by Jo Goodman
“You know her, don’t you?” asked Polly. “I can tell.”
“This is Kenna Dunne.” Very carefully, as if she were as delicate as crystal, Rhys helped Kenna unfold her cramping body. He drew up the blanket from the foot of the bed and covered her and then rubbed her abdomen in slow, soothing circles with the palm of his hand.
Polly’s eyes became even rounder in astonishment. “Good Lord.”
“Exactly. Her hair’s been shorn and the color changed, but this undoubtedly is Kenna. Tell me again how she came to be here.”
Polly told him everything of Kenna’s rescue from Mrs. Miller’s while Rhys listened, giving nothing away of his thoughts.
Kenna’s piteous weeping had stopped and Rhys realized she had fallen asleep. “She didn’t recognize me.”
“It’s to be expected,” Polly assured him. “She’s had only one thing on her mind—her medicine, as she was taught to call it. She doesn’t know what’s happening to her. She leaps at shadows and cowers from things only she can see. She can be quiet or violent by turns. The poor dear can’t help herself. It will take time, Rhys.”
“How much?”
“Weeks, perhaps months. Mrs. Miller used a heavy hand when she applied the drug. It might have killed her.”
“She’s out of danger now, isn’t she?”
“I think so. With proper care and eventually some cooperation on her part, she will be fine.”
Rhys stood up, pacing the floor as he came to a decision. “I’m taking her with me, Polly. To Boston. She’ll have those weeks she needs to recover on board ship.”
“Oh, Rhys, how can you do that? Shouldn’t she go to Dunnelly? What of her family?”
Rhys shook his head quickly. “You don’t understand. She’s safer with me. Someone at Dunnelly has been trying to kill her. There is no one I can trust. No one.”
“Surely her brother…”
“No one,” he repeated. “I can be certain of nothing any longer. Everyone thinks she is dead. If I tell them otherwise there may very well be another attempt on her life. I must go to the United States, Polly, and I can’t protect her with an ocean between us. I couldn’t do it when she was nearly in my pocket. I have to take Kenna out of England.”
“It seems so cruel to her family,” Polly said softly.
“It would be cruel to Kenna if I left her behind.”
Polly nodded. “I understand.”
“You must never mention what I’m going to do to anyone.”
“I wouldn’t,” she said, staring at him, hurt by his lack of trust.
“I’m sorry, but not even your girls can know. They must think Diana died. It is the only way to insure her safety. You will be the only person left in England who knows where she is. It has to be that way.”
“How will we get her out of here? And where will she go until you’re ready to leave? You can’t take her to your townhouse if you want this kept secret.”
“No, you’re right. But the ship I am taking to Boston is one of my father’s…one of mine now, I suppose. I can put her aboard the evening before I sail. The crew will not know who she is.”
“Suppose she tells them?”
Rhys was skeptical. “Do you really think in two more days she’ll be able to tell them anything?”
Polly understood his reasoning. “Probably not.”
“Then it’s settled.” He kissed Polly affectionately on the lips. “Can we go to your room? I’d like you to explain everything I must do to assist her recovery.”
Later that afternoon, armed with Polly’s instructions if not her whole-hearted blessing, Rhys began scouring the London shops for the things Kenna would need on the voyage. Clothing was difficult to find. The modistes were anxious to please and nodded gleefully as Rhys described Kenna’s figure. Yes, they had something that would fit such a svelte woman they said. Then Rhys described her height and they blanched. At the end of a long day he had but three changes of clothes for her. To supplement her wardrobe and help her pass the time when she was well, Rhys purchased yards of material. The modistes smiled happily as he chose bolts of silks and satins, velvets and wools, in colors that would complement Kenna’s fair complexion and her red-gold hair when the dye had faded. He picked out a book that pictured the latest fashions and added ribbons, lace, needles, and threads of every conceivable color. He chose stockings and chemises, beautifully fashioned kid slippers and walking shoes, riding boots, shawls, nightgowns and a redingote trimmed with sable, perfect for the cold ocean voyage.
