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The Barefoot Bride

Page 21

by Paisley, Rebecca


  "And what were ye doin' in that bag, lass?" Shane asked. "Were ye stolen from yer home?"

  "Yep, and Khan coulda been kilt, so I cain't waste no time a-gittin' back."

  "Is Khan yer mate, Chickadee?" Gallagher asked.

  "He's my wolf, and them bushwhackers knifed him afore they tuk me away," she explained hurriedly, her fear for Khan increasing steadily. "Only I don't got no way to git back. Left my dang weddin' rang on the dresser, so I cain't trade that, ain't got no money with me, and the Blackwell estate is—"

  "Estate?" Killian repeated. "Are ye a maid there?"

  "No, I'm Saxon Blackwell's wife."

  Shane and Killian laughed, but not Gallagher. "Pay them nae a bit o' mind, Chickadee. If ye say yer the mistress o' the estate, I'll believe ye. Come, 'tis gettin' money fer yer cab fare we need to be doin'."

  She let him take her hand. "You got any?"

  "If I had but one cent to me name, I'd give it to ye, colleen, to be sure I would," he said, squeezing her hand reassuringly. "But 'tis a rare occasion when I have money to lend. I make little on the docks, and—"

  "'Tis spendin' his wages on whiskey he does," Shane broke in. "Nae, lassie, ye'll get naught from him."

  Chickadee looked over her shoulder at the street behind her. She had no idea how to get back to the estate, she only knew it was far from here. And with no money... She'd just have to walk. If she asked for directions and met with no mishaps along the way, she'd make it by morning.

  "I admired a-meetin' all you-uns. But I cain't stay. I'm worried somethin' awful about Khan." She turned to leave the alley.

  "Surely 'tisn't walkin' yer plannin' on doin'?" Killian called after her. "Come back, lass. We'll get the money fer ye. Won't we laddies?"

  "Aye, we will at that," Shane and Gallagher promised.

  She turned. "Right honorable o' you-uns, but I cain't ask you to steal."

  "'Tisn't stealin' but sellin' we'll do to get ye the money," Shane informed her, winking at his comrades. "Now, will ye be trustin' us, or would ye rather walk alone at night on some deserted road?"

  She wrinkled her nose. "What you got to sell?"

  "Come with us, lass, and we'll show ye," Gallagher requested. "'Tisn't too far from here."

  "And ye'll be with us," Killian added. "We'll nae let any harm come to ye."

  Sensing their eagerness to help her and realizing money would get her to Khan's side faster than her legs ever could, she nodded and joined the "dangerous" Irishmen who had quickly become her friends.

  *

  "Well, iffen that don't beat all," Chickadee murmured when she saw the rows of little pots on the ground, each containing homemade rye whiskey. "Irish likker."

  "Have a taste, lass." Shane handed her a dipper.

  She sipped a bit but promptly spit it out. "Lord o' mercy! That's the worstest stuff I ever did try to swaller! Thur ain't no way you-uns is gwine sell this."

  Gallagher kicked the bushes that hid the whiskey pots. "'Twas only a few weeks ago we started makin' it. We're nae knowin' how to do it properly yet."

  "'Tis Keefe Delaney who makes a fine whiskey, but he willna' show us how," Killian grouched. "Us, his kinsmen, tryin' to make a livin' just as he!"

  "Aye," Shane agreed. "The curse o' the divil be on his black soul fer turnin' on his own brothers. But we've nae given up, colleen. We'll keep tryin' till we find the right recipe. 'Tis only a matter o' trial and error."

  Tentatively, Chickadee sampled another sip of the whiskey and shuddered. "I allus thought this was what pizen would taste like iffen I ever did git pizened by somebody."

  "Poison?" Killian repeated. "Now that's a fine compliment if I ever heard one."

  "I don't tell no lies, Killian. The stuff's bad, ain't nobody gwine buy it, and I ain't gwine git the money I need to git back to Khan. I orter a-walked. I done wasted nigh on a hour a-comin' here with you-uns, and now—"

  "Oh we'll sell it, to be sure," Gallagher told her, picking up a few containers of the whiskey. "We know a painter. But he's nae a painter o' art. Roy paints houses. We'll go awaken him now and make the sale fer ye."

  "Y'mean this Roy feller actually likes this mess?"

