Ginny led him into the parlor. “This chair will be best, I think. Most comfortable. There. Millie, please go and make some tea. Floyd, will you ask Gus to prepare a bath?”
The steamies hastened to obey. Ginny sank to her knees at Brendan’s feet to unlace his boots.
“What in hell are you doing?”
“Making you more comfortable.”
“Christ Jaysus, Ginny. You don’t wait on me.”
She looked up; their eyes met, and—incredibly—heat washed over him.
“I do if I wish to. And I wish to. You’ve been a policeman a long time. Haven’t you learned to take orders?”
“From you?” He felt battered, exhausted, and aching. How could he possibly also feel aroused? He could barely remember what had happened this afternoon once the crowd went over him. How was it he remembered everything he and Ginny Landry had done together, each stroke, each brush of lips on flesh?
“Why not? I have your best interest at heart.”
Brendan might debate that, he really might. She meant to leave the city—leave him. And that definitely wasn’t in his best interest. But he didn’t suppose it wise to bring that up now.
Don’t fight it, lad, he told himself, and relaxed a hair as she hauled off one boot and then the other.
The steam unit she called Millie came trundling in with the tea tray. Ginny leaped up and poured a cup with her own hands, walked to a side table, and added a generous dose of whiskey before she handed it to him.
“There. That will either kill you or cure you.”
At the moment, Brendan couldn’t say which he preferred. Her company might well prove agony, yet in her company seemed the only place he wanted to be.
“Drink it.”
“Another order?” He quirked a brow at her.
“Yes.” She seated herself on the sofa, but her gaze continued to touch him everywhere—his battered face, the open front of his shirt with the strapping beneath, his hand holding the tea cup, his eyes.
He sipped the enhanced brew and put his head back against the chair. “Pat—”
“As soon as Floyd comes back, I’ll send him to see if he can learn anything.”
“What happened, Ginny? Why were you there?”
“I accompanied the Kellys, who stopped here on their way to the rally to thank me for selling them my interest in the charity hospital.”
“Eh?” He tried again to clear the fog from his head.
“Don’t look at me that way. Having got to know Pat Kelly and some of the others, is it such a surprising choice?”
“Given your mother’s identity, yes.”
“I am not my mother. I should think you’d have that through your head by now.”
“And you want to rid yourself of all her holdings.” He glared at her over the rim of the cup. “So you can get the hell away from here.”
“I may need to postpone my departure a while.”
“Oh?”
“I dare not leave my steamies alone here in this house. Who knows what might happen to them? Plus”—she raked him up and down with her gaze once more—“other reasons.”
His heart leaped. He’d begun to speak when Floyd came in. “Master’s bath is ready, miss.”
“That was quick. Will you and Gus help him in? Make sure to keep that arm dry, mind. And Gus had better stand by to assist him out again.”
Brendan protested querulously, “Why do I need a bath?”
“It will soothe your aches. Besides”—she shot him a look—“I want that mud off you, if you’re going to be in my bed.”
Brendan made no further protest.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“For God’s sake, what now? It must be the middle of the night.”
Brendan roused himself with difficulty when Ginny spoke in his ear. The combination of whiskey-laced tea and whatever the quack at the hospital gave him had sunk him so deep he hadn’t even been aware she lay beside him in the bed.
But in response to a volley of knocking coming from downstairs, she slid out from between the sheets and onto her feet, bending as she did to ignite the lamp. He saw then she was naked—gloriously so—with all that brown hair streaming around her.
Naked. Ah, damn, and he’d missed it.
He tried to move and emitted a groan. In the act of donning a robe, Ginny turned on him. “You stay where you are.”
Where he was. In Ginny Landry’s house. In Ginny Landry’s bed. With or without clothes? A quick check assured him he wore a pair of trews.
She slipped from the room, leaving the door ajar. He pushed himself up on the pillows, groaned again, and looked around the room.
Yellow walls, a fancy bed with rich hangings. He didn’t belong here.
