Fletcher's Woman

by Linda Lael Miller

  Tears rose in the brave, violet eyes. “Thank you.”

  Jonas was devastated by the sight and suddenly he felt a new desire for this woman, a wish to shield her and cause her to smile again. “Rachel, come for a carriage ride with me. You need some fresh air.”

  A slow, sweet smile spread across her pale, pinched little face. “Oh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Wilkes!”

  “My name is Jonas,” he corrected, smiling.

  A fetching blush rose in her finely sculpted cheeks. “Jonas,” she repeated, shyly.

  “Now just a minute!” Molly burst out, finding her voice at last. “You’re not taking her anywhere, Jonas Wilkes!”

  There was a warning in the gaze he turned to Molly, however pleasantly it was delivered. “I promise to be a gentleman, Mrs. Brady. And I think you and the doctor have kept Rachel a prisoner long enough.”

  Molly’s green eyes shot to Rachel, frantic. “Don’t go, Rachel—please… .”

  Rachel’s rebellion was dignified. She raised her chin and met Molly’s shamrock gaze with one of dark orchid. “I can look after myself, Molly Brady. And I intend to have that carriage ride.”

  Molly subsided, pale with frustration and anger. “The doctor won’t like it,” she warned.

  Rachel took the arm Jonas offered, but her eyes were still fixed on Molly’s face. “Perhaps he won’t,” she said. And then she allowed Jonas to lead her out of the house and down the front walk.

  But at the gate, Rachel hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t go. They’ve been kind to me, and …”

  Jonas was careful not to press his advantage; it was too delicate, at the moment, and far too precious. “Another time, then?” he asked evenly, prepared to walk away affably if necessary.

  The words were exactly right. A daring smile flashed on the soft, mobile lips, danced in the magical eyes. “No, Jonas. If I have to stay in that house any longer, I’ll perish.”

  He tilted his head to one side. “We can’t have that, can we, Urchin?”

  Rachel’s face brightened. “You did promise to be a gentleman,” she reminded him.

  “And I will,” he said, helping Rachel calmly into the carriage even though a shout of delight was clamoring at the back of his throat. “I’m not the monster Griffin believes me to be, Rachel.”

  She studied him with wide, stricken eyes. “Why does he feel that way, Jonas?”

  He settled into the seat across from hers, removed his hat. “The truth is, Rachel, we’ve never gotten along well. I admire Griffin, actually—he’s a brilliant man—but he’s just not fond of me.”

  The sympathy in her face made Jonas want to laugh with triumph; he would have to think of more nice things to say about Griffin Fletcher. Still, he must be very careful not to move too rapidly and frighten her. If he did, she might fly away, like a terrified bird, and disappear forever.

  Chapter Ten

  It was not until the carriage was moving, until she heard the slight creak of leather and the clomp-clomp of the horses’ hooves that Field Hollister’s words came back to her. “Jonas Wilkes wants you. That is an established fact.” Behind Field’s remembered voice came the echo of Molly’s. “From what I gather, he fancies you.”

  Rachel raised her chin and returned Jonas’s calm, appealing smile. Suppose Field and Molly were right? What would be so terrible about that?

  An image of Griffin Fletcher surged, unbidden, into her mind. Unaccountably, achingly, she wanted him. Even as his gruff, unfeeling sarcasm repelled her, his arrogant strength drew her.

  She shifted uncomfortably on the carriage seat and looked out the window.

  Jonas Wilkes spoke gently. “What is it, Rachel? Are you having second thoughts?”

  She was remembering Griffin Fletcher, standing in front of that small Tent Town cottage, his shirt plastered to his chest by the rain. Hot color flowed into her cheeks as she met Jonas’s eyes. “It’s my father. Mr. Wilkes, he’s gone away without me, and that’s very strange.”

  The cherubic face sobered with concerned sympathy. “Perhaps he had something important to do, and he plans to return.”

  Rachel lowered her eyes. “No,” she whispered, as the knowledge broke over her like a small, brutal storm. “No, he won’t be back.”

  When Jonas’s hand touched her chin and gently raised it, Rachel did not resist. “What makes you so sure of that?” he asked softly.

