Angelfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  “Aye, Molly,” he freely admitted. “I did that for a fact.”

  The girl cooed as she closed the door. “Ooooooh, but it’s some lovely!”

  To Bliss’s way of thinking, that dress might as well have been walking around on its own, with nobody inside it, for all the notice that was being taken of her presence. “Hello,” she said firmly. “My name is Bliss Stafford McKenna and—”

  The maid’s giggles pealed in the entryway like shrill little bells, and she covered her mouth with one hand and disappeared, calling out, “’E’s back, missus. Mr. Jamie’s back, and ’e’s got a lady with ’im!”

  “She noticed,” Bliss marveled, half to herself, as Jamie smiled at her. He walked right into the drawing room, without so much as an invitation or a by-your-leave from anyone, and made himself at home.

  Bliss hesitated, then followed. Jamie took off his cutaway coat, tossed it negligently over the back of a settee, and then sat down in a leather chair, putting his feet up on the hassock. A crystal jar full of cheroots rested on the small table beside him; he took one, along with a wooden match, and began to smoke.

  “It’s customary,” Bliss pointed out stiffly, “to consult your hostess before smoking in her house.”

  “Not in this case,” Jamie replied, unruffled, and then he gave a lusty sigh of contentment. “If I asked Peony, she would say no.”

  Bliss hated to agree with Peony about anything, but she despised cigar smoke herself. “If she doesn’t allow smoking,” Bliss reasoned, gesturing toward the crystal decanter, “why does she provide the materials?”

  Jamie smiled. “This is Molly’s work. She’s the one sees that I ’ave what I need when I visit.”

  Bliss felt the color drain from her face. Of course. This house was home to Jamie. That explained why he’d sought out this room, this chair. Utter despair possessed her as various pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

  There was a lump in Bliss’s throat but, nonetheless, she tried to speak normally. Running one hand over the glistening white keys of a grand piano, which stood in a far corner of the room, she assessed Jamie’s razor-sharp trouser crease and white linen shirt. “You came here to change into those clothes, didn’t you?” she asked, and despite her efforts, her voice sounded small and weak. Jamie had only everyday trousers and shirts at the hotel, the kind of things he would have worn to shear sheep.

  He was just opening his mouth to respond when Peony waltzed into the room, looking quite delicious in pink and white silk. When Jamie would have risen—he’d never once shown that kind of courtesy to Bliss—the stunning blonde pressed him back into his chair by laying one white, graceful hand to his shoulder.

  “Relax, Jamie love. And do put out that nasty cheroot.” With hardly a breath, Peony turned to face Bliss, giving her a charitable smile. “Why, Bliss,” she said, “you look wonderful in that shade of blue!”

  It did seem that Mrs. Ryan was sincere, but Bliss was on her guard all the same. The question that puzzled her most was whether Jamie was keeping Mrs. Ryan or Mrs. Ryan was keeping him. It was not the sort of dilemma she’d ever expected to face.

  She frowned, perplexed. “Thank you,” she answered belatedly.

  “Well,” Peony chimed, consulting a watch pinned to her bodice. The face was cleverly hidden behind a cameo. “If we’re going to be at the opera by curtain time, we’d best eat.”

  Bliss was all for that. It had been a long time since lunch.

  Tea was served in a formal dining room, and just getting there was an ordeal of the soul. Since there were two women and only one man, Jamie had to choose whom to escort to her chair first, and he chose Peony.

  Bliss didn’t wait to see if he’d come back for her; she walked in and seated herself.

  Jamie’s eyes were dancing as he drew back the chair beside hers, which conveniently put him between herself and Peony, and sat down. “In a rush, Duchess?” he teased, under his breath.

  “I’m fair starving,” Bliss replied. Unfortunately, the words carried and elicited an indulgent smile from Mrs. Ryan.

  The meal itself offered other agonies. Small roasted fowls were served by the giggling Molly—a whole one for each person at the table—and Bliss didn’t know the proper way to eat them. At home, she would simply have torn the food apart with her fingers, but here, in a rich woman’s house . . .

