Dead Handsome

by Laura Strickland

  He had already leaped from his cab, seemingly unhurt, and gestured wildly as he explained himself. “She ran right in front of me! They all did. Stupid urchins, why are they running wild in the street? She ran right under my wheels!”

  The child lay beneath them now, on the bricks of the street, either senseless or dead. Her golden hair spread out in a fan. She looked no more than six years old.

  “Oh, God,” Clara said in Liam’s ear. Her whole heart lay in the words, and Liam’s stomach turned over.

  “Best not to look,” he told her.

  She ignored him, pushed past, and hurried down the steps into the street. Helpless, Liam followed.

  The steamcab driver still protested to anyone who would listen. “Wasn’t my fault, was it? I’ve two kiddies of my own at home. But I don’t let them run in the streets. Where are her parents? Oh, shut up, you lot!”

  The last he directed at the felled child’s companions, who now stood in a knot, weeping and accusing him. Residents of nearby houses—servants, mostly—and the lorry driver gathered, staring.

  “Call the cops!” someone yelled.

  Amid the confusion, Collwys moved past Clara and crouched at the child’s side. He looked up at Clara with regret in his eyes. “She’s dead,” he pronounced.

  The children wailed louder. The cab driver began to excuse himself all over again. He latched onto Liam and yelled into his face. “She ran right in front of my wheels! You can see I swerved to try and miss her. You understand, don’t you?”

  Liam ignored him, busy watching Clara. He saw her look at the child, then haul herself up and speak to Collwys.

  “Bring her inside.”

  “Clara, she’s dead.”

  Liam saw his wife look Collwys right in the eye. “I am sure, Theodore, you are mistaken. Bring her inside.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “She’s a pretty little thing.” The words came from Liam without his volition. The child looked so small lying on the table in Clara’s workroom, her hair gleaming in the garish light of the steam lamps. Blood splashed her milk-white skin.

  “Ascertain the damages.” Clara spoke to Georgina, not to Liam. He doubted Clara even remembered he was there. He backed off a step from the table and stood quietly. At least Collwys, having carried the child in, had been dismissed from the room.

  Liam could still hear commotion all the way from the street—the voice of the steamcab driver, very faint now, the shrill voices of the children, and then a whistle. Was that the police?

  The two women worked frantically, their heads bent together—one black, one brown—running their hands over the child’s body with gentle persistence. Liam had the image of two huddled witches—two merciful, pretty ones.

  “Broken arm,” Georgina said. “That’s nothing. Crushed abdomen?”

  “I feel no bleeding there.”

  “Lungs?”

  “A couple cracked ribs. I think the wheel went right over her. If she’s too badly damaged, I can’t bring her back.”

  Bring her back.

  A chill of pure, superstitious fear traced its way up Liam’s back. Was that what she meant to do? Clara, his wife, who could raise the dead.

  For the child, draped on the worktable, did not breathe. And her eyes stared sightlessly.

  He swore beneath his breath. He wondered if he should join Collwys outside. Did he want to watch this? Part of him, rooted and helpless, did. Another part wanted to run as from the Devil.

  “Open her dress. Look at the damage just here.”

  “Is it too bad?”

  Clara shook her head. She rested her hands very lightly on the child’s thin chest, lifted her chin and drew a deep breath.

  From where he stood he saw her stiffen in every limb. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Suddenly, she didn’t look like Clara. Despite the soft, ruffled brown hair, the fragile, elfin prettiness, she looked strange and foreign. Something about her sharpened. She filled, and changed.

  She bent down and placed her mouth over that of the child.

  Liam felt the impact of it throughout his body, as if she breathed into him again. He could feel the warmth and intensity filling his own lungs. Not air, but life.

  Horrified and fascinated, he stood with his back now pressed against the closed door of the room, repelled, fascinated, and, truth be told, aroused. She was a witch. She was pure magic.

  He wanted to follow her till he died. Again.

