Her Defiant Heart Page 3

  "Dammit." He felt in the dark for the part that had not fallen in the lock piece and pocketed it. Under his breath, he cursed the man who had encouraged him to come to Jennings Memorial in the first place, then he took out his notepad and slipped a flat metal file from beneath the book's leather spine. It took thirty seconds to release the lock piece.

  Christian pulled himself upright, threw back the bolt, and entered the room. He shut the door behind him. It was useless to expect that his eyes would adjust to the total darkness, so he didn't waste time waiting for it to happen. He regretted not having the lantern, but he couldn't take the chance that someone would happen by and see light from under the door. Exercising caution, Christian crossed the room, stopping when his knees touched the cot. He sat down on the very edge and placed his head where he expected Jane Doe's shoulder to be.

  It wasn't there. Neither was any other part of her. The leather restraints remained, but she was gone. "What the hell?" he whispered. "Where did you go, Jane? You couldn't have left the room." A small whimper at the far corner alerted him to her presence. Afraid that he would frighten her more than he already had, Christian stayed where he was. "Jane?" He said her name softly. "I'm a friend, Jane. I am not going to hurt you. I only want to talk."

  Another shivery whimper was all the response Christian received.

  "You're very resourceful, Jane. Someday I hope to learn how you escaped those straps." He ran his index finger around the inside of one of the straps. It felt wet. He drew back his finger, sniffed, and touched the tip of his tongue to it. It was blood. The flesh on her wrists would be twisted and raw from her efforts to free herself. He heard her teeth chatter and decided to ease what suffering he could. "You're welcome to my jacket. It will ward off the chill. Shall I bring it to you?" He waited a moment for a reply. When none came, he tried another tack. He stood up and took the jacket off, holding it out at the end of his fingertips. "Would you like to come for it yourself? I'm holding it out to you. Just follow the sound of..." Christian didn't finish. He never heard her move. One moment the navy blue jacket was dangling at the end of his hand, in the next it was gone. He cocked his head to one side and heard her scurry back to her corner. Had she crawled along the floor on all fours? The thought was repugnant. "Does that help at all? Are you warmer?"

  "Mmm."

  Christian hoped that meant yes. "My name is Christian Marshall. I would like to call you by your name. Will you tell me what it is?"

  Nothing.

  "Then shall I call you Jane like everyone else?"

  Nothing.

  "I'm going to sit down again," he said, doing just that. He sat heavily so the cot groaned a little beneath his weight. It was important to him that she not feel threatened. "I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but I am asking you to do it anyway. Are you listening to me, Jane?"

  "Mmm."

  Her teeth had stopped clicking, but her reply was little more than a moan. Not for the first time, Christian questioned the rightness of what he was doing. "There's someone here at the hospital who believes in you. He is a friend of mine." Or he was, Christian amended silently, before he had talked him into this bit of blatant idiocy. "You've met Scott Turner, haven't you? Dr. Turner?"

  Nothing.

  "I can't see you, Jane," Christian explained patiently. "If you're shaking your head one way or the other I have no way of knowing. Do you remember meeting Dr. Turner? It would have been shortly after you were brought here. Before the treatments started."

  There was a short gasp as Jane Doe caught back a sob. Then, mmm-hmm.

  "Good." Progress at last. "Dr. Turner thinks you may not belong here, but it is not in his power to get you out. I might be able to help if you will allow me. It won't be accomplished easily, Jane, and certainly not without your assistance. Today is simply the introduction. Will you remember me later? Know my voice?"

  "Taak meh." A sob followed the unintelligible words. "Doan leef meh."

  Christian set his jaw as the sounds from the tortured voice washed over him. So much effort had gone into the few words she spoke that Christian could not bring himself to ask her to repeat them. He said them again in his mind, then mouthed them, and finally whispered them until he had a sense of their meaning. When he realized what she was asking, he was glad she could not see him. She would not be encouraged by his helplessness. "I can't take you today. I have to leave you. I didn't come in a carriage. I rode Liberty. She'd take both of us, but I don't think you can ride—not in your condition. And it can't be more than twenty degrees outside. You would freeze to death before we made a city block. I live too far north of here, on Fifth, between Thirty-eighth and Thirty-ninth." Christian knew he was rambling in what amounted to a poor attempt to justify himself. Taking her now was definitely not in the plans he and Scott had devised. "It won't work. I'll have to come back. It will be a few days. No longer." Inadequately he added, "I promise."

