She tried to step back again, but came up hard against a brick wall. She had nowhere to go. He reached for her, filthy hands clawing at her clothes. Her legs tangled between his and he shot forward, stumbling toward the wall, unable to gain purchase and dropped to the ground, head slamming against the brick.
Maggie’s breath stilled and for a heartbeat she simply stared at the man. He didn’t move.
Dear God, had she killed him?
She glanced to the door of the Stag’s Arms, and then back to the still prone figure at her feet. She bent down to him, about to feel for a pulse as she’d seen her father do so many times, when he emitted a rumbling groan.
“Don’t worry, miss, he ain’t dead, just dead drunk more like it.”
Maggie shifted away, and looked to the newcomer. “He tried to....” She couldn’t say it, couldn’t utter the words. She clamped a hand over her mouth, stemming the threat to vomit.
“Yeah, Silas Merrick’s like that. Thinks every woman is his for the taking.” The newcomer stood under the eaves of the public house and though he wore the ragged clothes of a man down on his luck, his kindly, unshaven face and warm brown eyes instilled a sense of calm in Maggie. This man would not attack her like the drunk at her feet.
“What you doing out alone? Not safe these days, with all ‘em soldiers back from France. They’re lonely for a bit of English lace.”
Heat stole a blush along her cheeks. “I lost my bag and I need to walk back, but these streets are not familiar.”
“Where you trying to get to?”
“The Savoy.”
The man’s brows rose. “Very hoi polloi, indeed. You’re heading in the right direction.”
Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Just down that way a bit, then turn left and keep walking west. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.” She glanced down at her attacker. “Are you sure he’ll be alright?”
“Quite sure. Nothing that a few hours’ kip won’t fix. You better be off now, it’s getting darker each minute you linger.”
Thank you.” She offered him slight smile. “Thank you for your help.”
“Me? I did nothing. You stood up for yourself and did a good job of it.”
The realization of his words struck home and revived Maggie’s confidence. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Sure did. Now off you go.”
With a wave to him, Maggie headed off down the street, upping her pace as the day sank into evening.
This excursion had certainly taken a lot longer than she’d expected, but it had been necessary and she’d learned another thing. She may be alone, but she could survive. She could stand up for herself. She didn’t need to run scared any more.
Chapter Sixteen
Turning the corner into the Strand, Maggie’s relief had never been as immense.
Dripping a puddle where she stood, she contemplated walking through the grand hotel in such a state.
Why not? She was a guest, after all. Smiling, she tipped her head up a fraction and pushed her shoulders back, relishing her newfound inner strength.
The doorman’s eyes widened discreetly as she took the steps to the entrance, but still he held the door open for her and gave her the usual nod.
She offered a genuine smile in return.
Across the lobby, aware of a few guests stopping to stare at her state of dress, aware too of the trail of rainwater left in her wake, she kept on walking, head high and gaze fixed straight ahead.
The lift arrived in an instant, the same conductor opening the doors.
“Good evening, Miss Francis.”
“Good evening.”
“You can’t come in like that, you’ll ruin the place.”
Maggie refused to hesitate. “I’m a paying guest. Take me to my floor, please.”
The conductor harrumphed, but closed the doors, nevertheless, and they ascended in silence, but as she stepped out onto her floor she stopped and turned to the conductor. “I suppose as a drowned rat I’m not as alluring as when you thought I was a man’s floozy.”
The man’s jaw dropped.
“Goodnight.” With her broadest smile, she offered a nod, and then strode along the hallway, her shoes now squeaking with each watery step.
But as she neared the door, her nerves suddenly got the better of her and she began to shake.
She was home. Safe.
Without her bag she had no key. She lifted her hand to the door, and tapped.
The door opened for her and she almost fell into the room. There stood Clayton, hands resting on his hips, something unrecognizable in his narrowed expression. “Where the hell have you been?”
Her sodden hat fell from her head and her hair tumbled lose into wet strands imitating rat's tails. She peeled off her gloves and rubbed her hair from her eyes. “I went to the cemetery.”
“Cemetery! What on earth for?”
“To see my parents.”
Words momentarily failed him and his hands fell to his sides, his demeanor softened. “If you’d asked I would have come with you.”
“You had other things to do, remember? Things that didn’t involve me.” Maggie heard the accusation in her tone, and the hurt, and reeled it in. She had no claim on Clayton Abbott.
His mouth thinned. “It could have waited.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She shrugged her indifference, though knew it was a farce. “I didn’t realize I was going until I actually got there.”
Clayton contemplated that for a moment. “So what happened? Where’s your bag. You look like a drowned...”
“Rat,” she finished for him. “I know.” She slipped off her jacket and held the lovely new garment up. Watery rivulets ran from the quality fabric, puddling on the carpet. “It’s ruined.”
“It can be replaced. But you...” Clayton cut short whatever he was going to say and took the jacket from her, walked to the bathroom and tossed it into the bath. “Why didn’t you get a taxi?”
