Marjorie huffed.
“—but do you think you could take up residence in the room next to Jia Lee’s for a couple of days? Just until she’s out of the woods?”
“And how, pray, will I know if the woman’s out of the woods?” Marjorie regretted her harsh tone as soon as she saw Jason’s expression stiffen. She wasn’t really a hardhearted woman. Truly, she wasn’t. But she became so flustered when anything out of the ordinary happened, that . . .
No. There was no excuse for her attitude. Again, shame washed over her. Her gaze dropped to the table, where she tried to ignore the fact that Jason’s hand still held hers.
“You can report to me, for one thing.” Jason’s own tone was as hard as steel.
Her gaze passing between the two, Loretta said, “Would you mind sleeping down here for a few days, Marjorie? It probably shouldn’t take longer than that for us to be sure the poor thing is out of danger. I’d do it myself—”
“The hell you would,” growled her loving husband.
Loretta smiled at him. “Well, I can’t, because of the babies.”
“And me,” grumbled Malachai.
“And you,” agreed Loretta.
“I dinna mind at all,” said Marjorie, wishing she could erase her prior question. “And I’ll stay for as long as need be. After all, if anyone does come looking for her, someone ought to be with the poor thing.”
Jason’s hand tightened painfully around hers. “No.”
Confused, Marjorie frowned at him. “No? But you just said . . .”
“I know what I just said, damn it, but I don’t want to put you in danger.”
You should have thought about danger long before this. Marjorie bit her tongue and didn’t say it.
“Fudge,” said Loretta. “Nobody’s going to sneak into my house and kidnap the girl.” She laughed merrily. “That’s absurd, Jason. There’s not a chance in the world that anyone will suspect us of harboring the poor thing. And even if they do, how can they gain entry? They’d have to scale that huge wrought-iron fence and then break into the house. I do keep it locked up at night, you know.”
Jason’s smile was faint and rather sickly.
Marjorie wished she believed it.
# # #
Rehearsals for the Pirates of Penzance went very well. Mr. Proctor, who made a delightfully stuffy and very funny Major General, called various segments of the cast together on Monday and Thursday evenings and Saturday afternoons.
More often than not, Marjorie and Jason were called to rehearse at the same time, thereby enabling Marjorie to give Jason regular reports on Jia Lee’s recovery. Jason didn’t want to be seen visiting Loretta’s house more than he normally did, since he was known to have rescued Jia Lee from the rival factions, and he didn’t want anyone to suspect he’d taken her to Loretta’s.
During the scene they were rehearsing this evening, the last one, the Pirate King has just confessed to theft. Pursing his lips comically, Mr. Proctor looked suitably prim and fussy when he condemned Jason and his pirate cohorts to prison. Mrs. Proctor, as Ruth, charged into the fray.
In her role as Mabel, Marjorie stood with her hands clasped to her bosom, her eyes wide, her posture fairly shrieking maidenly innocence as she watched the scene unfold.
“‘For they are all gentlemen’s sons who have gone wrong!’” Mrs. Proctor sang, flinging out her hand toward the pirate mob.
At once, Jason, without his prop top hat but faking for all he was worth, adopted a pose. Marjorie was hard put not to giggle, he played the role so well as he strutted out toward the stage’s apron, singing a refrain of Mrs. Proctor’s announcement. When he got there, he sidled slightly toward Marjorie and mouthed, “How’s the lotus?”
Lotus had become a code word for Jia Lee. Sometimes Marjorie felt as if she’d become involved in a plot from a Fu Manchu novel. “Better. Her ankle is still awfully black and blue, but the swelling is going down.”
With his nose in the air in stereotypically snobbish fashion, Jason said, “Good,” an instant before he broke out singing again. This time, because it was written thus, Marjorie and the rest of the cast joined him.
Hamilton St. Claire, in his role as Frederic, clasped Marjorie to his side and whispered, “What are you two so cozy about?”
Shocked, Marjorie would have turned to stare at him, except that she was supposed to be Mabel. “‘Poor wand’ring one,’” sang she, hissing as she drew breath to continue her song, “We’re not!”
