"Well, let me know if you change your mind," Mr. Lachlan told him. He turned to Otto Pflug, on his other side. "I was by your brewhouse today. Any chance of getting a tour?"
Siri stopped eavesdropping and carried the tray of used dishes back to the kitchen.
She and Carleen cleaned up the kitchen and Carleen went to her room. Siri sat by the fire a few minutes, with a last cup of tea. She was tired, so tired she ached. Besides her usual duties, she'd had to beat all the throw rugs from the main floor and the two landings. Mrs. Welkins had decided that unless the ground-in, dried mud was removed immediately, they would be ruined.
"I could not see that a day or two would make a difference," Siri muttered. More than likely one of the residents had said something. Usually when Mrs. Welkins assigned extra cleaning duties that was the cause. "I wonder who?"
At last, unable to keep her eyes open, she poured out the cooling tea from her cup and rinsed it. With her shawl wrapped closely around her arms and shoulders, she went out through the porch and to the outer stairs. Although no rain had fallen since early morning, a fine mist filled the air now. She shivered as she mounted the stairs.
The shape that rose before her as she reached the top landing seemed, for an instant, to be a nightmare monster, a mardröm from her childhood. She shrank back, clutching at the railing to keep from falling.
"Tarnation! I didn't mean to scare you. Here, Siri, come on inside."
Mr. Lachlan's arm around her steadied her shaking legs, but did nothing to calm the unsettled sensation in her belly. She let him guide her into the narrow corridor that gave access to the third floor. The hallway was dimly lit by a single lamp at the stairwell, so she wasn't certain if she had seen someone peering from the side hall when they passed it.
Only a shadow.
Instead of releasing her as they approached the stairs, Mr. Lachlan said, in a near whisper, "Come to my room. We need to talk about tomorrow."
"Ah, nej. I cannot. I would lose my position if Mrs. Welkin--"
"Nonsense. I've seen Carleen sneaking out of bedrooms in the middle of the night."
"In the midd... What were you doing--" A hand over her mouth reminded Siri that they were trying to be quiet.
He pulled her along the hall, not taking his hand from her mouth. Siri knew she should resist, knew that going to his room would be a terrible mistake.
When he opened the door, she went inside.
* * *
He released her as soon as he had the door closed behind her. If he hadn't, he would have kissed her, there in the pitch dark room. Kissed her, then peeled her out of those ugly, shapeless garments she wore, to discover for himself if the soft curves he'd seen only hints of were as lush and as delicious as he'd imagined.
With shaking hands, Buff fumbled to light the lamp that stood beside his bed. Once he had the wick adjusted, he turned. Siri was backed up against the door, eyes enormous, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Scared out of her wits, he'd bet.
"Well, hell," he muttered. Louder he said, "Siri, I'm not going to attack you. I wanted you in here because I didn't reckon we needed anyone else minding our business." Waving a hand toward the room's far end, he said, "Sit down. I've got some news for you."
After a moment's hesitation, she edged along the wall until she reached the easy chair, never taking her gaze from him. She sat on the very edge of the seat, with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. "News?"
"Well, speculation, anyhow. Do you know about any connections your mother-in-law had in Portland?"
Wisps of silvery hair sparkled in the golden lamplight as she shook her head. "Nej. No one in particular. She had many friends, many acquaintances. The men who boarded at her house, they traveled. Perhaps they had homes, in Portland or somewhere. I do not know."
"You never heard any of 'em talk about where they came from?" He glanced at the bed, the only other comfortable place to sit, but decided to stand. No telling what she'd think if he relaxed, as he wanted to. He leaned one shoulder against the wall.
"Nej. Valter's mother warned me not to speak to them unless I must. They would take advantage, she said, because my husband was not there to protect me and maids were believed to be available." Her lips quirked in a half-smile. "I think she did not want me to distract them. She believed they were her friends only."