“Why all these questions?” Her teeth began to chatter and the chill she’d fought off as she raced from that voice, and from the drunk, finally overtook her. She wrapped her arms around her, her blouse as drenched as every other bit of clothing. Spasms took hold and she rubbed her palms up and down her arms. It did no good. The fabric simply stuck to her wet skin.
Everything was wet.
Everything ruined.
She looked up at Clayton. “I’m sorry. The clothes you bought...”
“Are not important. Come with me.” He held a hand out to her and led her into the bathroom.
She watched while he put the plug in the bath, turned on the taps and as the giant porcelain bathtub began to fill he sorted through the assortment of scented sachets the hotel provided. He tore off the corner of one sachet and brought it to his nose, inhaling. “This one smells nice.”
Despite her freezing body, Maggie’s brows rose. “A man testing scents. That’s new.”
“I believe the best perfumers are men. Same too for chefs.”
“Am I meant to be impressed?"
His mouth quirked in a tiny smile. “Well, only in me.” He poured the lavender crystals into the bath that turned the water a delicate shade of lilac in seconds.
“I’ll leave you to it, unless you need my help.”
Though she shivered and her teeth still chattered, heat rode to the tips of her toes and right back up at record speed. “No. No. I can manage.”
But he didn’t move.
“Clayton.”
Suddenly he blustered, like a schoolboy caught looking at something he shouldn’t. “Right. Okay.” He stepped to the doorway. “Call me if you need me.”
She smiled then.
“I’m glad you’re back, Maggie.”
“Me too.” So glad.
“I was about to send out a search party. You had me worried.”
“That sounds nice.” Someone cared. He cared.
“It didn’t feel bloody nice, it…”
&n
bsp; Just then she remembered the words spoken by the man outside the public house. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about me, Clayton. I’m strong and capable. I’m a survivor.”
His mouth pressed into a beautiful smile. “You’re right. I do believe you are.” And with that he closed the door and Maggie slipped to the ground, wet clothes and all, as she hugged her knees to her chest.
Sometime later as she lay in the soothing heat of the bath enveloped by the delicious fragrance of lavender, memories of the day clamored for attention. The cemetery. That man. His voice. Chasing her.
She squeezed her eyes closed to the fear-filled, sad and lonely world of memories. Of feeling desperate. Visions of waking to see her father hanging, eyes wide, his soul long gone. Empty.
“No. No!” Her screams woke her and she jolted upright in the bath, water splashing over the sides and flooding the floor as she’d stood.
“Maggie.” The door slammed open, banging back on the wall behind. Clayton, wide eyed, stood in the entrance. “You’re...”
Still dazed, Maggie glanced down at herself. Her naked self. Oh, dear God. She should move. Sink back down.
Tiny goose bumps dotted her flesh, but it wasn’t from being cold. Oh, no. Exactly the opposite. Clayton’s gaze lingered intimately. She remembered his kisses. Longed for them again.
Strong and capable. A survivor.
She was. And she was going to grab onto what life offered with both hands.
Aware of Clayton swallowing, she stepped from the bathtub. “Would you hand me the towel please.”
Wordlessly he passed the towel.
“Thank you.”
Without uttering another sound, he pivoted, and closed the door as he left.
Every ounce of oxygen exploded from Maggie’s lungs. What was she doing? Was she mad?
No, I’m a survivor, and I’m grabbing life with both hands.
She took her time and searched through the fragrances and powders in the same basket, choosing a lightly scented talcum powder. Her hair brushed out, she left it loose around her shoulders. She eyed her clothes lying in a sodden mess on the bathroom floor; suddenly realizing she’d not brought dry clothes to change into.
On the back of the bathroom door, hooks held aloft two rather luxuriously fluffy bathrobes. Maggie reached for one and slipped it on, tying the cord tight. She spied herself in the mirror. She looked...frivolous, excited. Alive. And she felt it.
With a soft smile on her lips and in her heart, she exited the bathroom.
Clayton stood at the window, a tumbler in one hand. He leaned into the window, his forehead resting against the glass, shoulders slumped.
Maggie’s heart ached for him. She’d tried so hard to bolster his spirits, to show him that the world did not care about scars, that it was what was in a person’s heart that mattered.
Elaine had a lot to answer for.
A knock at the door and Clayton spun from the window, seeing her standing at the bathroom door. “I didn’t hear you.”
“You were lost in thought. Is it about your meeting this afternoon?”
“Yes, but unfortunately it’s mostly a forgotten moment that won’t declare itself.”
“Maybe if we talk about it, it will come back. Is it important?
“I have no idea.” A knock sounded again and Clayton strode and opened it with a flourish.
“Room service, sir. The dinner you ordered.”
The man entered the room, offering a sly but silent glance in Maggie’s direction. She held his gaze and refused to look away. She was doing nothing wrong.
I’m in a bathrobe in a man’s room, and I’m not married.
So? Life had changed. She had changed. She wanted to grab at life.
Once the waiter left, Maggie sidled over to the small table. Her stomach rumbled and she caught Clayton’s humorous smile. “Well, it does smell delicious.”
“Tuck in.” Clayton held the chair out for her and she took her seat.
“I don’t think I’m dressed for fine dining.”