  Rachel’s throat closed, opened again. “I know he wouldn’t have left without telling me. He was very determined to go, even though I begged him to stay here and live with me, in Mother’s building.”

  One of Jonas’s dark gold eyebrows lifted just the slightest bit. “So you do want to stay in Providence?”

  Rachel nodded.

  She heard caution in the even voice. “And live in a brothel?”

  Rachel suspected that this man’s reaction to an affirmative answer would be interesting indeed, but she couldn’t bring herself to offer one. “I planned to convert the establishment into a boardinghouse,” she said.

  “Planned? Have your plans changed?”

  Glumly, Rachel nodded again. “Yes. Dr. Fletcher and Molly are most anxious to see me go away, and well, it just wouldn’t be the same here without my father. As soon as I can collect the money my mother left and arrange for her business to be sold, I’m going to Seattle.”

  Jonas’s eyes darkened to an unsettling shade of topaz, and his smile appeared oddly fixed. “What will you do in Seattle, Rachel?”

  “I mean to find a job, Mr. Wilkes. And ask after my father, of course.”

  The topaz eyes slid politely over Rachel’s rumpled brown dress, and the conversation veered off in an entirely unexpected direction. “Where is that lovely lavender dress you were wearing when you left my house?”

  Rachel, coloring at the memory of Griffin’s stormy invasion of Jonas’s home, was freshly wounded to recall the way he’d taken such a dark view of the pretty dress. “I-I suppose it’s still in Tent Town,” she answered. “It—it was very wet, you see, and Dr. Fletcher never gave me a chance to go back for it… .”

  Even as she marked the swift, veiled annoyance rising in Jonas’s eyes and the sudden hardness of his jawline, Rachel mourned the soft, wispy beauty of that pale purple gown.

  “You looked incredibly lovely in it,” Jonas remarked, after a throbbing, uncomfortable silence. But his eyes were far away now, as though he were seeing some painful, tragic scene.

  Rachel felt an unaccountable need to say something that would bring him back. “If we could stop at Tent Town, I could get the gown and wash it and return it to you.”

  The distance in Jonas’s eyes faded, and he smiled at her. “Of course we’ll stop. But there is no need for you to return the dress, Rachel. It looks far better on you than it ever would on me.”

  A medicinal burst of laughter rose in Rachel’s throat, coupled with the first real joy she’d felt in a long, long time. The wonderful dress was to be hers! “Thank you.”

  “There are other dresses, Rachel. Will you take those, too?”

  Rachel was unaware of the way her orchid eyes widened at the prospect. “I couldn’t—”

  “Of course you could. And you would be doing me a great favor in the bargain. The dresses take up too much space and they’re—er—a painful reminder.”

  Rachel was ecstatic, even though a vague, disturbing question pulsed in the back of her mind. To whom had the dresses belonged in the first place? “A painful reminder?” she echoed.

  Jonas sighed bravely. “Yes. But to see you wearing those splendid clothes would be a delight.”

  “Really?” she whispered, enchanted.

  “Oh, yes. Say you’ll take them, Rachel.”

  Feeling eager and magnanimous and wildly expectant, Rachel nodded.

  And so it happened that she returned to Griffin Fletcher’s house, two hours later, in possession of trunk after trunk full of billowing gowns, satiny underthings, lace-trimmed nightgowns, delicate silk blouses, and crisp, fla
ttering skirts.

  Jonas’s coachman, McKay, carried each trunk past a stunned Molly Brady and up the stairs to the room Rachel had specified.

  Rachel’s joy sparkled within her, and she had already forgotten Molly’s original opposition to the carriage ride with Jonas. “Oh, Molly,” she beamed, “I’ve got such beautiful, beautiful clothes! Just wait until you see!”

  Molly’s eyes darkened to an ominous shade of emerald. “Saints preserve us!” she breathed, thrusting her hands out in a gesture of hopelessness.

  Rachel was on the stairs, gripping the banister so that she wouldn’t float away. “And there is a picnic tomorrow, after church—”

  “Is there, now? And what has that to do with you, Rachel McKinnon?” Molly Brady’s hands came to rest on her small, trim hips.