  "Doan leef meh," she said again, choking on a shallow sob. "Plee doan."

  It was immediately apparent to Christian that Jane Doe could no longer hold back her tears. He left the bed and moved to her side as she began sobbing in earnest. He was careful not to touch her as he hunkered down. "I'm here. I am not going to hurt you," he said again. "I want to help. Dr. Turner wants to help. But I can't do anything today, and Scott can never be implicated. Do you understand? You must never mention his name or anything that I've told you. Jane, are you listening? I can't stay any longer. I have to leave now."

  He gave a small start as her crying stopped abruptly, and her fingers curled around his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip. She seemed to know the exact placement of his arm. "Do you have cat's eyes, Jane Doe?" he asked softly, trying to extricate his hand. She was not giving any quarter. He remembered the things Dr. Glenn had told him about this patient. Was Glenn right and Scott wrong after all? "Is that it?" he asked in a tone suited to a fractious child. "Cat's eyes? I don't remember them that way. They're very pretty, though. Deeply brown, I think. Touches of cinnamon and dark chocolate." Christian gave up trying to remove her fingers. With the intention of leading her back to the cot, Christian started to rise. Her choices were clear. She could be led or dragged or she could release him and stay where she was. He was only slightly relieved when she allowed herself to be led docilely. When they reached the cot she still had a bloodless grip on his wrist. There was no question in Christian's mind that he could pull away if he wanted. A quick downward snap would set him free. He also thought it would agitate Jane, and Scott Turner had cautioned him against that. He was still trying to decide what to do when she lifted his wrist and laid his hand against her left breast.

  "Taak meh." She stepped closer to Christian and moved sinuously against him so that her breast rubbed the heart of his palm.

  Confusion was uppermost in Christian's mind. He was only peripherally aware of the breast that filled his hand or the damp, clinging shift that covered it. Had he misunderstood her request all along or was she bartering herself to gain her release? Did she want him to take her on the cot or take her out in the cold? Was she simply a demented syphilitic whore who'd caught Scott Turner's eye one day? Christian had difficulty believing that. He decided to believe that she was bartering herself in order to get him to change his mind. "This isn't what you want," he said. God knows, he thought, it wasn't what he wanted. He would count himself as debased as one of the Five Points pimps if he were attracted in any physical way to Jane or her offer.

  "I have to go before I'm discovered here. Someone's bound to come and check on you soon. If I'm found I won't be able to come back." Was she listening to him? Christian didn't think so. She continued to press her body against his. The jacket he gave her slipped from her shoulders, and he felt it touch his arm on its way to the floor. How could she stand the cold? He remembered Dr. Glenn explaining that she didn't feel things in a customary way. Of course she was also close enough to him that she was practically basking in his body heat. Incredibly, he felt his cock stir in
response to the small hand that began to slide back and forth across his groin. Christian simply stood there and waited for Jane to realize that he wasn't going to make a single willing overture. "Are you used to getting what you want?" he asked. "Is that why Alice Vanderstell calls you the princess?"

  The words were barely out of Christian's mouth when he felt a sharp, excruciating pain between his legs as Jane delivered a humiliating and incapacitating blow with her knee. It had never occurred to him that he was being set up like a mark in a Bowery saloon. She was sly and cunning and probably everything else that Dr. Glenn said she was. He began to think with more conviction that Scott Turner was the one who had made the mistake.

