“I think I can go,” she said, and tried to rise, but stumbled forward onto her hands. “I... I’m a bit dizzy,” she said, looking confused.
Peter hadn’t warned her that he was going to sedate her, and suddenly he felt guilty for doing so.
“I think perhaps I should bring them here,” he said, frowning as she righted herself once more.
She shook her head, trying to clear it, he thought. “I... I don’t know why I feel... so strange.”
And then her gaze met his. “Is it... is it about Mel?” she asked, and the question made her lips tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut, and Peter knew she was trying not to cry.
“Yes, Sarah.”
She peered up at him once more, and her beautiful blue eyes were filled with pain and sorrow. “She... she never... she didn’t deserve that!”
“No,” Peter agreed, and reached out this time to brush the hair from her eyes. So soft. “She didn’t.”
But it wasn’t Mel the culprit was after, if anyone, he reminded himself.
It was Sarah.
His gaze was drawn to the window. It had been left open last night. Had Mel opened it? Why would she have done so? This city was hardly the place to be leaving windows open late at night—not at street level.
Something cold went through him in that instant, something like a premonition...
Or a memory...
The window had been shattered in the nursery... but he recalled that it, too, had been left ajar. It had been shattered in the intruder’s departure, not by his entrance.
“It’s my fault,” Sarah said, sobbing quietly. “If only I’d not asked her to sleep in my bed...”
“It’s not, Sarah.”
“That should have been me!”
Thank God it wasn’t, he thought, though he refrained from saying it aloud. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated with conviction.
She glared at him defiantly. “It should have been me!”
He understood her sentiments better than anyone could. How many times had he said the very same of himself over Mary? And still it wrenched his gut to hear the lament come from her lips.
She froze suddenly and peered into his eyes, her own filled with fear. “Oh, God, do they suspect me?” she asked, and shuddered.
He shook his head. He knew that of a certainty.
She took a breath of relief. “You?”
“Are you up to this?” he asked her, ignoring her question.
She looked down at the bed, shaking her head. “Yes... yes, I think so...” She sat up as best she could, wobbling a bit in her drugged state. Peter helped her to rise.
“Am I decent?” she asked him, inspecting herself.
“You are beautiful,” he told her, and meant it from the bottom of his heart. She was wrapped in a simple woolen dress—drab was more the word for it. And her hair was mussed from sleep, her eyes swollen with tears. The tip of her nose was more red than pink, and her cheeks a bit too pale. To him she was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes upon.
“Are you ready?” he asked her.
Sarah nodded, and Peter rose from the bed, determined to protect her at all costs.
No matter what she decided to confess, he would support her.
Chapter 25
“Tell me again why you asked Mrs. Frank to sleep in your room, Miss... Miss—what did you say your name was?” the detective asked. He tilted a slightly narrow-eyed look at her. “It is Miss, isn’t it?”
“Yes... yes, it is.” Sarah’s gaze went at once to Peter, who was leaning against the doorframe, as though ready to escort their inquisitors out at any instant. Sarah was still a bit groggy from her nap and wasn’t certain how to respond to their swaggering attitudes.
Peter nodded, urging her to go on. By his expression, and his stance, it was obvious to Sarah that he didn’t care for them in his home, that he only tolerated them because he must.
Judging by the looks on their faces, however, they were all too happy to be here once more. Sarah felt an instant dislike for them and their prejudgment of Peter—never mind that it hadn’t
been so long ago that she had been guilty of judging him too.
Or perhaps it was just that very thing... that the accusations written all over their faces reminded her of her own sin against him, and it filled her with guilt and regret.
“Woodard,” she replied, her hand going to her temple. God, but she was getting a headache. She felt hung over somehow, without having had the first drop of wine. It must be because she’d cried herself to sleep, because her nose was still stuffy and her head cloudy.
The detective stood there, staring at her as though he thought her guilty, too. But then, Sarah supposed they always had that particular look in their eyes—she had just never been in a position to be its recipient.
Poor Peter to have to suffer it once more.
Her gaze returned to him standing at the door. He was an imposing figure of a man, with his height and his dark features.
It had been so easy to believe him guilty.
Though she now knew he had been falsely accused, she had thought him guilty as the devil. How did she tell these men, with Peter present... that she had thought the same of him as they did... enough to have lied to come into his home... enough to have endangered her best friend’s life?
Tears pricked at her eyes as she thought of Mel.
She despised the smug look on the detectives’ faces, and wanted to bolt from the bed where she sat to slap the smirks from their lips.
“Go on, Sarah,” Peter urged her, his voice soft but encouraging.
Sarah’s gaze met his once more. He knew exactly what she was contemplating, she felt.
“Tell them,” he urged her.
Sarah averted her gaze and clasped her hands before her, praying silently that she would not harm him with her confession to these bigoted men.