He relayed the scant information he'd gotten from Captain MacLasky in a few terse sentences. "I talked to a couple of fellows at Chinook Landing yesterday. They saw the fishing boat she was on arrive. She carried nothing but a small bag and had no luggage. So we'll have to assume she shipped everything-- Wait a minute? Was the house empty when you got there? Was the furniture gone?"
"Nej. Nej, it was not. I looked in the window. Only the small things the prydnadssaker--" She looked at him, brows raised.
"The knick-knacks," he supplied.
"Yes, the knick-knacks. They were gone. Martine had many of them, little glass and porslin dishes and figures." Again that quirky smile. "They took much dusting."
"But the furniture was still there."
She nodded.
"Well, that's something, then. If she had the furniture shipped to her later, maybe we'll be able to find out who hauled it away. The house was hers, you said?"
"Ja. She was proud she owned it." She looked down at her hands, busily pleating the fabric of her skirt.
"What is it, Siri? Something's bothering you."
"Mina barn. If she went without baggage, with nothing but a small case, where are mina barn?" Tears hovered on the edge of her voice.
"I think she sent them on ahead," Buff told her, a conclusion he'd drawn after trying to put himself into the mind of a woman intent on escaping without a trace. "A woman traveling with children would leave a trail. A woman alone wouldn't. If she had friends among the peddlers and drummers, then one of them could have taken the kids. Or two, since a man with two children in tow would be more noticed than if he had only one."
"Some of the rivermen stopped with her," Siri said, frowning. "Those who carry freight along the river."
"That's what MacLasky said. He's going to ask about, and let us know if he hears anything." He could tell the scant information he'd brought her only pointed out how hopeless her situation was. In the vast, empty spaces of the Pacific Northwest, a man--or a woman--could get lost and stay that way forever.
He went to one knee before her, caught her nervous hands in his. "Siri, don't give up hope. We've only scratched the surface. There are lots of places to look, lots of people to talk to yet."
"But you have your own quest. You have not time for mine."
The tears he'd heard in her voice now fell, leaving silvery tracks across ivory cheeks. As she had before, she swiped them away with an impatient gesture. He had a hunch she saw giving way to tears as weakness.
He lifted her hands, kissed one finger at a time. Although they were work roughened, they were clearly the hands of a woman, delicate, long-fingered, and slim. They smelled faintly of cinnamon, spicy and delicious. Desire snaked through him, desire quickly suppressed. As long as she was so vulnerable, he would hold himself in check. But if... no, when he found her kids, perhaps she would see him for the man he was.
A man who wanted her more every day.
He rose. "It's late. You'd better get some sleep. We'll want to get an early start tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? To Fort Stevens? Nej! Oh, nej, nej! I cannot--"
"We're going to Daws' Landing. I want to see if the furniture's still in that house. And see if we can find some answers."
"But you said..."
"That's called laying a false trail, darlin'. No need to tell everyone our business. Any one of those men in the dining room tonight could know more about this matter than he's letting on." Rising, Buff pulled her to her feet.
She was tall, her eyes coming level with his mouth. So she didn't have to raise her chin far to look him in the eye. Even shadowed, they were clearly blue, the pale, cool blue of glaciers and sha
llow mountain streams flowing over white granite beds. He cupped her face, kissed her lips briefly, fleetingly.
Fought the urge to take her mouth in a deep, searing kiss of possession and need.
"Get some rest, Siri. I'll see you in the morning."
She stood, unmoving, for a moment. Her lips were parted and her eyes wide open as she watched him stride to the door.
"Siri?"
"Oh! Oh, ja, I must go. God natt."
She fumbled with the knob. He laid his hand over hers. "Siri, I'm being a gentleman now. But when this is over... Never mind. Go to bed." Once more he dropped a quick, light kiss on her mouth. "Go!"
She slipped through the door. Closing it after her, Buff leaned his head against the hard wood. Maybe he should go to town. Longstreet ran a clean house and had tendered him an open invitation.
No. He could wait. He didn't want just any woman.
