Deadly Illusions

by Brenda Joyce

  “And Maggie Kennedy?” Bragg asked quietly. “Did she also deserve to die?”

  He nodded, looking up, his face covered with tears. “She has been whoring for your brother, Miss Cahill.” Then he stared at her, his eyes glittering with hatred. “I saw you,” he whispered. “I saw you yesterday in Calder Hart’s library.” And his gaze was burning with accusation.

  She jumped backward, her cheeks heating, understanding his meaning and horrified by it. “You spied on us?” she cried.

  He stood and pointed at her with both shackled hands. “You are next,” he cried. “You, the most faithless one of all!”

  Bragg seized him and thrust him at the police officer, who had his billy stick in hand. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.

  “Yes, sir,” the young rookie said. He jerked Culhane from the room, but not before the priest looked back at Francesca, crying, “Oh yes, weep in fear, because the faithless shall die!”

  “Shut your trap,” the officer said, pushing him out of the room.

  “The faithless shall die,” Culhane shouted as he was marched down the corridor. His footsteps sounded, his words almost echoed, and then there was only silence in the hall.

  Francesca was trembling. She looked up as Bragg took her by the shoulders. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I wonder if I was next.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said fiercely. “Culhane is in custody and he will be going to the electric chair. Thank God he did not get his chance to go after you.”

  She exhaled, still trembling, feeling quite certain that Culhane had watched her and Hart making love. She shuddered at the notion.

  “It’s all right,” Bragg said softly.

  She met his steady regard. Then she touched his cheek. “I know. I simply am horrified to think of his spying on me…” She trailed off for a moment, not wanting to explain.

  But he knew, for he released her, turning away. He wandered over to the window behind his desk, staring down at Mulberry Street.

  She followed. “I know I’ve said this before. How can I help?”

  He turned, smiling a little. “Your friendship is a help, Francesca.”

  “Should I call on Leigh Anne again? She is so melancholy, Rick. Maybe a good friend would help her out of this morass of despair.”

  “That would be nice,” he said, not smiling.

  She did not know what to do, for she felt certain she saw pain reflected in his eyes. So she took his hand and squeezed it.

  HE FELT AS IF HE had been sitting in the salon for hours. He was alone, a stiff drink at hand, his second or third. He couldn’t seem to stop recalling the sight of Maggie in that monster’s arms, his knife at her throat. He was more than shaken—he was sick to his stomach. And there was simply no denying it.

  The salon doors were wide open. He heard footsteps and leaped to his feet, vaguely aware of being utterly disheveled. His jacket had been tossed aside a long time ago, his necktie was askew, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. Rourke paused on the threshold of the salon. His gaze widened. “Have you been working yourself up? She is fine, Evan. That is a mere scratch on her throat. I am sure the trauma of the attack was far worse.”

  “Is Dr. Finney with her still?” Evan asked urgently.

  “He just left,” Rourke said, clasping his shoulder while giving him a sidelong look. “He gave her some laudanum. He has prescribed an evening of rest.”

  “I want to see her,” Evan said, not waiting for a reply. He hurried from the salon and then stood in the hall helplessly, having no idea where to go.

  Rourke pointed to the left. “Calder gave her the north wing of the house.”

  “Remind me to thank him,” Evan said over his shoulder, hurrying down the corridor.

  Rourke called after him, “The suite is on the second floor!”

  Evan took the stairs two at a time, breathlessly. That horrific image of Maggie in Culhane’s crazed embrace remained, her face stark with fear. The door to the sitting room of her suite was open and a fire danced in the hearth. Maggie’s bedroom was to the right and instantly he saw her, lying in the canopied bed, asleep.

  Joel sat with her, at her feet; the other children were nowhere to be seen. Evan vaguely recalled the housekeeper had taken them to the kitchen for ice cream some time ago.

  His heart raced.

  Joel saw him and jumped up. Before Evan could cross the threshold, he had launched himself off the bed and into his arms.