She knew why they loathed him. It wasn’t so difficult to see. He was one of them, and he had dared to make more of himself. He had dared to rise above his birth. She knew Peter’s beginnings... remembered from Mary’s letters. His father had been a man of moderate means, who had given all he had possessed to his son. He had sent him to college to study and had left him every penny after his death, in hopes that Peter might make him proud.
And yet... didn’t these men see that Peter had suffered for his successes?
Didn’t they see that he would never fit in with those whose money was old and respected?
She hardly envied Peter’s position at all. All the things that she had taken for granted, he struggled with. Even as a woman with means, though she suffered some discrimination over the simple fact that she was not born a man, she knew it was not the same as dealing with those clannish ideals.
Sarah inhaled a breath, knowing she had no choice but to cooperate with these men, and said, “I... I asked her to sleep there because...” She dared to look Peter straight in the eyes, and continued, “Because I thought Mr. Holland was responsible for my cousin’s death.”
They turned toward Peter, both of them, their smirks now becoming leers. Sarah wanted so badly to throw them out of her room, but this wasn’t her house, and she hadn’t the right. Nor had Peter, she realized more than a little resentfully.
They said nothing, and Sarah continued. “I am ashamed to say I lied coming into his home,” she revealed to them truthfully. “And I asked Mel to take my place last night because... well, it was my intent to search his library and his office.”
“For what, Miss Woodard? What were you searching for?”
Sarah had yet to tell Peter. He hadn’t asked. “My cousin’s journal,” she told them.
The detective lifted a brow. “The missing journal?”
“I thought it would shed some light on Mary’s death.”
One of the detectives began to scribble notes, while the other continued to ask questions. “And why did you feel the need to switch places with Mrs. Frank? Did you feel yourself in danger?”
“Not in danger, no,” she replied at once, and frowned at them.
“You must have,” the detective said, dismissing her denial. “Did you feel you were being watched?” he asked as well.
Sarah narrowed her eyes at him, hating that he was putting words in her mouth and quite ready to say so. She would have liked to tell them to go to the devil right now, and simply not answer any more questions, but she wanted Mel’s murderer uncovered. “Someone was watching the window from across the street,” she told them. “I noticed them first sometime before dusk, and they never left the alley, so I called for Mel to come.”
The detective’s brow lifted. “So you have no doubt this was not some simple rape or a robbery, then?”
Sarah gasped in horror at his question. Rape? She hadn’t even thought that a possibility! “Oh, God, no, was she... ?”
He shook his head. “There is no evidence to verify that fact, no,” he answered, and Sarah glowered at him for even bringing up the horrible possibility.
The detective who had been scribbling stopped now and went to the window, peering out. “You saw them from the window next door?” he asked her.
“Yes,” Sarah replied.
“These rooms are seated at the corner of the house,” Peter explained. “Her window faces Twelfth Street.”
“So you left Mrs. Frank to sleep there in your room?” the other asked her.
“Yes,” Sarah answered.
“And what time was this, do you recall?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’m... not certain. I... I didn’t look at the clock. But it must have been late because Mel didn’t come right away, and when she did... the house was already dark. Everyone seemed long abed.”
“And where did you go from here?” the detective asked her, while Peter silently looked on from the doorway. The other detective came away from the window and began to scribble his notes once more. Sarah took a deep breath. Not that she would consider lying about something so important, but she dreaded speaking the truth, and she had no doubt where his questions were leading.
She lifted her chin, swallowing. “The library.”
“And how long did you remain there?”
Sarah suddenly couldn’t meet the detective’s gaze. Nor did she dare look at Peter.
Her heart hammered ruthlessly against her breast.
She wasn’t stupid; she knew exactly what her confession would mean.
“Miss Woodard?” he prompted, his tone firm.
“Sarah,” Peter called her.
Sarah looked up into his eyes, and he shook his head, telling her without words that she needn’t speak a word, that he wouldn’t tell if she chose not to say. His instinct to protect her moved her deeply, but she knew full well that he would be the one to answer for Mel’s death if she didn’t speak up now to absolve him. These men were only too willing to point the finger at him once again. She could see it in their expressions, tell by their arrogant stances. They were gathering their information against him.
And yet if she told them the truth... if she admitted where she had been all of the night... her reputation would be ruined forever.
Given the two choices—Peter’s life or her honor—there were no decisions to be made at all.
She took a deep breath. “I was there all night,” she disclosed, and held Peter’s gaze. She could see in his expression that he was stunned by her confession.
The detective who had asked the question lifted a brow when she turned to look at him once more.
“All night?” the other asked her, lifting his head from his notes.
She lifted her chin a bit higher. “Yes, sir,” she replied more firmly.
“Sarah,” Peter cautioned her.
Sarah chose to ignore his warning.
“And did you perchance find what you were searching for... in this library?”
“No,” she replied.
“What, then, were you doing in Mr. Holland’s library all night?”
Sarah faced the detective squarely and said, “I was with Peter.”
Both of them stared at her.