“Huh.” Hamilton swirled her off into a waltz that had been choreographed by Mr. Potter. “Listen, Marjorie, I don’t think that fellow is on the up and up.”
“You what?” Marjorie could scarcely believe her ears. In all the years she’d been acquainted with Jason she’d known him for a tease, an irreverent joke smith, and a frustrating fellow who laughed at the most important things, but she’d never once considered him in any way disreputable. “Don’t be silly.”
“No, no,” Hamilton insisted. “There’s something shady about him.”
“That’s ridiculous.” They stopped center stage, Hamilton released her, and Marjorie began her final aria, gasping slightly because of the dance and her conversation.
Behind her, Jason whispered, “I’ll come over late tonight to examine her.”
She gave the slightest of nods, wishing all the men in her life would leave her alone so she could concentrate on her solo. Then she almost spoiled the song entirely by laughing at the thought of herself with “men in her life.”
Again the cast broke into a waltz, and Marjorie found herself in Hamilton’s arms. “Say, Marjorie, are you sweet on that fellow? Because if you are—”
“What?”
She’d shrieked the word, and several people hesitated in the dance, causing a brief pile-up on the stage. Most of the cast turned their heads to stare at her, including Jason and his dancing partner, who happened to be Ginger Collins, much to Marjorie’s disgust.
Lowering her voice to a furious whisper, she said, “Are you daft, Hamilton St. Claire? What kind of question is that to ask a lady?”
Sounding sulky, Hamilton said, “I only wondered. After all, you must know by this time that I’m . . . interested in you myself.”
“You are?” Astounded by this news, Marjorie forgot her own footing, and nearly caused them both to fall over.
“Well, of course, I am!” Now Hamilton sounded more angry than sulky. “Why else would I be paying you so much attention?”
Had he been paying her particular attention? Marjorie tried to think back upon their interactions during the last couple of weeks, but she was out of breath and surprised, and her mind couldn’t wrap itself around the problem.
Fortunately, the grand finale was upon them, and with a flood of music, the entire cast hit their marks for the last pose. Hamilton clutched Marjorie in a comical embrace. Jason, doing likewise with Ginger, dipped her so low, she giggled. Marjorie was not amused. Jason had no business flirting with Ginger Collins when so many awful things were happening. Anyhow, as far as Marjorie knew, he didn’t even like the woman.
She wasn’t able to think about it after the music ended, because Mr. Proctor clapped his hands to get the cast’s attention. “That was better,” he panted. “But we need to be much smoother in the dance.” He turned to Marjorie. “Was there some problem, Miss MacTavish?”
“Problem? Er . . . Why no.” Yes, there had been a problem, Marjorie thought angrily. Two infernal men kept talking to her when she was trying to concentrate on her role. Naturally, she didn’t say that.
“Well,” Mr. Proctor said, his voice kind, “Do try to keep yourself focused, will you, Miss MacTavish? You’re very important to the production, you know.” He gave her a knowing smile.
Ginger tee-heed.
Marjorie wanted to belt Ginger first, then Hamilton, and then Jason. Ultimately, however, the entire bobble could most properly be laid at Jason’s feet. Perhaps she should belt him first.
# # #
Jason couldn’t understand why Marjorie had acted so peeved with him after rehearsal. He hadn’t done a thing to rile her, had he? He hadn’t teased her for going on weeks now.
Oh, very well, perhaps it had been days. He was appreciative of her efforts at nursing Jia Lee, and of her singing in the role of Mabel. She was the best Mabel he’d ever heard, actually, and was displaying a streak for comedy that he’d never have guessed existed. He was doing an exceptionally splendid job in his role as Pirate King, too, dash it. So what the devil was the matter with Marjorie?
Mai never used to be unreasonable like this.
Mai worshiped you as her savior, a little voice in his head whispered. The voice annoyed him. It had been interrupting his peace quite often of late.
It was also wrong. Or . . . well, perhaps Mai had been grateful to him, but that was only normal. He and she had adored each other. Theirs had been a love unequaled in the annals of humankind.
You loved her, the pesky voice said. She would have loved anyone who rescued her.