  His vision blurred, and the two of them, woman and child—for Georgina now stood a few steps away—wavered and melded into one figure outlined in light. Mine, he thought savagely, and then the child’s body jerked. Her arms flew out—even the one Georgina had said was broken. Clara continued to breathe into her—long, long—until she could not possibly have any breath left. Then she lifted her mouth from the child’s.

  The girl began to cry, a weak mewling sound.

  Someone pounded on the house door. Clara turned her head and for an instant her eyes met Liam’s—they gleamed intensely green. She leaned limply against the worktable, as if too weak to stand. He didn’t realize he’d moved until he found himself at her side, his arms wrapped around her.

  “Here now, lean on me.”

  She did. For a blessed, wonderful instant she laid her head against his shoulder; he felt her weariness and elation as if they were his own.

  He looked down at the child who lay with her eyes wide open, clearly terrified. Georgina soothed her with kind hands, refastened the front of her little dress, and crooned soft words.

  “All right, it will be all right.”

  Georgina looked up, and in her eyes Liam saw some of what he felt—wonder, horror, devotion. “I know who she is. Her mother works at the laundry on Niagara Street—I’ve seen them in passing.”

  “They’ll be coming.” Clara sounded haunted. “I hear—”

  So did Liam. Someone was in the entryway, arguing with the mechanical servant.

  “Stay here,” he bade Clara, and went out into the fray.

  A little knot of people stood just ahead of him at the end of the hallway. A thin woman wept and wrung her hands, a neighbor he recognized, and a copper, along with Collwys and Dax.

  Drawing on every bit of authority he possessed, Liam marched down the hall and into the thick of them.

  “There was a terrible accident in front of the house,” he told the copper. He looked at the woman. “A child—your daughter?—was run down, but she lives.”

  The woman gasped and sobbed.

  The copper said, “We were told the child was killed.”

  “No, just knocked unconscious she was, which is why we carried her in out of the commotion. My wife has some medical skill, you see. The girl is awake—sore hurt and very confused, but alive.”

  Aye, and he remembered how he’d felt when he woke. Confused didn’t half describe it.

  The woman fell into his arms. “Take me to her, please.”

  “I’ll bring her, shall I?” Clara wouldn’t want them in her workroom with all its secrets. “A moment. Dax, please show them into the parlor.” The lawyer, Collwys, no doubt wishing to distance himself, stepped back as the others went into the front room.

  Liam retraced his steps to the rear of the house and the workshop. Inside, both women and the girl met him with frightened eyes.

  “Come, lass.” He held out his arms. “Your mother is here for you.”

  She whimpered and clutched at Clara with her one good hand.

  “Here,” Clara told her, “I will come too.”

  They went down the corridor in a knot of three. As soon as they entered the parlor, the woman flew at them, weeping.

  “Oh, Cassie! Cassie, I told you not to run in the street. Are you hurt? Speak to me, love!”

  “She was stunned, knocked out.” Clara spoke as much to the policeman as the mother. “She has a broken arm, and probably other injuries also. My father was a physician, so I have some knowledge. She’ll need to go straight to a doctor, mind.”


  The mother lifted devastated eyes. “Oh, but I can’t possibly afford… What I earn at the laundry barely keeps us. Her pa was killed on the waterfront last year.”

  The copper shifted uncomfortably.

  Clara raised her chin. “Wait here a moment.” She slipped out and soon returned with her purse. She thrust a handful of money at the mother. “Here. Take her to Mr. Rogers on Franklin Street. He will not charge much.”

  The woman wept harder. “I can’t accept that. You’ve already been so kind.”

  She had no idea, Liam thought.

  Clara turned her gaze on the policeman. “Officer, will you carry the child to Mr. Rogers?”

  “I would, ma’am, but I’m on duty, and there’s still that tangle out front.”

  “Send Dax,” Liam advised. He would go himself, but he could feel how weak Clara was, and knew as soon as their visitors left she was going to collapse.

  “Yes.” Clara grasped at it. “Perhaps you would allow our servant to assist you.”

