“Let’s go to Hart. He can help. He’ll help you, Miz Cahill. Please get up!” Joel pleaded.
Hart. She would rush into his arms and be safe.
“Git up!” Joel begged.
Francesca pushed herself up into a sitting position. Hart? She had to see Bragg. She had to see him immediately, tell him everything, and he would hold her and tell her that everything was all right. Why was Joel telling her to go to Calder Hart? And why did she, oddly, almost wish to do so? She wiped her eyes with her gloved fingertips. “Joel.” Finally she could speak. Her voice was hoarse. Each uttered word burned her throat. “Did you see who it was?”
“No.” Joel was grim and anxious all at once. “He was tall. Real tall. But with that mask, I couldn’t see nothing.”
Francesca no longer knew what to think. She was still breathing hard, she was in shock. “How . . .” She clutched her neck and winced. Touching the flesh there hurt. “How did you know to come back?”
“I turned to wave on the other side of the street. As soon as a dray passed, I saw this man dragging you into the alley,” Joel said, his face pinched and pale. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, praying it was true. But she did not feel fine. Every time she thought of her assailant, she felt him pressing against her with a savage and unsatisfied lust, she recalled his horribly obscene words, and she thought she might retch. She began to get to her feet, trembling. Joel jumped up and assisted her, then began looking around them warily—as if afraid that the strangler would return.
Francesca was equally afraid. Together they rushed to the safety of the crowded sidewalk and began to hail a cab. And as they waited for an unoccupied hansom to pass by, Francesca felt his eyes upon her and knew he lurked nearby.
Joel stood behind her as she rang the doorbell of Bragg’s town home. While she waited for Peter to answer, she felt the tears rising up within her again. She refused to cry. She was hardly any worse for wear. She had survived the strangler’s attack. Now her biggest regret was that she hadn’t been able to hear his voice clearly or get a look at his face without his mask.
She recalled Ellie’s description now, a monster, no eyes, no mouth. God, the old woman had been right.
Peter opened the door. He took one look at her face and coat, and his eyes went wide. “Miss Cahill?”
She managed a tight smile. “Is Bragg in?” She hadn’t seen his motorcar in the street, but he had a carriage house behind his home, where it was parked overnight.
Peter seemed to hesitate, which was odd. “Do come in,” he said quietly, his impassive and characteristic expression returning.
Francesca stepped into the foyer.
“Would you like to wait in the salon? May I bring you tea?” Peter asked.
Francesca saw worry in his blue eyes and realized she must look wretched. “No, thank you. It is urgent, Peter,” she stressed.
He nodded and ascended the stairs, which meant that Bragg was not at work in his study. It became impossible not to pace, wring her hands, and fret. A moment or two passed by and Bragg did not appear. Francesca became still. What was taking so long? Now a quiet kind of dread began as more time dragged by. He was obviously at home. He was upstairs. What could be taking him so long?
She did not want to even consider the answer to the question.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, at last.
Dread overcame her, as the footsteps were not Bragg’s—they belonged to a woman.
Francesca looked up and saw Leigh Anne coming down the staircase, clad in a dark green satin wrapper. She froze.
Her stomach protested and lurched wildly again.
Leigh Anne paused on the second-to-last step, which made her taller than Francesca. “Good evening,” she said, smiling.
Francesca could not speak. Nausea overcame her now. Leigh Anne’s long hair had been braided into one sleeping braid, but it was only half past nine or so. The wrapper was tightly belted around her small body, but Francesca felt certain that she was naked underneath—her nipples were erect and clearly visible against the fabric of her gown. Her face was flushed. Her eyes glowed. Her mouth was terribly swollen.
An image of Bragg and Leigh Anne passionately entwined and then a recollection of the feel of that man’s hard, stiff body against Francesca’s own assailed her almost at once. She turned quickly away, afraid of retching now.
“Are you all right, Miss Cahill? Would you like to sit down?”
