Her Defiant Heart Page 7

  Jane's hair flew around her face as she was turned onto her back. Her wrists were captured just above the marks left by the restraints. She glared defiantly at Christian while she tossed her head like a young filly, trying to throw back her mane. Unaware of the split neckline that exposed her breasts nearly to their pink-tipped nipples, she continued to fight blindly with her knees and legs.

  The fact that she could still struggle amazed Christian as much as it worried him. Surely this was further proof that Jane Doe was no ordinary woman. For all her delicacy, she had shown herself to be a fierce opponent, and her strength was something to be reckoned with. Scott needed to see this, he thought. Perhaps it would change his opinion about Jane's state of mind.

  Christian tightened his grip on Jane's wrists and forced them against the mattress on either side of her head. She kicked out at him, and the nightshirt rucked up about her thighs. So much for her earlier attempts at modesty, he thought distractedly. He narrowly avoided being laid low by her knee again as he moved to straddle her hips. His eyebrows lifted a notch, and his half-grin was part exasperation, part relief. "I told you that you would not be so lucky again. Oh, stop looking at me as if you expect me to rape you. It's insulting. I'm not an animal, and you're hardly likely to fill me with lust. I wasn't willing before when you offered yourself, and I'm definitely not willing now. Besides, I'm still a little drunk." Christian had studiously avoided dropping his eyes to the gaping neckline of her nightshirt, but when she expressed her frustration in a frantic little wiggle, he couldn't help himself. That swift glance showed him that she had managed to bare one breast. He released her wrists and sat up straighter, careful not to rest his weight on her but on the backs of his calves instead. He was not that drunk. "Cover yourself," he said.

  Mortification brought a sheen of tears to her wide doe eyes and a rose blush to her cheeks. Rather than simply try to right her nightshirt, Jane twisted beneath Christian in an attempt to turn on her stomach. Though it wasn't her purpose she managed to unseat her captor.

  Christian fell to one side. "Enough," he said sharply, capturing her wrists again and throwing his good leg over both of hers. He was only vaguely aware of the intimacy of their positions and the snug fit of her hip against his groin. "You could be more cooperative. Hell, you owe me something for my trouble." He pinned her back with his hard, wintry stare as much as his hands and spared a brief glance for her neckline when she quieted. "Now, let me do it."

  From the doorway Mrs. Brandywine screamed and dropped the tray of food she was carrying. The tangle of sheets and blankets and arms and legs was damning, and Christian's every word spoke to his intent. The fact that his mouth hovered above Jane's lips while one of his arms rested directly beneath her bare breasts did not allow for misinterpretation.

  Christian glanced over his shoulder at his housekeeper, disgust rife in the set of his mouth. "Mrs. Brandywine," he said calmly, "would you please—"

  But Mrs. Brandywine was not listening to her employer. In that moment nothing could have swayed her from the belief that Christian had finally arrived at the only place a steady diet of drink could lead him. She screamed again, this time for Dr. Turner. "Mr. Marshall's gone mad! He's going to hurt her!"

  "Oh, Jesus," Christian swore, shaking his head and raising his eyes heavenward. "Mrs. B., can't you see that—"

  Scott skittered to a halt in the doorway directly behind the housekeeper. His jaw fell slack and then dropped open at the sight that greeted him. "What the hell?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," Christian said wearily. He turned his attention from the door to Jane, intending to ask for her help in explaining the situation. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow through lightly parted lips. She had passed out. "Wonderful," he muttered, releasing her and collapsing onto his back. He cradled the back of his head in his palms and stared down the length of his aquiline nose at his friend and his housekeeper. "Just bloody wonderful."

  Chapter 3

  Christian stared out the window of his study, his gaze fixed but remote. He did not take any particular notice of the sporadic traffic on Fifth Avenue. The occasional passing coach did not interest him. The after theater supper crowd had finished parading the avenue in their elegant coaches and evening finery and retired to their own homes. He did not see Liam O'Shea walking his beat or hear his club tap rhythmically against the spiked iron fence that bordered the Marshall property. Moonshine fell brightly on the lawn of new snow and glittering flakes rivaled the brightness of the stars in the night sky. It was the kind of clear evening that made the street lamps superfluous. Somewhere nearby a stray dog howled mournfully, and when he was done, another took up the unhappy call.