  “I would be ever so grateful, ma’am.”

  The child was passed carefully into Dax’s arms. With the mother virtually clinging to him, they went out.

  “All’s well that ends well, then,” the copper said in parting.

  Liam just hoped Dax proved more adept at carrying a child than a tea service.

  He shut the door, turned to look at his wife, and was just in time to catch her as she went down. She made virtually no weight in his arms. How could so much strength be contained in this fragile bundle?

  He held her silently, and she clutched at him. He could feel her emotions surging, a backlash of what she had spent to bring the child back from death.

  “Ah, lass,” he crooned, and pressed his lips to her forehead. He carried her to the sofa and sat down with her cradled in his arms like a child.

  The storm inside her abated, even as Liam listened to Georgina dealing with the curious children in the house and as he heard the uproar outside subside. The rumble of traffic along Virginia Street resumed. His wife rested against him with her eyes closed.

  And he felt connected to her, each breath and every heartbeat. How beautiful she looked with her elfin face pale as alabaster, feathery hair ruffled, brown eyelashes aquiver. He wanted to absorb her into him, protect and defend her.

  At last he whispered, “Was that how it was with me?”

  Her lashes fluttered and lifted from those incredible, gray-green eyes, and Liam’s heart stuttered in his chest. She did not try to prevaricate or misunderstand. She merely said, “Yes.”

  “It is a”—he struggled for words—“profound thing you do.”

  “It is a dangerous thing,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t let her go for a broken arm and a collapsed lung, could I? I couldn’t let her mother lose her.”

  “No.” Liam drew her still closer. He wondered what would happen if his wife’s strange ability became known. He imagined a fearful mob out in Virginia Street throwing rocks through the windows.

  He would die over again before he let anyone harm a hair on her head.

  “The wee lass—will she remember her mother?”

  “I don’t know. She wasn’t dead as long as you.”

  “Does the length of time matter?”

  “I don’t know that either. She’s the only person I’ve raised, besides you.”

  “And that money you gave her mother,” he began. Money Clara could ill afford. Yet he started to learn about this woman he had married.

  She sighed. “We should have the funds we need soon. If Theodore can deal with my grandfather’s lawyer, our dire situation should improve. We will not be affluent, by any means, but the outlook will be much improved.” She stirred. “You can let me go. I feel stronger.”

  “No. I cannot let you go.”

  His lips quested for hers softly and took them without demand. He wanted so badly to give back to her some of what she’d spent in raising the child, and he poured his essence into her like strong drink. What started as an act of mercy soon flared into fire. He felt her catch flame, felt the heat course through him in powerful claiming.

  “Clara,” he whispered into her, “let me take you upstairs and heal you.”

  Her eyes gazed into his, touched him on some level so deep he barely comprehended it. “Shocking, Mr. McMahon. It is the middle of the day.”

  “I don’t care.” He wanted her fragile body naked beneath him, wanted to give to her, and give and give.

  “Is Theodore still here? We must conclude our meeting.”

  “Blast Theodore. Where did he disappear to when you needed him?”

  “I—”

  “Listen to me, Clara. Listen.” He framed her face with his hands. “I will never forsake you. Never. Do you understand?”

  She lifted her fingers to his face and touched him in turn. What did she see in his eyes? The devotion he felt, that coursed through him like his blood?

  Slowly she nodded, and he kissed her again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Madam, the child is at the door. Shall I let her in?” Dax wheezed and clacked the words like a defective teakettle. The boys had not yet had time to overhaul him, beyond giving his battered exterior a quick polish.

  Clara, still at the breakfast table, paused with her teacup balanced between her hands and turned her gaze on her husband. Nearly a week had passed since Cassie was up on her feet and out of Dr. Rogers’ care, her right arm swaddled in plaster. Each day she had haunted the doorstep, a moth to flame.

  Liam treated Clara to a forbidding scowl and grumbled, “Again? I swear by all the saints, I barely have you to myself anymore.”