  Evan held him, hard. “It’s all right,” he said softly, kissing Joel’s head. “Your mother is fine. She has had a bad scare, nothing more.”

  For one more moment, Joel clung, and then he stepped back. His eyes were shining with unshed tears but he was trying to be manly. “You saved her, you did. Thank you, Mr. Cahill, thank you very much.” He held out his hand.

  Evan suddenly realized that Maggie was not asleep at all. She lay very still, but her eyes were open and fixed on them. He somehow took Joel’s hand, his heart beating like a drum. Somehow, he tore his gaze free from hers and looked at the small boy. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Then he looked back at the woman in the bed. “May I?” he asked as politely as possible. Being formal was no easy task.

  “Please,” she whispered, understanding perfectly well his request to enter the room.

  He came slowly forward, wishing he’d brought flowers. There was a linen bandage on her throat. “Thank God you are all right!” he heard himself exclaim.

  She lifted her hand.

  He took it, holding it tightly, his heart racing now with impossible speed.

  She wet her lips. “You saved me. Thank you, Evan.”

  He wanted to sit on the bed beside her, but that would be a terrible lapse of manners, so he did not. He simply clung to her small, slender, callused hand. There was so much he wished to say. But what could he say?

  Was he in love?

  He was stunned. If so, he was beginning to understand that he had never been in love before—not this way.

  And he whispered, “I have never been so afraid, Maggie. I saw you with that killer…” He could not continue then.

  Tears filled her eyes. “I was afraid, too. I thought about my children, what they would do without me, but then I knew you would look after them. Wouldn’t you?”

  And finally he sat down on the bed by her hip, as it was the most natural of acts, still holding her hand. “Yes, of course I would take them in, you know that. But you are fine! You have had a terrible fright, but it is over now, and you are safe.”

  She suddenly tugged her hand free and he was dismayed. He wanted to hold her hand for hours and hours, he thought, but then she stunned him by cupping his jaw. He went still. “I owe you so much more than I can ever repay,” she said unsteadily.

  His mind went blank and his heart surged with frightening force. He knew he should not kiss her, he knew it. It was his only coherent thought. And he leaned over her.

  Her hand dropped away, her eyes widened.

  He closed his own eyes, continuing to see her blue eyes wide with surprise, and he pressed his mouth to hers.

  She gasped.

  And he claimed her lips, firmly and insistently, again and again, holding her shoulders now, trying to savor her taste so he would never, ever forget it. She kissed him back, at first hesitantly, and then with growing urgency.

  They kissed and kissed.

  At some point, many moments later, he felt her mouth tire, he felt her body soften, and with surprise, he felt her become still. He ceased, drawing back. And then he realized that the laudanum had taken effect.

  Maggie Kennedy was soundly asleep.

  He sat there, staring at her, incapable of drawing a normal breath. Time, which had ceased, began to move again. Reality, which had been suspended, returned. And his heart was flooded with anguish.

  He got to his feet.

  She was so pretty, lying there asleep.

  How it hurt, looking at her.

  In a fe
w more days he would marry Bartolla.

  He prayed Maggie would have no recollection of their kiss.

  HE WAS RIGID WITH tension as he entered the front hall of his Madison Square flat, a bouquet of red hothouse roses in his hand. The flowers were for Leigh Anne. He felt certain that they would be rejected—that he would be rejected. Dread accompanied the tension, and with it, heartache.

  He quietly closed the front door. He warmed, smiling, as he heard Leigh Anne explaining subtraction to Katie. He gathered that they were in the salon at the end of the short corridor. He walked swiftly past the dining room and, even as certain as he was that she did not want his flowers or him, even though he continued to feel like an intruder whenever he and his wife were in the same room, he could not help but be eager to glimpse them.

  He hoped it would not always be this way, to be so hopeful and so hurt, so eager and so filled with dread.