God, he hurt. He’d had busted ribs once or twice before, got while breaking up bar fights, but he’d never been hampered by a broken arm and didn’t like it. He enjoyed having a big, strong body at peak performance. Being injured would take some getting used to.
He could now hear voices coming from downstairs. With a curse, he slid from between the snowy sheets and tiptoed out onto the landing.
Light came from downstairs. Leaning over the balustrade, he heard Ginny say, “Carry him in here, please.”
Carry whom? No question but Ginny sounded distressed. Brendan started down the stairs and reached the bottom in time to glimpse the backs of three men, just leaving.
The steam unit called Frannie rolled past him, its hands in the air. It entered not the parlor but the dining room. Brendan followed.
There an incredible sight met his eyes. Ginny, robe half unbuttoned and hair streaming down, bent over the table. On the table…
Brendan blinked and looked again. A heap of metal sprawled, a mere somewhat cohesive collection of mostly dented pieces.
Ginny looked up when Brendan came in. He saw tears in her eyes.
“This city has gone mad! Just look what they’ve done to him.”
“Eh?” Softly Brendan stepped to the table and peered down. The fact that three household steamies stood around like family members on a death watch gave him the truth.
“Floyd. That’s Floyd?”
She’d sent the unit out after Brendan’s bath, seeking news of Pat Kelly’s condition. Somewhere on the dark streets he’d been waylaid, attacked—damn near destroyed, from the look of it.
Head staved in, shoulders and thorax crumpled—no question but the boiler inside would be ruptured. The condition of the unit’s arms and legs argued it had attempted to defend itself. The attackers, though, must have been armed with clubs or steel bars.
A disturbing sight for many reasons. No one liked to see any unit in this condition, plus Brendan didn’t like the idea of thugs armed with anything running around his city.
And he knew, at this moment, it was his city; he could tell by the amount of outrage and anger that filled him.
“Ah, lass—that does not look good.”
Ginny touched Floyd’s head. “My fault. I sent him out to get news about Pat. He must have been on his way home, because a neighbor, pulling up in a steamcab, saw and recognized him. The man and his sons carried him in for me. Oh, Brendan.” Her eyes, still swimming with tears, met his. “I never thought. I should have known better than to send him out tonight.”
Another truth came home to Brendan at that moment, with a kick like that of an ornery horse: Ginny Landry could not be less like her mother if she tried. Her grief over the wrecked steam unit couldn’t be more genuine.
Brendan had met Candace Landry several times in the course of protecting her and the hybrids to which she referred as her property. He’d also met Lily Michaels—only a shade off human, in his opinion. Candace Landry had never displayed so much as a hint of what Ginny clearly felt now.
“An ugly thing and no mistake.” Brendan stepped up and touched her shoulder. “But do not blame yourself. You didn’t endanger him on purpose.”
“Who should I blame, then?”
“The thugs who corne
red him.”
“I’m the one who put him out there, where they caught him. He was so good, always followed orders.” She stood looking down at the ruined unit and her profile grew hard. “You see, Brendan, that’s what makes it all so wrong. Who are we, humans, to give them orders? I’m convinced he had a mind of his own.”
Brendan glanced at the other three units, which appeared grief-stricken. “Aye, but that does not mean he had a will of his own, does it? Most of these older, basic units are made to obey.”
“But I never asked him if he thought it would be safe out on the streets tonight. I should have asked him. After what happened today in the Park—”
She broke off, seeming to grasp the fact that her words might add to the distress of the others. “Do you think he can be repaired? I’ll spare no expense.” Bitterly Ginny added, “God knows I have the money—ill-gotten gains, if any ever were.”
Brendan feared Floyd far past the point of repair but didn’t like to say so. “Nothing you can do about it tonight. Let’s go into the parlor. I’ll pour you a drink.”
She seemed to realize for the first time that he stood beside her. “You? You shouldn’t even be up out of bed.”