  Inside the deep pockets of his quilted smoking jacket Christian's hands curled into fists. His mouth was dry, his throat parched, and his fingers itched to pour a shot of whiskey. He resisted the temptation and reached for the cup of tea Mrs. Brandywine had brewed for him almost an hour ago. It was stone cold, left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, and suited his mood perfectly. He finished the cup quickly and moved away from the window. Drained of energy and most emotion, it was easy to mask his surprise when he turned and found Scott watching him from the doorway.

  "Have you been there long?" he asked without interest.

  "Long enough," Scott said. He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms against his chest. "You should be in bed."

  "In a little while." Christian walked to the fireplace and picked up the poker. He stirred the ashes idly. "How is she?"

  "All tucked in and sleeping peacefully."

  Christian nodded. "Good. And Mrs. Brandywine?"

  "She's recovered from her earlier shock as well. More than a little embarrassed by the conclusions she drew when she saw you and Jane together on the bed. Have a heart, Chris, let her off the hook. A few words from you and she wouldn't feel as if she committed some sort of crime. The poor woman's beside herself for not trusting you."

  There was a pause. The poker scraped loudly in the grate. "I'll speak to her in the morning," he said finally. "She doesn't deserve to be let off too easily. I've never done anything to give her the impression that I force myself on women."

  "Haven't you?" Scott asked softly.

  Christian's grip on the poker tightened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "Look at yourself, Christian." The line between Scott's brows deepened as he thoroughly surveyed his friend. "Look at what you've become. Do you think Mrs. Brandywine really knows what you're capable of anymore? It's not quite the same for me. Our acquaintance... our friendship... only goes back a few years, but Mrs. B.'s known you all your life. She sees the things you do in a different light. The change in you is more dramatic to her than it is to me."

  "We all change," he said.

  Scott decided nothing more could come of the confrontation. Christian had his defenses firmly in place. If he were to push too hard a bottle would appear. It could still happen, and probably would, the moment Scott left the house. "Have a care with her," said Scott. "That's all I'm suggesting. She's feeling her own censure. She doesn't need yours in addition."

  Christian replaced the poker and turned away from the fireplace. "I'm not some damn ogre."

  Scott grinned. "You give a damn good impression then." His smile faded and his thoughts became introspective. "God, listen to me. D'you hear how much I'm swearing?" He shot Christian a sideways glance. "That's your influence, m'friend. Susan always knows when I've spent more than thirty minutes in your company."

  "She has you on a short leash."

  "She has me precisely where I want to be," Scott said. "There's a difference."

  "If you say so." He shrugged. "Tell me, what are your instructions for Jane?"

  "Mrs. Brandywine has them all." When he saw that was not going to satisfy Christian, he explained further. "We've arranged a night watch among your female staff. Someone is to be with Jane at all times, though I suspect this first night will be uneventful. I've given
her a mild dose of laudanum and she should sleep till late morning. I will stop by in the afternoon to examine her. If she requires me at any time before then, I can be reached at my home or the hospital. Naturally no one at the hospital must know that I'm making calls here."

  "Her hands and feet?"

  "I will know better tomorrow. I don't want to say more than that now. You did the right thing, Christian, so stop blaming yourself. She needed to be restrained."

  "I should have rung for you as soon as she woke."

  "Perhaps," Scott said. "But there's no certainty that I would have arrived in time to prevent her from getting out of bed."

  Christian hardly noted Scott's objection. "She really thought she hurt me," he said. His voice was quiet, puzzled, as if he were no longer aware of Scott's presence. Unconsciously, his hand dropped to his thigh. "She thought this was her doing and she was sorry for it."

  "That surprises you?"

  "What?" Christian came out of his reverie. "Oh, yes. Yes, it does. I didn't think she would feel things that way."

  "You listened to too much of Glenn's balderdash this afternoon. I thought you had more sense. Apparently not." Scott pushed away from the door and walked into the study. He lifted his coat and top hat from the chair where he had flung them earlier. "She feels hot and cold, pleasure and pain, precisely as we do," he said impatiently. "Why shouldn't she feel other emotions as well? She's as capable of feeling guilt as you are."