  He paused on the room’s threshold. Leigh Anne wore a silvery-gray dress with a pearl and diamond necklace, her hair curled and swept back and up. She sat in her wheeled chair beside Katie, who was on an ottoman, a practice book on her lap. He thought about how much they appeared to be mother and daughter. Then he realized that in the past few months they had become mother and daughter.

  “I still don’t understand,” Katie said in frustration.

  Leigh Anne sighed, reaching for her hand. “I will go to school tomorrow and speak with your teacher, dear.”

  Bragg knew the moment she became aware of his presence. He tried to smile.

  She turned and looked at him. Her eyes met his and then landed on the bouquet he held, widening.

  “Hello,” he said cheerfully, although it was forced. He strode in, kissed her cheek, and then kissed Katie as well. “Perhaps I can help with that problem,” he said to Katie.

  “I don’t like math,” she said softly. “And I can’t get the right answer!” Katie stood and rushed from the room.

  He faced Leigh Anne, who was staring at him. He realized he was crushing the stems in the bouquet, and he eased his grip. He forced another smile. “We have the Slasher in custody,” he said. “He was caught in the act, with the murder weapon, and he has confessed.”

  Leigh Anne looked at the flowers again as if she had never before seen roses. Then she tore her glance away, lifting it to his. “Thank God,” she said.

  He extended the bouquet. “These are for you.”

  She stared at him in obvious dismay. Finally she took the bouquet, looking away, and murmured, “Thank you.”

  He bent so their faces were level; surprised, she turned her face toward him. Their gazes met.

  “I know how hard this is for you,” he said quietly. “I know it cannot be easy to have lost the use of your leg, to be confined to a wheelchair, to be reliant now on the strong arms of your nurse, Peter, and myself to perform activities that were once taken for granted. I know how distressing this is and how difficult it is for you to accept another kind of life.”

  “No,” she said. “You have no idea what this is like.”

  “I do,” he said, clasping her shoulder. She flinched. “I see how unhappy you are every time I look at you.”

  She turned away.

  “Don’t,” he said, taking her chin and making her face him. “I want to help.”

  “You can’t help,” she said, her eyes shining. “I don’t want you to help!” A tear fell. “Why can’t you understand that?”

  “I am helping whether you want me to or not. I am going to be here with you through this dark period in your life. It won’t always be this way, Leigh Anne,” he said, determined to believe it.

  “Why are you doing this?” she cried. “Why won’t you ac cept the fact that everything has changed?”

  “Nothing has changed,” he argued, anguished. “You are still my wife, and you are still the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes upon.”

  She stared in surprised dismay.

  “I am not giving up,” he said flatly. And he rose to his full height.

  She was still holding the bouquet he had given her. She did not look up. “Then you are a fool,” she said.

  FRANCESCA TOOK THE LIBERTY of pouring two glasses of scotch, adding a single cube of ice to each one and carrying them to the low occasional table in front of the sofa in Hart’s library. A servant had stoked a small fire in the hearth and she sat down, taking a sip of her scotch. She smiled to herself.

  Culhane had confessed and the case was closed. There would be no more tragic murders. Apparently, Lord Randolph was head over heels in love with Gwen, and if she was any judge of human nature, both Evan and Maggie were following in their footsteps. Her smile increased. But they were well into a very pleasant spring, so love was in the air, was it not? And she was waiting for her fiancé to come home—the city’s most attractive, charismatic and dangerously seductive bachelor. He had said he wanted to marry her immediately. She intended to hold him to his words, yes she did. How lucky could one woman be?

  “Feeling pleased with yourself, darling?” Hart asked, stepping into the room.

  Francesca stood, smiling. “I must admit, I do rather feel like the cat who had all the cream.”

  Hart was smiling as he took her into the circle of his arms. “That was a case well solved, darling.”

  She flushed, aware that she loved receiving his praise. “I had the best help an amateur sleuth could have,” she said archly.

  His long, lean fingers toyed with the hair at her nape and his hazel eyes held hers, his gaze searching.