They had been making love, Francesca managed to think. Leigh Anne had clearly just been in the throes of passion; she had clearly just gotten out of Bragg’s bed. As usual, Calder Hart had been right.
Francesca met her soft, sated eyes, vaguely saw the surprise and concern mingling there, and turned hastily away. She simply could not bear to look at the other woman. “I can . . . I can see I have come at an inconvenient time,” she said hoarsely.
“He is sleeping, Miss Cahill. As I am sure you know, he has been working extremely long hours this week. If it is urgent, I will wake him,” Leigh Anne said.
Francesca had to get away from her, him, the house. “No.” She rushed across the foyer. “No, it is hardly urgent!” she cried. As she opened the front door herself, she saw them again, making love, Bragg and his wife. Then she heard that lewd, rasping whisper in her ear. Ever take it in your mouth? I’m going to push it down your throat while your heart stops.
Francesca fled into the night.
The hansom rolled away, down Hart’s large paved driveway, through the tall, imposing wrought-iron gates, and onto Fifth Avenue. Francesca stood in the driveway where she had climbed out of the cab, shivering uncontrollably and gazing at the imposing facade of his house. Tears blurred her gaze, but she fought them, staring up at the huge sculpture of the stag on top of his roof. Why was she so upset? Bragg and Leigh Anne had reconciled, and he had every right to bed his wife.
But it was more than that. She had been assaulted and almost raped while he was making love to the other woman. He insisted that he despised her, but clearly, he did not.
“Miz Cahill? It’s darned cold. Let’s go in.”
Francesca knew she could not enter Hart’s house. Not now, not like this. “I’m going home,” she whispered, Hart’s dark, sardonic image superimposing itself on top of Bragg and Leigh Anne. She turned away and heard the strangler’s crude sexual threats again. Her stomach turned over, hard. Her stride quickened.
She felt dampness on her cheek and brushed it away. She realized she was not wearing her gloves. She had lost them somewhere that day.
Francesca hurried up the driveway, trying desperately to block out the events of the entire evening. It was simply impossible, and Joel was right: it was so cold, too cold to be outside. Then she heard Joel rushing up behind her, his footsteps crunching on the snow as he set chase.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” Hart demanded, catching up to her and seizing her arm.
He turned her to face him and she looked up into his handsome face and shook her head, suddenly incapable of all speech.
“Joel said you were attacked!” he exclaimed.
She wet her lips to tell him that she was fine. Not a single word came out. Instead, she began to tremble uncontrollably, and images assailed her all at once: Leigh Anne flushed and glowing in her wrapper, Leigh Anne in Bragg’s bed with Bragg, the strangler running away into the night.
They stood some distance from the house and Hart remained a shadowy figure, even this close. “You’re not all right,” he said flatly then, putting his arm around her and pulling her against his side. He was in his shirtsleeves. “Come inside. You’re frozen! You’re shaking like a leaf.”
She had to get words out. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His arm around her, he carried her along with him up the driveway. “I am afraid to ask what happened to your voice,” he said very grimly.
She closed her eyes, and it hardly mattered, as his strength propelled her up the steps and inside
. When had this man become a safe haven? She tried to remind herself that he was danger, pure and simple, but she could no longer convince herself.
He stiffened as they paused in the front hall. Francesca opened her eyes and saw him staring at her. She tried a smile and knew it failed. “I’m . . . fine.”
His jaw flexed. His eyes were black. “Take Miss Cahill’s coat,” he snapped. “Get Rourke in here, Alfred.” Hart’s tone was so dire that Francesca glanced at Alfred to see if he might fear for his life, should he not obey.
But Alfred seemed incredibly distressed as he took her coat off her shoulders.
“And bring a scotch,” Hart said in the same furious and strangled tone. “Two glasses—one bottle,” he added.
“I’m fine,” Francesca said, pleased that the ability to speak was returning, that her voice sounded less hoarse—although speaking still burned her throat.
