A Shot in the Dark: A Trick of the Light Duet, Book Two

by Cain, Addison

  Using the wall for support, Charlie stumbled out of the building—falling, standing, forcing herself forward. Beau’s office wasn’t far, and the near sound of breaking glass and blasting guns promised her the revolt was far from over.

  She stumbled on.

  Behind a barricade of cars, Beaumont’s loyal men shot up the front offices.

  And he was there.

  Radcliffe... with that frightening look in his eye, led the assault. He was pale, had a wound bleeding from his gut, another in the shoulder. And he was losing.

  Charlie clicked into tunnel vision. Raising the hand gripping her stolen pistol, she aimed right for the Italian scum shooting at her old boss.

  Standing in the dark, unseen, gave her the advantage. Charlie pulled the trigger; the foremost Italian was shot straight through the throat. His buddy’s head exploded, and the other man who hurt her—he looked up just in time to see her, so Charlie might enjoy his face when she shot him in the cock.

  Firing two more times in rapid succession, two more bodies fell to the ground, the front ranks of Tommy’s borrowed men broken.

  Dropping her empty revolver, Charlie stumbled through the remaining crossfire to rob a corpse of his loaded Colt 45. She checked the chamber, ignored the sounds of someone shouting her name, and killed every man between her and the side door, before shoving her way through.

  And then there he was. Tommy crouched for cover behind Beaumont’s overturned desk, three men hunkered beside him.

  Three shots; three fresh corpses.

  The walls grew splattered with red, the ground pooled red, but all Charlie saw was hate. Tommy dared to meet her eye, to stand and face his death.

  Chest rising and falling, Charlie aimed her revolver one last time and pulled the trigger. A telltale click of an empty chamber was all she got for the effort.

  Tommy laughed.

  There was more than one way to kill a man with a firearm. Taking the weapon by its heated barrel, she swung at him, keen to beat him to death. Tommy’s nose shattered; blood got in her eyes. A second swing knocked out his front tooth.

  But he was bigger; he wasn’t hurt like she was.

  Tommy landed a solid hook to her jaw, knocking her head hard enough she saw stars.

  Flying at him with teeth and claws, Charlie was caught mid-air when an arm came around her middle. Ripped off a man she needed to kill, she twisted like a snake while a blur ran past. Another took her place, beating Tommy bloody amidst roars and the crack of breaking bone.

  Charlie kicking, shrieking, was not herself. But Beaumont spoke at her ear, talking to his little girl like one talked to a frightened animal. “I got you, Blackbird. Be still now, Lottie.”

  “I GOTTA KILL HIM!”

  The arms around her ribs tightened, sharp pain stole her breath. Unable to breathe, Charlie went limp, choking.

  The beast on top of a ruined Tommy turned at her horrible noise, Matthew calling out to his woman. “Charlotte.”

  She was finally dying, and he’d finally come to take her away from the pain. She whispered with such sorrow, such hope, “You’re dead. Tommy, he told me you were dead.”

  Matthew Emerson looked right at her, blood saturating his shirt. Charlie’s shaking hands reached out to touch the apparition. The rope was still tied tight around her left wrist, her fingers purple and swollen, but forgotten so she could cling to the phantom.

  Her voice broke; she started to cry. “I love you, Matthew.”

  Charlie’s slip was in tatters, bloody and dirty, stinking of sweat. There were cuts and gashes, more bruises than he could count, but Matthew untangled her from Radcliffe and held her.

  Charlotte went limp.

  Chapter 18

  Nurses stared wide-eyed at the horribly beaten woman rushed into their hospital. The doctors ordered Matthew to stay behind—tried to take her away. He would not allow it. He never left her side no matter what they were doing to her.

  Through it all, Charlie made no sound of pain, not until a fever took hold. The doctors warned him that with signs of internal damage and the subsequent swelling, Charlotte would not live through the night. Best they could do was make her comfortable.

  Matthew said the only thing he could think of to make the men try harder. “This is Beaumont Radcliffe’s niece. She dies, you die.”

