Deadly Vows

by Brenda Joyce

  “What happened?” she cried, rushing forward and taking his wet, cut hand.

  “I broke a glass.”

  She looked into his eyes, her gaze filled with moisture. “Why are you torturing yourself? We have the portrait, Hart. It is over.”

  “I take it you didn’t notice that I wished to murder my brother? And that I almost did so.”

  She paled. “But you didn’t, Hart. You would never murder anyone in a fit of fury. I am certain.”

  He took her hands and removed them from his wrist, but he clasped them firmly. “Then you do not know me at all.”

  “No. I know you better than you know yourself!” she cried.

  He felt something in him soften. But he did not want to soften. “Where is the portrait?”

  She tensed. “It is in the front hall.”

  He debated how he would destroy it—perhaps with a knife.

  “Stop blaming yourself. Please! We have the portrait. This crisis is over. Farr stole it from the gallery on Saturday night, intending one day to use it against Bragg or myself. For the sake of secrecy, we can’t lay charges against him.”

  “We.” It wasn’t a question.

  “You are the one I love, Calder.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps you will think about the fact that I held a gun to Randall’s head today, not knowing which chamber the bullet was in, and that I pulled that trigger two times.”

  “I think you need me tonight.”

  He caught her chin. “Are you dining with Rick this weekend?”

  She inhaled. “I haven’t even thought about it!”

  The jealousy, always simmering, burst into an inferno. “You are selfless,” he said, “and I am a selfish bastard—who cannot give you up.”

  She cried out.

  “Elope with me, Francesca…tonight.”

  THE MOMENT BRAGG walked through the door of his home, he saw Leigh Anne. Their luggage was lined up by the door and she sat in her wheeled chair in the front hall, dressed for travel. Her face was tight with tension and disapproval. It was almost four in the afternoon, and their train left at five. “We will miss the train, Rick,” she said, her tone terribly calm. “You must rush.”

  He closed the door and became still, staring at her. His chest had been aching all day; it ached even more now. The comprehension he had had earlier was even more searing. His marriage had been over before it had even begun. He would provide for her and the girls until the end of his days. But there would never be a warm, loving relationship with Leigh Anne; he would never have a warm, loving family; and he would never be free to pursue a real relationship with the woman he truly loved.

  But the one thing he would not do was go to Sag Harbor with her now. It would be hell and they both knew it. His decision was made. She could take the girls herself, with Peter and Mrs. Flowers. He would stay in the city and work. There was so much paperwork to take care of; he had Randall in custody and charges were pending.

  “I am sorry to have held you up, but we must have a private discussion.”

  “Now?” She was incredulous.

  “I am afraid so.”

  “We will miss the train and it is the last one today!”

  Did she know that he wouldn’t go with her and the girls? He wondered if he would always feel this acute sense of loss, which was so odd, as he hadn’t ever had anything genuine to lose.

  Before he could answer her, Katie came rushing down the stairs, Dot stumbling after her. She smiled at him anxiously. “Are we leaving?”

  “Not yet—I need a word with your mother.” It even hurt to utter those two words. He reached past her to catch Dot, swinging her into his arms before she fell. Then he slid his arm around Katie. “You were sleeping this morning when I came in,” he told her.

  “That’s all right. Are we going? Will we miss our train?” Her dark eyes were huge with trepidation and excitement.

  “Sag, Sag!” Dot shouted gleefully.

  Bragg held her harder and kissed her; she squealed. At least one member of the household was genuinely happy, he thought.

  He had to do what was right for everyone. Katie looked back and forth between them even more anxiously. He smiled at her as he set Dot down. “Can you take Dot into the kitchen for a last glass of milk?” When she and her sister were gone, he looked at his wife.

  Her expression was deadpan. “What is this about, Rick?”

  He hesitated. “I think you know as well as I do that it would be impossible for us to share a small cottage together for an entire weekend.”

  She sat up straighter. She finally said, “It would be difficult.”

  His heart pained him again. “Can we have one honest conversation?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t think it fair to the girls to see us in such a state of discord. I obviously make you unhappy. It is better if I stay here in the city. I always have work to attend.”

  Relief flickered in her eyes. “Katie hates the tension, Rick. You’re right, it isn’t fair to them—or us.” She gripped the arms of her chair tightly.

  “So you agree it is best if you go alone with the girls.”

  “Yes.”

  That one word spoke volumes. She was desperate to get away from him, but he felt the same way now. Relief warred with sorrow and regret. “I will take you to the station.”

  “Peter can take us—”

  “No, I will take you. I wish to say goodbye to the girls. I will miss them, and I want to reassure them that nothing will change when they return—I will be here, waiting for them.”

  She nodded. “The girls adore you. They will miss you, too. Yes, you must reassure them.”

  It was truly over, he thought. Somehow, without ever saying so, they had both agreed to that. “How can we possibly navigate such a marriage, Leigh Anne?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, finally looking him in the eye. “Maybe you should consider a divorce—or perhaps a separation.”

  Suddenly there was hope. He detested their living arrangements. They had been separated before. He could still take care of them, but he wouldn’t be an intruder in his own home. “I would never give you a divorce. It would be morally reprehensible,” he said slowly.

