Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  “I’m terminating our arrangement. You’re free to go, no obligation to me.”

  He bounded to his feet. “Just because I went off the rails one evening, drank a bit too much, got angry over an insult?”

  “You climbed out the window. I didn’t know where you were. Georgina and I had to go looking for you in a most unsavory part of the city. You almost threw your life away…again.”

  “Ah, now, it worked out well enough, didn’t it? And you can’t blame me. I have this great hole in my mind—”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “That I thought might get filled just a little bit by revenge. I only went looking for the name of the man responsible for my murder. You cannot expect me to live with him in the free and clear.”

  “I don’t know what I expected. Not this. It won’t do. As I say, I don’t blame you; I blame myself. I should have known better.”

  “But where will I go?” He gaped at her. “I have no place, no life.”

  “There are other cities. Choose one, and I will try to scrape up the fare to send you. You will be able to get work as a laborer.”

  “Damned if I will.”

  “You’re strong and fit. In a new city, no one will know you or that you were once—dead.”

  “I’ll know! What am I supposed to do with this great, bloody hole where my past is supposed to be?” And what would he do without her? He did not understand how, but she sustained him. If he lost her, on top of everything else, he might as well cut his own throat.

  She shook her head helplessly. “I am sorry. This was an ill-advised scheme on my part. I did not think sufficiently about what it would be like for you. I just thought you’d be grateful to be alive.”

  “I am, I swear it. Clara, do not send me away.” He reached out and captured her hands. As from a distance he saw his fingers clasp her paler ones, his skin marked by abrasions and blood. Maybe she was right; she deserved more than a brawler and boozer. But he could not leave her now.

  “Please.” The word, torn from his still-damaged throat, sounded harsh. “What will you do if you send me away? How keep the house and the children? You’ll never find anyone else before your birthday.”

  “I’d never be able to trust you.”

  “But, lass, you can. One small slip that was, a single error.”

  “It was far more than that.”

  “I swear ’twill not happen again. I shall be a model husband.” He gazed into her eyes. “Must I get down on my knees and beg?”

  She bit her lip. “It is a terribly drastic step we contemplate. Marriage, even if only in name—”

  “Only allow me a chance to prove myself to you.” There on the floor of the surgery he dropped to one knee. “Clara Allen, marry me.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Before the eyes of God and in accordance with the laws of this state, I pronounce you man and wife.” The justice of the peace, who also happened to be an Episcopal minister, hesitated but an instant before adding, “You may kiss the bride.”

  Clara Allen—no, Clara McMahon now—stared into her new husband’s eyes and shook her head slightly, willing him to disregard the instruction. He ignored her. She saw his face, barely healed from the fisticuffs three days ago, swoop in on her, and suddenly his mouth claimed hers. No ordinary, polite kiss this: it searched like a drowning man searched for air, it punished and rewarded, and parted her lips beneath his. She felt the brush of his tongue like fire.

  The minister, Mr. Baxter, cleared his throat.

  Clara planted both hands on her husband’s chest and shoved. He released her.

  Her husband. Well, it had needed to be done for the sake of the children. And apart from that flaming kiss, there was nothing in it—a joining in name only, a purely legal matter.

  Not to say her husband didn’t look sinfully handsome with his hair trimmed—not too short—and in his fine, new suit from the tailor’s on Franklin Street. She sighed. She’d needed to pawn her father’s best clock to afford that suit, but she had to say it was worth every penny. Amazing what black broadcloth and a starched white collar could do to set a man up. He still looked like a rogue, with that gleam in his eyes—for the kiss he’d just stolen, no doubt—and one lock of black hair tumbling over his forehead. But he looked a gentlemanly rogue.

  Behind Clara, Ruella sighed. She’d insisted on being in attendance for this, one of only a handful of guests and witnesses. Georgina was here, of course, and Clara’s law advisor, Theodore Collwys.

  It had been put forward more than once in the past that Clara and Theodore should wed, but Theodore was betrothed to a society miss, and anyway Clara had not the heart, even for convenience’s sake. She had seen the way Theodore looked at Georgina, and she at him.

  So now she turned to face her guests, still hand in hand with her husband.

  “A toast,” Theodore suggested, “to the happy couple.”

  Clara squeezed Liam’s fingers. Not too much, her touch bade. He clasped her hand gently in return, a reassurance.

  Since she’d dragged him back from the waterfront and locked him in the cellar he’d been a model gentleman, even going so far as to undertake some much-needed repairs around the house. Of course it had only been three days.

  “Perhaps just a wee sip,” he said.

  “You must sign these documents first,” Mr. Baxter told them. “Your marriage certificate. Your signatures here at the bottom, please.”

  Clara froze. Could Liam read and write? If he’d ever learned, could he remember now? Why hadn’t she thought of this?

  But he turned to the parlor table that had served as their altar and took up the pen readily while she hovered at his shoulder.

  Please do not write “Liam,” she beseeched him inwardly.

  He signed where Mr. Baxter indicated with a bold flourish. William T. McMahon. He handed the pen to her with a slight bow.

  Clara A. McMahon, she scrawled beneath his signature.