  "But she didn't do anything," he said.

  "Neither did you." Scott watched a dull wash of color touch Christian's features. Good. He had been understood then. They both knew he had not been talking about what had happened above stairs. Christian's imagined wrongs went back years, and guilt had been his parasitic, soul-sucking companion since the beginning. "Good night, Christian," Scott said. "Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow when I visit Jane."

  "Perhaps." He did not bother seeing Scott to the door. He poured a tumbler of whiskey before his friend reached the front gate. He carried the tumbler and decanter to his favorite chair in front of the fire and propped his feet on the ottoman. With no thought to the consequences, Christian Marshall proceeded to quietly drink himself to sleep.

  * * *

  "Where is he today?" Scott asked Mrs. Brandywine as he shrugged out of his coat. He gave it to her along with his muffler and hat and picked up his black leather bag. Taking in the housekeeper's long-suffering expression, which was earned in this instance and not feigned, Scott's eyes darted to the double oak doors of Christian's study. "Not still in there, I hope. My God, it's been almost two weeks."

  Mrs. Brandywine paused in hanging the doctor's coat and hat on the brass rack in the entrance hall. "Two weeks today," she said, lowering her voice. "Remember, you've not been here since Monday. Christmas Day will be here before you know it, and I'm thinking he's set on missing it. It will be his first one without any family at all, you know. Last year at this time, he still had his father."

  "He has us." Scott sighed heavily. "This is ridiculous, and I don't have the patience for it anymore." He started down the hallway, his shoes clicking lightly on the parquet floor, but stopped when he felt Mrs. Brandywine's urgent tug on his jacket sleeve. He glanced at her over his shoulder, saw the panic in her eyes, and turned to give her his full attention. "What is it, Mrs. Brandywine? Are you afraid I'm going to hurt him?"

  She shook her head. "I'm afraid you'll hurt each other," she said. "He's been looking for a fight and you'd make a fine target. None of my house staff will go near the doors, but Joe Means braved entry the other day. He made a simple inquiry about ordering feed for the horses, and Mr. Marshall used the sharp edge of his tongue to nearly separated Joe's head from his shoulders."

  "Does he never come out of there?"

  "Several times during the day." She blushed deeply. "As much as he's drinking he has to... well, you can see that..."

  Scott took pity on her. "I understand about nature's call. How is he getting the alcohol? Surely he must have emptied his cabinet twice over by now. No one here is supplying it, are they?"

  The housekeeper was clearly affronted by the suggestion. "He's threatened to fire each and every one of us," she said with quiet dignity, "but that's the drink talking and we don't pay it no mind. Anyone giving him a drop of the stuff is to be let go without a reference, and those are my instructions. But Mr. Marshall was always a clever one, and when he wants something, he has his own ways of getting it. He stood out on the front stoop not two days ago, barefoot and shirtless, and called to a rag picker out on the avenue. Offered the man a handsome sum to deliver a case to the house. There was no intercepting it." She shuddered. "I can't imagine what the neighbors are thinking. The avenue's not seen the likes of this decadence since Mrs. Stevens began giving musicales on the Sabbath."

  With some difficulty, Scott bit back a smile. "Perhaps no one noticed Mr. Marshall," he said solicitously, then brought the subject around to what was important. "Is he eating anything?"

  "Mrs. Morrissey fixes regular meals and they are delivered in there. The dishes come back empty."

  "Then for all you know he could be feeding them to the rag picker through the study window."

  She nodded firmly. "Precisely. To the rag picker, to Mrs. Astor's pet horse, or to Liam O'Shea on his beat."

  "What do you think he's doing?"

  "I think he's feeding every dog in the neighborhood and drinking himself to death."

  Scott sighed again and made a sweeping gesture through his hair with his fingers. "All right, Mrs. Brandywine, we are going to have to help Christian in spite of himself. Why don't you choose three or four men among the employees who won't be intimidated by Christian's threats or his size? Have them meet me in the kitchen. We'll plan our strategy after I've examined our other patient." He changed his black case from one hand to the other and retraced his steps to the stairs. "How is she doing?"