  “Oh, everything!” cried Rachel, smiling down at Griffin Fletcher’s housekeeper. “I’m going to have a wonderful time there! Mrs. Hammond is packing a basket for us; there’ll be chicken and chocolate cake and—”

  “And trouble,” said Molly Brady, just before she turned and strode away, skirts swishing with fury as she went toward the kitchen. “More trouble than you’ve seen in your young life, Miss Rachel McKinnon!”

  Rachel shrugged and then dashed the rest of the way up the stairs and into the hallway. She would wear a white silk blouse tomorrow, she decided, with a crisp, black sateen skirt… .

  • • •

  Exhausted, Griffin fell into the chair at his desk and bent forward to fill a glass with whiskey. Well, he’d seen Fawn; at least he wouldn’t have to worry about her for a while. She was staying at Becky’s and under the quiet care of the black cook, Mamie, she was recovering nicely.

  Griffin kicked one booted foot, and the other, up onto the desk’s surface. His tired legs throbbed in momentary protest, and then began to feel better as the blood flowed back toward his knees and thighs. He closed his eyes and reviewed the day’s cases methodically.

  “Griffin?” ventured Molly’s voice, from the doorway.

  Griffin opened his weary eyes, forcing them to focus on the agitated frame of his housekeeper. “Hello, Molly,” he said companionably.

  She was wringing her hands, and her eyes were snapping. Both bad signs.

  “What now?” Griffin sighed.

  “It’s Rachel… .”

  Griffin felt a sudden need for a lot more whiskey. “Yes?”

  Molly crept into the room, as though she was approaching a bonfire laid with dynamite. “I tried to stop her, Griffin, I swear I did.”

  Griffin closed his eyes again, braced himself. “Go on,” he snapped after a long, tense moment.

  The answering words came in a burst, like bullets flung from a Gatling gun. “Jonas Wilkes took her for a carriage ride, and she came back with trunkloads of clothes. Tomorrow, she tells me, Jonas will escort her to a church picnic!”

  Griffin absorbed the news calmly, for Molly’s sake. Obviously, she hadn’t exactly been looking forward to telling him. “Is she here now?” he asked, with consummate reason.

  “Aye. She’s upstairs, trying on all her new clothes.”

  Griffin spoke in carefully modulated, nonexplosive tones. “Send her in here immediately. And Molly?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you hear her scream, rush in here and throw cold water in my face or something.”

  Molly laughed with soft, constricted amusement, and her skirts rustled as she hurried out.

  Griffin refilled his empty glass and went to a window to wait. The darkness outside seemed to be seeping into his spirit, gathering there for God knew what disastrous purpose. A carriage ride, a few clothes, a picnic—what did he care?

  But something writhed within him. Not again, it vowed. Not again.

  She spoke his name cautiously, softly. “Dr. Fletcher?”

  Griffin forced himself to turn slowly; it was a moment before he allowed his brain to absorb what he saw. When it had, he felt as though he’d just intercepted ten of the lumberjack Greenhorn’s best gut punches.

  Rage pounded in Griffin’s throat and twisted in his taut stomach as he looked at her, looked at the too-familiar lines of her rose-colored taffeta dress. A savage word tore itself free of his throat and hissed past his lips.

  The open, torturously lovely face paled and Rachel retreated a step. It was the dazed confusion in her eyes that stayed him from striding across the room and ripping the dress from her body.

  “Jonas gave you that?” he rumbled, and the sentence was at once a question and an accusation.

  Purple eyes bright, Rachel nodded quickly. “I didn’t think it would matter—the clothes were going to waste. He said they were a painful reminder—”

  “Yes, I imagine he did. Take it off.”

  The fine, fierce little chin lifted. “I will not! It’s my dress and I’ll wear it if I please!”

  Griffin closed his eyes against the sight of her—the sight of the dress—drew one raspy breath, and then another. A blonde, laughing wraith played in his mind, wearing that rose taffeta gown. “Don’t be such a goose, Griffin,” it taunted, in a distant, musical, and devastatingly well-remembered voice. “I only love you … you know I only love you.”

  “Whore,” breathed Griffin, speaking not to Rachel, but to the bewitching sorceress laughing in his memory.

  There was an outcry, and a small, frantic fist made numbing contact with his face, another battered at his chest. Choking on an old and fathomless fury, Griffin opened his eyes, grasped Rachel’s thin wrists in one hand, and stayed the attack.