  Those seemed to be the magic words to get everyone moving. So much was done, Matthew could hardly keep up. He refused to even leave so his own wound might be stitched closed. He made them do it there, so he could hold Charlotte’s hand and talk to her as she seized.

  When she vomited blood, when she shivered and sweated like the fires of Hell were blazing around her, he refused to let go.

  She kept breathing.

  Pain, even dulled by morphine, is a funny thing. It nagged at the comatose woman, scratched her sleep apart, and pulled her out of a mad world of noise and bad dreams. When Charlie’s eyes finally opened, Matthew was asleep, his forehead resting against her thigh, his hand in hers.

  She just looked at him, confused, exhausted. Charlie squeezed his fingers.

  The man startled, Matthew’s head shooting up.

  Charlie smiled as best she could manage. “I love you.”

  Matthew’s wide-eyed look of utter relief was heartbreaking. He surged up and kissed her, just as he had kissed her sleeping lips over the last five nights of torment. He breathed in her breath, giving it back with his own declaration, “I love you, Charlotte Elliot. I’ve loved you from the moment I clamped eyes on you in the Willards’ barn.”

  At the sound of her crying, Matthew swiped his thumb under her eyes. “Sweet girl, you’re safe. I got you now.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  Crooning into her hair, he swore, “I’m not gonna die on you.”

  He got her quiet, seeing she was too tired to talk. So he just sat there, holding her hand, stroking her, and smiling just enough to make her eyes shine as he buzzed for the doctor.

  An assessment was made, Charlie poked at until she just about socked the physician. Once the doctor was finished, warm broth was brought in. Matthew snatched the tray from the nurse, cocking his head towards the door so the intruder might leave. He would tend his woman himself.

  As he fed Charlie, he told her Beaumont was well, assured the girl his family was safe.

  She slept quietly for the first time since arriving.

  The next time she woke, Martha was there blubbering all over her.

  Charlie hated to see a lady as proud as Martha reduced to tears. “I’m fine.” Her attention went to Beau. Sizing up the man who met her eye but looked like he’d aged ten years in ten days. “He dead?”

  “You never need to worry about Tommy again.”

  After the hours of humiliation and pain Tommy had favored her with, all Charlie could say was, “I hope it was gruesome.”

  Beaumont’s men had found the room with blood splattered all over the walls. They’d found her torn bloomers on the floor. And they’d found the corpse she’d left behind. “You look like hell.”

  Properly laughing with a broken rib wasn’t possible. “Hey, you would have been proud of me, Beau. I took that beating like a champ. I didn’t fold.”

  But she had, even if it had only been one short moment, and it was there all over her face.

  A man who could manage poise at the snap of a finger, blinked those baby blues. Fucking Beaumont Radcliffe teared up. “I’m always proud of you, son.”

  She hadn’t heard him call her that since the old days. “I’m a girl.”

  “I know.” Beau reached for his cigarette case, unsteady hands placing one between his lips. “Matthew, why don’t we step into the hall and let the women catch up?”

  Matthew’s look at the mere suggestion he leave Charlotte’s side was nothing short of a death threat.

  “Go on, Matthew,” Charlie urged. Someone had to comfort Beau, and she was in no condition to do it. “You’ve been cooped up in here for days. Take a walk. Mart
ha can keep me company.”

  Making it clear he was not pleased, Matthew did as he was told. Once the men were in the hall, the gangster lit his cigarette and let out a breath. “Leave her be tonight. I’ve been keepin’ Tommy on ice for you. He’s healed up enough to truly feel what he has coming.”

  Watching Charlotte through the blinds, seeing her sniff as she talked to Martha, was killing him. Clenched fists, arms so tense they could have bent iron, Matthew nodded.

  Radcliffe stared towards the same scene. “Martha will stay with her. After all that was done, it will be good for Lottie to have a woman around—if you get my meaning.”

  Matthew’s voice was low. “She told me what happened. She told me everything...”

  Radcliffe took a drag, he watched his girls. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t. Don’t matter. It’s her story to tell anyway she likes.”

  Pale eyes left the window, Matthew turned towards the man ultimately responsible. “You did this to her. This was your fault.”