  She watched Peony for a clue, not trusting Jamie’s manners to be any better than her own. Finally, after dallying over her wine and discussing the prices of wool and gold with Jamie, Mrs. Ryan took up her knife and fork and began neatly dissecting her fowl.

  Ravenous, Bliss nevertheless contented herself with tiny bites removed with surgical delicacy. Of course, long before she’d satisfied her appetite, Jamie and Peony had pushed away their plates. As if on cue, Molly swept in and took away everyone’s dishes—Bliss having her fork halfway between her plate and her mouth—and returned with skimpy little bowls of tired-looking fruit.

  Bliss’s mood, never improved by hunger, went from bad to worse. If Jamie and Peony were going to talk about some stupid gold mine in Australia forever, they might at least make a halfhearted effort to include her in the discussion.

  “I’ve never been to an opera,” she announced bravely, wanting to remind them that she was present.

  It was Peony who looked chagrined, oddly enough. Jamie only sighed and said, “You ’aven’t missed much, Duchess,” then went back to talking about sluicing ore and buying low and selling high.

  “Any idiot knows that you buy low and sell high,” Bliss put in, leaving that strange process called sluicing for greater minds than hers.

  Peony gave a joyous squeal of laughter and clapped her hands together in what seemed to be genuine delight. If she lived to be a thousand, Bliss reflected, she was never going to understand this woman. Didn’t it matter to Peony that she and Bliss both loved the same man?

  “Enough talk about business,” she said, consulting the watch behind her cameo broach again. “It’s time we left for the opera house.”

  Jamie rolled his eyes and tossed his napkin onto the table. “If you were a true friend,” he muttered to Peony, in an irascible tone, “you wouldn’t put a man through this kind of grief.”

  Peony was smiling, unmoved by Jamie’s lack of enthusiasm. “Quit fussing. I think Bliss will enjoy this evening very much.”

  Bliss had her doubts. She was still mourning her half-eaten roast chicken.

  Twenty minutes later, the carriage pulled up in front of an enormous building with a glittering facade. Other rigs and people in fine garments were everywhere, and Bliss forgot her problems, temporarily, as she tried to take in everything.

  The inside of the opera house reminded her of the lobby at the hotel, except that this place was even grander. The chandeliers were massive, made up of thousands of glittering bits of crystal, the carpets were plush, and the paintings on the walls were framed in gilt.

  Her first close look at the paintings brought rich color to her face and a muttered exclamation to her lips. “They’re naked!” she marveled.

  Jamie grinned, looking up at a Rubenesque female lounging among stone pillars and various kinds of pottery. “She’s a lot of woman, I’ll say that for ’er.”

  Bliss’s lesson in sophistication was just beginning. After a while, an orchestra began to play and huge double doors leading to the auditorium itself were opened.

  Mrs. Ryan, Jamie, and Bliss were soon settled in a private box. The little swinging door bore a brass plate with Peony’s late husband’s name engraved on it.

  Program in hand, Bliss committed herself to absorbing every nuance of this special evening. She tilted her head back and studied the beautifully ornate ceiling, with its intricate cherubs, birds, and flowers. She examined the heavy stage curtain, of scarlet velvet, with its golden fringe shimmering in the glow of the gas footlights. She scrutinized the occupants of the orchestra pit down front, thrilled by their music, and only as the lights were lowered for the p
erformance to begin did she realize that Jamie was watching her with the most peculiar expression in his eyes.

  The orchestra played with a new intensity as the curtain swept back to reveal a Viking scene. Bliss was on the edge of her seat when a man wearing nothing more than a metal band around his head and a loincloth began to sing in a foreign language.

  Bliss’s mouth fell open.

  There was laughter in Jamie’s voice as he bent close to whisper, “What’s the matter, Duchess? ’Aven’t you ever seen an Italian Viking?”

  Bliss had never seen any kind of Viking, and she was boggled. “Glory be!” she whispered, and her eyes went so wide that they hurt. How she wished she could understand what that man was singing about with such fervor. And his voice! Why, it was fairly strong enough to bring all those angels and birds and flowers right down from the ceiling.

  Bliss squirmed in her seat and looked uncomfortably up into the darkness.

