Loved?
Well, a girl can dream, can’t she?
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it. Please don’t give it another thought.”
“I can’t not give it another thought! He frightened the life out of me when he threatened you.”
“Were you really worried about me?”
She sensed that he’d lifted his head, which had been resting on her hair, and she nodded. She wished she could stay in his arms forever. Since she couldn’t do that, she tilted her head back and looked up at him. She loved him so much.
“I think it’s nice of you to worry about me, Isabel.” His voice was gentle, seductive. It reminded Isabel of velvet and eiderdown and rabbit fur and all the soft things in the world.
“It’s my fault anybody has to worry,” she whispered. Her senses began to quicken, and she was suddenly aware of her body and how it yearned to be snuggled and fondled and stroked. Merciful heavens, she hadn’t felt like this in years. She hadn’t dared.
“Nobody has to worry about anything,” he assured her, his voice a caress she felt through her whole being.
“You think not?” She swallowed, yearning for more, yet afraid of what she thought this embrace might lead to.
“I think so.”
She was right about the leading-to part. Somerset bent his head, Isabel lifted hers, and their lips met in a kiss. It was light at first. Then, as hunger sped through both of them, it became harder, deeper, more urgent. Isabel moaned a little and wasn’t even embarrassed. She pressed against him, feeling the evidence of his arousal against her stomach, and was ever so grateful that the nature of her job precluded her wearing tight corsets and stays. She wanted to feel everything there was to feel for however long this lasted.
“You’re so beautiful,” Somerset murmured, his lips tracing the line of her jaw.
“Mmmm.”
He found a deliciously sensitive spot beneath her ear and kissed her there, then feathered his way to the pulse at the base of her throat. Isabel was glad she’d decided to wear her gray silk dress today, since it had a lower neckline than her other gowns. Somerset’s lips were soft and delightfully warm against her skin. She sighed and wished he’d continue doing that for an hour or two.
“I’ve been wanting to see your hair down, Isabel,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck. “You have beautiful hair.”
“Mmmm,” said Isabel. And, since he’d reminded her, she lifted one of her hands to the nape of his neck and allowed her fingers to burrow into his own thick, brown curls. He had perfectly glorious hair. She wondered if he’d go bald eventually and decided she didn’t care. “You have a perfect head, Somerset.”
“Thank you.”
She felt him chuckle and guessed he’d never considered the shape of his head before this. “Some men’s heads aren’t as well-shaped as yours,” she said by way of explanation. “My uncle Charlie was interested in phrenology.”
“Ah. Well, I think your head is absolutely beautiful, Isabel.”
“Thank you.”
His hands lifted to her waist and a little higher, until they spanned her back and barely touched the undersides of her breasts. She hoped he didn’t hear her quick intake of breath, because she didn’t want him to stop what he was doing.
“You’re so little,” he whispered. “My hands can almost fit around your waist.”
“Mmmm.” To the devil with her waist. She wanted his hands on her breasts. The word abandoned filtered into her head, and Isabel tried to shove it out again. It wouldn’t go.
Very well, then, she was an abandoned woman, just like they all used to whisper behind her back in Upper Poppleton. At this moment she didn’t give a curse, which probably confirmed everyone’s opinion.
A pounding at the front door made them both start and leap away from each other. Somerset stared at Isabel, who stared back at him. Isabel thought he looked approximately as stunned as she felt, and was glad. She didn’t want to be the only one. Another racket at the front door brought Somerset out of his stupor, although Isabel still felt like a limp rag. An unfulfilled limp rag.
He said, “I . . . I . . .” He shook his head hard. “I’d better see who’s at the door. I think Mrs. Prendergast is—”
“The door!” Isabel cried, the last vestiges of her lust vanishing in a wave of terror. “No! Don’t go! Let me get it!”
“But . . .”
Without allowing him to finish his sentence, Isabel dashed through the parlor doorway and barreled to the front door. She nearly upended Mrs. Prendergast, who hadn’t done whatever Somerset had feared she’d done and was heading to do her duty by answering the door.