  And that’s where the younger man was wrong. Radcliff pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “But it isn’t that simple, is it? Deep down you know, I’m the reason she survived it.”

  There was nothing Matthew could do, no real way he could strike at Radcliffe without hurting Charlotte. “The day you die, I am gonna dance on your grave.”

  “No you won’t. You’ll be too busy seeing to your grieving wife. She’ll take it real hard. Lottie is my girl.”

  “She’s my girl now.”

  * * *

  When Charlie was fast asleep, Matthew entrusted her to Nathaniel, Eli, and Martha, so he might keep that appointment with Tommy. Beaumont was waiting for him, his jacket removed, shirtsleeves rolled up.

  In the same room still stinking of Charlotte’s blood, they spent the night showing Tommy Kennedy the true face of pain.

  Before he died, things had been done to him that were ungodly, meted out by two men with absolutely no remorse.

  And then it was over.

  No word was spoken. Matthew simply left the old man to clean up the mess.

  When he arrived at the hospital, he found Charlotte smiling to see him. “See, you needed good rest and a decent meal, Matthew. You look refreshed.”

  Matthew nodded in agreement and went back to his customary seat, shooing Nathaniel off with a dangerous glare. When her hand was in his, he took a deep breath, and told her he loved her, no care for who was listening.

  Chapter 19

  “For Christ’s sake, Matthew. Knock it off!” Exasperation magnified Charlie’s complaints, the train ride back to Monroe having jarred her broken ribs, leaving her surly as a sober sailor.

  Accustomed to her protests after the woman’s two complaint-ridden hospital stays, Matthew ignored it and continued to bear her weight up the steps. Eli followed with their bags.

  Once inside, Matthew sat her down in her chair, went to fetch her damn cat, and plopped Gus in her lap with a warning that she better behave and rest.

  Nathaniel came and sat at her elbow to keep her company. “I have seen a lot of crazy things… but watching you run through that gunfire, eyes like the devil while you mowed down those bastards… that tops it all. I’m damn proud you’re gonna be my sister.”

  Before he was allowed to speak another word, her hands came to his scruffy face. Nathaniel’s wild hair was tamed by loving fingers. “You utterly adorable jackass. You’ve been my brother from the first day.”

  He cleared his throat, the bear nodding. “You’re an Emerson through and through.”

  There was a loud grunt of approval from the grill where Matthew was preparing her tea.

  But she wasn’t, not yet. “I’m not gonna be an Emerson until I can walk down the aisle without limping.”

  Matthew heard her and approached with a scowl. Their wedding was already planned to take place in one week. “What do you mean?”

  She met his eyes, knowing she looked like hell. Harboring no intention of celebrating her wedding day covered in sickly bruises, Charlie said, “Our wedding might have been planned for next week, but I won’t marry you until I’m healed up.”

  He was not happy. “How long’s that gonna take?”

  It was moments like these that Charlie felt precious to him. She knew that the stormy expression he was leveling her way only had to do with him wanting to make her his. “The last time I had a broken rib it took six weeks to mend. That was one broken rib.” Talking so much was uncomfortable; standing at an altar would have been unbearable. She wanted the moment to be special, memorable. “I’ve got three broken ribs this time.”

  Matthew’s lips went into a tight line. “I’m taking you to the courthouse tomorrow.”

  “No, sir. I have a perfectly beautiful gown upstairs and I intend to wear it.” With the cat purring loudly on her lap, Charlie cuddled the beast and simpered. “You’ll just have to wait.” Muttering under her breath she added, “And we’ll see how you like it this time…”

  Nathaniel stood from his chair, pressing an extended kiss to her unkempt hair, ruffling her mop until it resembled his own.

  * * *

  It was not the early April wedding they had planned, but mid-June was just as beautiful. With healing ribs, it had been some weeks before Charlie could really move without pain, but that glorious summer morning she felt nothing but joy.

  After her face had been plastered all over the newspapers from the Radcliffe Bridal Shower, Monroe had begun to look at Charlotte Elliot in a far different light. Those who had talked down to the strange blonde were suddenly quiet. She became a marvel to the locals, an exotic phenomenon.