  "He's never tasted it," Killian said sheepishly. "But he says 'tis the best paint thinner he's ever used!"

  *

  Though dawn had barely broken, a small lamp lit the room sufficiently for Chickadee to see. At the sight before her, she staggered for the bedpost.

  Candice hurried to her. "Chickadee! Oh thank the dear Lord! Mr. Blackwell has been looking for hours—"

  "Is... is he dead, Candy?" Chickadee whispered.

  Khan, lying on a blanket on the floor, was motionless. There was barely a spot of white on him, his thick fur was so matted with dark blood.

  "No," Candice said softly, leading her to the wolf.

  Chickadee sank to the floor and reached out to touch Khan. The blood had turned crusty, and scary, and horrible.

  "I did everything I could for him," Candice squeaked. "Mr. Blackwell said he would bring a doctor back and—"

  "We ain't got time to wait. Git a pot o' water a-bilin', brang whiskey, scissors, a needle and thread... and fetch me my yarbs."

  When Candice left, Chickadee cradled Khan's snout in her hands, her heart stopping when she noticed the bloody saliva oozing from his mouth. Something in him, one of his innards was wounded! Bleeding from the inside... Lord o' mercy! She didn't know how to repair him inside!

  "Khan," she murmured down to him, her fear coagulating in her throat. "We been through too much fer you to leave me now, you ornery thang. Y'know I cain't abide this Boston place withouten you by my side. I know yore right at the hinge creak o' death, but you got to fight, boy. Please don't die on me, Khan."

  As her hands caressed him, his hind leg twitched once. His body shuddered violently.

  And then his chest ceased to rise.

  "Khan? Khan?" She snatched her hands away from him and tried to take a breath. But there seemed to be no air in the room. The only thing around her was death. Before her, beside her, everywhere, death. She felt lightheaded with grief. Finally, she was able to inhale a jerky breath. "Khan!" she wailed. "Khan, oh Khan!"

  "Keely!" Saxon crossed the room in three strides, his black cape whipping behind him. He pulled her into his embrace. "Keely, what—"

  "Saxon, Khan died!" She buried her face in his shoulder, her knees trembling and then buckling.

  He caught her as she fell and carried her to the bed. "What happened to you? Keely, who—"

  "He's gone," she whispered, her eyes dazed. "He left me, Saxon. I tole him not to go, but he—"

  "I'll need privacy if I'm to work, Saxon," an elderly man with a black bag said from the doorway. "I've already spoken to the maid, and she'll be here shortly with what I need. I'll call you and your wife when I'm finished."

  Saxon went to him and urged him back out into the hall. "Dr. Larson, it appears we have no need of your services. The wolf has died. I'll have my driver take you home."

  "Step aside, Saxon," Dr. Larson instructed, already going back into the bedroom. He went directly to Khan and crouched over him. "Knife wounds sometimes cause a condition I like to call false death." He opened his bag and removed his stethoscope. "The medical term is coma, but that sounds too scary to most people."

  "What's he a-doin?" Chickadee asked, and sat up in the bed.

  "He's listening for a heartbeat. But Keely, what hap—"

  "A coma is a state of profound unconsciousness, Mrs. Blackwell," Dr. Larson said. "If you're not familiar with it, you can indeed mistake it for real death."

  Hope climbed like rising steam. "Y'mean he ain't dead?"

  "Precisely." Dr. Larson studied the room. "Clear off that table over there and lay a clean sheet on it. Saxon, you help me with the wolf. And you," he said to Candice when she arrived with a length of white cloth, "tear that into strips."

  After everyone had done as ordered. Chickadee watched the doctor place several shiny ins
truments on the surgery table. "Tell me what to do to hep, Mr. Doctor Man."

  "Keely, we'll disturb him if we stay," Saxon said, taking her arm. "Surely you don't want to disrupt his concentration?"

  "Let her stay," Dr. Larson said. "This animal is her pet, and I may be able to use her assistance." He studied Chickadee. "Do you have a strong stomach, young lady? Because if you faint, I'll leave you on the floor and continue with the operation."

  "She can't stay, doctor," Saxon barked. "I've yet to find out what happened, and—"

  "Saxon, you try a-takin' me outen this room, and I'll lay you so low, you'll be able to wear a top hat and walk unner a snake's belly!"