Chapter Ten
Siri climbed the steep stairs to the attic where she and Carleen had their small, narrow rooms. When she paused to light the lamp in the short passage between their rooms, she realized her hands were shaking. She was shaking all over.
Fear? With the unlit match in one hand and the lamp chimney in the other, she examined the tumultuous emotions churning in her mind and her heart.
No, she was not afraid, no more than at any moment since her children had disappeared. This giddy feeling had nothing to do with her children. Instantly guilt bit at her. Until her children were found, were restored safely to her, she must not allow distractions.
There had never been a man in her life so distracting as Mr. Lachlan.
"Buffalo," she whispered. "Buffalo Lachlan. Such a peculiar name, I wonder..." She lit the lamp, "He is a strong man. So different from Valter."
Her husband had been a big man, powerful of body, but weak of will. His appetites had been as large as he was, and he had been a slave to them. Had he not been so ready to spend his hard-earned money on drink and cards, they would have been able to live in town, alone in a small apartment with their children.
No, Mr. Lachlan had a will as strong as the arms he had held her with.
Siri lit the stub of a candle that remained in her candlestick and replaced the lamp chimney. The weariness that had plagued her earlier had turned into an edgy unrest, as if something bad was about to happen.
"Fantasi," she murmured. "You are tired. That is all."
* * *
Jaeger saw the light go on in the attic window. He waited, imagining her reaction.
Women did not like to have their clothing handled. It frightened them.
He had seen this with others. Let there be evidence of other hands touching, stroking, crushing the delicate fabrics, the beribboned and lace-trimmed chemises and corset covers, pantaloons and petticoats, and it was as if their very bodies had been violated. On the occasions when he had left other traces of his intrusion, fright turned into sheer terror.
He smiled. Sometimes he had violated the bodies, long after the initial fright, when they had forgotten the first numbing fear. When they had come to believe they were safe again.
So it would be with this woman. He had found no evidence she was the one he sought, but that mattered little to him. She smelled of spices and soap and she tempted him, despite her drab clothing and too-thin body.
He would enjoy watching her as she came to understand that she was his.
Had Lachlan lured her to his bed? Her reputation in the hotel was unsullied, but she could merely be more discrete than the red-haired maid, who would give herself to any man who rewarded her with gifts or money. All women were sluts, after all.
If she was warming Lachlan's bed, the taking of her would be all the more satisfying. Perhaps he would seduce her away, and show Lachlan who was the better man.
Or perhaps not. He had not had an unwilling woman for a long time.
The light in the attic window flickered, grew brighter, faded, then wavered, as if she was dashing about the room with the candle in her hand.
He pictured her, seeing the clothing on the floor. Imagined her picking it up, her hand clenching around the pathetic little drawers, with their frayed lace. She would not feel the dampness at first. When she did, it would take her a moment to realize what it was.
Would she lift the drawers close to her face, to see better in the dim candlelight? Smell them, wondering what the slimy fluid was?
He smiled. Was she frantically wiping her hands? Splashing water from the chipped pitcher into the enamel basin, scrubbing with the harsh soap he'd seen on her commode?
When the light faded, he turned and walked down the hill. A good night's work.
As he walked, he thought about Crystal, who was surely waiting up for him, despite his telling her not to. She was becoming a problem.
The trouble with women--all women--was that once a man did more than use them, they began to believe they owned him.
No woman owned Jaeger.
Perhaps it was time to teach Crystal a lesson.
* * *
Buff was in bed when the quiet tapping came at his door. He grabbed the knife from beneath his pillow and rolled upright. Three silent steps took him to the door. He set his mouth close to the wood and spoke softly. "Who's there?"
"Siri! Hjälp! Öppna dörren!"
He jerked it open just long enough to pull her inside.
She clung to him and burrowed her face against his chest. "Min kläder. En inkraktare i min sängkammare. Han rörde min kläder... min underkläder...." Hot tears scalded his shoulder. "Och han...ond... fruktansvärd..." Her body trembled against his.
Buff wondered, for just an instant, if she realized she was wrapped around a naked man. Only for an instant.