Sarah’s gaze reverted to Peter. His eyes were closed suddenly and she couldn’t read them.
“With’?” he asked her. “Define ‘with,’ Miss Woodard,” he added with cold disdain.
“I think she has answered quite enough,” Peter said suddenly, stepping in.
It was clear to Sarah that her disclosure had done more than surprise them. She knew anger when she spied it.
“Saved once again, eh, Holland?” said the detective who had been scribbling.
“Are you willing to testify to that fact, Miss Woodard?” the other snapped at her.
“Yes,” Sarah answered without hesitation, looking him in the eyes. “I am.”
“I think it’s time you two ran along to gather your dirty money, don’t you think?” Peter asked them coldly.
Sarah held her breath. It was a bold reference to the state of corruption of the New York police force, and she winced at the murderous expressions on both detectives’ faces.
“I hope you realize what you are getting yourself into, Miss Woodard,” the one who had been scribbling told her.
“The truth, I hope,” Sarah answered.
“Gentlemen,” Peter said, enunciating the word as though it were a farce. He stepped away from the door, essentially dismissing them, wordlessly ordering them out.
Sarah released her breath only as they turned to go.
“I trust you’ll see your own way out,” he told them both as they passed him.
“Lucky bastard, is what you are,” the scribbler said low, no small amount of disgust evident in his tone. “Lucky bastard!”
And then they were gone, leaving Sarah and Peter alone.
“My head aches,” Sarah said.
“Probably the laudanum,” Peter told her. “I gave you a bit in your tea earlier to help you sleep.”
She lifted her brow. “That explains it.”
Peter couldn’t believe what she had done.
“Those men are quite rude,” she said.
“They don’t particularly like me,” Peter said in agreement. He couldn’t believe the sacrifice she had made for him today. Essentially she had blackened her name with her confession. He had no doubt, given a few dollars, those corrupt little bastards would leak the story to the yellow press. And perhaps they’d even do it for free—they loathed him enough. But damn, he hadn’t expected Sarah to give up so much for him. He’d been bracing himself for another investigation of which he would be the focus. He wouldn’t have blamed Sarah in the least for protecting her honor; he was willing to do the same for her.
He was moved beyond words at what she had done—and without hesitation.
He didn’t know what to say. He stood there feeling responsible once again.
“Sarah... you didn’t have to do that,” he told her after a moment, breaking the silence between them. He closed the door behind him as he entered the room. “But I thank you.”
“Yes, I did have to,” she replied, holding his gaze. He admired her for that, for never shying away. “It was the truth, Peter. I couldn’t have lied.”
He couldn’t let her suffer over this. If she would let him, he would make it right. “You realize what you have done to your reputation?”
Sarah shrugged, and he wanted so much to take her once more into his arms, to kiss those beautiful lips and put the color back into those pale cheeks.
The memory of their lovemaking made him burn even now.
God, but how could she do that to him? Make him want her even at a time like this?
He came to the bedside and stared down at her. She turned her face away, and he went to his knees beside the bed.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
She turned those beautiful eyes on him, and he held his breath as he gazed into them.
Those eyes were so filled with pain.
He wanted to make everything better for her, but he seemed to turn ev
eryone’s life inside out. He couldn’t seem to make even himself happy, much less another human being—except for Christopher. But Christopher was so easy to please. His son accepted everything without fail. He never complained and his spirit was a joyful one. He had tried so hard to take Christopher’s example in life.
He was willing to try to make Sarah happy.
He wanted to try.
He wanted the chance.
He needed to be the one to put the smile back on her lovely face.
He needed to make things right, once and for all.
“Sarah,” he said with a bit more courage. His heart beat at a frantic pace as he tried to form the words.
Her gaze remained on him, beautiful blue and full of something other than pain...
Dare he hope she might feel something for him, too?
God, he wanted that—with all his heart, he realized in that instant.
“Marry me,” he asked her. “Let me make it right.”
She sucked in a breath, as though she would cry out, but she didn’t and tears filled her eyes.
She didn’t answer for the longest moment, merely stared, and Peter held his breath for her answer.
He wanted this suddenly—more than he wanted to breathe.
He wanted Sarah Woodard as his wife.
He wanted one more chance.
And this time ...
God ... this time ...
He thought he loved her.
No, he didn’t think it! He did, he was certain.
The evidence was in the pit of his stomach as he waited for her to reply.
If she said no, he didn’t know what he would do.
She tilted her head and reached out to touch her fingers to his chin, and Peter closed his eyes. His heart hammered violently against his ribs.
She blinked down at him. “No,” she answered.
The single word was like a punch to his gut. He couldn’t blame her and yet—goddamn it!
He opened his eyes to find a tear sliding down her cheek, and he swallowed, and caught his hand before he could reach out to wipe her sorrow from her face. His stomach turned, and his heart felt suddenly too weighted for his body.
“I understand,” he said, his jaw tautening, but he suddenly couldn’t stay in her presence any longer.
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