He bought books he thought she would enjoy in the event she wanted nothing to do with him and a chess set in the event she did. He had everything placed in trunks and sent to the Carasea. Exhausted from his tour of London shops, Rhys returned to his townhouse and slept better that night than he had in months.
He visited the Flower House the following day and stayed with Kenna until after midnight. He bathed and fed her, read to her from the Gazette, and told her stories from his own imagination. He fought with her, swore at her, and cried when she did. He held her in his arms and stroked her back, teased her curls, and paced the floor when she slept. He thought he had been through everything with her but when he returned in the morning he discovered he had underestimated Kenna Dunne.
Rhys carefully measured out a teaspoon of the drug and pocketed the bottle inside his jacket before he brought the liquid to Kenna’s lips. He wished he could simply give her none of it but when he suggested it to Polly she cautioned him against that plan. She had no experience with anything but gradual withdrawal and she did not know what would happen. Polly had unwrapped Kenna’s hands as she had become less violent and they trembled now as Rhys brought the liquid to her lips. She grabbed his wrists to make certain he wouldn’t withdraw the spoon before she had licked every drop, then she fell back on the pillow and waited for the drift of sweet pleasure.
“You’re very kind to me, Rhys,” she said.
The spoon clattered to the floor. “Kenna!”
She smiled serenely and motioned him to sit beside her. “Mm. I like it better than Diana.”
He would have had to sit even if she hadn’t invited him. “You remember then?”
Kenna nodded. “Most everything. It’s like a dream. Still.” She touched the sleeve of his jacket and ran her hand across his forearm. “I’ve wronged you, Rhys.”
“Sh. Doesn’t matter. Not now.”
“It does.” She sat up and a rush of bittersweet pleasure made her dizzy. She held onto Rhys for support. “I’m fine, Rhys. Jus’ fine.”
Rhys drew her onto his lap and she relaxed against him. It was agony for him to hold her but he could not have set her aside if his life depended upon it.
Kenna’s hands stole inside Rhys’s open jacket and she felt his sharp intake of breath as her fingers massaged his back, then his chest. She nuzzled the curve of his shoulder sleepily, teasing the side of his face with the feather-light touch of her hair. “I like it when you hold me.”
“I like it, too.” He spoke against her hair.
Kenna lifted her face. “Kiss me, Rhys.”
“Kenna.” It was an uncertain warning at best.
Her pupils were widely dilated, making her eyes nearly black with only a slim ring of their dark chocolate color visible. “Kiss me.” Her mouth parted.
Rhys hesitated a moment longer then gave in to the desire he thought he saw in her eyes. He said her name again, but this time he surrendered to it. There was a faintly bitter taste to her lips and he realized it was the drug that had robbed her of the heady sweetness he was used to. His hands slipped to her sides, then cupped her breasts as he deepened the kiss. She accepted his touch with a disarming languor, moving sinuously against him, until his body tightened in response. It was Kenna who broke the kiss and teased his ear, his jaw, and the smooth plane of his cheeks with her mouth.
Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt and slipped inside to touch his bare flesh. She ran her hand over the hard ridges of his flat bell
y and felt him suck in his breath. She pressed a siren’s smile into the curve of his neck then trailed kisses along his warm skin.
Kenna’s breasts filled Rhys’s hands and the tips hardened as he teased them with the pads of his thumbs. Her nightgown added a delicious friction to his teasing. The tiny moan of pleasure that parted her lips was swallowed by Rhys’s mouth.
Kenna’s hands clutched his sides as she felt the hard proof of his desire press against her thigh. Her movements became more frantic, exploring, touching, intent.
Caught up in Kenna’s seduction Rhys did not notice she had lifted the vial from his inside pocket until he saw it flash in her hand as she pushed him away and ran across the room.