  “There now,” he crooned, “it’s official. Does that allow us another kiss?”

  Those gathered in the room laughed almost as if this were a real wedding. Well, it was real in a legal sense, real enough to meet her grandfather’s requirements.

  Georgina passed around a tray of sherry glasses and glared at Liam in passing. Theodore raised his glass. “To Mr. and Mrs. McMahon—may their future be filled with blessings.”

  “Hear, hear!” Ruella chimed in. “And now just let me kiss the groom.”

  ****

  “You do realize,” Clara said sternly to her new husband some hours later, when the guests had gone and the chaos cleared, “this changes nothing. Between us, I mean.”

  No reply. He sat in one of the parlor wing chairs with his head back and that unholy light in his eyes, half veiled. She’d been proud of him this day, she had to admit it. He’d taken only the one glass of sherry and behaved as she’d hoped of him. But she feared the worst was yet to come.

  “Our arrangement,” she added delicately, “is a convenience, no more.”

  He lifted those sinfully long, black lashes and gave her a look. Something in her heart stirred—or it might be lower down. Still he did not speak.

  “Tomorrow you will meet my grandfather.” She drew a breath. “I will take you to his house and present you as my husband. I cannot stress strongly enough the importance of this.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “So this would not be a good night for me to go out and get drunk?”

  She rounded on him and then caught herself. He teased, no more. “It would not.”

  “Then a good night’s sleep might be in order, instead.” He purred the words. When had his throat begun to heal? The very sound of his voice made her tremble where she stood.

  “No doubt. We are to be there at ten in the morning. I will need you on your best behavior.”

  “Like a good, well-trained husband or hound?”

  “I am sorry to seem patronizing. It is just—”

  “Peace, Cl
ara, I know what’s at stake. But if this is to work, your grandfather will expect the genuine article. He needs to meet a man, not a puppet.”

  “You are right.”

  “Some verisimilitude may be required.” Slowly he got to his feet and approached her, moving like a cat. The corners of his lips curled further up. “Surprised I know that word, are you? Just like you were surprised I could sign my name today—ignorant bog-jumper that I am.”

  She was, but didn’t like to admit it.

  She stood staring him in the eyes, her breath coming ever faster as he approached. When he reached out and fondled her hair, it came very quickly indeed.

  “You looked so beautiful today,” he whispered.

  “But I am not beautiful.”

  “Not perhaps in the fashionable sense. Better than that.”

  Clara wore her best dress, left over from wealthier days. Now the lace at the bodice stirred with her heartbeat.

  “Why did you cut off your hair? ’Tis such a bonny color. Seems a shame.”

  “It was too much trouble and kept getting in the way when I was busy working or helping the children. I did not like to bother.” Her words died as his fingers penetrated her hair to her scalp, where they stroked gently.

  “No matter, it suits you—all feathery and fey.”

  “Fey?”

  He stepped closer. She could feel the heat of him now, like a banked fire. He whispered in her ear, “Like a wee fairy, one of the fey folk.”

  “I—”

  She looked up and, just as simply as that, he kissed her. His lips, this time, were as gentle as his touch. They wooed and persuaded, then suggested and beseeched, powerful as a demand and heady as strong wine. Clara gathered all her forces, determined to be indignant, to reject and deny him. Instead, without her permission, her lips parted beneath his and invited him in.

  Time seemed to stand still and then to tense and bunch like a lion waiting to spring. Outside the parlor windows, the autumn dark gathered. Inside Clara’s heart, darkness seemed to flee, chased by desire.

  What was this, then? Nothing she had expected. It was desire, wild and hot: it was an answer to longing.

  It was impossible.

  She tried to break the kiss after all, but his fingers had crept round to the back of her head, and he held her effortlessly. His tongue plundered her mouth, slow and leisurely, and left fire everywhere it touched, flame that raced through her veins and headed south.

  All she could taste was Liam. All she could feel—he filled her, breathed for her, turned her knees to water and her brain to one scream of wanting.

  No.

  Even as she thought the word she stroked his tongue with hers, testing its strength and texture. She imagined it sliding over the length of her body, laying claim to every peak and valley, setting her aflame. She had never conceived of wanting anything so.

  He broke the kiss unexpectedly and breathed a gust into her ear. His arms gathered her against him, where she felt very small, helpless, and yet empowered and strong. He was hard down below. He hid nothing but thrust himself against her, making his desire plain.

  “No,” she said again, aloud this time. “That was not part of the agreement.”

  “For God’s sake, Clara. We’re married. Why not?”

  She repeated doggedly, “That was not part—”

  She broke off when he kissed her once more, his hot mouth swallowing her words. His hands began to move, roved up her back, and left trails of heat behind. One slid around to cup her breast. His thumb stroked her through the fabric of her gown; she gasped, and his kiss swallowed that also.

  Oh, and she had never dreamed of such desire. What if she gave in? What if she took him to her bed?

  The damage could be irreparable. But his hands still moved. Somehow he had drawn the fabric of her bodice down and got inside, his flesh hot against her own. She felt a sudden spur of shame. She had a girl’s body, not a woman’s.