"Siri--"
Sobs shook her whole body. He held her close as he edged her across the room and seated her, unresisting on the edge of the bed. The irrepressible part of his mind noted that he'd gotten her into his bed tonight, after all.
"Siri," he said again, keeping his voice soft and soothing. "Hush. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong. An intruder? Was he in your room?"
She shook her head, but the sobs continued unabated.
Buff kept one arm behind her, stroking up and down along her spine. Her dress was unbuttoned, he realized, when it pulled off one shoulder. He attempted to take the chimney from the lamp at his bedside with the other hand, but quit when he realized he'd need both.
"Siri, let me lay you down here and cover you up. You're shivering." Ignoring the lure of warm woman-skin, he eased her onto her back, lifted her legs onto the bed. Her feet were bare.
So she'd been undressing when she discovered the intruder. The bastard! Was he still in her room? Probably not. If he had been, he'd surely taken advantage of her flight to make his escape.
Once she was tucked under his quilts, Buff lit the lamp.
She shrank away from the light, turned to her side. Is she afraid of me? No. She came to me for help. All he could see of her was the curve of her cheek and a tangled mass of shining hair spread across his pillow like liquid silver.
Heat pooled in his groin. Resolutely he ignored it.
Resuming his stroking, he ran his hand down the long line of her back again and again, feeling the contrast of fragility and strength even through the two quilts that covered her. Gradually he felt the tenseness leave her, felt her sobs die away into soft little hiccups. When she was breathing slowly and evenly, he said. "Are you awake?"
"Ja." Her voice was soft, defeated. She did not move.
"Tell me what happened. Was there someone in your room?"
"I do not know. I went up. The lamp at the top of the stairs was not lit, but it never is, if I am first to my room." A shudder claimed her. "I lit my candle and went to my room. I sat on the chair to take off my shoes and stockings. Then I went to the dresser to comb my hair. At night I braid...no, that is not important. I was combing when I saw that my... my clothing had been taken from the drawer. It was on the floor. Scatt
ered." Another shudder.
Buff continued to stroke, to soothe. "You knew someone had been there. Why didn't you come for me then?" But he kept his tone mild, not accusing, not scolding.
"I was not thinking. I picked them up. My... my petticoats and other...other underkläder..."
"Corset covers and the like, I imagine," Buff said. "I've got sisters. I know about all that folderol."
"Ja. And... and drawers."
She moved and he realized she had buried her face in her hands. He waited.
After a while she said, "They were wet. I did not realize, at first." The shudder that shook her this time was not a sob, but a terrible expression of disgust. "He had...he used min underkläder..."
Understanding burst upon him. Buff gathered her into his arms, turning her so her face was nested in the angle of shoulder and neck. "Oh, God, Siri. I'm so sorry. But you're all right, and that's what's important. The bastard didn't get his hands on you."
"I feel as if he did," she whispered. "I feel so... så smutsiga...so dirty!" The last word turned into a wail.
"As if you've been violated. Of course you do." He held her and rocked her until the new sobs died away. At last she seemed to drop off into a doze. But when he went to lay her back onto the bed, she clung to him.
Buff did his best. He tried to think about the weeks he'd lay starving in a dungeon, about the time he and Anders had almost frozen trying to climb the Matterhorn, about the typhoon his ship had hit the edge of in the Indian Ocean. He held her loosely, well away from his body. He stayed on top of the covers, with her under them.
Her breath was warm against his neck. Her body was soft and pliant in his embrace. Her lips were parted, inviting his tongue to enter and sample. When she sighed and nestled closer, his arms tightened on their own, pulling her against him. When a lock of her hair slipped silkily across his wrist, he turned his hand and caught it, wrapping it around a finger. Stroked it with his thumb. Pulled it to his nose and inhaled the cinnamon-and-soap scent of it.
He shivered, aware the room had grown cold. He was still naked. The covers were under him, not over him. He reached behind his backside, hoping to pull up enough of the overhang to cover himself.
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