Clayton fixed his attention on her, his eyes warm and filed with...something else. A look that hinted, no, not hinted, was clearly blatant with the heat of lust.
Maggie swallowed back the sudden lump in her throat, aware too that her nipples pebbled beneath her robe. She shifted in her seat, praying Clayton hadn’t noticed.
“I think you’re perfect just the way you are.”
Perfect.
Maggie disconnected her gaze from his and glanced down at the food. Poached eggs and the freshest of bread.
“I thought something light would provide sustenance.”
“It’s perfect.”
Perfect.
It really was.
Tearing off a piece of bread she pierced the yellow of one of her poached eggs. It burst, smothering the bread in its creamy yolk.
One bite, two, then another and another, and minutes later, her plate was empty, except for the smear of leftover yolk and a few breadcrumbs.
Clayton acknowledged as he took his last bite and nodded towards her plate. “You made pretty good progress through that.”
She laughed and dabbed at her mouth with the starched white napkin. “Hunger does that, besides you’re not far behind me.” She dropped the napkin onto her plate and eased back in her chair. “A perfect meal.”
“For a perfect day.”
Her smile faded. “Not quite.”
“No. I suppose not. Maggie, why did you go to the cemetery?”
Yes, why? “I don’t know. I suppose it is something that subconsciously nagged at me for a long time and after you left I decided to go for a walk.” Decided? I was balling my eyes out. “I needed to think, clear my head. I walked and walked and suddenly I found myself outside the cemetery gates. My subconscious obviously directed me while I was lost in thought.”
“A scary thought.”
“Very definitely. At first I didn’t want to go in.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.” Her voice softened, the memories still real. “I’d not visited since I laid my father to rest.”
“Why not?”
“Because...” Anguish churned in her gut, emotions of that day, all those days, so painful. She inhaled a deep breath, long and slow, thinking of the truth, of the sadness. As she exhaled, it was as if she were releasing that sadness. “Because my father gave up on me, abandoned me. “He thought I was dying of the influenza and didn’t bother to wait around to see if I made it.”
“But he must have thought you were too far gone, surely?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head, annoyed that her eyes welled with tears. Tears she thought were over.
“Maybe he said goodbye because in his mind the thought of living without you and your mother was too much for him. That he loved you so much to be without you was unbearable.”
Clayton’s analogy shocked her. Not once had she wondered about her father’s desperation to take such a drastic step. To say goodbye to the world he’d cared for and tended so long.
“Your father was a doctor. He’d seen so much dying these past few years and then with the disaster of the influenza scouring the nation, and your mother already gone and you following, he couldn’t bear it any longer. He couldn’t save you. Couldn’t help you.”
“He gave up on me.” Even though her accusation was unfair, they were the words of a child, a daughter who had loved her parents so dearly, who felt lost and alone.
“No, Maggie. He gave in. He went to join you and your mother so you would all be together.”
Maggie jumped to her feet, the chair toppling behind her. “How do you know that? You weren’t there.”
“Not personally, no, but I know that desperation. I know what it’s like seeing people under your care die all around you and there’s nothing you can do. Not a bloody thing.” Clayton too stood and he walked over to her. He took her left hand in his, linking their fingers and brought it up so it was between them both. She could feel his h
eartbeat. He was so beautifully close and his labored breathing sent a warm tantalizing tease to wash over her.
“Your father fought on his own battlefield. Maybe there were no guns, but still he had no way to protect those he loved, cared for, and that, for any man who was as responsible as your father, is always unbearable.”
A tiny tear escaped and trailed down her cheek.
Wide eyed, she stared up at Clayton. Strong Clayton. Caring Clayton. She took in the kindness in his beautiful green eyes, the color of Josephine’s emeralds, saw his wounds, too, and while they tugged at his skin, contorting it, all she wanted to do was kiss it.
A fluttered sigh expunged from her lungs. “Like you and your soldiers?”
“Yes, Maggie. Just like me.” He reached out and wiped away her tear with his thumb, trailing his finger down her cheek and coming to rest at the edge of her mouth.
Her breathing stilled, suddenly expectant, excited with wanting.
How she needed that comfort; that touch. A kiss.
But just as suddenly as he’d held her hand, he let go and stepped back. “It’s late.”
“But…”
Clayton stepped away from her. Abandoned her.
Just like before. Like her father had.
Chapter Seventeen
A sense of loss and bitter rejection churned in Maggie’s chest, but she refused to let Clayton see how his actions affected her. She pushed her shoulders back, chin up. “Yes. I suppose it is rather late.” Turning from him before he had a chance to reply, she went to the wardrobe where the new garments he’d gifted her were stored and gathered up one of the nightgowns.
The moment her fingers slid over the luxurious silk, a tiny shiver sprinted down her spine. The familiar telltale heat colored her cheeks, while other parts of her body reacted in ways they definitely should not.
“Give me five minutes.” But as she entered the bathroom, she made the mistake of glancing back toward him. He sat again at their small dining table, a brandy in hand. He looked lost. Shattered.
Saving the Soldier's Heart (The Emerald Quest Book 2) Page 18