“Your face is scratched. Your neck is turning black-and-blue. You are not fine,” he said, leading her into a small salon that she had never before been in. “You were attacked by the City Strangler?”
She nodded as he guided her to a sofa. “Joel saved my life,” she said grimly, and then she felt that revolting pressure against her body again, heard his obscene threats, and saw Leigh Anne in her wrapper on the stairs. She folded over, hugging herself.
Two warm, strong hands gently took her face, forcing her to look up. Hart was on his knees in front of her. “I am going to kill this man,” he said.
She started and could not look away from his quietly furious and extremely determined eyes. “Please, I have enough to worry about. Let the police handle this now. Please, Calder.”
He softened. “You came to me. You came to me, Francesca,” he said intensely.
And his meaning was clear—she had come to him, not Bragg. She looked away. Tears rose up, hard and fast. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed against them. Don’t tell him, she thought. He did not need to know that she had not come to him first.
He did not release her face. Then she felt his lips brushing her mouth, softly, sweetly, again and again.
Her heart stopped, then began to beat, hard and fast, urgently.
She felt the moment his need to comfort changed—it was simultaneous with the rise of her own need, her own desire. She could lose herself in this man’s arms, in his body, his bed, and forget everything. . . .
Francesca clasped his shoulders, her mouth opening beneath the more insistent pressure of his now questing lips. His tongue quickly penetrated, and heat flamed in her loins; their mouths met again and again, fast and hard now, urgently, teeth touching, tongues deep, entwining, and she simply could not get enough of his taste, his tongue, his mouth, and as his kisses became more urgent, passion became frenzy. For the first time since she had known Hart, she felt the ruthless, raw, unfettered passion in him—she felt him going over the brink of his self-control—she felt certain that this time, now, in moments, he would be surging hot and hard and sleek within her.
And he pulled away. But did not leap to his feet; he remained kneeling. Their gazes locked, Francesca stunned that she had been wrong. How did he have such willpower?
“I desperately need to make love to you,” he said hoarsely. One hand moved from her cheek to her hair and over the back of her head. She realized that her hair had come down. “What happened?”
She could think of only one thing now: Losing herself in this man’s arms. Having his powerful body inside her own fragile bruised one; having him fill her, complete her, save her. “Make love to me,” she begged, tears suddenly falling. “Please, Calder. Make love to me now.”
His eyes widened and then he pulled her close and to her feet, holding her tightly against his own body. She gasped when she realized he was as feverishly aroused as she. There was no mistaking the heated, throbbing arousal against her belly. In that moment, the realization was stunning. I love this man, she thought, bewildered and dazed.
“You’re crying,” he said roughly—and it sounded as if he might be crying, too. “Your face, Francesca, how did your face get so scratched?” His embrace tightened so she could not look up to see if he was really tearful or not.
“I . . . He shoved me against the wall,” she whispered. “He was strangling me, Calder. I know now how poor Miss Conway felt, and poor Miss Holmes! And the things he said . . .” She didn’t want to cry and thought she was in control of her fear and the rest of her emotions, but she felt the wetness tracking her face, burning her raw skin, and she was surprised by it.
“Who was it?” He didn’t release her. He kept her cheek buried against his chest, her body enfolded in his, pressed securely against him. He remained hard and erect. He kissed a soft, throbbing spot on her neck.
“I don’t know,” she gasped as he lifted his head and looked down at her. Their gazes met. She saw anguish in his dark eyes, anguish and suspicious moisture, and she could not move. He was crying for her.
“Calder?”
“What is it, darling?” He cupped the base of her skull gently.
“I thought he was going to rape me.”
His eyes widened. There was no mistaking the shock, the disbelief, and then the raw fury rising there. Their gazes held. They stared. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly on the mouth. “But he did not,” he whispered roughly.
Francesca felt the tension within her—as emotional as it was physical—melting away, cell by cell and inch by inch. Then her body began to melt too—far differently.