Afraid with all her heart that Jorge had discovered Somerset’s address and was standing outside his house with a loaded revolver or a saber or a big rock or something, Isabel beat the housekeeper to it. She flung the door open, ready—no, eager—to take the knife or bullet or pounding meant for Somerset. It was her fault he was in danger, after all. Her senses raged at a fever pitch, her emotions roiled, and it took her a second to reconcile the person standing at the door to her mental image of her knife-wielding, revolver-toting, or rock-brandishing Argentine dancing partner.
She blinked. “Marcus?”
“We found out what happened to him, Mrs. Golightly,” said the little man standing at the door, holding his soft cap in his hands and grinning at Isabel with teeth that resembled a tumble-down picket fence that hadn’t been painted in a few years.
“To . . . to . . .” Isabel gave herself a mental slap and commanded herself to pay attention. “I beg your pardon, Marcus. Won’t you . . .”
Remembering that this wasn’t her home and that it wasn’t her place to invite people inside, she looked back to see if Mrs. Prendergast was still in the hall. She wasn’t, but Somerset was.
“What’s going on?” he asked mildly.
Isabel noted with alarm that she’d seriously mussed his hair. She hoped his housekeeper hadn’t noticed or that, if she had, she could think of some way other than a heated embrace that had made it so. She cleared her throat. “Somerset—” Isabel gave herself another hard mental slap. “I mean, Mr. FitzRoy, this is Marcus McKnight. He works for Mr. Balderston, and he says they’ve discovered Jorge’s whereabouts.”
“Well, now, Mrs. Golightly,” said Marcus. “I didn’t rightly say that.”
She stared at him, then, confused, turned back to Somerset. “Er . . . may Mr. McKnight come in and tell us about it?”
Lord, she hoped her own hair didn’t look like that. Somerset had commented upon it. Had he pulled out any pins? She couldn’t remember. She wished she could pat it and check, but didn’t want to call attention to it if it was disheveled.
“I beg your pardon?” Somerset, too, blinked at the small man waiting patiently at his front door. After a moment of apparent stupefaction, he shook himself. “Of course! Come right in, Mr. McKnight. Mrs. Golightly has been very worried about Mr. Savedra.”
“I reckon we all was,” said Marcus, stumping into the house. “Grand place you got here, Mr. FitzRoy.”
“Thank you.” Somerset looked at Isabel, who looked back at him, wishing Marcus to hell. Then he said, “Er, won’t you . . . um . . . hang up your cap there?” He gestured at a hat rack next to the door.
“Thankee.” Marcus complied.
“Why don’t you come into the parlor here and tell us what you’ve discovered.” With a gesture, Somerset indicated which room was the parlor.
“Thankee, thankee.” With a knowing grin—Isabel wished she could trip him—Marcus followed Somerset’s lead into the parlor.
“Take a seat, Mr. McKnight,” said Somerset, regaining his composure at last.
Isabel wished hers would come back. She felt as though Marcus had found her and Somerset in flagrante dilecto, when the unhappy truth was that he had interrupted a torrid embrace that hadn’t even gone so far as removal of a single piece of clothing.
“Would you care for a glass of
sherry?” Somerset offered. “Or perhaps you’d prefer brandy?” He poured out a hefty tot of brandy and downed it before turning to see if Marcus aimed to accept his offer.
“Brandy would be swell, thankee.” Marcus sat on a sofa that matched the chairs. Isabel adored Somerset’s furniture, although Marcus looked somewhat out of place on it.
Somerset poured out another glass and glanced at Isabel. “Mrs. Golightly?”
She shook her head and murmured, “No, thank you.” Because she felt ostentatious standing in the middle of the room, she went to the chair she’d occupied earlier and sat.
After pouring another for himself, Somerset brought Marcus’s brandy to him. Taking the chair next to Isabel, he said, smiling as if nothing of a passionate nature had transpired in the room only minutes earlier. “There, now, Mr. McKnight. Tell us what happened to Mr. Savedra, if you will.”
“Glad to.” Marcus took a healthy swig of his brandy. “Danged if the ferrin devil waren’t shanghaied.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Shanghaied?” Somerset’s mouth fell open.
Isabel glanced from Somerset to Marcus and back again. “I . . . I . . .” She swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
Marcus tried to enlighten her. “He were shanghaied. Took. ‘Pressed. Kidnapped. Seized.”