Now, Jason knew that wasn’t true.
At least, he thought it wasn’t true.
Anyhow, so what?
So, wouldn’t it be nice if a woman in full possession of her freedom and free will chose to love you? the voice asked. Jason detected the faintest hint of a taunt in it. Marjorie MacTavish, for example?
Good God, he must be losing his mind.
When he saw Hamilton St. Claire escorting Marjorie out of the church, gripping her arm as if he had a right to her body, his infernal internal voice, Mai, and the rest of the world evaporated from his consciousness as if it had never been. “Hey!” he hollered, running up the middle aisle, uncaring that he was in a church or that people might be staring. “Wait a minute!”
What the devil was that silly boy doing escorting his Marjorie? was what he wanted to know. Even in his exasperated state, he understood that he needed to rephrase the question before he allowed it out into the open air.
He resented the look both Marjorie and Hamilton gave him when they turned to see who was causing the commotion. Not that it was a commotion. Exactly. He only wanted to catch the two before they left the church. Together. And why were they thus? he wanted to know.
“Dr. Abernathy,” Hamilton said coldly.
“Yes?” Marjorie’s voice was similarly icy, although her cheeks were flushed, Jason presumed from ire. If there was another cause for those rosy cheeks—say, because she enjoyed Hamilton St. Claire’s escort—he didn’t want to know about it.
Panting a little, Jason said, “I thought I was taking you home.”
Marjorie lifted an eyebrow. Jason hadn’t seen her do that before. It was rather intimidating.
“Oh?” More ice, damn it.
Hamilton’s eyebrows lowered over his pallid blue eyes. He, too, said, “Oh?” as if he thought it was Jason’s place to explain himself.
Then the two of them simply stood there and looked at him. How . . . uncomfortable. “Um, didn’t we agree that I was going to see you home, Marjorie?” he asked at last.
She said, “No.”
He said, “Oh.”
The he watched the two of them turn back toward the door, open it, and walk out, leaving him in the aisle feeling like an idiot. When he turned around and slumped back to the front of the church to fetch his hat and coat and saw several of the cast members watching with avid interest, he felt even more idiotic. He gave everyone a glare, then wished he’d smiled with insouciance instead. It would have been more in character for him to be flippant. Or at least uninterested. He sighed. Too late now.
There was no doubt about it: Marjorie MacTavish was bad for Jason Abernathy’s peace of mind.
# # #
“Ye should be nackered, Marjorie MacTavish. So why canna ye sleep?”
A very grumpy Marjorie sat at the kitchen table, staring balefully at her cup of hot cocoa and wishing Jason would show up and get his examination of Jia Lee over with. It was just like him to pretend they’d had an arrangement whereby he would see her to her home, and then not show up to examine Jia Lee when he’d said he would.
As for Jia Lee herself, the girl was sleeping peacefully. Marjorie almost envied her. Well, except for the illegality of her presence in the United States, her status as forced prostitute, the way she had been abused since she got here, and her current state of injury.
At least Jason had kept his promise to teach Marjorie some rudimentary phrases in Chinese. She could now ask Jia Lee where she hurt, ask her if she wanted tea, and ask her if she was hungry. If Jia Lee did more than point or said more than “yes” or “no” to any of these inquiries, Marjorie was lost.
Still, it was better than no communication at all. If Li, Loretta’s housemaid, were allowed to tend the girl, they might be able to get more information from her, but neither Loretta nor Jason—nor Marjorie, if she were to be honest—wanted anyone else to know the girl was being hidden in the Quarleses’ mansion. The more people knew, the more apt someone was to leak the news, and that might be catastrophic.
They kept Jia Lee’s bedroom door locked during the day. Not that any of the Quarleses’ household staff was wont to snoop, but it was safer that way. After all, Mrs. Brandeis, Molly, and Li were the ones most apt to be in the kitchen during the daylight hours. Or they had been until recently, now that Marjorie was also sleeping downstairs.
In order to perpetuate that particular ruse, Loretta had arranged to have Marjorie’s upstairs bedroom painted and redecorated. Marjorie had protested the expense, but Loretta had pooh-poohed her reservations.