  Christian's legs trembled, and he instinctively doubled at the waist to prevent further injury as well as ease the existing pain. He regretted not being able to hold back the small, surprised grunt that gave sound to Jane's blow. It helped her target his face in the pitch-black room. The double-fisted punch she landed on his cheek and temple knocked Christian sideways and back onto the bed. He rolled toward the wall in an attempt to get out of her way, but her thin arms rotated like windmills, pummeling and flailing him until inevitably she got lucky. Jane's fists found the same spot on Christian's left leg that the lead ball at Gettysburg had.

  A different kind of darkness encroached on Christian's vision. It was murky and thick and unrelentingly. He was unconscious almost before he had finished screaming.

  * * *

  Marshall House was one of a number of brownstone mansions built at the mid-century mark when New York money was moving uptown. At that time Fifth Avenue north of Twenty-third Street was still unpaved and resembled nothing so much as a quaint country cow-path. It was largely unpopulated, and many New Yorkers predicted the northern migration would fail. They were wrong. Fifth Avenue, from Washington Square to Madison Square, established itself as the center of society and fashion and the brownstone mansions bore the mark of money.

  Marshall House, like its neighboring residences, was both grandiose and solid looking. It reflected the wealth and the conservatism of the original owners. Men who'd made millions by taking risks to build their empires chose conformity when it came to building their homes. There was a fine line between originality and a vulgar display of wealth.

  Commissioned by Christian's father, Marshall House favored conformity. The entrances were made imposing by the Corinthian columns and pilasters which flanked them. The mansard roof, the high, arched windows, and the heavy stone ornamentation weighted the house with formality and respectability. Inside, the mansion was no less stately. The rooms on the ground floor included a spacious banquet hall that was not to be confused with the family dining room, a solarium, an exceptionally well-appointed library, three parlors, and a gallery, which displayed tapestries and sculpture.

  Before the war, Marshall House had played a significant role in the social life of the Fifth Avenue elite. Now, with only Christian remaining, the seldom-used rooms of Marshall House seemed to echo silence.

  Scott Turner splashed a crystal tumbler with whiskey and held it out to his patient. The searing look Christian gave him made him pull back and add a generous two fingers of liquor before he handed it over. He arched one wheat-colored brow critically. "You're certain you want this?"

  "Stop playing doctor and be my friend. Or leave." He leaned forward in his red leather armchair to accept the tumbler and pushed the ottoman away with his feet. The plaid shawl that covered his lap and legs slipped to the floor. He kicked it aside. "Damn right I want it. I'm not an invalid." Christian knocked back the drink in one long swallow. He winced slightly when it hit the pit of his empty stomach.

  Scott shrugged. He could sense that Christian was spoiling for a fight. Scott Turner counted himself among a half dozen or so people who wouldn't back down from the opportunity to flatten Christian Marshall. Not that Scott was certain he could do it, but there were times he'd be grateful for the chance. The game leg didn't make Christian untouchable as far as Scott was concerned. It tended to make things a little fairer. Scott stood a full head shorter than his best friend and carried only three-quarters of the weight. He had regular, even features that his wife assured him were quite handsome—even if they didn't turn female heads the way Christian's profile was prone to do. "Doctor or friend, my advice is still the same. Drink in moderation or don't drink at all. This isn't doing you any good."

  "What would you know?" he asked, holding the tumbler up to the firelight and examining it idly.

  "Now you sound like Beth," Scott said, remarking on Christian's sulky tone. "May I remind you that my daughter is five?"

  Lowering the tumbler, Christian rolled it back and forth between his hands. His eyes dropped away from the hearth. "Jesus, what a day."

  "And night. It's long gone eight, you know."

  That surprised Christian, but it didn't show on his face. His features were a study of stillness. "Is it? What time was it when Mrs. Brandywine sent for you?"

  "About six. Just after Dr. Morgan and an attendant from Jennings brought you home and took their leave. I've already commended your housekeeper for not mentioning me to Morgan. He would have been apoplectic if he had known you'd sent for me."

  "He thinks you found your medical degree in the Chronicle's classified ads, does he?"