  He didn’t seem to mind. He bent his head, trailed his lips from her mouth downward over her cheek, along the side of her throat, across her collarbone. His black hair, incredibly soft, brushed her chin as he bent still lower and lifted her up so her breast met his mouth.

  And then Clara died and went to heaven. Except she couldn’t be dead because her heart pounded in her ears and her breath came short and fast. Incredible images flashed through her mind: herself with her legs spread, right here on the hearth rug. Liam without his trousers, all magnificent strength. The two of them coupling with abandon, all of it so real it seemed as if it had already happened.

  She whimpered. He freed her second breast from her bodice and made a wet trail to it. Her entire breast fit inside his mouth. His tongue did unimaginably magical things…

  “This was not—” Damn. All rational thought seemed to have fled her brain. His mouth left her breast, and he set her down gently. His eyes gleamed at her, so blue their color encompassed all she could see.

  “Please,” he said.

  This, Clara thought, was seduction at its most potent—and by her legal husband, of all things. He licked one corner of her mouth and then the other. Desire kicked her like a mule, deep in her belly.

  “Do you not want to present a convincing picture when we face your grandfather tomorrow—with a successful bridal night behind us?”

  Clara whispered, “It would be disastrous.”

  “It would be sublime, I so promise you.”

  She believed him.

  “Please,” he repeated. Then he was on his knees again, moving down her body. His hands slid up under her skirt, skittered up her legs, stroked the inside of her thigh, and stopped only when he touched her where no one ever had before. Ever.

  She looked down, trembling badly, and met his eyes gleaming deep blue in a gaze so intimate it seared her to her soul.

  Somehow her skirts had bunched up around her waist. She stood bare to him, devoid of even her bloomers. Here, in her own parlor.

  Her heart threatened to pound out through her breast.

  He touched her. His black head bent forward. She felt his lips briefly, and his tongue, swirling.

  He looked at her once more. “Come upstairs and let me show you,” he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Clara woke in her father’s bed, and alone.

  Not at all certain which point horrified her more, she shot bolt upright, the bedclothes clutched to her breasts. Beneath the covers she was quite naked. The sheets beside her lay rumpled, and she could see the indent left by a head on the pillow—Liam’s head—but he had gone.

  Gone. Scuppered. Fled. Departed out the window again. Taken her virginity and left her.

  Oh, God.

  What had she done? The very worst of things: slept with her husband. She could remember all of it, every detail, every kiss, every silken slide of his tongue. That tongue had been places she’d never imagined any man’s tongue venturing. All of him had.

  And she still quivered from the effects of it.

  Who would have thought that a woman—that she—could come apart at the seams like that, shatter in a man’s hands? Who would have thought she—with a body more child than woman—could feel so worshipped by his mouth that when at last he knelt between her legs and entered her, she felt like a queen?

  But now morning had come, and with it the damages. Her virginity gone. Her husband—gone.

  The window stood closed. Likely he had not gone out that way. His wedding suit lay strewn across the floor, as did most of her clothing. He had carried her in, still bare-breasted, from the parlor. She could only hope none of the children had seen.

  Her chemise hung from one of the posters of her father’s bed. Liam had removed it from her body, slid it over her skin with careful hands. She had given way to a kind of abandon of which she’d never guessed herself capable. But none of that mattered now. He was gone.

  She forced her fingers through her ruffled hair and cursed herself again. He had plied her with kisses, convinced her to
yield to him, and now he was—

  The door opened and Liam appeared, wearing nothing but his short trousers, and those unfastened.

  They gazed at one another. He entered and shut the door with care. One corner of his mouth quirked. “The rest of the household is astir, but I do not think they will disturb us this morning.”

  “Where were you? I thought—”

  “Sorry, I had to visit the bog. Didn’t want to disturb you by digging the basin out from under the bed.”

  Clara said nothing. She watched him approach, marveling at the breadth of that chest, those shoulders, the supple length of his legs, the fascinating trail of black hair that led into what should be forbidden territory. She had touched it all last night. She’d had it all.

  Moving like a cat, he launched himself onto the bed, which creaked in protest. Clara was reminded vividly of hearing that creak last night also. Her cheeks flamed. What if the whole household had heard?

  She turned her head and gazed into Liam’s eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  “Do you know how lovely you are?”

  Clara felt the impact of those words in her heart. But she denied forcibly, “I. Am. Not. Lovely.”

  “You can sit there looking like that, and say so?”

  “No need to lie to me, or flatter me, either. At best, I am plain. At worst I am scrawny.” She forced herself to add, “Barely a woman.”

  “Ah, if you can say that, you cannot see yourself perched there against those pillows with the morning light in your green eyes and that sheet clutched to your bonny breasts.”

  “Blarney.”

  His eyes widened. “Eh?”

  “I’ve no doubt you can spin as pretty a string of lies as any Irishman ever born. You had your way with me last night. No need to keep playing me along.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Clara lifted her chin. “It’s what I know.”

  He reached out and touched her hair, then cupped her cheek as tenderly as if he thought she might break. “Let me prove it to you.”

  “No.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her. At the simple touch of his lips on hers, fire leaped up through her veins. He laid her down on her pillow, his mouth still on hers, and pushed the covers down from her breasts.