  Mrs. Brandywine smiled for the first time since she opened the door. "That one's going to be just fine. Her voice still isn't what it should be so she doesn't say much. Hears just about everything, though, and pays attention to it. She's anxious to be out of bed."

  "We'll see," he said, carefully noncommittal.

  "If it's a question about what to do with her when she's well, then I may have an answer."

  "Oh?" Scott was glad to hear the housekeeper had given the problem some thought. With Christian being at his most unapproachable, Scott didn't know what to do with his patient.

  "She can work right here. I'm permitted to hire staff, and I choose to hire her."

  Scott had some doubts and they showed. "I don't know, Mrs. Brandywine. I don't think Christian would necessarily approve. The last time I spoke with him he still believed she was deranged."

  "Then it would serve him right for not inquiring these last fourteen days," she said firmly. "That young woman has more sense than he does." She rolled her eyes as she realized how little that accolade meant at the moment. "She has as much sense as I do. I'm not afraid to have her here. Neither is anyone else on my staff. No one's breathed a word to the doctors who came around here, and no one has any intention to do so."

  Dr. Turner smiled gently. "That was the least of my worries. I knew I could depend on you to keep her safe. The search was called off as of Monday. The hospital believes she died of exposure the same night she escaped. Dr. Glenn even identified a body the police discovered in the Five Points as our Jane Doe."

  "This all happened Monday?"

  "It did. There was a small item tucked in the Chronicle's obituaries about finding a frozen body in a drift in Paradise Square. It mentioned the woman was identified as an escaped lunatic patient from Jennings."

  "How could they make a mistake like that? People knew she was wearing Mr. Marshall's clothes when she left. This other poor woman couldn't have been dressed the same way."

  "She, er, wasn't dressed at all. She'd been, um, ill-used before she was left to die. The body was not in good condition for identifica
tion, but I think Dr. Glenn really believes it was his Jane Doe. I thought you might have read the article."

  "No, I missed it. What a world it's become. I did see that heiress's obituary in yesterday's paper, though. There's another poor thing. Her sick for so long and all." She shook her head slowly in a gesture of empathetic sadness. "How she must have suffered, and nothing to be done about it. The Van Dykes had more money than God, excuse the expression, and little good it did them. That family's had its own share of tragedy, what with Mr. Van Dyke killed in that train accident back a spell. Then him not even cold in the grave and his wife taking up with—" She ground to a halt when Scott held up his hand.

  "Some other time, Mrs. Brandywine," he promised. "Let me look in on our patient first. You go see about those strong bodies we'll be needing."

  Realizing she had gotten carried away, Mrs. Brandywine flushed. Dr. Turner was not the same rapt audience she had had yesterday. His patient, however, had had the good manners to listen to the Chronicle's account of the death of Caroline Van Dyke, and had even been moved to ask a few questions. There was a certain sensitivity about the girl that warmed the housekeeper's heart. Mrs. Brandywine had ended up reading the account to her charge twice, then relating gossip about the Van Dykes to which only the hired help were privy.

  "I'll see to the matter at once," she said.

  "Very good." Scott climbed the stairs with a light step. Visiting this patient was a pleasant task in any circumstances. When he compared it to the upcoming confrontation with Christian Marshall, it was like having an interview at heaven's door. Below stairs, however, the devil was waiting to have his due.

  * * *

  Mrs. Brandywine picked up the breakfast tray that had been prepared for Christian. There was a short stack of pancakes slathered with butter and maple syrup, two soft-cooked eggs, three bacon strips, orange slices, and a pot of weak tea. "You take this up to Mr. Marshall," she said, turning to the newest member of the household staff.

  Jenny Holland looked at the contents of the tray and raised dark doe eyes to the housekeeper, her expression doubtful. Dr. Turner had only given her his cautious assent to get out of bed and begin light duties two days ago—the same two days ago that he had forced her new employer from his sanctuary in the study and into the master bedroom. Jenny had not laid eyes on Christian Marshall since the eventful moment when he had wrestled her back into bed and she had passed out beneath him. She was not sure she was prepared to see him now.