  Dr. Larson chuckled. "Better leave before she makes good her threat, Saxon. I cannot possibly do two surgeries at once."

  With a tremendous sigh, Saxon left the room, knowing full well no power on earth could induce Chickadee to leave Khan.

  When he was gone, Dr. Larson picked up a scalpel. "Talk to your wolf," he instructed Chickadee. "Tell him you're here. Tell him the things you always tell him. Remind him of life."

  Chickadee nodded and bent close to Khan's ear, speaking so softly, only Khan and God could hear her.

  *

  Saxon threw another heap of soiled straw into the wheelbarrow. The barn was the only place he could think of to go while waiting for Khan's surgery to end. The house's walls had seemed to be closing in on him.

  "Mr. Blackwell, sir," Josh, the stableboy, said. "I've just come from putting the horses out to pasture and was going to—Well, it's my job to muck the stalls."

  "Take the day off, Josh!" The boy hurried away, and Saxon leaned against the handle of the pitchfork.

  Ain't nothin' like hard work to cure a ailment in the mind, outlander, he remembered Chickadee telling him once. It's a knowed fact that when you sweat? Well, that sweat wrenches you dry of the uneases.

  He went back to work and cleaned each of the thirty stalls. Two by two, he brought the horses back to their fresh compartments, fed and watered them, and then took up the pitchfork again.

  "It didn't work, Keely!" he raged, breaking the wooden handle of the tool over his knee. "Dammit, what happened to you? Who took you?"

  Still muttering to himself, he walked out of the barn and looked up at the mansion. For many moments, he stared up at the window of his bedroom where Chickadee still remained before he finally went to relieve another Blackwell employee of his job. Heedless of the cold wind that bit at his moist skin, he ripped off his shirt. Over and over he swung the ax. He split log after log, sending splinters flying every which way, his muscles straining with both exertion and anger.

  It might have been you instead of Khan, Keely, he seethed inwardly. You with the wounds... the blood. The picture he painted in his mind was so vivid, he gritted his teeth and flung the ax far away. Talking in great gulps of air, he sorted through his tortured emotions and tried to understand why he was so terribly, deeply disturbed.

  Chickadee was fine. She'd shown no signs of injury whatsoever. So why couldn't he relax? "Because you could have been killed, Keely!" he screamed, spinning on his heel to stare at the bedroom window again.

  She'd been up there for hours, dammit, and that was long enough! Khan or no Khan, she was going to leave that room and tell him what had happened. He'd been out of his mind with worry when he'd discovered her missing, and when he'd found Khan, no dread he'd ever felt had been worse. He'd notified the police immediately and then set out to scour Boston on his own. For hours on end, he'd ridden through the streets, calling her name. There was no way in hell he was going to wait another minute to find out what had happened to her.

  He stormed toward the house, his emotions so frenzied that when he entered the mansion and slammed the door, servants scurried out of his path. When he was halfway up the stairs a knock at the door stopped him. Realizing it could be the police with news of Chickadee's abductors, he rushed to answer it.

  Cynthia Hamilton stood on the doorstep, her pink lips curling when she saw Saxon's bare chest.

  "What do you want, Cynthia?"

  She swept past him, her heavy perfume making him wince. "Saxon, do be civil," she chided, and handed him her fur cape. "I've come to congratulate you on your marriage."

  He threw her wrap toward the coat stand and missed. "Thank you. Now, if you will excuse me, I was just on my way upstairs." He started for the steps.

  "Oh my!" Cynthia exclaimed, her hand on her forehead, her body swaying. "Saxon, I do fear I'm... I'm going to faint!" Artistically, she began to crumple.

  Saxon was at her side immediately. "Dammit to hell, Cynthia," he said and lifted her into his arms. "What's the matter with you?"

  She embraced him. "Take me to the parlor sofa."

  He looked at the staircase, every fiber in him longing to race up and take Chickadee into his arms. But he couldn't very well leave Cynthia lying in the foyer. Aggravated beyond belief, he stalked toward the parlor.

  Having heard the front door slam, Chickadee stood at the top of the staircase. She looked on in anguish as Saxon carried the blond beauty into the privacy of the drawing room.

  Chapter 16

  "I'll send Thatcher in with some cool tea," Saxon said and tossed Cynthia to the sofa. "Your fur probably made you overly warm."