“It’s for a good cause. Anyhow, I’m in a decorating mood,” Loretta had declared airily and with one of her characteristic broad gestures. “I guess it started with the nursery.”
Marjorie accepted this, as she accepted all the rest of Loretta’s largesse, with a feeling of failure in her bosom, even though she understood that the lie was primarily meant to be of benefit to Jia Lee. She knew she ought not remain as Loretta’s secretary, because she certainly didn’t earn her keep. As small as Loretta was, though, she was a powerful force and one that wasn’t easily defied.
The remainder of Loretta’s household staff had readily believed the lie, Loretta being as well known for her impulsive behavior as her large heart. Hadn’t she redecorated the maids’ quarters on the third floor a year or so earlier? Yes, she had. Therefore, no one thought twice about her redecorating Marjorie’s quarters. And the fact that Marjorie seemed to be using both of the downstairs bedrooms didn’t cause anyone else in the household to bat an eye.
A sound at the kitchen door made her jerk her head up. Glancing at the kitchen clock, she saw that it was well past midnight, confound Jason Abernathy.
Gathering her robe to her bosom, she marched to the kitchen door and yanked it open. “It’s about—”
But she didn’t get to finish her complaint. In fact, Marjorie was so startled when two large, hooded men swarmed into the kitchen, forcing her to stumble backwards, that she didn’t even scream.
Chapter Ten
“All right, lady, where’s the Chinese gal?”
Marjorie’s first, insane, thought was that these two blackguards weren’t Chinese. Her second thought was that she’d be damned for all eternity before she told the brutes anything at all, much less what they wanted to know.
Anyhow, since the villain’s hand covered her mouth, she was unable to speak. Therefore, she stood in his grip, silent, defiant, and as thoroughly angry as she’d ever been in her life. If she’d been able to move her mouth even a fraction of an inch, she’d have chomped down on the fiend’s fleshy palm, even though to do so would probably give her ptomaine poisoning. It was clear to her that these particular criminals didn’t bother to bathe regularly.
“I don’t think she can talk, Bart,” the man’s companion said.
Whoever Bart was, he growled, “Don’t use names, damn it, Frank.”
“Well, I still don’t think she can talk with your hand over her mouth,�
�� Frank said in an aggrieved tone.
Bart, who appeared to be a slow thinker, took some time to contemplate this sensible remark. Marjorie sucked in air, preparatory to screaming bloody murder should the hand fall from its place. Her plan suffered a check when Bart showed her what looked like the largest and sharpest knife in the universe.
“All right, lady, I’m going to move my hand, but if you try to yell or anything, you’ll get it across the throat. Do you understand me?”
She managed a nod with difficulty. Codswallop. Now what? She assuredly wouldn’t reveal Jia Lee’s presence in the house, but she also couldn’t scream. Damn Jason Abernathy to Perdition! He should have been here hours ago.
Cautiously, Bart slid his hand away from Marjorie’s mouth. As it was a particularly dirty hand, she spat as soon as she was able. This annoyed Bart enough that he said, “Hey!” and administered a blow to her cheek that made her ears ring and her eyes water. It might also have made her fall had Bart not maintained a bruising grip on her arm. She blinked furiously, unwilling to cry in front of these two beasts.
“The boss didn’t say nothin’ about hurtin’ her, Bart. Better not hit her too hard.” Frank sounded worried.
The man named Bart glared at Frank and growled, “She spat on my damned hand!”
Frank shrugged, unable to deny the fact.
“And I’ll do it again if you put your filthy hand over my mouth,” declared Marjorie, regaining her spirit in spite of her stinging cheek and watering eyes. Feeling the inside of said cheek with her tongue, she tasted blood and hoped Bart hadn’t loosened any of her teeth. She also wished Jason would get here before very much longer, confound the man. In fact, while she was at it, confound all men.
“Where’s the Chinese gal?” Bart repeated.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What Chinese girl?”
Drawing his hand back to strike again, Bart checked the action when a sound came from the kitchen door. Unwilling to hope for fear she’d be disappointed, Marjorie still couldn’t help but pray it was Jason this time and not more crooks.
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