.
He gave her a sharp look.
She watched him stride back to the roadster, which he had let run, and she continued to stand in the door as he began driving around the circ
ular drive until he was heading out of the driveway. She sighed and closed the door, recalling his lovemaking in the automobile, the memory making her dreamily happy—until Leigh Anne dared to intrude upon her thoughts.
But she did not feel guilty, as Leigh Anne had abandoned him—as she hated him, and flaunted her lovers to prove it.
What should she do?
She was about to lock the door when a hand clamped down hard over her mouth, cutting off her cry of fear.
Almost simultaneously she was pulled away from the door, and the body behind hers was hard and masculine.
Terror began.
"You ain't my cousin," a male voice hissed in her ear. "An' I want to know why you lied."
TEN
Sunday, February 9, 1902—1:00 A.M.
Terror seized her, and she knew she was in the hands of the man who had gruesomely murdered both Mary and Kathleen.
"Don't move an' don't make a sound," he warned in her ear.
She couldn't move, as he held her far too tightly. Francesca tried to nod, but that, too, was almost impossible.
He dragged her outside, not bothering to close the door, and then he released her.
Francesca did not scream. She staggered backward, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, somehow having tasted his flesh, the taste horridly bitter. She glanced desperately across the circular driveway; it was starkly empty and Bragg was long gone. There would be no Kelp from him—she was alone with a madman.
As she could not speak, he spoke. "What do you want, Miz Cahill?"
It was dark out, so it was very hard to see his expression, but there was no mistaking the menace in his voice.
She cleared her throat, but her words came out in a whisper. "I am trying to find the man who killed Kathleen O'Donnell and Mary O'Shaunessy," she finally gasped.
"Oh! An' you think it's me?"
She backed up and hit the wall of the house. "No! I merely was hoping that you might provide a clue."
He stepped so close to her that she could smell his breath. He hadn't been drinking, but it was foul with decay and tobacco. "I liked fucking Kathleen, and that's what I been doing, fucking her—not killing her an' carving her up."