  She looked aside. “But you will think about a separation—with separate residences?”

  He inhaled. What she wanted was so painfully clear. But perhaps this was the only viable solution. “Yes, I will think about it.”

  She trembled. “I have an idea. It is not a permanent solution, but one that might suit for now. Will you let me and the girls spend the summer in the Sag Harbor cottage? They will love the beach and the bay—the city is stifling in the summer—and we will not be in your way. There will be no discord for poor Katie to witness, and I will not be an albatross hanging about your neck.” She added, “It is only two months. Many couples vacation separately in the summer, and that will give you time to consider a separation.”

  He was shocked by the suggestion, yet his mind came to life. Many couples did spend the summers apart—married couples like him and Leigh Anne, who had no desire to be together except in name. And it would give them both a sorely needed respite from the divisiveness that had afflicted their lives. He began to realize that he liked the idea, even if his life loomed before him, dark and gray, like an endless, shadowy tunnel.

  “Rick?”

  He focused with an effort. He did have light in his life, even if he had to remind himself of it. He had his profession, his ambition, the many causes of reform and his dear friend Francesca. “I will arrange it,” he said.

  INSTEAD OF ALLOWING HER to descend from his coach, he swept her into his arms. “What are you doing?” Francesca cried.

  “I am carrying you across the threshold of our house,” Hart said calmly. But his eyes were gleaming and the barest smile was on his handsome face.

  She met his dark, intense gaze and her heart soared. They were man and wife.

  Do you, Francesca Cahill, take this man to be your hus
band? In sickness and in health, for better or for worse, till death do you part?

  I do.

  Still dressed in her navy blue suit, which she had worn all day, she had been trembling so badly that Hart had caught her arm to steady her. It was as if Judge O’Brien and his wife did not exist. Only the two of them stood there in his small parlor. She had seen such heat in his eyes.… But she had also seen love, and it had been fierce.

  Do you, Calder Hart, take this woman to be your wife? In sickness and in health, for better or for worse, till death do you part?

  I do.

  Francesca could not look away from Hart now. The judge was prompting Calder for a ring. She had a moment of sheer, insane, irrational terror—they didn’t have a ring! Would their ceremony become null and void without one? But then Hart had pulled her wedding ring from his breast pocket, and she had watched him sliding the gold band onto her finger, afraid she was dreaming.…

  “By the powers vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  And Hart had pulled her close and they had kissed deeply. When she looked at him afterward, she knew he was as stunned as she was.…

  “You don’t have to carry me over the threshold,” Francesca cried now, baldly lying. “That is such a silly tradition!”

  “Spoken like a true bohemian,” Hart murmured, striding up the front steps of the house. He somehow maneuvered the door open without dropping her. “I am carrying you over our threshold, Francesca.”

  Their gazes locked as he stepped inside. Francesca clung to his strong shoulders, absolutely breathless now. “We are married.”

  “We most certainly are.” His gaze began a thorough inventory of her features, and her body tightened impossibly. She could barely speak. Dear God, they had eloped!

  The fact that it was their wedding night raced through her head. “Julia will murder us both as soon as she hears of this!” she managed to say.

  He began to smile, striding swiftly across the entrance hall past her portrait, which was propped up against one wall, its back facing out. The gold sheet still covered it. “She will undoubtedly be shocked, but angry? She will begin to plan our reception within two minutes. Care to wager?”

  She laughed as he bounded up the stairs. Hart was right. Julia would be thrilled, once the surprise wore off. She would hold a huge reception in the fall. Then she sobered. Andrew was another matter. But he could not reverse something that was a fait accompli, and she would worry about cajoling and consoling him later.

  Her heart skipped several beats as Hart reached the next landing. She had been waiting forever for this moment. She slipped her fingers into the V of his shirt, over his velvety skin. He smiled slowly at her. Her heart lurched wildly. There was no mistaking the promise in his eyes.

  The intensity of her desire for him made her feel faint. “Hart.”

  He wasn’t smiling now as he entered the master suite, crossed the sitting room and approached his massive, canopied bed. “I am in complete agreement.” His tone was thick.

  He laid her down, sitting beside her. Instead of reaching for the buttons on her blouse, his palm cupped her cheek. His eyes shimmered. “I want to make you happy, Francesca.”

  She knew he did not refer to their lovemaking now. She went still, and then her heart exploded with joy and desire. She loved him so much! “You will.”

  “Will I?”

  She lifted herself on her elbows and kissed his mouth, not once but several times, softly. “We are human. There will be good times and bad times, but our love will endure.”

  He took her shoulders and pushed her back onto the pillows. “You are a hopeless romantic, and I am a complete cynic. We are quite the couple.” He began unbuttoning her blouse. “Have I ever told you that you light up my dreary life?” He pulled open her shirt.

  “Yes,” she managed to say as he ripped her chemise in two. “Another one?”

  He did not answer, pulling her corset down and feathering her nipples with his tongue. Then he lifted his face and stared.

  She touched his rough cheek, realizing she was starting to cry. “I will always brighten your life, Hart, even when you insist it is a black hole.”