  How could he say that, when they had only just finished a bout of morning loving before coming down to the table? Indeed, Clara still tingled from his touch.

  She lifted both eyebrows at him and turned back to Dax. “Let her in, please. Her mother will not want her out in the street.”

  Dax trundled off, and Clara shot her husband an apologetic look. Since they were late coming down, all the other children were off about their business. They’d been enjoying a few precious minutes on their own—now ruined. No wonder Liam looked like a thundercloud.

  “Can the child’s mother not keep her to home?” he complained.

  “Cassie’s mother is away at work fifteen hours a day, and Cassie is still confused and in need of company.”

  He said nothing but did not look appeased. Didn’t he understand the responsibility inherent in bringing someone back to life?

  Cassie slid into the room and sidled up to Clara’s chair. The child, so thin and pale as to look almost transparent, fixed Clara with a wide, blue stare. “Morning, miss.”

  “And how are you today, Cassie?” Clara returned. “Any ache in that arm?”

  They had already established during previous visits that Cassie remembered nothing of the accident nor what had happened before. She claimed not to know her mother, either, and called her “the kind woman.” But she certainly knew how to find her way to Clara’s door.

  And, could Clara turn her away when she was Cassie’s one touchstone?

  “Have you had any breakfast, Cassie?”

  “The kind lady gave me some porridge.”

  “Are you hungry still?”

  Cassie shook her head and quietly, determinedly, crawled up into Clara’s lap, where she pressed her face against Clara’s shoulder and clutched the front of her gown. Clara knew from experience how difficult it would be to pry the girl’s little fingers off again.

  Liam muttered disagreeably beneath his breath.

  “What’s that you say?” Clara asked him.

  “Child’s like a damned limpet. Why do you put up with it?”

  “I know what she’s feeling—as should you.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to let her climb all over you.” A sudden thought seemed to strike Liam; he stared at Clara with a new expression in his eyes. “’Tisn’t how you feel about me, is it, when I want to touch
you?”

  How could he even ask, with the memory of the intimacies that had passed between them, not half an hour since, still fresh in both their minds? True, when she married him she had not expected that kind of marriage or, in truth, any intimacies at all. Now she wasn’t sure she could give him up if she tried.

  “Don’t be foolish,” she told him, but he did not look satisfied.

  He parted his lips to reply but never had the chance. The dining room door opened once more. Ruella marched in.

  “Still at your breakfast, are you?” she inquired, sweeping Liam with an appreciative stare. Clara didn’t know how she felt about the way Ruella looked at her husband, as if she wanted to eat him alive. Of course, Ruella had seen Liam naked, a sight difficult for any woman to forget. “Slug-a-beds this morning, were you?”

  “It is barely eight o’clock,” Clara replied. She and Liam had been awake at dawn. He had moved above her, and…

  He looked at her and his eyes gleamed, almost as if he heard her thoughts.

  “And why aren’t you at the jail?” Clara asked Ruella quickly.

  “Finished with serving breakfast there, didn’t I, and came as fast as I could. I have news.”

  Ruella edged a chair out from the table and sat down facing them. Her gaze settled on Cassie. “What’s this, then? A new sprog?”

  “This is Cassie.” Clara spoke above the child’s head. “She had an accident a while ago.”

  “Ah! I did hear tell of a girl miraculously surviving a crash up this way.” Ruella’s slightly protruding eyes studied Clara with interest. “Did you—?”

  “Hush!” Clara gathered Cassie closer. Liam grumbled again.

  “So,” Ruella asked, “she lives here now?”

  “She lives with her mother, who works very hard at a steam laundry. She just needs to be here from time to time.”

  “I see. Well!” Ruella shot a look at Liam. “Appears, Irishman, you’ve some competition for her attention. Bet that puts your nose out of joint.”

  “What’s your news?” he returned disagreeably.

  Recalled to her mission, Ruella leaned across the table and widened her eyes. “Only that it’s happened again.”

  “Eh?”