Totally perplexed, Isabel looked to Somerset for help.
“According to Mr. McKnight, Mr. Savedra was impressed into military or merchant service of one sort or another.” He squinted at Marcus. “I didn’t know they still did that. You know, impress people into the merchant marine or the navy or whatever.”
“Good Lord.” Isabel stared at Somerset, flabbergasted. “Jorge?” She wanted to ask Who’d want him? but it sounded rude, so she didn’t.
Marcus shrugged. “He’s a ferriner. I guess they got their own rules. Accordin’ to Jake, it was an Argentine steamer took him. Jack watched it. Couldn’t stop ‘em, ‘cause there was too many of ‘em. But Jorge, he was drunk as a sailor. Never saw him drunk before, neither, but accordin’ to Jake, he was drunker’n a skunk.”
Isabel pressed a hand to her cheek. Had her refusal of his marriage proposal pushed Jorge to drink? Guilt slithered up her spine like a venomous snake.
“He was drinkin’ at a bar down to the Barbary Coast and I guess he was singin’ up a storm. Jake saw a couple o’ Chinks along with some bully-boys come in and take him off. Just like that.” Marcus snapped his fingers. “Drug him up the gangplank, pulled it in after him, and the last Jake seen of him, he was trying to teach them same two Chinks how to dance the tango, and they was starin’ at him as if they thought he was loony.” He laughed. “Dang, I wish I coulda seen it.”
Unable to think of a single thing to say, Isabel only sat there, her gaze ricocheting between Marcus and Somerset, her brain a jumble of incoherent thoughts. Primary among them was the idea that she had caused Jorge’s descent into the peril of drink, leading him directly to the hands of the Argentine sailors. Which brought her up short for a moment.
Her attention fastening on Marcus, she said, “I thought you said it was an Argentine vessel. Why did Chinese people take him?”
Marcus shrugged. “Reckon they work fer the Argentines. Them sailors, they come from all over.”
“Oh.” She glanced helplessly at Somerset.
“Interesting,” he said, and downed the rest of his brandy.
“Interesting? But we have to get him back! We can’t let him be snatched from American soil and made to work aboard a horrid ship!”
“Offhand, I don’t know what we can do about it.”
“But—but . . . Oh, my Lord, can you imagine Jorge as a sailor?”
“No.”
Somerset didn’t seem nearly as upset by this dreadful incident as he should, in Isabel’s opinion. She said sharply, “I don’t know, either, but we must think of something! We can’t allow this—this—kidnapping to take place. Why, it’s unchristian! It must be against the law.”
Frowning, Somerset said, “I don’t know if it is or not. I know they used to shanghai people all the time off the Barbary Coast. In the old days. Didn’t know the practice was still done. I suppose I can call the police and find out.”
Isabel brightened. “Oh, yes, please do! Thank you, Somer—er—Mr. FitzRoy.”
With a sigh, Somerset rose to his feet. “The telephone’s in a room off the hall.” He made a vague gesture eastward. “I’ll be right back.”
Isabel sat and fidgeted while Somerset was out of the room. Marcus sat, drank, and took in the luxury and exquisite tastefulness surrounding him. “Swell place,” he muttered after a while.
“Yes,” said Isabel, sparing a glance for the furnishings. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
With a sly squint, Marcus said, “I didn’t rightly expect to find you answerin’ the door here, Mrs. Golightly. Mr. Balderston called up a couple of folks, and one of ‘em said for me to come here, but I didn’t expect you to be here.”
Blast the man. And blast Loretta or whomever it had been who’d thought she might be at Somerset’s house. “Yes, well, Mr. Savedra had said something that made me think he might have gone to Mr. Somerset’s house, so I came here hoping to find him.”
“Uh.” Marcus nodded, still looking sly.
He didn’t believe her. Bloody hell. Isabel didn’t bother to correct her mental profanity, believing she deserved a few curse words at this time. Hoping to get Marcus’s mind to veer in a different direction, she said, “I can’t believe Jorge has been taken like that. I had no idea such things were done in this modern day and age. For heaven’s sake, it’s the twentieth century.”