  She glared up at him, her orchid eyes dark with wounded rage. “I hate you!” she gasped.

  “Don’t say that.” It was a plea, and it was an order.

  Rachel struggled; he held her fast. “You called me a whore!” she whispered, incredulously.

  “No,” he said, closing his eyes.

  “Liar! I heard you!”

  He opened his eyes, forced them to focus on her pinched face. “What you heard had nothing to do with you,” he said. And everything sensible within Griffin demanded that he thrust her away and escape from the deadly magic of her nearness, but he couldn’t. He wrenched her close, felt the sweet, soft press of her breasts against his chest, the shattering promise of her thighs and stomach against his hips. Grasping her face in both hands, he bent his head and kissed her.

  She resisted only briefly, then he felt something powerful course from her body into his. She was pliant against him, her lips soft and searching under his own.

  He released her so swiftly that she stumbled a little before catching herself. “Is that how you got to Jonas?” he drawled, in a voice that was purposely cruel.

  Tears sparkled in her thick, dark eyelashes and trickled down a proud, defiant face. “Griffin Fletcher, you—you bastard! You wicked, lecherous—”

  Griffin smiled brittlely. “Don’t forget ‘arrogant’,” he urged.

  She was retreating backward, her fists clenched. “I hate you, I despise you. I hope you burn in hell!”

  Griffin let his hands rest on his hips, his eyes travel over her with deliberate insolence. “If I see you wearing that dress again, Miss McKinnon,” he said. “I’ll tear it off you. Is that clear?”

  Horror filled the rounded violet eyes. Rachel turned to run and collided hard with Field Hollister.

  Field kept her from falling by grasping her trembling shoulders. “Rachel, what is it … ?” His eyes scanned her face, lifted, and came to rest scorchingly on Griffin’s. “You,” he breathed, his beloved brimstone crackling in his voice.

  Griffin executed a courtly, mocking bow. Then, for emphasis, he strode to the desk, poured more whiskey, and offered a brisk, vicious toast. “Here’s to Becky McKinnon’s daughter.”

  Rachel cried out suddenly; it was a tortured sound that flooded Griffin with wild, boundless anguish. He wanted to say he was sorry, but for some reason, he couldn’t. He glared at her when she turned, slowly, in Field’s gentle grasp.

  “I am Be
cky McKinnon’s daughter,” she said, in a proud, ragged voice. “And you may take that however you wish.”

  With that, Rachel moved around Field and fled. Griffin closed his eyes against the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

  Field’s tone was volcanic, starting as a low, rumbling sound, rising to threaten mayhem. “Have you gone mad, Griffin?”

  Griffin opened his eyes again, sighed. “Maybe.”

  “Apologize to her.”

  But Griffin shook his head. “No. It’s better that she hates me. It will make everything easier.”

  Field was outraged. “For you perhaps!” he growled. “But what about her? Griffin, she didn’t deserve that kind of vicious treatment, and you know it!”

  “Have her show you all the clothes Jonas gave her. Athena’s clothes.”

  Hollister’s jaw looked rock-hard, stubborn. “So that was it. Griffin, she has no way of knowing.”

  Griffin went to the cabinet where his medical supplies and instruments were kept, opened the glass doors. Then, methodically, he began to sort items that were already in perfect order.

  • • •

  Rachel had not known that it was possible to bear such pain and still live. She sat stiffly on the edge of the guest-room bed, tears stinging her face, her breath coming in short, searing gasps.

  “Whore” he’d said. “Here’s to Becky McKinnon’s daughter.”

  Bile rose in Rachel’s throat, and she felt the first real hatred she had ever known—for herself, for her mother, and most of all, for Dr. Griffin Fletcher.

  There was a cautious knock at the soundly locked door.

  “Go away,” Rachel said flatly.

  “I won’t be doing that,” replied Molly Brady in brisk tones. “And I’ve a key if I need it.”

  Rachel’s legs trembled treacherously beneath her as she made her way across the room and slowly opened the door.

  Molly’s kindly composure was reassuring. “It wasn’t you he was raging at, Rachel.”

  The very mention of Griffin’s savage tirade rankled her anew, prodded the raw wounds within her. “Who then?” she bit out.