  Jamie chuckled, as if he knew what she was thinking, and then his hand reached out and closed over hers. A sweet thrill went through Bliss at his touch, and she didn’t pull away, but she did bend forward and try to peer around him to see if he was holding Peony’s hand as well.

  On stage, the Vikings fought and died and sang fit to wear out a person’s eyes and ears. Then there was an intermission, during which everyone went to the lobby and drank orange juice. Bliss meant to write everything down the second she had the chance; she didn’t see how she could remember it all if she didn’t put pen to paper, and she did so want to remember.

  Jamie was watching her drink her orange juice with that same odd intensity in his eyes that she’d noticed earlier. He looked as though he wanted to spread jam and cream all over her, like a scone, and eat her up.

  Bliss trembled at the sensations the thought produced, and then it was time to go back to the box and watch the rest of the opera.

  It ended magnificently, Bliss thought, with an enormous woman singing at the top of her lungs and waving a sword. She had a horned helmet on her head and carried a shield in her free arm.

  “I do have my misgivings,” she confided to Jamie in a whisper, “about any country that expects its women to do the fighting.”

  Jamie laughed and shook his head and Bliss turned her attention back to the stage. The singer’s thick, snow-white braids glimmered in the stage lights, and she wondered if they were real or attached to the horned helmet. Jamie was back to shifting uncomfortably in his seat, as he’d been doing intermittently all evening.

  Before Bliss could see what the fat lady did with the sword, the audience rose to its feet, clapping. The tall man in front of Bliss blocked her view of the stage.

  “Thank God that’s over,” Jamie muttered, and both Peony and Bliss glared at him.

  Bliss felt expanded by the evening’s experience. Now she was something more than a lighthouse keeper’s daughter who had never been anywhere or seen anything. “You just don’t have any appreciation for culture, that’s all,” she told Jamie in lofty tones.

  “Amen,” agreed Peony.

  The first thing Jamie did when he and Bliss returned to the hotel was empty a packet of headache powders into a glass of water and drink the concoction right down.

  “I didn’t see what the fat lady did with her sword,” Bliss complained, sitting down on the edge of the bed to kick off her blue satin slippers, which were beginning to pinch.

  “If she asked,” Jamie responded dryly, “I’d be ’appy to tell her what to do with that damn sword.”

  Bliss began to smile, but then she remembered Mrs. Minerva Wilmington’s calling card, tucked away in her handbag, and a feeling of desolation swept over her. America seemed so very far away.

  Jamie had noted the change in her expression, and he crossed the room to tuck one finger under her chin and lift it. Though his gaze was tender, that besotted look was no longer in evidence. “What is it, Duchess?” he asked. “Peony?”

  Bliss had honestly forgotten about her husband’s mistress, as incredible as that seemed, but she was quick to grasp an acceptable excuse for her mood. After all, she couldn’t very well just blurt out that she was feeling sad at the idea of running away to the States.

  She sniffed haughtily. “Perhaps,” she conceded, unwilling to commit herself completely.

  Jamie laughed and drew her to her feet, then held her close. Bliss felt herself flush with heat as now-familiar reactions to such intimate contact went through her body.

  “You were a wonder in the carriage tonight,” he whispered, his lips so close to hers that she could feel their softness, power, and warmth. “I thought I’d surely die of the pleasure, Duchess.”

  Bliss’s cheeks were hot, no doubt making her freckles stand out on her face like dabs of brown paint, but she took a certain pride in knowing that she’d won such a confession from Jamie. He rarely spoke of his feelings.

  The room seemed to dip and undulate and spin, all at once, as Jamie kissed her. His tongue explored the depths of her mouth and his hands cupped her bottom, pressing her close so that she could not help knowing the extent of his desire.

  Bliss was ready to surrender fully when a sudden, insistent pounding began at the outer door of the suite. Muttering a string of curses, Jamie made sure his shirttails were still tucked into his trousers and went to answer. Weak in the knees, Bliss sank to the edge of the bed, struggling to breathe properly again, and listened with only half an ear to the exchange at the door.

  She had gathered only that it concerned Peony when there was a slamming sound and Jamie came back to the bedroom, fairly tearing off his fancy linen shirt as he moved. Bliss was stunned to see that he’d been wearing his knife and scabbard, even with his evening clothes.