Her ploy succeeded. Nodding energetically, Marcus said, “Yup. Use’t be a lot o’ shanghai-in’ done in the old days.” He grinned in fond remembrance. “I like to be took once myself. Ain’t drunk much ever since then, ‘cause it skeered me so bad.”
Isabel, for the first time considering joining Loretta’s Temperance League, murmured, “Then, in your case, I guess everything turned out for the best.”
“I expect so. I ain’t much never liked the sea.”
A sudden memory of a black, icy ocean, made Isabel shudder. “No. I’m not fond of the sea, either.”
Marcus stopped grinning. “Sorry, ma’am. I fergot about you bein’ on that ship what sunk. That was a turrible thing. Turrible.”
“Yes,” she said, striving to drive out the mental images. “It was.”
“But I expect Jorge’ll be all right. I think that ship he was on was headin’ straight to Argenteeny, so mebbe he can get it all straightened out when he gets there.”
“I hope so. I can’t really feature Jorge as a sailor.”
Marcus shook his head. “No, ma’am. Nuther can I. I never seen nobody acted less like a sailor than that feller. Sure could dance, though.”
“Yes, he sure could.” Isabel sighed, her mind returning to the dance contest as a person’s tongue will probe a sore tooth. The contest would be upon her in another two weeks, and then what? Would Jorge’s troubles be solved by then? Even if the ship went straight to Argentina, would he be able to get back to San Francisco in two weeks’ time?
Of course not. Isabel told herself not to be a dreamer and a fool. There was no hope for winning that contest money now.
Suppressing a sudden urge to sob out loud, she thought savagely that she ought to have accepted Jorge’s proposal. Even if she’d had to break the engagement later—and she would be boiled in oil before she’d marry a man like Jorge Savedra—she’d still have been able to enter the contest and win the money to start up her dance studio. Of course, Jorge would probably shoot, stab, or bash her then, but at least she could have tried to establish herself.
Now . . . Well, now she was doomed, was what.
Somerset entered the room, and Isabel glanced up to see if he’d fixed his hair. He hadn’t, but he looked calm and in control of himself once more. She guessed that was a good thing.
“I told the police departm
ent what happened, and they said they’d look into it. I don’t know if they’ll be able to do anything, though. The ship is already on the water and probably beyond the United States’ three-mile limit by this time.”
Isabel slumped in the chair. “Oh, dear.” She shook her head and wrung her hands, feeling simply awful.
Somerset sat down in the chair next to her, reached across the table, and took her hands in his. “Try not to worry about him, Isabel. I’ll keep on top of the situation with the police, and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
She felt foolish when tears flooded her eyes. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
They both jumped when Marcus cleared his throat. Isabel didn’t know about Somerset, but she’d forgotten all about Marcus. “Well, then, I reckon I’ll go back to the Fairfield, folks.” He rose and grinned at them. Isabel snatched her hands from Somerset’s grasp and rose, too. “You comin’ back to the hotel, Mrs. Golightly?”
“I . . .” Good Lord, she didn’t know what to do. “I don’t know.”
Like the gentleman he was, Somerset came to her rescue. “Mrs. Golightly can’t return to the Fairfield this evening, Mr. McKnight. I’m sure Mr. Balderston will understand that she’s upset by this news. Besides, the other half of her act is on his way to Argentina.”
Marcus scratched his stubbly chin. “You got a point there, Mr. FitzRoy.”
“Oh, dear.” Bleakness began crawling through Isabel, chilling her. Where, only minutes earlier, she’d been in the throes of romantic ecstasy, now she felt alone and bereft. “I just don’t know what to do.”
Somerset stood up, too, and patted her shoulder in a brotherly fashion. She’d have worried about that if she weren’t already worrying about so many other things. “I’ll help you, Isabel. I’m sure that between us, we can figure out what to do.”
“But the act at the Fairfield,” she whispered unhappily. “Without Jorge, there’s no more act.”
“We’ll work something out,” Somerset said.
She gazed at him and wanted to shout how? but knew that was only her nerves reacting. Perhaps he really would think of some way to salvage her job at the hotel. Or perhaps she’d be scrubbing floors in other people’s houses soon. Or training for a nurse. That would be better than char work.
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