He lowered his face and began kissing her bruises, one by one. The kisses were feather-light.
Desire came in a flood tide. Her knees buckled and she moaned, clinging. His mouth moved from the side of her neck to her throat. He gently opened the top button of her collar, pressed his lips gently there, opened another button, kissed the exposed flesh, and another. The last kiss was precariously close to where her cleavage began. Gently pressing his firm, damp lips there, he did not move, and Francesca held his strong body in her arms, faint with need now. She murmured, “Oh, Calder,” and heard a tone she had never before heard, in her own voice, stunned with desire, faint and weak with need, raw with passion.
Hart stiffened, but just as he began rubbing his face lower over her breasts, Rourke demanded, “How is she?”
Hart straightened instantly and their gazes met. “Calder, stand back,” Rourke said briskly.
Their gazes remained locked. An aeon seemed to pass. So much had happened and so quickly that now Francesca was aware of one stunning comprehension—that Calder Hart truly cared about her. She smiled through her tears. He would always take care of her, she thought. It was a stunning and wonderfully profound comprehension, a revelation that filled her with pleasure and joy.
Hart stepped back.
Rourke came forward. “Please sit down,” he said firmly but kindly.
Francesca obeyed, but she could not look away from Hart. He continued to stare, Alfred behind him, a tray with a decanter of Scotch whiskey and two glasses in his hands. Rourke was inspecting her face, and then he tilted her head up and back, looking at her throat and neck. He smiled reassuringly at her. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
She realized for the first time that her palms were also scraped. She turned them over and showed them to him.
“How is she?” Hart asked, not having looked away, not even to blink.
“So far, so good. She has some cuts and scrapes on her face, but I doubt there will be any scars. Is your throat sore?” he asked gently.
“Terribly,” Francesca whispered. She could hardly focus on Rourke. Hart now ran his hand through his short, thick, curly hair, appearing at once grim and explosive. Now his passions were bent on apprehending the strangler. Francesca thought about how she had begged Hart to make love. She wondered if they might have actually done so if Rourke had not appeared. She felt certain that Hart had not had any self-control left then.
Hart suddenly turned and accepted a sco
tch from Alfred, came over, and handed it to Francesca, who took a sip immediately. The whiskey burned her throat, but she knew that in a moment she would feel soft and warm and pleasant, and she took another sip, feeling that man again, thrusting against her and telling her what he was going to do. She quickly opened her eyes and realized she had downed most of the glass. That day had turned into a nightmare.
Hart was staring grimly at her. Not turning, he said, “Alfred. Send Raoul to fetch my half brother.”
Francesca froze.
“Then ready a guest bedroom. Miss Cahill will spend the night under Rourke’s care.” He faced her. “I will bring your parents, Francesca. They must be told.”
She clutched the empty glass. “No.”
“Francesca.” He softened. “Darling, you are only slightly the worse for wear, and I will wait until Rourke has made you presentable, but your mother and father will be frantic when you do not come home. I must go over and gently explain to them . . . something.” He darkened as he uttered that last word.
“I might twist the truth a bit,” Rourke said quietly.
“No,” Francesca said again, barely able to breathe. “Do not get Bragg, Calder.”
He started, his eyes widening in surprise.
“Please,” she added.
And he stared, his gaze narrowing now with speculation.
Francesca remained on the sofa. She was sipping her second scotch, having finished giving Inspector Newman a detailed report of the attack. Hart stood protectively a few feet from her, where he had positioned himself well over a half an hour ago. He didn’t drink or speak, but he had listened to her every word. There were no secrets between them now.
The doors to the small salon were solidly closed. Francesca knew, though, that most of the Bragg family had gathered in the hall outside. When Newman had been escorted inside, she had glimpsed Rathe and Grace, Nick D’Archand, their handsome nephew, and Lucy and her husband, Shoz, all huddled in whispered conversation. She could imagine the train of their thoughts. And the absence of the city’s police commissioner was now glaring.
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