  Jamie swore all the while he was changing into his customary rough trousers, cotton shirt, and boots.

  “What. .. ?” Bliss finally managed as a beginning, having just then fully recovered from the kiss he’d given her earlier.

  Jamie spat another colorful string of oaths, then stormed out in search of his hat and his sheepskin coat. “When I get me ’ands on that bleedin’ coward—” he vowed through his teeth.

  Bliss knew that Jamie was going to storm out without telling her anything if she didn’t stop him. Barefoot, she ran after him, watching wide-eyed as he settled the familiar leather hat on his head.

  “Jamie, what’s happening?” she demanded. “Where are you going?”

  Jamie’s finger waggled before Bliss’s nose; she had never seen him look quite so firm in his opinions. “You stay ’ere until I come back, Duchess,” he ordered, not even bothering to answer her questions. “No matter ’ow long that takes, you don’t go climbin’ out any windows, you ’ear me?”

  Bliss nodded and bit her lower lip. She felt terribly afraid, but not of Jamie. It was the mysterious something or someone he was going out to do battle with that terrified her.

  His expression softened a little, and he gave her a hasty kiss on the forehead, but no explanations were forthcoming. Jamie left the hotel room and locked the door behind him.

  Bliss began to pace, hugging herself against a chill that came not from the air around her, but from deep within. Her every instinct screamed that Jamie was in worse trouble now than ever before.

  “I’m all right,” Peony insisted. “George should never have gone running to you that way—”

  Jamie was prowling back and forth along the edge of Peony’s drawing-room hearth, too furious to stand still. “All right, are you? You get a letter delivered by way of a brick through your parlor window, and you’re ’all right’!”

  Peony’s lovely green eyes were shadowed by fear and weariness as she looked at the bit of paper lying crumpled on the table beside her chair. “Jamie,” she said with quiet patience, “go back to the hotel and look after Bliss. I’m perfectly safe.”

  Jamie glanced at the note he knew by heart. Tell your mick lover that I’m not through with him yet. The debt has come due and I’ll be collecting soon—with inte
rest.

  He swore, pulled his hat on, then whipped it off again and threw it across the room, bellowing, “Damn that bleeder!”

  Peony sighed. “Cursing Increase will do no good. We both knew he’d catch up with us one day.”

  Jamie jammed splayed fingers through his hair. God, but the worst part was the waiting—for Increase to show himself, to make another move. Ah yes, the old man remembered how Jamie McKenna hated to stand by, helpless.

  “Go and look after your wife, Jamie,” Peony insisted softly. “Please. If Increase has learned how you feel—”

  “She’s locked in,” Jamie said flatly, going to recover his hat from where he’d flung it. “All the same, I’d feel better keepin’ an eye on ’er. Tell Molly to gather whatever you need for the night, Peony—you’re going to the ’otel with me. And no arguments!”

  Peony, who had opened her mouth while Jamie was speaking, closed it again, then reached out to pull a bell cord.

  Molly, looking shaken and white, appeared within moments. “You goin’ to call for the police now, missus?” she asked anxiously.

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough for that,” Peony said wearily. “Whoever threw that brick is long gone by now, I’m sure—”

  Jamie broke in. “Pack up some things for Mrs. Ryan, Molly. She’ll be away tonight.”

  Molly swallowed hard. “Yes, sir,” she said, with a little curtsy, her eyes dodging to Peony. “May I go to me sister’s, mum? I’d feel real scared, stayin’ on ’ere alone.”

  “Certainly,” Peony said gently, and Jamie ached with the special affection he bore her. She had a gift, Peony Ryan did, for giving tenderness when and where it was most needed. “We’ll drive you there in the carriage.”

  Jamie, having collected his hat, took up the crumpled note, folding it carefully, and tucked it into his coat pocket. He hoped it wouldn’t be long before Increase tipped his hand.

  When Bliss dreamed, it was usually of Jamie’s lovemaking or the color and scent of the blue, blue sea, chattering at the rocks and sand of the shore. Or of America as she imagined it to be, and the wonderful life her mother was living there. Occasionally, however, the dark dream came to call, to show her that it would not be forgotten.