In one corner of the chamber Kenna turned her back on Rhys and with frantic, desperate movements began trying to uncork the vial. She had just managed to loosen the cork when she felt Rhys’s hands on her elbows. She shrugged away from him and crouched in the corner, shoulders hunched and head bowed to protect herself from his interference.
“Go away!” she gritted between clenched teeth.
“Give me the bottle, Kenna.”
She didn’t waste effort on a reply as she tugged the cork free. Rhys’s arms surrounded her as she began lifting the bottle to her mouth. His fingers were painfully tight on her wrists. Kenna kicked backward, surprising Rhys as her heel connected with his shin, and his grip slackened slightly, enough for her to reach her lips with the tip of the bottle.
Rhys’s large hand closed over hers and with hard, implacable force pulled her arm behind her back, jerking it upward until she cried out. Her numbed fingers twitched, then flowered open. Rhys caught the bottle as it started to fall, holding it out of her reach when she turned on him, “Give it to me, Rhys!” she screamed, lunging for him. Although her nails had been clipped short she still managed to cut a furrow on his cheek when she clawed at him.
Rhys put his index finger over the narrow opening of the bottle to keep the contents from spilling while he pushed Kenna away with his other hand. She staggered backward, stiffened her shoulders as well as her resolve and came at him again. Rhys put the bottle behind his back and though Kenna tried to get at it from a dozen different angles she could not reach it.
What she had been able to do was maneuver Rhys against the wall and when he could move no further she dropped to her knees in front of him. “Please, Rhys. I beg you. Give it to me. I need it! Can’t you see I need it?”
What Rhys saw churned his gut. She was without pride, her soul ravaged by the craving of her body and mind. Everything she had done with him had been in aid of getting the drug. She had no thoughts of her brother or Victorine. She had not asked about Janet. All her concerns had disappeared save one and he held it behind his back.
“I cannot give it to you, Kenna.”
“You can!” She pounded once on the floor with her fists. “You can! I’ll do anything, Rhys! Anything!” Kenna lifted her hands and ran them over his thighs. She could feel the muscles in his legs grow taut beneath her palms. Her fingers dipped into the waistband of his trousers and she pulled herself up. She leaned into him, pressing the warm curves of her body against the unyielding planes and angles of his own.
Rhys would have had to be cut from stone in order not to feel something. And he was not cut from stone. Kenna moved against him with feline grace, her caresses intimate, and he lost control of his body’s response. She rolled her hips against his arousal, sliding her arms about Rhys’s neck so he could not push her away.
“We can make love,” she whispered. “I want to. I know it’s the same for you.” Her head shot back from the curve of his shoulder as Rhys began laughing.
“Do you know where we are? If I want to make love I can have Polly or Sheila or Pamela or Loreta or Deborah…”
“Damn you!” Tears sprang to her eyes.
“And damn you, Kenna Dunne!” Rhys responded feelingly.
“Please, Rhys!” she begged again. “I must have my medicine. I hurt so badly. Please! Nothing is right without it!” She sobbed against his chest. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just give me the bottle.”
Rhys made no move to hold her, afraid to trust her tears. “Marry me.”
Kenna did not hesitate. “Yes.”
“Now. Today.”
“Yes. Of course.” She wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “Now give me the bottle.”
He shook his head. “After we’re married.”
“But—”
“After.” He saw her resist for a moment, then it faded as she listened to her greedy addiction speak. “Go back to bed, Kenna. Try to sleep. When I return we’ll be married.”
Polly was shocked by Rhys’s plan but was persuaded to help him. “She’ll be furious when you don’t give her more of the drug,” she told him as she cleaned the scratch on his cheek.
“I’m willing to face that.”
“Very well. There is a priest I know who will perform the rites.”
One of Rhys’s eyebrows kicked up. “A visitor to the Flower House?”
“Frequently.” She winked at him. “But he comes to save our damned souls. I think he would be most cooperative if he thought he was helping one of the fallen angels give up her profession.”
“Then arrange it for this evening. I will meet him at his church with Kenna. I’d like you to be there as a witness.”