  Scott grinned and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing back the golden fringe that tended to fall over his forehead. The rueful smile lifted his lips and lighted the striking blueness of his eyes. "Something like that. Morgan's Harvard. The University of Pennsylvania's Medical School doesn't carry much weight with him. He's very old guard. Innovation and change frighten him." He chuckled briefly. "I scare the hell out of him."

  "Then he approves of the things I saw today?"

  "Don't ever doubt it," Scott said. "Perry Glenn is precisely what Morgan likes in a physician. Ancient techniques only slightly modified to fit a few modern sensibilities. Morgan's been running Jennings Memorial under those guidelines for too many years. The people who put money into that hospital don't begin to understand what it is they're getting in return. In the case of the lunatic ward it's often out of sight, out of mind." He returned the stopper to the whiskey decanter and took a seat opposite Christian, stretching his legs in front of him. "You know, Christian, if you'd let me give you a powder for the pain, you wouldn't be sitting in that chair as stiff as a three-day corpse."

  "You flatter me," he said dryly. "Next you'll be suggesting an operation." He held up his hand to stop Scott's obvious reply. "I don't want to hear about an operation, and I don't want a powder. The whiskey will do just as well, thank you very much."

  "Alcohol is no good as a painkiller. That's a myth."

  Christian's lip curled. "Then it's a damn good myth," he said sourly. "No wonder you scare the hell out of Morgan. Your medical education is full of holes."

  Experience had taught Scott when to make a strategic retreat. "So tell me what happened at the hospital. You've been dozing off and on in that chair for the better part of two hours. No concussion that I can see, but Mrs. Brandywine should have kept you in bed where Morgan and Billy MacCauley put you."

  "Don't blame her. Your luck wouldn't have run any better."

  "Don't I know it."

  Christian grunted softly as he got to his feet. He headed to the sideboard. Ignoring Scott's cross look, he poured himself another drink and carried it and the crystal decanter back to his chair. "So you want to know what happened. I assumed Mrs. Brandywine already filled your head."

  "She told me what Dr. Morgan told her. After Billy MacCauley called Dr. Glenn away from the treatment room, you went back inside instead of leaving. Your bleeding heart got the better of your common sense, and you released Jane Doe. She returned the favor by knocking you out, stealing your clothes, strapping you to the bed, locking you in, and added insult to injury by taking flight with Liberty. Is that the gist of it?"

  "Close enough," Christian said. "Except for that part about my bleeding hea
rt. I didn't release her. She had wiggled out of those straps by the time I returned to the room."

  "Maybe so, but she could not have gotten out if you hadn't gone in. The bolt was meant to secure her just as it secured you after she was gone."

  "In my case the bolt was completely unnecessary. She had me trussed so tightly to that cot my fingers went numb."

  "You deserved it," Scott said. "Now she's out wandering the streets in weather that would freeze a witch's—"

  "How was I supposed to know she'd do a damn fool thing like that?" Christian interrupted impatiently. "This was your idea, Scott. You're the one who said there was nothing wrong with her mind. I hope you'll understand that my experience with her has led me to a slightly different conclusion."

  Scott threw up his hands. "Don't you see? If she is sane, then she would be even more desperate to get away from the hospital? You offered her hope and snatched it away in the same breath."

  "If?" Christian asked, cocking an eyebrow at Scott. He latched onto the one word he heard above all the others. "What do you mean if? When you approached me with this scheme, you never once used the word if. 'I'll stake my reputation, Chris,' you said. 'Everything I've been taught tells me something's wrong at Jennings and not with Jane Doe,' you said. 'Help me. I swear she's being kept there against her will.' Do you remember saying all that?"

  "Don't you forget anything?" Scott's handsome features contorted slightly as Christian tossed back another drink. He fought the urge to take the decanter, knowing full well that Christian would only switch to something else. "I haven't changed my opinion. It's just that I never anticipated something like this. I had no idea that you would be allowed to observe the treatment. I thought you would meet her on the ward."

  "It surprised me, too. I think he wanted to impress me, add another slant to the story he thinks I am writing." Christian raised his glass in salute. "The Marshall name. The Chronicle's power."