“Let’s go back to bed then.” Suddenly he wanted nothing so much as to hold her close in the dark, provide what comfort he could.
She nodded and walked from the dining room into the parlor, where she poured herself a large whiskey. Brendan, who’d followed, watched her toss it back in two gulps, followed by a shudder.
She turned and looked at him, her eyes now devoid of tears. “I’m sure he had news of Pat—he’d not have come back without it. But we won’t learn what he knew, now. What if Pat’s like that? Unsalvageable.”
“Not unsalvageable. Even if Floyd can’t be repaired, he can likely be rebuilt.”
“But will he be Floyd? Will his personality be lost? Just like Pat—no one can say he doesn’t have a personality, a wonderful one.”
“No one,” Brendan agreed softly. “Did you know he saved my life?”
Glass still in hand, she gazed at him, arrested. “He did?” She towed him to the sofa. “Tell me.”
Brendan drew a breath and sought to order his thoughts. “Two madmen, Charles and Mason, built Pat and the others who’ve become members of the Irish Squad—made them to be killing machines that would serve them unquestioningly. Liam McMahon and I got ourselves captured down at their warehouse—do you know Liam McMahon?”
Ginny shook her head.
“When the madmen brought Pat out to show him off, Liam talked him round. Appealed to him as a fellow Irishman—Irish corpses had been used, see, to build the hybrids. Pat and his fellows turned on their makers, much as Landry’s Ladies did later, come to think of it. After that, I can’t doubt his personhood.”
“No one who ever met him could doubt it.” Ginny ran her hand up Brendan’s good arm. “I’m glad he saved you. They meant to kill you both?”
Brendan made a face. “They did and they didn’t. They meant to turn me and Liam into hybrids. So I can’t say how much of me, Brendan Fagan, would have been left.” He gazed deep into her eyes. “Would you still be attracted to me, Ginny Landry, were I a hybrid automaton?” Neither of them could deny the attraction that flared even now between them.
“Like Rose Kelly? Or Rey Michaels? Poor Rose. I can’t imagine what she’s feeling. I don’t suppose we’ll find out about Pat, now, till morning.”
He plucked the glass from her hand and set it aside. “Come back to bed with me. I can’t promise I’m up to much. I just want to hold you in the dark.”
She leaned forward and kissed him softly, sweetly. “Not up to much, eh? We’ll see.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Brendan?” Ginny awoke with his name on her lips. Bright sunlight, reflecting from the yellow walls of the room, had coaxed her eyes open. Radiance flooded the space, which meant it must be late; she’d slept in.
They had slept in, she corrected herself hastily. No question but she lay in bed with Brendan Fagan, both of them naked and his body spooned around hers, his good arm draped over her in an attitude of protection.
Oh, God, what a wonderful way to awaken. Her eyes fluttered shut again as she absorbed the sensations: warmth and strength. Comfort, don’t forget the staggering comfort. And belonging.
How could she belong with Brendan Fagan? Yet his hand, strong, brown, and spiked with reddish hairs, lay against her belly, just beneath her breasts. And it felt right. His breath, deep and even, kissed her cheek: he still slept.
Was there any better feeling that meeting the new day in the arms of the man you loved?
No, no, no, no. Impossible. She would not allow herself to fall for Brendan Fagan.
But what if it had already happened?
She thrust that conviction from her with desperate haste. She would concede they were wildly attracted to one another. Last night had just proved it over again. Though she’d done all the work—no not work, that, but a fiery, effortless dance.
Still, he probably should have been resting. Yet following Floyd’s death…Floyd, poor Floyd.
Her thoughts, even now, flew all over the place, the anger and the passion predominant.
She turned in Brendan’s arms and looked at him. Oh, this was the trouble with handsome men. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Did she have to put herself through it all over again? Fool, fool, fool. Yet she couldn’t help but caress him with her gaze.