  The morning of her wedding, after Ruth helped her dress, Martha clucking orders from the side, Charlie wanted to run to the church. When the time came for her to walk down the aisle, the entirety of Creekside Methodist was packed to the rafters with uninvited Monroe residents gathered to gawk at the glamorous niece of Beaumont Radcliffe. Half the congregation practically fell over themselves when the infamous gangster himself marched in with the smiling bride on his arm.

  Charlie didn’t see the masses of people, the ridiculous flowers Martha had arranged, or how dapper Nathaniel and Eli looked in their fine new suits. Her eyes were on the man waiting for her by the preacher.

  Matthew Emerson stood tall, eyes shining at the beauty of the woman he loved in her fine dress and long lace veil.

  Not a bruise marred her skin and there was no more pain in her eyes.

  Charlotte was whole and beautiful—and going to be his wife.

  The ceremony was simple, nothing flowery—just a boy marrying a girl. When the time came to seal the vows, there was nothing shy in the kiss he gave her. In fact, he hadn’t been allowed to kiss her in so long, one might say it was a little scandalous for the country folk in attendance.

  Charlie got the photographs she dreamed of before the wedded pair found Devil’s Hollow about bursting. It was supposed to be an intimate reception, yet somehow had turned into a whole county affair. Monroe was going to celebrate whether Matthew and Charlie wanted it or not.

  Several men pulled out instruments and dancing began. Matthew obliged her, taking her hand before she even had to hint. Charlotte Emerson got Matthew’s full attention; the whole time the man’s lips hinted at a smile. His only glares came when Nathaniel, Eli, or Beaumont stole her away for a few moments of their own.

  While the party was still going full swing, the bride and groom vanished. Matthew stole her away, carrying her so the pure ivory of her lace gown would not be spoiled.

  Through the dusky woods he went, all the way to their dilapidated house. With a small grin hinting he was up to no good, he carried her over the threshold and into the only room the workmen had seen to. Their foyer, full of glowing lanterns, housed a nest of quilts and a few special jars of shine.

  In the soft glow of lamplight, Matthew saw her naked for the first time in weeks. Not a trace of bruised skin remained; no red angry welts, no gashes. She was glowing, perfect n
o matter the scars—his big, calloused hands running from her shoulders, over ripe breasts, to settle on the swell of her hips.

  Matthew wanted her to know. He was going to tell her every minute if he had to. “I love you.”

  Blushing shyly, Charlie grinned. “I love you too.”

  He wanted Charlotte to know how bad he needed her. “I’m always going to love you.”

  “I know, Matthew.” A languid kiss followed, slow and delicious.

  Just like that first night, Matthew began to kneel, kissing a trail down her body. Every scar he adored, every nick.

  She still stood when he darted that tongue between her thighs. Gripping his shoulders, Charlie swayed, made a noise so perfect he lapped at her slit to hear it again.

  The man just kept going, even long after Charlie had sagged against the banister, splayed wantonly for him to do with as he pleased. He wanted to give her so much, wanted her to never doubt again, but he wasn’t good with words... never had been. Instead he took that pert clit between his teeth, sucking, and groaned at the taste he loved. Those sweet parts he toyed with, just as his fingers played inside where she was eager, Charlie pleading for him to fill her up.

  He smiled.

  Hard, ready for her, he pulled her sweet body to his lap and slowly made her his wife.

  She came quickly, mouth agape, eyes wild.

  He breathed at her ear. “I love you.”

  Head falling back, loving the feel of his mouth on her neck, Charlie rode him, so he too might be brought to bliss. “You’re a wicked man, Matthew Emerson.”

  Husky, he spoke, “Now you’re my wife, Charlotte Emerson.”

  God, how she loved the sound of that name.

  Strong hands lifted and lowered her weight, Matthew growling, “Those precautions you been takin’…” He gave her one sharp thrust, he filled her up. “No more.”

  Lost in pleasure, a “Hmmm,” was all that she could manage.