  “Yes, Francesca, and only you are capable of such a feat,” he said.

  She inhaled. His words meant everything to her.

  He stood, ripping off his jacket and then his shirt, tossing both aside. Francesca felt her heart lurch with dizzying force. He reached for his trousers and quickly divested himself of the rest of his clothes. She could not breathe. Hart was the most magnificent man she had ever seen; he was six feet of packed male muscle, and just then, he was entirely aroused. “You are so beautiful,” she said.

  “No, Francesca, you are the beautiful one, inside and out.” He sat as she lifted her hair, shifting her back toward him. He began unlacing her corset. As he did so, his mouth strayed over her shoulders, her arms, the sides of her breasts. It became harder and harder to breathe. His hands moved to the buttons on the waistband of her skirt. As the fabric pooled around her hips and thighs, he slid her drawers lower. From behind, she felt him nuzzle her right hip. He rained soft kisses across the swell of her buttocks. She finally cried out. “Hart, I am going to die.”

  There was amusement in his tone as his hands closed possessively over each hip. “Yes, you will, and many times, I believe.”

  She was about to demand that he stop his seduction—she was ready now!—when he turned her around, laid her down and pulled her skirt down her legs. He tossed it aside and gave her a searing look. But there was more, and she did not know why he paused, staring as if embattled.

  “Hart?” She inhaled, reaching for him.

  He shook his head abruptly, his face odd, and suddenly he moved over her. “I am going to make love to you, Francesca.” He kissed her throat. “I have never made love to anyone before.”

  She cried out and their mouths met. His hard thighs moved hers apart. She touched him everywhere as he ran his strong hands up and down her body. His mouth found her waist. His hands moved between her legs. She caressed his slick, long length, whimpering. His breathing was heavy—so was hers.

  Then his powerful arms went around her and he settled against her and she choked against his collarbone. “Hart, please.”

  “I love you,” he said, looking at her.

  Tears blurred her vision, but she saw the strain on his face, and then his massive length was moving slowly inside her. The pleasure was shocking. The love was so strong that it hurt. Hart was hers now, she somehow thought, hers now and forever.

  Not taking his gaze from hers, they became entirely joined. Francesca gasped helplessly, holding on to him, hard. And Hart said, finally, “You are my beacon, Francesca—always.”

  He began to move, and she wept.

  FRANCESCA AWOKE deliciously. Her entire body throbbed sensually and pleasantly, everywhere. Then she became aware of Hart behind her, in a rather manly state, his arms around her. He kissed her ear. “It’s the middle of the night, darling.”

  Her heart turned over, hard, as complete recollection came. She turned to face him, grinning. “We are married, Calder! You are my husband, and no one can do anything about it.”

  He smiled affectionately at her. “You looked very pleased, Francesca. Hmm…I wonder why.”

  Ha, she thought, thinking about the several times Hart had made love to her. She wasn’t a virgin now—and his lovemaking had been worth waiting for. She slid her nails over his hard chest and watched him inhale. She grinned again. “I am very pleased, Hart. I believe I learned a trick or two last night.”

  His gaze was smoldering as he watched her toy with his chest. “I do believe I once promised you an education.”

  “You most certainly did,” she murmured, kissing one very erect nipple. “Oh, Calder, impossibly, I want you again.”

  “I have created a monster,” he said, but within moments, he was sliding deeply into her, and soon they were b
oth riding that wonderful wave of ecstasy again.

  Afterward, Francesca took him into her arms.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “I am holding you, silly man.”

  He gave her an odd look. “I am hardly a child, Francesca.”

  “As if I would ever think that!” She kissed the top of his head, then saw the portrait, propped up against the wall. The gold sheet Bragg had used to cover it with remained partially across the canvas. She sat up. “You brought it upstairs.”

  He sat, as well. “After you fell asleep, I went and retrieved it. I realized we might be very busy in the morning when the staff returns.” He hesitated, his gaze on the painting. “It is very beautiful. Sarah caught your likeness exactly.”

  He did not want to destroy it, she thought. She suddenly tossed the covers aside and got up.

  “What are you doing?”

  Francesca smiled at him and walked across the bedroom, not bothering to take the sheet with her.

  “Oh, I do like this,” Hart said. “A modest wife!”

  She laughed, whipping the rest of the sheet from the painting, aware of how appreciative his gaze was—and it was not on the portrait now. “Do I really look like that when we are together and about to make love?”

  “Yes, you do,” he said rather roughly. “But you are even more beautiful and desirable in the flesh.”

  Francesca trembled at his thick tone. She turned and saw him stand, but he went to the other side of the room and donned a silk dressing gown, casually belting it. She shivered, aware of being cold. “Are you being a gentleman, Hart?”

  “Yes, I am—and I want to fetch us a bottle of champagne. I am not in the habit of racing around this house without my clothes. And, Francesca, I know you are very immodest and I may have created a monster, but you are not racing about in a state of dishabille, either. Rourke remains in residence.”

  She smiled as he returned to her and placed a paisley smoking jacket over her shoulders. She slipped her arms into the sleeves and saw his eyes darken. She instantly understood why. The jacket just reached her thighs.