Eyes closed, revealing two fans of brown lashes, he looked at peace. His beard had grown in—redder than his hair—and enticed her to touch. His mop of hair looked mussed. She remembered running her fingers through that last night. She’d also stroked through the fur on his broad chest—a pure delight.
That didn’t mean she loved him. One could have passion without love. She refused to get caught, trapped and made vulnerable by her own emotions. She could take what she wanted and leave what she didn’t.
Couldn’t she?
Yet it didn’t look like she’d be leaving Buffalo as soon as she’d hoped; she needed to stay and find out what would happen to Pat. Perhaps avenge Floyd. No reason she and Brendan couldn’t enjoy one another while she remained here. If, of course, they could come to an understanding.
The thought of future pleasures bestowed on this man played havoc with her resistance to temptation; she leaned forward and kissed him open-mouthed on the throat.
He opened his eyes.
Oh, to plunge into those blue depths and swim forever! A dangerous proposition. “Morning. How do you feel?”
He stirred, flexed that big body of his, and moaned. “Like I’ve been run over by a coal wagon.” He blinked. “What time is it?”
“Late. We slept late.”
She saw him try to make sense of it. “I’m in your bed. I didn’t dream it, then?”
“Dream what?”
“We made love.”
“Well, you more or less lay there like an injured king while I made love to you—you endured it, so to speak.”
“I’m big on endurance, me. But, lass, you know I shouldn’t be here.”
“Right. I suppose I’ve ruined that career about which you’re so worried. But too late to change that now.”
“Is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He pulled her against him, bringing her naked breasts into contact with his chest. Ginny half expected him to kiss her then, one of those thorough, searing kisses at which he excelled. Instead he gazed at her, a new expression coloring his eyes. Intent, wondering, it felt more intimate than any kiss could be.
What did he see when he looked at her that way? All her strengths? All her weaknesses? The truth of how she felt about him?
She made a spasmodic movement to escape, but he held her effortlessly, plundering her with that gaze till her heart began to pound and the heat rose in her face.
Only then did he say, “No doubt you’re right, Ginny. I’ll have scuttled my career by staying here. But yo
u just might be worth it.”
****
Floyd looked worse in daylight. When Ginny came down the stairs, leaving Brendan, at his request, to struggle into his clothing, she found the other three steam units standing around the dining room table staring at the ruined automaton like mourners at a wake. The scene struck her forcibly and brought the emotion up into her throat.
Sunlight streamed through the big side windows of the room, mercilessly revealing the damage. Barely an inch on the unit but had been battered, though the head and thorax looked the worst. A small amount of residual water from Floyd’s boiler had dribbled out onto the table. One arm hung virtually severed from the shoulder.
Bad to lose a valuable and faithful servant, worse to see how the other three minded. How could anyone deny steamies had feelings? These four had been together for many years.
A family.
That made Ginny angry, and anger—as her father had all too often pointed out—made her stubborn.
When she could speak, she told the units, “Maybe he can be repaired.” She didn’t believe it, but it was the only comforting prospect she could offer them.
None of them responded.
“I know it doesn’t look good right now. But perhaps we can salvage his intelligence, the part that made him Floyd.”
And what would her mother say to that? These had been her units, after all. Not for the first time Ginny wondered about Candace Landry—a stranger to her and yet responsible for half her make-up. From all she’d learned, the woman had been a bundle of conflicting characteristics: brilliant yet merciless. Talented yet ruthless. Had she cared at all about the hybrids she’d created—not units but beautiful beings like Lily Michaels? What would she say if she stood in her dining room now instead of Ginny, surveying the wrecked steamie? “Clear that mess away”?
Tragic and troubling that Ginny didn’t even know.
Candace Landry’s own units had beaten her to death. Made of her a pile of smashed bone and flesh, in effect not unlike this collection of metal. In her own creations she’d inspired fear—and hate.
In her daughter she inspired dread and doubt, misgiving, and a surge of gratitude at having been raised by her father—funny, warm, steady, and maybe a little too ready to care.
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