  Her fingers toyed with the front of her gown. "I am warm, Saxon. So very, very warm." Her large breasts sprang free from within their pink silk prison, Saxon stared at the white globes. Revulsion rose within him. "Cover yourself, Cynthia. You look disgusting."

  Her ivory complexion reddened. "You used to—"

  "Perhaps. But no longer. However, if you simply must have a man right now, Thatcher—"

  "How dare you!"

  "Cynthia, fix your wig. It's askew." With that, he left her to cope with her impotent rage alone. As he stepped into the foyer he met Dr. Larson. "Doctor, how's—"

  "If infection doesn't set in, the wolf will be fine. But your wife is rather out of sorts."

  Saxon paled visibly. "You mean she's been hurt?"

  "No, but she seems sad. Strangest thing, really. She was fine during the operation, and when we finished she was ecstatic. Went flying out of the room to tell you all the news but returned shortly."

  Dr. Larson rubbed his chin and shook his head. "She was disturbed when she got back and said she couldn't find you. Maybe that's all it is. You know how women are when they have thrilling news. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. But she is overly tired from her ordeal. My advice to you is to let her rest before you start interrogating her. Now, I really must be leaving."

  "Thank you for coming, Dr. Larson. You've no idea how much your kindness means to us."

  Dr. Larson laughed. "You'll be getting my bill, but I'm not really sure if I deserve to be paid. I don't know who did more for the wolf, me or your wife. During the entire surgery, she dribbled some sort of concoction into his mouth. Said it would help stop his bleeding, and I'll be damned if it didn't. I'm a good surgeon, but I couldn't have stopped the bleeding that fast. That strange brew she fed the wolf worked. Never did understand what she said it was, but I remember the smell. I'm off to sniff every herb I can find in this city."

  After seeing the doctor out, Saxon raced up the stairs and into the bedroom. Chickadee sat by the fire, Khan's head in her lap. "Keely?"

  When she didn't answer, he went and took her hand, dismayed when her fingers didn't curl around his. "Keely, what's the matter?" he asked and knelt beside her. "Are you still worried about Khan? Dr. Larson said—"

  "Khan's gwine be fine." She turned away and gazed into the fire, her chin held high, her shoulders thrown back so far it seemed to Saxon they would soon meet in the middle. Why was she sitting like that, so unyielding to him?

  Maybe last night's events were finally hitting her, he reasoned. What with her worry for Khan and the surgery, she'd had no time to dwell on last night until now.

  Surely she could give him a few brief details. He realized her weariness was great, but
his impatience was greater. "Will you tell me about last night? I'm anxious to know, but I'll understand if you're too tired—"

  "Khan got knifed, two men throwed a bag over me, carried me to a wagon, and tuk me to the city. The wagon gate opened, I falled to the ground, them men went on, then three other men come. They let me outen the bag, give me cab money, and I come home. Here I am, none the worser."

  He deliberated. He expected to hear a frightening tale, but the way she told it, the story seemed more of an adventure than anything terrifying. "Did the men say anything at all that might help me find out—"

  "Never heared 'em say a word about nothin'. They jist drived to the North End—"

  "The North End?" Horror choked him.

  "Cain't be shore iffen that's whar they was a-takin' me or not. The North End's whar I falled out, and I'm gwine back as soon as Khan gits a mite better."

  Somehow, he was able to keep from protesting. There was something in the way she was looking at him that told him not to object right now. "So the three men who helped you get home were Irishmen?"

  "Nicest men I ever knowed. And I owe all three of 'em."

  "I'll see to it they're well rewarded."

  "Somebody a-givin' 'em money ain't what they need. They'll jist spend it and be broke agin."

  Her sharp tone jarred him. "Fine. We won't give them any money. But why are you so irritated with me? Keely, do you know now worried I—"

  "You a-carryin' on behind my back, Saxon?"

  "What? Carrying..." His mind reeled at the accusation. "What the hell would make you think..."

  Cynthia, he realized.

  Chickadee must have seen him with the conniving bitch! That explained the odd, rapid mood change Dr. Larson had described. His heart jumped at the thought of having inadvertently hurt her. "Keely, you don't understand. Cynthia—"

  "Cynthia! You a-warmin' over old soup?" She rose.

  "I am not carry—"

 

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