“You couldn’t keep me away, Rhys.”
“I will take Kenna immediately to the ship afterward. You will have to explain her death to your girls alone.”
“I can manage the thing. I only hope you do as well.”
Rhys came back for Kenna after midnight. Polly made certain her girls were all occupied with clients and would be for several hours. Kenna was drowsy from another small dose of the drug which Polly had administered an hour earlier and therefore cooperative. She allowed herself to be dressed in a lemon yellow dress with a garland of flowers embroidered at the hem. An ivory fichu was draped over her shoulders and gloves of the same color covered her arms from the tips of her fingers to several inches past her elbows. Polly fastened the redingote at Kenna’s throat and lifted the collar so the fur trim framed her neck and brushed the curling tips of her hair. Rhys carried her out the back of the Flower House and placed her in his coach. He held out a hand for Polly and helped her in. She supported Kenna’s head in her lap as Rhys took the driver’s seat and wound the carriage through narrow London alleys and streets to get to the church.
The Anglican priest was waiting for them in his private rooms affixed to the church. He had prepared an altar and wore his vestments. The necessary papers were waiting for signatures on his desk. He made a few token protests about the impropriety of the situation but when Polly gave him her cherub’s smile he ceased complaining and cleared his throat, looking at the participants expectantly.
Kenna stood to one side of Rhys and a little in front of him so he could support her. He whispered in her ear. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes. We made a bargain.”
Rhys was satisfied it was what she wanted, even if it was for the wrong reasons. He told the priest they were ready.
The ceremony was brief. Polly shed a few tears and had to nudge Kenna to make her respond to her fictitious name. The ring Rhys placed on Kenna’s finger was a fraction too large and it kept slipping down to her first knuckle. Rhys recited his vows in clear tones; Kenna stumbled a bit over the words. The kiss that sealed their promises was brief. Rhys helped Kenna sign her name to the registry while Polly occupied the priest with conversation. Though she wrote her own name, with Rhys’s assistance it was nearly illegible and the priest would never think it said anything but Diana Dome. Rhys kept a record of the ceremony for himself which he quickly put out of Kenna’s reach. Signaling to Polly that everything was accomplished, they took their leave a few minutes later.
On the way back to the Flower House Kenna became more alert and the empty ache she felt inside warned her it was time for mo
re of her medicine. It tore at Polly’s heart to see Kenna beg but she remained unyielding. When Rhys helped her down from the carriage she told him Kenna was sick for it again.
Rhys glanced inside the coach and saw Kenna curled on the padded seat, her knees to her chest. He took Polly’s hand and led her away. “I have your instructions. I know what to do. She’s going to be fine, Polly.”
“She has to want to get well, Rhys,” Polly said with some urgency, taking his hands in hers. “You cannot force her recovery on her. At the moment she wants no part of your good sense. It is my experience that some of the girls who stay on the drug do so because life with it is infinitely preferable to life without. It dulls the hard edges of reality. I would not have thought it would be true in Kenna’s case, her being quality and all, used to every luxury. But I think I erred in judging her life. She has been fighting us tooth and nail because she does not want to return to the way things were. I don’t think she was a happy woman, Rhys. She can forget it with the drug.”
Rhys knew Polly was right. Kenna had been unhappy and frightened and more alone than she ever would have admitted. Her life at Dunnelly had taken on a sameness that had been eroding her spirit and when events began to change the catalyst was betrayal. She had been powerless, confused, and defeated. It was small wonder that she clung to the solace of the drug that had been forced upon her.
Rhys squeezed Polly’s hands gently. “Kenna and I will manage, Polly. I thank you for all you have done, not simply for Kenna, but everything. I’ll write to you.”
There was an ache in Polly’s throat. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Rhys full on the mouth. His arms closed around her and they held each other for a long moment. Finally, she broke away. “I want to hear about everything. You must describe it all to me. The voyage, your home, the business. Everything.”
“I will.”