  Her smile faltered. “What is it? I was referring to you, Calder. You were very helpful on this case.”

  “I know.” He released her and handed her a scotch, taking one glass for himself.

  She sensed the devil in him now. “Please don’t brood,” she said, meaning it.

  “How can I brood when I am with you?” he swiftly returned.

  But he was brooding now. “What dark thoughts are afflicting you now?” She put her drink down, taking his hand.

  He drank and then set his own glass aside. “I meant what I said earlier. I want to marry immediately.”

  She bit her lip so she would not smile, absolutely thrilled. “That is fine with me,” she managed to say.

  He smiled. “Darling, I can tell you want to shout in glee, so please, feel free.”

  Francesca grinned. “When?” she asked eagerly. “I mean, should we actually elope? I know we had decided against it—and Mama would never forgive me. Or we could have a very small ceremony, just with family. What do you think?”

  He tipped up her chin. “I hate coming between you and your father, Francesca,” he said quietly. “I know you adore An drew. I hate forcing you to make a choice between him and myself.”

  Her smile vanished. “Calder, it’s too late. I have already made that choice—I have already chosen you—and I am not retracting it.”

  He pulled her close. “If I were selfless and noble, I would back off, find patience and somehow persuade your father to our cause. But I am not selfless or noble and I am savagely glad that you have chosen a life with me. I only hope you will never have any regrets.”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “Calder, I intend to bring the brunt of the entire family to bear on Papa. I will be very surprised if he does not cave in. He is no match for me, Mama and Connie, not when we unite against him.”

  “No man could be a match for the three of you,” he said wryly. “He loves you. And he also respects your intellect. Perhaps he will come around before the fact, and not after it.”

  “He will,” she said with genuine confidence. “I am sure of it. I will begin planning the wedding tomorrow, if that is all right with you. I will speak with Mama and Connie and we will decide on a date. I still prefer June.”

  He nodded with a smile. “That is fine.”

  She knew he had something else on his mind. “Calder?”

  “There’s something I want to say,” he said, very seriously now.
>
  She froze, and then her heart leaped with excitement. She nodded, filled with anticipation. Would he finally tell her that he loved her? She crossed her fingers behind her back. “Please.”

  He clasped her shoulders, smiling a little. His eyes had become impossibly tender. “The moment I first met you, I knew you were the most unique woman I had ever encountered.”

  She began to smile and opened her mouth to comment.

  He touched a finger to her lips. “Let me speak.”

  She nodded, biting down hard to restrain herself.

  His navy eyes, flecked with gold, wandered over her face. “I knew that the bluestocking had an amazing intellect, the sleuth more courage and determination than any one individual had a right to bear, and the romantic more hope and faith than any one man could possibly deserve. I knew you were as eccentric as myself, if not more so. And I knew that all of these aliases shielded a woman of extreme passion. I knew all of this, Francesca, immediately, and shortly after, I knew you were the right woman for me.” He smiled a little at her. “I knew, somehow, thoroughly and completely, that we would suit beyond all expectation.”

  She was finding it difficult to breathe. Was Hart really admitting all of this?

  “But there was one thing I did not know,” he said softly, cupping her face in his hands. His eyes were shining with emotion—with tears.

  “What?” she managed to say, her heart beating madly. Her own emotion seemed to be choking her.

  “I didn’t know that I was falling in love with you,” he said, his gaze holding hers.

  She couldn’t speak. Tears welled in her eyes, as well, and with them, there was more love than any woman could possibly feel.

  He made a harsh sound. His eyes continuing to shine from the depth of his emotion he pulled her against his chest. “Francesca, I am smitten,” he whispered.

  She held him hard, closing her eyes, overcome with so much love and so much joy. “So am I,” she said.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-7906-7

  DEADLY ILLUSIONS

  Copyright © 2005 by Brenda Joyce Dreams Unlimited, Inc.